The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

‘Stop wool-gathering, Joe. We will solve the problem of digging the treasure up soon enough. When everyone is too drunk to stay awake, we can get to work.’ She thrust the Anubis jackal-head at him. ‘If you can stay sober tonight yourself.’

He nodded his agreement to her resolve. But just then Smallbone reappeared bearing provender on a tray almost as large as he was. In the middle was a large bottle of red wine. Malinferno licked his lips.

‘Just one glass, Doll. To lubricate my vocal cords.’

Doll sighed. ‘Very well, but pour one for me too, if you please.’

The bottle was well nigh empty before Malinferno and Doll were led by Smallbone to the large marquee where dinner had taken place. Some of the debris from the repast was still scattered over the white tablecloth. Dramatically, Malinferno swept it all away by yanking the cloth off, and imperiously he commanded the bewigged servants carrying the linen-bound mummy to lay it straight on to the polished surface of the oak table. The guests crowded into the marquee, and his anatomical exhibition began.

Now it was over, he was occupied with levering the intoxicated body of the honourable representative of some rotten borough off Doll’s bosom. The phantasmagoria laid on by the duchess had finished, and the box containing the unwrapped mummy was borne away by the servants. Most of the guests had staggered away to their carriages and Bath, or to tents set up on Solsbury Hill. One small group still hovered around the table that bore the remains of the wines and port that had been served over the meal Doll and Joe had missed. At the centre of the little clique stood the old trollop Malinferno had seen arriving soon after they had. Her turban was askew, and her face flushed from drink. Someone whispered in her ear, and she laughed coarsely. Her drooping, veiny dugs wobbled, and she absent-mindedly tweaked one exposed nipple. As though tiring of her entourage she waved them away, and slumped on a balloon-back chair that looked quite out of place on the scuffed grass of the hill. Malinferno grimaced at the sight of her gargantuan thighs.

‘Let’s get the spades, and see what we can do about digging for this treasure.’

Doll ignored his whispered command, and pointed at the old girl. ‘I’ll be with you in a while. I just want to make sure she gets to her bed, poor thing.’

Malinferno gave her a curious look, but guessed her intentions were all mixed up with a fellow feeling for the old tart. There but for the grace of God, and all that. Or for the grace of Malinferno. He had never thought until now that he had saved a fallen woman, but he had. It was not something he would say to Doll, though, if he valued his life. He took one last look at the old woman, who now seemed to have dozed off, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Very well, but don’t be too long tucking her up into bed. We have work to do tonight.’

He went off to the tent they had used to change into their Egyptian clothes, and where he had secreted two spades brought up in the crate containing the mummy. He would have liked to have retained the crate but it and the mummy had been whisked away. Doll watched Joe leave the marquee, then rose and sauntered tiredly over to the half-naked trollop sitting snoring beside the table of scattered bottles. She rummaged around the debris until she found a bottle with some dregs of red wine in the bottom. Holding it to her lips, she tipped it back and drank deep, quenching a sudden thirst. When she lowered the empty bottle again, she saw the old woman was scrutinising her with one bleary eye. Doll smiled.

‘Hard work, pleasing them, isn’t it?’

The woman laughed with that guttural sound that Doll had heard earlier across the tent. When she spoke her voice sounded as though she came from one of the Germanic states, though there was a pleasing melody to it nevertheless. Doll could see there had once been an attractiveness to her, though now her coarsened features gave her more of a homely, careworn appearance. Doll was glad she had kept her vow of getting out of the bawdyhouse as quickly as possible. She wouldn’t admit it to Joe, but she was grateful he had not objected when she had latched on to his coat-tails. That night they had met in Madame de Trou’s she had first thought of him as an easy touch. But it was not long before she saw how unsure he was of himself, despite all his bluster. She decided he could help her, but she could also help him. They were a good team, even though they often bickered about who was in charge. She tried to concentrate on what the woman was saying.

‘… my dear, you do not know how hard it is to please everyone. God knows, I have tried, and look where it has left me.’

Doll patted the old girl’s well-padded thigh, looking over at the tired remains of the gargantuan meal consumed by the rich and famous. One or two weary-looking servants were beginning to drift into the tent in order to clear up the mess. She imagined that was what the old lady meant – that she was used to being left out with the dregs.

‘Well, we can at least find a bed tonight. Some are not so lucky. My name’s Doll Pocket, by the way. What’s yours?’

For a moment, Doll was aware of a strange look in the other woman’s eyes. Then she laughed again, more coarsely with her mouth wide open, exposing her tonsils to Doll’s view. When she had managed to control her outburst, she spoke in those melodious tones again.

‘You can call me Hat… Hattie Vaughan, dear. Now off you go. I shall be fine. They will look after me.’

She waved vaguely at two well-dressed men who were hovering at the entrance to the tent. One had a head of black curly hair and thick mustachios to match, his puffed-out chest and military uniform making Doll think he was a continental – French or Italian, maybe. The other’s naval jib and dress sword, together with a languid look, was a clear sign to Doll that he was an upper-class Englishman of the sort she most disliked. He was probably of no great ancestry himself, but put on airs and looked down on anyone not of the highest rank.

Her new friend, Hattie, waddled over to them and, much to Doll’s surprise, they fawned over her as if she was of high estate and not some ageing trollop. Maybe she had connections with the Prince Regent – or King, as he now was by some months. He was a rake of the greatest degree. Doll even wondered if Mrs Vaughan could be another in a long line of mistresses that included Mrs Fitzherbert, the Countess of Jersey and the Marchioness of Hertford – to name but a few whom the one-time Prince Regent had rogered. Hattie took each of her beaux by the arm and walked out of the tent and into the night. Doll, remembering her assignation with Joe and a spade, hurried after them.

As she picked her way over the obstacle course of guy-ropes and tent-pegs, she passed the Trevithick Flyer. Its boiler was now cold, and the device gave the appearance of somnolence. Or death. Unlike the carriage standing next to it. It was a small Tilbury gig, inside which someone was burning the midnight oils. She could make out, by the light of one of the side lamps, the silhouette of a man bent over a writing slope. The folding top of the Tilbury was pulled up, and as she passed the gig, she saw the man was scribbling in a notebook. He was bowed low, however, and his nether limbs were wrapped in a horse-blanket against the chill of the night. She could not make out more than his dark greatcoat, and thinning brown hair straggling down below his beaver. His hunched shoulders suggested someone on a very secretive task, and Doll’s interest was piqued. She was about to sneak up on him to assuage her curiosity, when she heard a hissing sound from behind her. She looked back at a gap between two areas of canvas, and saw the shape of a man hidden in a heavy greatcoat holding two spades. She stepped back cautiously from the Tilbury gig.