'But surely, Sir John, you are not implying that this Brokestreet is going to accuse our good widow woman, an upright member of the parish, of being some secret, red-handed assassin?'

'I don't know, Brother. All I've been told, mere whispers and gossip, is that Alice Brokestreet exudes an arrogant confidence. She claims to have secrets to tell the justices: true, she may have done wrong, and this is where we come to the cutting edge; she says that she's not the only woman in London to have committed murder.'

'Oh come, Sir Jack.' Athelstan felt exasperated at being dragged away. 'Is that all?'

'No, it is not, Brother. Brokestreet is hinting that others she has worked for are guilty of more heinous crimes.'

'And where is Mistress Vestler now?' Sir John sighed and got to his feet. 'In we go, Brother.'

They entered the Guildhall proper, down a spacious gallery. Its paving stones were covered in fresh straw, sprinkled with herbs. Soldiers stood on guard but Sir John, his seal wrapped round his hand, was allowed through. They went up a small flight of stairs and into a whitewashed vestibule. The doors at the far end were flung open and Athelstan glimpsed the court. At the far end of the hall, on a wooden dais draped in blood-red cloth, ranged the justices dressed in ermine-edged scarlet robes, black skullcaps on their heads. They sat on five thronelike chairs. Further down clerks sat grouped around a long table covered in a green baize cloth littered with rolls of parchment, inkpots and quills. To the judges' right was the jury: twelve men drawn from the different wards of London and, to their left, in wooden stands, sat onlookers, visitors and friends. At the bottom of the dais a great wooden bar stretched across the hall from one end to the other. Chained to this were different malefactors guarded by tipstaffs, bailiffs and archers. The room was hushed, the clerks apparently taking down something which had been said. Athelstan stood in the doorway fascinated by this process of justice.