The poisoned chalice

to the Golden Turk to investigate. Searches were also ordered throughout the port of London about de Macon's ship.
    I was hustled away to a cold, stone-flagged cell beneath the Guildhall which I shared with two of the biggest rats I have ever clapped eyes on. Long, black, fat-bellied and red-eyed, the bastards watched me hungrily as if I was their next meal. I screamed and rattled my chains; they turned sluggishly away as if to say that one way or another they would eventually dine on my flesh. Later in the afternoon the sheriff's men came back and dragged me up before the justices. Weasel Eyes looked as if he hadn't moved but the other two hypocrites must have dined well for they were slouched, half-asleep, in their high-backed chairs. The court was quiet except for the scratching of the clerks' quills as they sat around their green baize-topped table.
    'Master Shallot.' The chief justice's eyes seemed to smile. 'We have made enquiries at the Golden Turk.' The smile on his long face faded. 'The landlord cannot remember seeing you the night you were carousing there.' 'The lying bastard!' I screamed. One of the escorts slapped me across the mouth.
    'Master Shallot,' the justice intoned, 'moderate your language!'
    'Or else what?' I yelled. 'You'll hang me? You are going to bloody well hang me anyway, for murders I never committed!'
    I received a savage jab between the ribs. 'What about de Macon's ship?' I moaned.
    'More bad news I am afraid, Master Shallot. De Macon will never confirm your story. His ship was seized and sunk by French privateers.' Well, that was it. Shallot was going to hang. The magistrate put on a black cap, a three-cornered piece of silk. The clerk of the court, his sanctimonious face relishing the sonorous words of condemnation, stood behind him.
    'Roger Shallot,' the magistrate thundered, 'we find you guilty of these terrible murders and so you must pay the full penalty of the law. You are to be taken whence you came and, at a time appointed by this court, hanged by the neck till dead!'
    I thought of everything; praying, begging, laughing, entreating, trying to escape, all the things old Shallot tries to do when he's in a tight corner.
    'Wait!' a girl's voice shouted from the back of the court. I turned and saw my saviour, the wench with black curly hair from the tavern. Beside her, the half-witted ostler she was dragging by the hand struggled with the guards. 'What is the matter?' the magistrate roared. 'Proof!' I yelled. 'Sir, you must hear her!'
    I give the old bastard his due, he was a fair man. I think he knew there was something wrong. Anyway, he ordered the girl forward. She took the oath and swore she had seen me drunk. The ostler, whose accent was almost unintelligible, muttered that on the night the murders had been committed, I had been hustled dead drunk out of the tavern and into the hands of strangers waiting in the yard. The magistrate, staring at the ceiling, asked why the landlord had not remembered this. The girl shrugged and mumbled about him being too busy. Who cared? I was free! Penniless, beaten, starving, wretched, but I was free! The guards threw me out. The wench was waiting for me in the street. She pressed up against me.
    'I came back, Master Shallot. You are a rogue but you'd never kill anyone!' 'Did you see anybody?' I asked.
    She smiled and shook her head. 'I was busy upstairs with one of my customers.' 'You committed perjury on my behalf?' 'Yes.' 'Why?' 'You make me laugh.' 'My possessions?' I asked. 'They are all gone. The landlord took them.' ‘I’ll kill the bastard!'
    'No, you won't,' she whispered. 'He's dead already. He was found with his throat cut in one of the outhouses.' 'Do you know anything about it?'
    'Men who spoke French have been seen near the tavern. You'd best not come back,' she added. 'Here, take this.' She slipped me a cloth containing strips of dried meat. Then she stood on tiptoe, kissed me and was gone.
    I never saw her again. Months later I searched London but never found her. She was one of the kindest persons I ever met. She had the gentlest soul, and the finest pair of buttocks I have ever held. Let old Shallot tell you this: when you're in real trouble the women will help; most men are cowards. Oh, they like to show off in their peacock plumery, but it's all shadow and no substance with them.
    Well, there I was in London, penniless; like the man in the gospel, I was too proud to go home so I begged and fought with the rest of the