Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.

'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'

'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'

'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective customer. 'Genuine relics, sir, every one!' He described each one. And what a bag of tipple!

Ringlets from Samson's head, before Delilah shaved it. A thorn from the crown which the Romans put on our Saviour's head. One of Mary Magdalene's perfume clasps. A feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel. A wooden hammer once owned by St Joseph. A piece of iron, supposedly from the griddle on which St Lawrence had been burnt. Two pieces of the true cross. A napkin used by Our Lady. Pontius Pilate's wife's earring. A portion of Herod the Great's foreskin. Five pieces of the good thief's loincloth. A battered cup once owned by St Ursula. Strands of hair from each of the ten thousand virgins executed by the Romans in Germany.

'All collected by me,' Ludgate declared. 'I have travelled, sir, beyond the Golden Horn. I have seen the devil's wings over Arabia and faced many dangers collecting these. A priceless fortune blessed by the Holy Father!' He clapped me on the shoulder, all manly and honest, and looked me straight in the eye. 'Take these to London,' he urged. 'Go to the tavern, the Flickering Lamp near Whitefriars. Boscombe, the taverner, will let you sell them in the surrounding alleys and streets. A good site, where the faithful stream by to the London churches.'

(Now you young people, children of the reformed faith, don't realise that in the days of relic-selling, a trader had to have a domicile before he could sell relics: taverners, in return for a fee, often provided this.) I gestured at the collection. 'How much is it all worth?' 'Fifteen pounds sterling, good silver.' 'Twelve.' I replied. 'Thirteen,' he countered.