The fishwife walked across the uneven cobbles, a basket full of dead, surprised-looking fish wobbling in the crook of her arm. With her free hand, she tightened the shawl around her head and neck as she headed for the back gate in the wall. Then she noticed a little purple tin and something flat and pale on the cobbles near the alley’s end. She moved towards them, placed her basket on the ground and picked up the folded piece of parchment.