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.'
'Yes, I know.' I bent to look at the items on the table. Gold rings and badges, little daggers and silver boxes, giving off that sickly whiff of death. 'It is not an item of value. Of interest only.'
He eyed me shrewdly. 'It must be important, for the earl to send you here. Does Sir Richard know?'
'No. The earl has sent for him on another matter. He is probably there now. In truth, it is only of antiquarian interest.'
'I never heard the earl had any interest in such things.'
'He does. And I am an antiquarian,' I added, adopting an earnest manner. I had thought this story up on the way. 'I recently found some stones set in the Ludgate that had Hebrew markings. They came from an old synagogue, you know. All ancient things interest me.'
The official grunted, his face still full of suspicion.
'We think this man buried here may have been a foreign Jew,' I went on eagerly, 'and had Jewish artefacts buried with him. Hebrew studies are of interest now the Old Testament is so widely read.'
'Have you any authority from the earl you can show me?'
'Only his name,' I replied, looking the fellow in the eye. He pursed his little mouth, then rose and led me across the brown grass of the graveyard. I looked at the gravestones; they were small, of cheap sandstone, the older ones indecipherable.
'I am looking for a gravestone from the middle of the last century. The name is St John.'
'That would be over by the wall. I don't want to go digging over there yet,' he added pettishly. 'It'll throw my work plan out of joint.'
'The earl wishes it.'
He looked among the gravestones, then stopped and pointed. 'Is that it?'
My heart thumped with excitement as I read the simple inscription.
'This is it,' I said quietly. 'Can I have two of your men?'
Hoskyn frowned. 'A Jew would not have been buried in consecrated ground. Nor have a Christian's name.'
'He would if he was a convert. There are records that this man was in the Domus.'
He shook his head, then crossed to the men who had been playing football. They gave me unfriendly looks. I knew those who laboured for Augmentations had an easy time of it, they would not like outsiders barging in with extra duties. Two of the men returned with Hoskyn, carrying shovels. He pointed at St John's grave.
'He wants that one opened up. Call me as soon as it's uncovered.' With that, Hoskyn went back to his table, where three more coffins were laid out.
The two labourers, large young fellows in stained smocks, began digging at the hard dry earth. 'What're we digging for?' one asked. 'A box of gold?'
'Nothing of value.'
'We're supposed to stop work at dusk.' He glanced at the bloodied 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
