'I've had a chance to rest upstairs,' I lied, 'while you've been facing the earl in a bad temper. Let me go alone.'
'What if Toky's about?'
'I'll be all right.'
He hesitated, but to my relief relaxed deeper into the cushions. 'All right. Jesu, I don't think I've ever been so tired. The earl says Madam Neller will suffer for her betrayal once this matter is over.'
'Good. I'll get Simon to bring you in some beer. I'll be back before dark.'
'All right.' He laughed. 'I think the boy believes I'm a soldier of fortune. He's always asking me what I do for Lord Cromwell, whether he sends me to battles.'
'He's sent us both to one this time. Don't let Simon bother you.'
'He's no trouble.' He looked at me. 'Good luck.'
I left the room and stood in the corridor. I felt relieved at Barak's ready acquiescence, but also guilty. Evidently he trusted me now; I doubted he would have let me go alone on such a mission a week before. I shuddered at the thought that in deceiving Barak, I was deceiving Cromwell too.
THE STREETS WERE quiet in the late afternoon heat as I rode up to Smithfield. As I turned into the open area a cart passed, driven by an old man with a rag covering his face. I saw that it was full of ancient bones, ribcages and sharp pelvises and limb bones piled together in an unholy jumble, skulls peering out with their mocking grins. Rotten scraps of ancient winding sheets trailed through the bones and as the cart passed I caught the damp, sickly smell of the tomb. I knew many skeletons from the monastic graveyards were driven out to the Lambeth marshes and quietly dumped; these must be from Barty's. I hoped that I would be in time; Rich had said it would be a few days before they got to the hospital graveyard. As I spurred Genesis on across Smithfield, feeling a welcome breeze in my face, I noticed that though the Anabaptists might have recanted the stake stood already planted in the ground, the iron fetters hanging from it a grim reminder of its purpose.
A new watchman from Augmentations stood by the priory gatehouse, a keen young fellow who demanded to know my business. I cursed when I remembered Barak had Cromwell's seal, but my lawyer's robe and mention of the earl's name were enough to gain me entrance. I enquired after progress in excavating the graveyards. Looking surprised, the man said the work on the hospital graveyard had just begun. He called to another watchman, a lantern-jawed old fellow with a limp, to escort me there.
The old man led me through a maze of buildings, some destroyed and others awaiting conversion to residences, across Little Britain Street to the grounds behind the priory hospital. The high crenellated City wall loomed in the distance.
'Is the work far advanced?' I asked.
'They started yesterday,' he grunted. 'There's hundreds of graves to dig up. Filthy business – it's a known fact corpse odours can bring plague.'
'I saw a cart full of bones on my way.'
'The labourers have no respect for the dead. Reminds me of my time fighting in France, corpses everywhere given no proper burial.' He crossed himself.
I smiled sadly. 'My stable boy wants to be a soldier.'
'More fool him.' The old man lowered his voice as we turned a corner. 'It's round here. Watch these men, sir. They're a rough lot.'
The spectacle that met our eyes was like something from an old painting of the Last Judgement. A wide graveyard, sewn thickly with tombstones, was being dug up. The sun was starting to set behind the hospital, casting a fiery ochre light over the scene. The work was organized methodically: as each coffin was dug up two men carried it to a trestle table, where an Augmentations official in a long robe sat with a clerk. I watched as a coffin was opened under the clerk's eye; he rose and delved inside, then nodded. The workmen began removing the bones and piling them onto a waiting cart; the clerk took a small object and laid it before the official.
A little way off a meal break was in progress; a group of labourers were playing football with a skull, kicking it to and fro. As we watched a long kick sent it crashing against a gravestone, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. The labourers laughed. The old man shook his head and led me across to the official, who looked me over with a cold glance. He was a small, plump fellow with a pursed mouth and small sharp eyes, the very embodiment of an Augmentations man.
'Can I assist you, master lawyer?' he asked.
'I am on Lord Cromwell's business, sir. Have you charge of these proceedings?'
He hesitated. 'Yes, I am Paul Hoskyn of Augmentations.' He nodded at the old man. 'That will do, Hogge.'
'Matthew Shardlake, of Lincoln's Inn,' I said as the old man hobbled away, leaving me feeling strangely exposed. 'I am looking for a grave which I have reason to believe may contain something of interest to my master.'
Hoskyn's eyes narrowed. 'Everything of value is kept for Sir Richard to examine.'
