Scot was still not in his room at the Chequer, so Chaloner went to St Paul’s. It was a long walk from St Martin’s Lane to London’s mighty cathedral, and he was tired from his late night, so he took a carriage. The driver, keen to deposit him and collect another fare as soon as possible, flew along Fleet Street at a pace that was dangerous. Chaloner gripped the window frame as he was hurled from side to side, certain all four wheels were never on the ground at the same time. All the while, the hackney-man cursed and swore – at his pony, at other coachmen, at people on foot, at men on horses, at stray dogs and at the world in general. Everyone was a fool, he informed Chaloner cheerfully at the end of the journey, and he himself was the only man fit to take a cart along a road.
St Paul’s was in a sorry state. A hundred years earlier, lightning had deprived it of its steeple, and the architect Inigo Jones had been invited to remodel its exterior. He had obliged with a façade that looked nothing like the rest of the church, and a classical portico that stood out like a sore thumb. During the Commonwealth, the chancel had been used by a huge congregation of Independents, who could not have cared less about the welfare of the building and only wanted a place large enough to rant in; the nave had been designated as a barracks for cavalry. Soldiers and iconoclasts had smashed its statues, melted down its plate, and punched out its medieval stained glass. Then they had turned their attention to the lead on the roof and in the windows, so that holes now allowed birds, bats and rain inside. Pigeons nested in the ceiling, adding their own mess to the ordure on the once-fine flagstones, and sparrows twittered shrilly above.
When the King had returned from exile, he had been shocked by the sorry state of his capital’s cathedral, and invited the nation’s most innovative architects to submit plans for its rebuilding. The leading contender was Christopher Wren, who had in mind a central dome with chunky square aisles. The King was keen to see the work begin as soon as possible, and tiles, marble and wood had already been purchased. However, while His Majesty might have been satisfied with Wren’s design, it was not received with equal enthusiasm by the Church, and the project was bogged down in an endless cycle of arguments and opposition. While they wrangled, the old building slid ever deeper into decay.
Chaloner prowled the nave, hunting for a verger who might be willing to let him see the register of burials, to ascertain whether Webb had made it as far as his pre-paid vault. He was in luck. The first man he asked was named John Allen, once a gardener at Lincoln’s Inn. A bad back had forced him to retire, and Thurloe had helped him to secure work at the cathedral. Allen was more than happy to help one of Thurloe’s friends; he fetched the register from an office, and scanned the list of entries.
‘Webb,’ he said, jabbing with his finger. There were several names beneath Webb’s, suggesting that funerals in St Paul’s were distressingly frequent. ‘He was supposed to go in the chancel crypt, but that is full at the moment. His wife – a fat, fierce woman – said she paid for an inside spot, and insisted we keep our end of the bargain, so we put him in with Bishop Stratford, whose top is loose.’
‘I am not sure what you mean,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Whose top?’
‘The lid of Stratford’s sarcophagus.’ Allen led the way to one of the transepts. Against the wall was a medieval tomb, all stone pillars and canopies. Prayerful angels had once watched over the dead prelate, although the Puritans had ensured that they now did so without their heads. Allen grabbed the lid of the tomb with both hands, to show how easily it could be moved.
‘Webb is in there?’
‘Well, we had to dispense with his coffin.’ Allen lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘You are a man of the world – you know that a good, second-hand casket fetches a decent price, if you have the right contacts. For a shilling, I will show you his corpse.’
Chaloner handed over the coin, expecting to have it back when it was revealed that Webb’s final resting place was not where everyone assumed. To prove he was getting his money’s worth, Allen made a great show of puffing and groaning as he hefted the slab to one side, eventually revealing that Webb was not the only one to enjoy the bishop’s company. It was crowded in the sarcophagus, and Chaloner backed away with his sleeve over his mouth.
‘That is Cromwell’s hat-maker,’ said Allen helpfully, pointing to the oldest resident. The prelate’s mortal remains were, presumably, the dust at the very bottom. ‘He has been here for about five years. Then there were two sisters – they came about eighteen months ago, although they are reaching the point where we can squash them down to make room for someone else. The fellow on top is Webb.’
‘This is what burial in St Paul’s entails?’ asked Chaloner, appalled. ‘After a few weeks, the remains are shoved to one side so the next corpse can be rammed in?’
‘We leave it a bit longer than that,’ said Allen indignantly. ‘And space is tight in here, although we have lots of room in the graveyard.’
‘That is not Webb,’ said Chaloner, pointing to the most recent addition.
Allen regarded him askance. ‘It most certainly is! I put him in here myself.’
‘Webb was a wealthy merchant – well fed and healthy enough to walk from African House to The Strand – but this fellow is severely emaciated. Also, Webb was stabbed, but this man died because his skull has been smashed. It cannot be the same person. Did Silence see the body removed from the coffin?’
‘Of course not! We do not let the next-of-kin see that sort of thing. What kind of men do you think we are? We open the caskets and perform the interment after everyone has gone home. But if you are right, then where is Webb? And more to the point, who do we have here?’
‘I have no idea, but I recommend you close the tomb and do not open it for anyone else. There is something very odd going on, and you would be wise to have nothing to do with it.’
Allen regarded him soberly. ‘If it is that odd, then it will be dangerous, too. So, I give you the same advice – have nothing to do with it.’
Chaloner was beginning to wish he could.
The monarch and his Court were still exercising in St James’s Park by the time Chaloner returned to White Hall, so he walked to the trees that stood along the wall separating the Privy Garden from King Street beyond, and found a venerable yew with thick, leafy branches. He insinuated himself inside its thick canopy, well hidden from anyone who might glance in his direction, and prepared to wait. He was not particularly interested in watching Lady Castlemaine’s possessions being carted this way and that, but there was nothing else to do, and a certain degree of entertainment was to be had from the confusion. She was becoming exasperated, and swore in a way that Chaloner had not heard outside the army – and even then she could have taught his rough old comrades a few choice expressions.
After a while Bristol appeared, wearing a long gown and a soft linen hat that suggested he had only just prised himself from his bed. He stretched, yawned and began to stroll around the garden, but the best place to be was near the trees, where he was safely distant from clumsy servants with heavy pieces of furniture. The spot also put him well away from Lady Castlemaine’s sharp tongue, and allowed him to ignore any appeals for help.
He lit a pipe, and the scent of tobacco wafted upwards, almost masking the odour of onions. He was not left alone for long, because Adrian May approached with a letter in his hand. That morning, the spy’s bald pate was covered with a dashing red hat that sported the largest feather Chaloner had ever seen – he could not imagine what sort of bird might once have owned it, and only knew he would not like to meet one. With May was the obsequious Temple, exposing his toothless gums in a grin of greeting. Temple wore a gold-brown periwig with curls that flowed so far down his back they covered his rump. Chaloner suspected it had been designed for someone considerably taller.