The little man rattles his quill on the table. I grow sober as memory taps on my soul. The door swings open, the ghosts beckon me back along the gallery of time, back to London when Henry and Wolsey had the kingdom in the grip of their avaricious fingers. Oh yes, back to subtle ploys and clever plans! To treason, murder and death by a thousand stings! Benjamin waits for me there. I hear the knocking, it grows incessant. I open the door and Murder, evil-faced and bloody-handed, stands waiting to greet me.
Chapter 1
In the spring of 1523, the fourteenth year of King Henry VIII's reign, my master and I were resting from our labours at our manor outside Ipswich. Benjamin was involved in his good works whilst I amply proved the dictum 'The devil finds work for idle hands'. I had attempted to open an apothecary's shop in the village. Benjamin stopped this when he realised I was buying supplies from a certain Doctor Quicksilver who lived in the shabby tenements opposite Whitefriars. Benjamin summoned me to his own chamber, his long, dark face showing both hurt and anger.
'Roger, Roger.' He wagged a bony finger at me. 'Since when has crushed frog been an aphrodisiac?' 'I didn't say it was,' I replied. 'You said as much to Hick the Haywain.'
'What can I do, Master? He's head over heels in love with that dairymaid.'
'Wasn't she the one you were tutoring in the long meadow down near the river?' I softly cursed my master's retentive memory. 'I don't think so,' I muttered, refusing to meet his eye. 'What about Vicar Doggerell?' 'What about him, Master?' Benjamin eased himself into his chair behind the table. "That paste you sold him to cure his baldness. I smelt it after Mass on Sunday.' I kept my face straight. 'Very much like cow dung,' Benjamin insisted.