C. Sansom - Dark Fire

'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. 'Alan St John, Soldier against the Turk, 1423-54.' Only thirty-one when he died. I had not realized he had been so young.

'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 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.

I SAT IN MY BEDROOM, staring down at the jar of Greek Fire on my table. I had brought a plate from the kitchen and poured a little onto it; the brownish-black viscous liquid lay there, glistening like a toad's skin. I pulled the table over to the open window to dispel the acrid tang of the stuff. I left the candle on the other side of the room for safety, though that meant there was insufficient light to examine it further. In truth, I was afraid of it. Tomorrow, I had decided, I would take it to Guy.