The earless man slowed his pace and I followed suit, just as I noticed a figure coming toward us from the other direction, dressed in a black academic gown and velvet cap. He carried himself stiffly, like an old man, and his steps were halting, as if he found walking effortful. The earless man stopped in front of a narrow shop front with grimy windows and raised a hand in greeting; the figure in the cap made a small gesture of acknowledgement in return. I ducked into a doorway just as he drew level with the shop and removed his cap, checking the street as if anxious not to be seen, and I realised then that it was Doctor William Bernard. Without speaking, the earless man removed a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the dingy shop. I shrank back farther out of sight as, with a last glance in both directions up the street, he held the door open for Doctor Bernard and followed him in through the low doorway. The door closed and I heard the lock click behind them. The shop had no sign above, but as I stepped out from the doorway and drew as close as I dared, though it was unlikely that much of the street could be seen through the thick film of dirt encrusting the diamond panes of the only window, I saw that painted above the doorway, in small but carefully wrought letters, were the words R. JENKES, BOOKBINDER AND STATIONER.

Turning from the shop, I slammed straight into a tall man with a hat pulled down low on his face, almost causing him to fall over.

"Scusi," I said instinctively, as he too muttered an apology and hurried away up the street. The sight of his retreating back left me oddly unsettled; I wondered that I had not noticed him in the street before. Could he have stepped out from one of the shops? It seemed unlikely; all were closed, and I remembered the moment before I turned into Catte Street, when I had sensed I was being followed. The man turned down a side alley without looking back. I had seen almost nothing of his face except that he had a dark beard. I could not recall if any of the earless man's companions from the Catherine Wheel had had a dark beard, but I had not observed them closely and they had been sitting with their backs to me. Why would I have been followed from the tavern, I wondered, unless it was because my presence there alone had aroused their suspicions, or because I had made it so obvious that I was in turn eager to follow the earless man?

I made my way back down Catte Street toward the city wall, my thoughts spinning. Who was that earless man, who had associates among both the tavern lowlifes and the doctors of Lincoln College? If he was Jenkes the bookbinder himself, that might explain his connection with the academics, but it was curious that Bernard should choose a Sunday to do business with a stationer; indeed, the old doctor had looked very much as if he hoped not to be seen. And if I were to seek the most obvious explanation, I might reason that if the Catherine Wheel was a known meeting place for recusants, and Bernard, as I had seen, was a sympathiser with the old faith, and the one man who linked the two dealt in books, was it not highly likely that I had stumbled upon some connection to the city's underground trade in banned books, of which Walsingham had spoken with such fury? Except that I had not stumbled upon it, I reflected; someone had deliberately and cryptically pointed me to this discovery, someone who had also made sure I linked it with Roger Mercer's death, and I must find out the source of this information, and what he feared from making himself known.

I walked back past the Divinity School and turned left into St. Mildred's Lane; the gatehouse tower of Lincoln College loomed up on my left, squat and pale against the sky. As I passed through the main gate and under the tower arch, I heard a knocking on the window of the porter's lodge and looked around to see Cobbett waving for me to come in.

"Feller come looking for you just now, Doctor Bruno," he said, wheezing furiously, as if he had been the one carrying the urgent message. "Servant from Christ Church, wanted to know if you're going hunting at Shotover this afternoon."

I cursed quietly; in all the excitement of my discovery of the Catherine Wheel, I had completely forgotten my promise to Sidney and my intention of excusing myself in person. At least now, with any luck, I would be too late to join them.

"I can't," I said, half to myself. "I suppose I had better go and leave a message for my friend."

"No," said Cobbett, sympathetically. "I didn't think you looked the hunting sort. Bit short for a longbow, if you don't mind my saying."

I only nodded and turned to leave. Then I suddenly remembered Sidney's advice about the college porters and their storehouse of information, and the bottle of ale we had bought to encourage Cobbett to talk freely, which was still sitting in my room.

"Would you like a drink, Cobbett?" I asked.

"Why, it's almost as if you read my own thoughts, Doctor Bruno." He flashed his knowing, gummy grin. "I was just thinking I'm parched near to the death. Almost witchcraft, that is."

"No witchcraft, I assure you. I know a thirsty man when I see one. Wait for me here a moment," I said, smiling, and he sat back heavily on his chair.

"Oh, I won't go nowhere, don't you worry. Might even see if I have a clean cup. Not used to guests, are we, Bess?" he said, gently scratching the old dog behind her ears. She made a small gurgling noise from the back of her throat.

When I returned with the bottle, Cobbett pulled out the stopper eagerly and poured a generous amount into two wooden cups placed on his table for the occasion. I tried not to look too closely at the state of the cup he passed me, his round face creased into a smile of satisfaction as he indicated to me to pull up a low stool tucked into the corner of his small room.

"Good ale and good company," he said, when he had taken a long draught from his cup and swilled it around his mouth before swallowing noisily. "Now then. I sense you have a question. I can read minds too, you know." He winked.

With Cobbett, I had decided, my best course would be to match his frankness; he would see straight through any pretence.

"Have you ever come across a bookbinder in Catte Street by the name of Jenkes?" I asked.

Cobbett threw back his head and launched into one of those fits of guffaws that made me fear for his health. When he had recovered from the wheezing he turned an incredulous look on and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Holy God and all his saints, Doctor Bruno, what have we done to you?" He shook his head, still laughing. "You arrive in Oxford in the company of the highest men in the land, and in a matter of days you're consorting with the most notorious rogue in the city! Stay well away from Rowland Jenkes, that's all I have to tell you."

"How, notorious? A mere bookbinder?"

"Not a mere anything, Rowland Jenkes. A papist and a sorcerer."

"Really?" My interest was piqued now; Cobbett knew an eager audience when he saw one.

"Have you never heard of the Black Assize?" he said, adopting a portentous tone.

I shook my head.

Cobbett leaned forward with all the relish of a grandfather preparing a tale to frighten small children.

"Well, now," he said, and a frustrating extended pause followed while he drained his cup and generously poured himself another. "Six years ago, summer of 1577 it was, and cursedly hot, Rowland Jenkes was arrested for sedition and imprisoned in Oxford castle, where they keep prisoners until the local Assizes are held."

"What manner of sedition?"

"I'm coming to that, hold your horses," Cobbett grumbled. "Well, on this occasion he'd been found to be distributing seditious books-you know, papist books, ones they don't allow to be printed here. Shipping them in illegally from France and the Low Countries-they say he has some Flemish blood, but that might just be gossip and I never pay any mind to gossip."