‘We’re supposed to stop work at dusk.’ He glanced at the blood-red sky. ‘That’s our contract.’
‘Just the one grave,’ I said, mollifying him. He grunted and bent to his task.
ST JOHN HAD BEEN buried deep, the light was failing and redder than ever before the shovel struck wood. The men dug out the earth around the coffin, then stood beside it. It was a cheap thing of some dark wood. I was aware several other labourers had come over and were standing watching.
‘Come, Samuel,’ one said. ‘It’s past time to go. It’s nearly dark.’
‘There’s no need to take the coffin out,’ I said. ‘Just open it there, if you’ll help me down.’
The other labourer helped me into the grave, then clambered out himself and called to Hoskyn that they were done. I watched as the man Samuel worked at the coffin lid with his spade. It came open with a crack. He slid it off, then stepped back with a gasp. ‘God’s wounds, what’s that stink?’
I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. It was the same harsh smell that had wafted up the stairs of Madam Gristwood’s house the night before.
I bent slowly and looked into the coffin. In the red light of sunset St John’s remains looked strangely peaceful. His skeleton lay on its back, arms crossed. His skull was turned to one side, as though sleeping, the jaws closed rather than grinning open, a few brown hairs still clinging to it. The winding sheet had rotted away, there were only a few mouldy scraps of cloth in the bottom of the coffin. And among them, a little pewter jar, the size of a man’s hand. There was a crack at the top, but when I bent and lifted it gently I could feel it was almost full. I was right, I thought. I have found it.
‘What’s that?’ Samuel asked. He sounded disappointed, no doubt he had been hoping for the glint of gold after all. ‘Here,’ he called to his fellows. ‘Bring a torch. We can hardly see here!’
I turned to see a man brandishing a flaming torch at the edge of the grave, about to hand it down. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘No fire, whatever you do!’
‘Why not?’ Samuel asked, frowning.
‘It’s witchcraft,’ someone else said. ‘That’s some Christ-killing Jew down there.’ Samuel crossed himself and there was a murmur among the crowd. I clambered back out, holding the jar carefully. No one leant over to help me and I had to balance on the coffin and heave myself up with one hand. I stood on the edge of the grave, breathing heavily. I looked for Hoskyn, but he had left his table and was nowhere to be seen. About ten labourers stood around me, their faces hostile and frightened, a couple carrying torches. ‘Damned hunchback,’ someone muttered.
Then everyone turned at the sound of footsteps, and the men bowed and fell back like wheat before a gale as the frowning figure of Sir Richard Rich, in feathered cap and a yellow silk robe, stepped into the centre of the group, Hoskyn at his elbow.
‘You men,’ he called sharply, ‘leave now. All of you.’ The labourers melted away like smoke, Samuel clambering rapidly out of the grave and following them. Left alone with Rich and Hoskyn, I slid the hand with the little jar behind my back. Rich looked into the grave. His cold eyes passed over St John’s remains, then he turned back to me.
‘Jesu, what a stink. Christ’s blood, Master Shardlake, it seems you cannot stay away from Barty’s. First you’re in my garden among the washing and now you’re digging up graves looking for trinkets.’
I took a deep breath. ‘I am here on Lord Cromwell’s authority—’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Hoskyn told me. Sounds like a cock-and-bull story to me. The earl doesn’t collect monastic relics, he burns them.’
‘It was not a relic I was seeking, sir. I - I thought Lord Cromwell had asked you to attend him—’
‘I’ve heard nothing of it, I’ve been out on audit all day.’ Rich frowned. ‘You are a hard man to get rid of, Shardlake.’ He nodded at the grave. ‘If I find this is some frolic of your own, I’ll put you in there to add to the smell.’ He turned, frowning, as a servant ran up to him. Rich looked at him irritably.
‘Sir Richard,’ the man gasped, ‘an urgent message. From Lord Cromwell. His man has been trying to find you all day. He wishes to see you at once at Whitehall.’
Rich gave me a startled look. He set his lips, then nodded to the steward. ‘Make my horse ready.’ He turned back to me. ‘You are becoming a nuisance, Shardlake,’ he said. His voice was low, but furious. ‘A serious nuisance. I do not tolerate nuisances. Be warned.’ With that he turned and stalked away, Hoskyn waddling after him. I clutched the jar hard. Then, my legs shaking like jelly, I walked quickly out of the graveyard.
Chapter Thirty-five