‘I believe you. Go on, Master Kytchyn.’
‘I asked Master Gristwood if he might show me what they had found. They brought me here to the church. It was still whole then, the nave hadn’t been taken dowil.’ He looked sadly at the barrier.
‘Which part of the church was the crypt in?’
‘Over by yonder wall.’
I smiled reassuringly. ‘Come, I would have a look. Light your candle again.’
Kytchyn did so with much nervous fumbling, then led us to an iron studded door. He walked slowly and sedately, the way he would have learned to walk as a young friar. The door creaked mightily as he opened it, the sound echoing through the cavernous church.
He led us down a flight of stone stairs into a long crypt running the length of the church. It was quite dark, with a dank smell. As he led the way, the candle illuminated pieces of lumber and broken statuary. A huge abbot’s throne, richly decorated but pitted with wood, worm, rose up before us and then I almost cried out as a face loomed out of the gloom. I jumped back, stumbling into Barak, then reddened as I realized it was a statue of the Virgin with an arm broken off. I caught a flash of white teeth as Barak smiled in amusement.
Kytchyn came to a halt by a wall. ‘They brought me here, sir,’ Kytchyn said. ‘There was a barrel standing by the wall, a heavy old wooden barrel.’
‘How big?’
‘You can see the mark in the dust.’
He lowered the candle and I saw a wide circle in the dust on the stone flags. The barrel had been as large as a wine cask, big enough but not enormous. I nodded and stood up again. Kytchyn held the candle near his chest, making his lined face appear disembodied.
‘Had it been opened?’ I asked.
‘Yes. One of the Augmentations men was there, holding a chisel he’d used to prise the lid off. He looked relieved to see us. Master Gristwood said, “Look in here, Brother Librarian” - I was still brother then—“and tell me if you recognize what’s inside. I warn you, though, it stinks.” Master Gristwood laughed, but I saw the other Augmentations man cross himself before he lifted the lid for me.’
‘And what was inside?’ I asked.
‘Blackness,’ he replied. ‘Nothing but blackness, deeper than the blackness of the crypt. And a dreadful smell, like nothing I’d ever known before., Sharp, with a strange sweetness, like something rotting yet lifeless too. It caught my throat and made me cough.’
‘That’s what I smelt,’ Barak said. ‘You’ve caught it well, fellow.’
Kytchyn swallowed. ‘I lifted the candle I carried and held it over the barrel. The darkness inside reflected the light. It was so strange I nearly dropped the candle into it.’
Barak laughed. ‘God’s death, it’s as well you didn’t.’
‘I saw it was a liquid. I touched my finger to it.’ Kytchyn shuddered. ‘It had a horrible feel, thick and slimy. I told them I’d no idea what it was. Then they pointed to the plaque with St John’s name on, that showed it had been there a hundred years. I said there might be some record of it in the library. I tell you, sir, I wanted to get away.’ He looked round him fearfully.
‘I can understand,’ I said. ‘So it was dark, black. That explains why one of the names the ancients had was Dark Fire.’
‘Dark as the pit of hell. Master Gristwood agreed, ordered his man to seal the barrel up again, then came back to the library with me.’
‘Let’s go there too,’ I said. ‘Come, I can see you would like to be out of here.’
‘Thank you, yes.’
We made our way back to the church, then out into the sunlight. Kytchyn stood looking at the rubble, tears at the corners of his eyes. In the old days, when a monk or friar entered the cloister he ceased to have a separate legal personality, he died to the world. An act had just gone through parliament restoring their legal status as individuals. In Lincoln’s Inn people joked about them being ‘restored to life’ by Cromwell. But to what life; ‘Come, Master Kytchyn,’ I said gently, ‘the library.’
He led us through the roofless chapter house and I realized we would have to pass across the garden. The children were still playing there; a maid taking in the washing gave us a curious look.
We were halfway across when a door opened and a small man in a fine silk shirt came out. I drew a sharp breath, for I recognized Sir Richard Rich at once. I had been introduced to him at a function at the Inn. ‘Shit,’ Barak murmured under his breath, then bowed low as Rich came over. I bowed too, as did Kytchyn, whose eyes had widened with fear.
Rich halted before us. There was a puzzled frown on his handsome, delicately pointed features. Piercing grey eyes surveyed us.
‘Brother Shardlake,’ he said in a tone of amused surprise.