The Gallows Murders

invited us to join him at the Guildhall. Benjamin accepted. Anything to stay as long as possible with Miranda! They had been talking ever since we left the tavern, and continued to do so as we forced our way through the busy, smelling streets. The traders, taking advantage of the good weather and the disappearance of the sweating sickness, now shouted boisterously, drawing the crowds to throng around their stalls. The city had come back to life: the naps and foists, the rogues, the bawds, the apple-squires thronged the mouths of alleyways or the doors of taverns. The kennels and runnels stank as richly as ever. I gazed around, drinking it all in, and suddenly, in my bones, I knew Quicksilver would be back to float with the rest of the scum of London's underworld. At the Guildhall, Pelleter dismounted and told us to wait. He was gone a few minutes, barely giving me time to attempt a fruitless flirtation with Miranda, before he came trotting back, a burly, thick-set bailiff in tow.
    ‘We can leave the horses here,' he exclaimed. 'My men have found Quicksilver.'
    Oh, I grinned to hear the news! My heart leapt with joy! The blood sang in my body! I even forgot my disappointment over Miranda at the prospect of seeing my old friend and shaking him warmly by the neck! As we hurried through the streets up Aldersgate towards Charterhouse, I imagined what I would do to him. Fingernails or toenails first, I wondered? Now Pelleter had told Miranda to return to their house: of course he might as well have told the breeze. She wasn't disobedient: she just smiled prettily, blinked, and, like many women, acted as if she hadn't heard. Pelleter looked wryly at her, but all he received was a beaming smile – and so she came with us.
    As we went, the bailiff told us in hushed tones how the clacking tongues amongst the rogues and villains had described Quicksilver's new haunt: a little house on Beech Lane, between Red Cross and White Cross Street, opposite the Ramsey inn.
    ‘He's doing a roaring trade by the sound of it,' the fellow muttered. 'Believes he has found a concoction to cure the sweating sickness.'
    'Of course,' I nodded. 'Now the bloody thing's gone, he's probably claiming the credit for it. You have not approached him, have you?'
    The fellow grinned in a show of cracked yellow teeth. 'Master Shallot, we have more sense than you think. If Quicksilver suspects there's a trap set, he'll be in Dover by dusk.'
    I congratulated the man on his wisdom, and slipped a coin into his hand. At last we reached the corner of Beech Lane. It was a clean thoroughfare; the houses on each side were screened by huge copper beeches, their branches spread out, intertwining together to form a natural arch. A sweet-smelling, restful place, where the houses were painted smartly in black and white, mullioned glass filled the bay windows, doors hung straight and the red-tiled roofs gleamed in the sun. The Ramsey inn was a prosperous-looking hostelry, its sign and woodwork freshly daubed. Inside the herb-scented taproom were the sheriff's men, a motley group of rogues busily drinking ale and beer whilst keeping an eye on the house opposite. Pelleter would have cursed them for wasting the city money, but Benjamin intervened. He understood my hatred for my old friend, and offered to pay the men even more if Dr Quicksilver proved to be at home.
    Well, we don't know,' one of them replied. ‘He was there last night. This morning a fine, tall lady, her face veiled, came trotting along for an assignation.'
    'Probably needed some mercury or cure for the pox!' another exclaimed.
    I just stared across the street at the broad, black-painted door.
    Well, let's see,' I muttered, and before Benjamin or Pelleter could stop me, I was across the street, hammering on the door. I had my cowl above my head, so if there were any spy-holes, Quicksilver would not see it was me and try to flee over the back fence. I knocked again but there was no reply, so I pulled down the latch and the door swung back on its hinges. My first impression was that old Quicksilver must have made a merry pile: the passageways looked swept and clean, there were pots of herbs upon the table, whilst the hooks screwed into the wall were of pure brass, polished till they shone.
    'Dr Quicksilver!' I called, disguising my voice to make me sound like some pompous merchant.
    There was no reply. Now at first that did not disconcert me. Perhaps Quicksilver was involved in some assignation, or toasting