Murder tripped along the shit-caked alleys and streets of Southwark, and slid like a cold mist through the half-open doorways of hot, stuffy taverns to squat cold-eyed as men hacked each other to death. Murder lurked in the doorway of the filthy apothecary's house where poisons could be bought: ratsbane, crushed diamonds, belladonna and arsenic. Sometimes Murder would come across the city walls, sneaking along the dark country lanes behind the Tower, but on that night it had chosen a juicier prey and set up camp in Sir Thomas Springall's fine mansion in the Strand: a veritable palace with its tiled roof, black-embossed timbers, gleaming white plaster and freshly painted shield bearing the goldsmith's escutcheon of silver bars, gold trefoils and clasps of gold and silk.

The house itself was silent. In the lofty banqueting hall the fire had died to popping cinders and smouldering ash. The candles were long snuffed though the air still bore the fragrance of sweet-smelling wax. The tapestries, heavy and gold-encrusted, hung on the walls, shifting slightly in the cold night breeze which pierced the gaps in the mullioned- glass windows. The massive table bore the remains of a banquet and its white lawn cloth, grease marked and purple-stained, still shimmered in the fading light of the fire. The silver dishes had been removed but the platters remained, covered with the remnants of fricassee and jig- gets of mutton, as well as the bones of goose, peacock and chicken. Next to these were the deep-bowled cups smattered with the dregs of malmsey, bordeaux and sack. A stout, long-tailed rat prowled amongst the dishes, its red eyes gleaming, its belly full and heavy, so sluggish it hardly squeaked when the ginger house cat pounced and crunched the swollen body in its jaws. Down the hall a dog heard the sound and stirred, lifting its shaggy, sleep-laden head.

Below stairs the servants slept on, their stomachs gorged, their brains dull with the scraps of food and wine they had gulped.