Sebastian leaned over a nearby case to study the array of stone projectile points displayed there. “I’ve heard you were recently frustrated in your attempts to acquire the Duke of Suffolk’s head.”
Thistlewood worked his jaw back and forth, as if so overcome with fury as to find it difficult to spit out his words. “It should have been mine. I’m the one who heard about it first and identified it.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve long suspected Suffolk was buried at Holy Trinity. So when the sexton told me they’d found a small box containing a head while in the process of setting the crypt in order, it took only one look for me to know right away whose it was.”
“You recognized him?”
“Instantly! The resemblance to his portraits is striking.”
“I’d always heard Suffolk was beheaded with one clean stroke.”
“A tale, I’m afraid, put about to quiet the murmurs of the populace.” He nodded to a long-handled sword hanging near the doorway to the next room. “See that? It’s an executioner’s sword. They were typically between three and four feet long, and about two inches wide. The handle was made like that so the executioner could grip it in both fists to get a good leverage.”
Sebastian studied the plain, heavy blade. According to family tradition, two of his mother’s ancestors had lost their heads on Tower Hill. But until now, Sebastian had never given much thought to the particulars of their executions.
“There were two different types of blocks used, you know,” said Thistlewood, warming to what was obviously a favorite topic. “With a high block, like this one here”—he paused to put his hand on a worn chunk of wood several feet high, with a large, polished scoop on one side and a slight indentation on the other—“the prisoners would kneel and bend forward so that their heads rested over the top of the block. But with the low block, the poor condemned souls had to lie down flat with their necks on this little thing here—” He pointed to a long, narrow length of wood resting atop a nearby case. “That put their heads at all the wrong angle for the job, I’m afraid.”
Sebastian tried to ignore an unpleasant tickling sensation along the base of his skull.
“Of course,” Thistlewood was saying, “the block was only used when the executioner employed an axe, rather than the sword. Here in England, we tended to favor the style of axe you see here—” He pointed to a massive specimen hanging precariously from the ceiling. “It’s basically modeled after a woodsman’s axe.”
“Looks nasty,” said Sebastian, squinting up at it.
“It is indeed. The handle is a full five feet long, while the blade is ten inches. In Germany, they used something quite different—essentially a giant butcher’s cleaver, except with a longer handle. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those, so I can’t show it to you.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. “How many blows did it take to cut off the head of Charles I?”
“Just one; all the reports agree on that. Whoever did it obviously knew his craft, which wasn’t usually the case, I’m afraid. The executioner who did for Anne Boleyn used a sword and did it in one stroke too; but then, he was brought over from France special, at her request, because he was so good. The thing is, beheadings weren’t all that common, and they were typically done by the hangman, who botched the job more often than not. Took three blows to get the head off Mary, Queen of Scots. And the idiot who did for the Countess of Salisbury struck the poor old woman eleven times before he got the job done.”
Sebastian found his gaze drawn, again, to the executioner’s sword. “So how did Preston end up with Suffolk’s head, if you’re the one who first identified it?”
“Pure greed on the part of the sexton, I’m afraid. Once he knew what he had, he went trotting off to Preston and offered to sell it to him.”
“It must have been infuriating to discover that Preston had managed to buy Suffolk’s head away from you.”
“Wasn’t it just!” agreed Thistlewood. “Why, I—” He broke off, eyes widening as he suddenly became aware of the dangerous trap yawning before him. Clearing his throat, he turned away to rub the sleeve of his coat across the top of the nearest case, as if wiping at a smudge. “But then, happens all the time. I’m used to it.”
“You didn’t quarrel with Preston because of it?”
“Well . . . we may’ve had words when we met by chance in Sloane Square one day. But nothing serious. No, no; I’m a humble man; can’t expect to compete with those blessed with deep pockets.”
“What is the going price for a head?”
“Depends on who the head originally belonged to, I suppose. But I couldn’t really say. Virtually everything here was given to me—or my father or grandfather—to be put on display for all to see.”
“I take it Preston bought many of the objects he collected?”
“He did, yes. But then, he could afford to, couldn’t he?”
“And you’re saying the sexton who found Suffolk’s head took it to Preston?”