There's no wine left in that cask,' he declared. ‘Even when they were sick they insisted on drinking it. To fortify,' he gravely mimicked the Great Mouth's tone, 'our poor bodies.' 'And you recommended?'

Quicksilver shrugged. 'I followed your instructions. I gave them no medicine, but told them not to eat or drink anything except sugared water, and that I would return tomorrow evening.' 'And?' I asked hopefully.

Then I’ll strike. I’ll continue the medication but develop the seeds I sowed today. How Rotterus Arsicus is really a mysterious disease, more the product of the humours of the mind than anything else. They must have done great ill, maligned someone: this has infected the soul, turned the humours morbid, which expresses itself in horrid pustules and looseness of the bowels.' Quicksilver smiled and arranged his cloak, easing the cramp from his limbs as he sat on a stile.

The gulls will bite,' he said softly. ‘I’ll be well paid. You'll have your revenge and its heigh ho back to London.' He pointed to the skeleton which swung in its iron gibbet from the scaffold. ‘Do you think we'll end up like that, Roger? A pile of musty bones? The plaything of some evening breeze at a lonely crossroads?'

I stared at the scaffold, bathed in the light of a summer moon, and a shiver ran down my spine. It wasn't usual for Quicksilver to be so melancholic. I jumped down from the fence and clapped my companion on the shoulder.

'He wasn't a rogue,' I declared. 'Don't you know your anatomy, Dr Mirabilis? That poor fellow suffered from Rotterus Arsicus and, in a fit of rage, went out and killed someone.'

Quicksilver burst out laughing. I shook his hand and told him that, if all went well, ‘I’d deliver the rest of the coins, and set off back to the manor.