The Executioner of St Paul's

Book 12: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

The plague raging through London in 1665 has emptied the city. The only people left are those too poor to flee or those who selflessly struggle to control the contagion and safeguard the capital's future. Amongst them, though, are those prepared to risk their health for money—those who sell dubious 'cures' and hawk food at wildly inflated prices. Also amongst them are those who hold in their hands the future of the city's most iconic building - St Paul's Cathedral.

The handsome edifice is crumbling from decades of neglect and indecision, giving the current custodians a stark choice: repair or demolish. Both sides have fanatical adherents who have been fighting each other since the Civil Wars. Large sums of money have disappeared, major players have mysteriously vanished, and then an unidentified skeleton is discovered in another man's grave.

A reluctant Chaloner returns to London to investigate, only to discover that someone is determined to thwart him by any means—by bullet, poison or bludgeon—and he fears he has very little time to identify the culprits before he becomes yet another victim in the battle for the cathedral's future.

Release date: January 12, 2017

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

St Paul’s Cathedral precinct, 1 March 1645

Sir Arnold Harbert hated Inigo Jones with a passion that verged on the fanatical. He did not care that the man was hailed as the greatest architect of his age, or that he was a favourite of the King. As far as Harbert was concerned Jones was the Devil Incarnate, put on Earth for the sole purpose of defiling all that was beautiful and holy.

St Paul’s Cathedral was a magnificent building, but it cost a fortune to maintain, and time had taken its toll. There were cracks in its roof, its stonework was crumbling, and several walls were at angles never intended by its medieval builders. However, it was only when a lump of ceiling dropped on the high altar one Sunday that the Dean and Chapter finally accepted that something needed to be done. Their response had been to hire Inigo Jones.

Unfortunately, Jones’s idea of sympathetic restoration was to slap Italianate façades over the crumbling sections, which jarred horribly with the Gothic elegance of the originals. Harbert had been appalled. He lived on Creed Lane, and it was difficult to ignore the ‘improvements’ when they were visible from all his windows. He objected vociferously, and most Londoners thought he was right. The King, on the other hand, declared that Jones had done a wonderful job, and urged him to continue.

Buoyed up by the royal encouragement, Jones next turned his attention to the cathedral’s unstable west end, which he decided was in need of an enormous Classical portico. But there was a problem: the ancient parish church of St Gregory, which huddled against the cathedral’s south-west corner like a child at its mother’s skirts, was in the way. He was not about to let a lowly church interfere with his grand designs, so he began to tear it down. Outraged, its congregation took their grievances to Parliament, and the high-handed architect was ordered to put everything back as he had found it.

But by then war was in the air, and the King and his government were more interested in fighting each other than in repairing ancient monuments. St Gregory’s was rebuilt and the portico hastily completed, but funds dried up for the rest of the cathedral. Harbert heaved a sigh of relief – his beloved St Paul’s was safe again. Unfortunately, he had reckoned without Canon Robert Kerchier.

Kerchier was determined that Jones should finish what he had started, so he recruited a group of wealthy and influential individuals to bring it about – they jokingly called themselves the Agents of God. Harbert snorted his disgust. Agents of the Devil, more like, given that they aimed to destroy all that was old and venerable. He clenched his fists in impotent fury when he thought about the canon’s smug face and irritating smile. How dare he inflict his passion for innovation on England’s best-loved church!

Harbert pondered the Agents as he walked home one evening, feet crunching on the frost that had formed since dusk. They were an exclusive set, sworn to secrecy, but he knew the identities of a few. For a start, there were the Hall brothers, three selfishly ambitious vicars determined to rise high in the Church – which they might, if they made names for themselves by helping to ‘save’ St Paul’s. Then there were Canons Stone and Owen, both too dim-witted to see the harm they were doing by supporting Jones’s nasty schemes. And finally – the bitterest blow – there was Harbert’s estranged brother Matthew, who had joined the Agents because he was young and stupid.

As Harbert crossed the churchyard, he saw some of the Agents walking to the cathedral for Evensong. Anger flared within him, and he fingered the sword at his side. How he would love to use it on them! Unfortunately, he was no warrior, and if he did whip out his blade to strike them down, he was more likely to hurt himself.

They were talking in low voices, but fell silent when they saw him. He wondered how they could bear to squander their money on Jones’s nonsense, or why they trusted Kerchier to look after their donations, for that matter – the portly canon was devious and ruthless, and Harbert would not have trusted him with a penny.

Kerchier smirked as he passed, which made Harbert grind his teeth and tighten his grip on the sword. He could not slash them to pieces there and then, perhaps, but there would be other opportunities, and he was willing to wait – to strike them down one by one, carefully, neatly and secretly.

Filled with dark thoughts, Harbert stalked away into the night.

‘I cannot abide that man,’ said Kerchier, once he was sure the testy knight was out of earshot. ‘He wants us stuck in the past for ever, clinging to silly traditions like sheep. Now is the time for reform, and we should seize new concepts with open hands.’

‘I know what I should like to seize with open hands,’ sniggered Canon Stone, stopping to ogle a young woman who was hurrying past, her head down against the icy wind.

‘Not her, if you have an ounce of sense,’ remarked Francis, the eldest of the Hall brothers. He was a dour man with a cap of neat black hair. ‘That is Pamela Ball, one of the Seekers who has recently moved into London House Yard.’

‘Seekers?’ asked Stone, frowning. The civil wars had spawned such a profusion of new religious sects that it was difficult to keep track of them all. ‘Is that the violently anti-clerical one, with members who will only pray in silence?’

Francis nodded. ‘Although she will not stay silent if she sees you leering. She has a mouth like a trumpet, and will bray her indignation to the world – accusations that will be difficult to deny given your past . . . indiscretions.’

Hastily, Stone began walking again. ‘I was only looking. If ladies do not want to be admired, they should stay indoors, where men cannot see them.’

Before Kerchier could tell him that such an attitude was hardly proper for a man of the Church, the middle Hall changed the subject. His name was William, and he was clever with finances – so clever that most Agents thought their money should be given to him to manage. William fully agreed, but Kerchier stubbornly refused to hand it over.

‘It was an unwillingness to change that set Parliament against the King,’ he declared. ‘If His Majesty had been ready to make a few concessions, our fellow countrymen would not now be slaughtering each other.’

No one dared reply, as it was dangerous to voice that sort of opinion in a public place – the night was dark, and the cathedral cast deep shadows for eavesdroppers to lurk. Then the clerics reached the door, where Francis began to wrestle with the latch. Dust showered from the lintel as he did so, reminding them all of the building’s parlous state.

‘Our cathedral is more unstable than ever now that the parishioners of St Gregory’s are digging themselves a crypt,’ said Stone. He nodded towards the tiny parish church, which stood a few feet to his left. ‘I appreciate that they need somewhere to bury their dead, but did they have to delve directly under our foundations?’

‘Go on without me,’ instructed Kerchier, as the door sprang open and his cronies began to file into the cathedral. ‘I have a little business to attend in St Gregory’s first.’

‘If it is begging its vergers to dig in another direction, do not waste your time,’ advised Stone. ‘They will refuse. They have not yet forgiven us for letting Jones pull the place down, despite the fact that we have been forced to put it back up again.’

‘Damn them!’ spat William. ‘Jones was right to demolish it, because his portico looked much nicer when there was no nasty St Gregory’s to spoil its beautiful symmetry.’

A sly expression suffused Kerchier’s face. ‘Poor St Gregory’s. It has never been very stable, and its vergers have done it a grave disservice by burrowing beneath it. It will probably collapse of its own accord soon. These things have a way of happening, as I am sure you know.’

‘How do you—’ began William, but his colleagues bundled him away before he could finish the question. It was another conversation that should only be held in private.

Kerchier waited until the door had closed behind them, then continued alone. He heard a peculiar slithering noise as he walked, but assumed it was a rat or a dog – nothing to concern him. However, when he reached St Gregory’s he heard it again. He stopped and glanced around uneasily, but there was nothing to see, and the only sound was distant singing as Evensong began in St Paul’s.

He shook himself irritably. It was easy to become anxious in these unsettled times, with King and Parliament forcing everyone to take sides – brother against brother, father against son. It was a wicked war, and he was appalled that so much money was being squandered on guns and troops, when it could have been used to rebuild St Paul’s.

He entered St Gregory’s, immediately aware of the scent of wet plaster and new wood. He grimaced angrily. What a waste of resources, and all because a few small-minded men were afraid of progress! Well, they were going to be in for a shock soon, because he had a plan that would see him triumph over the fools who clung to the past – a plan that would put London at the very forefront of all that was enlightened, modern and exciting.

*

The following day, Kerchier did not appear for Morning Prayer. His friends were puzzled, but assumed that he was away raising money for their bulging coffers, a task that was taking ever more of his time. However, when he failed to attend Evensong as well, they grew uneasy, especially when it emerged that no one had seen him since he had gone into St Gregory’s the previous night.

‘What about the Agents’ fund?’ asked William worriedly, the only one brash enough to voice what they were all really thinking. ‘Where does he keep it?’

No one knew. A quick search was made of Kerchier’s house, and when that failed to locate the enormous sum they had amassed for Jones’s reconstruction, they embarked on a hunt that saw floorboards torn up and holes hacked in the walls. But it was all to no avail: the hoard was nowhere to be found.

As days turned into weeks, and there was still no sign of Kerchier or the money, even his most steadfast friends were forced to concede that both had gone permanently.

‘It is time we accepted that he is not coming back,’ declared William at a meeting of cathedral staff some six months later. ‘We cannot keep his post – his canonical stall – open indefinitely.’

‘No, not indefinitely,’ agreed the dean. ‘But for thirty years. Only then can we appoint a replacement. The statutes are quite clear on that point.’

‘The statutes!’ spat William. Canons earned good livings, and he was tired of scraping by on a vicar’s stipend. ‘A set of outmoded laws that should have been abolished years ago.’

‘They were written by wiser men than us,’ said the dean with quiet dignity. ‘So we shall abide by what they decree. No one will be nominated to Kerchier’s stall until the full three decades have passed. Or that we have incontrovertible evidence that he is dead.’

‘All this clinging to hoary customs is stupid,’ hissed William to his brothers when the meeting was over and they were alone. ‘St Paul’s belongs to the future, not the past. It belongs to us.’

Tunbridge Wells, September 1665

Not for the first time since his appointment ten months earlier, William Sancroft wished he had never accepted the post of Dean of St Paul’s. His canons were fractious and opinionated, his cathedral was falling to pieces, and to top it all, there was plague in the city. It had started with two or three cases in April, but was now claiming thousands of lives a week. Sancroft knew he should have stayed in London to comfort the sick and dying, but he was not brave enough. He had nominated a deputy and fled.

He stared at the letter in his hand. It was unsigned, but he knew who had sent it – years of teaching crafty undergraduates at the University of Oxford had made him adept at identifying handwriting. However, it was not the anonymous nature of the missive that bothered him. It was the content, which detailed a worrisome discovery.

But what could he do? He had no desire to return to London and investigate the matter himself, and he was not so craven as to ask someone else to do it for him. Yet nor could he do nothing, as ignoring the issue would make him look weak and indecisive. He half-wished the informant had kept his nasty news to himself, although he supposed he should be grateful that at least someone had taken the trouble to keep him informed.

‘What is wrong, old friend?’ asked the Earl of Clarendon kindly. He had come to Tunbridge Wells for the healing waters, and the two men had been enjoying a glass of claret together when the post had arrived.

‘A body,’ replied Sancroft unhappily. ‘Found in a place where it should not have been. Duty dictates that I should return to the city and resolve the situation, but there were more than six thousand plague-deaths last week . . .’

‘I heard,’ said the Earl, and shuddered. ‘Is it a matter you could delegate to Spymaster Williamson? He has investigated unwelcome corpses in the past.’

Sancroft sighed. ‘Unfortunately, he is with the King in Oxford, and has no more intention of braving London than I do.’

The Earl considered for a moment. ‘One of my gentleman ushers is good at solving mysteries, and he is usually discreet. Would you like to borrow him?’

Sancroft smiled his appreciation for the offer. ‘It is good of you, but I cannot send a healthy man to that place of death. My conscience would never allow it.’

‘Nonsense,’ countered the Earl briskly. ‘Chaloner will be delighted to help.’

Sancroft stared at him, moral objections receding fast as he realised that a solution to his problems might be to hand – and at no risk to himself. ‘Will he?’

‘Of course! He loves a challenge, and will jump at the chance to show off his talents. And do not worry about his safety – we shall give him plenty of medicine to ward off infection. London Treacle is said to be the best, although sal mirabilis is cheaper.’

Sancroft ignored the niggling voice at the back of his head that told him neither remedy worked – if they did, the plague would not have claimed so many victims. He became businesslike before the Earl could change his mind – which he well might, as there was a very real possibility that the retainer could die, and good staff did not grow on trees.

‘In that case, summon him while I prepare the necessary paperwork,’ he said crisply, reaching his pen.

‘What paperwork?’ asked the Earl, puzzled.

‘A pass to get him through the city gates – you can no longer stroll in and out as you please, you know – and a writ authorising him to ask questions on my behalf. Assuming he is willing to approach strangers, of course – strangers who might have the plague.’

The Earl shivered again. ‘This dreadful pestilence has spread to Colchester and Salisbury now. I blame General Monck and Mayor Lawrence, personally. They were told to make sure that did not happen – to keep the sickness in London, so that the rest of us would be spared.’

‘It must be like trying to caulk a sieve,’ said Sancroft, shaking his head at the enormity of the task. ‘And I admire their courage. They are brave men, and I cannot find it in myself to criticise or condemn their efforts.’

‘Did I tell you that Christopher Wren is also in Oxford with the King?’ asked the Earl, disliking the censure implicit in Sancroft’s remark, and so changing the subject before they quarrelled. It was too hot for an argument, and he was comfortable in his friend’s airy parlour. ‘They both want to tear down your cathedral and build another. Do you mind?’

Sancroft shrugged. ‘They may do as they please. I have no strong feelings one way or the other, although my canons’ opinions are deeply divided.’

‘They squabble in Chapter meetings?’ probed the Earl, who loved ecclesiastical gossip.

‘Incessantly,’ sighed Sancroft. ‘Will you send for your man now? If he leaves today, he could be in London by Thursday. All I hope is that we are not sending him to his death.’

London, September 1665

London was a city of ghosts. Gone was its habitual hubbub of bustle and noise, and in its place was an oppressive silence, broken only by the bells that tolled for the dead. The wharves that should have been thick with ships were empty, and even the mighty Thames seemed subdued, its flow reduced to a fraction of its normal size by weeks of drought.

Thomas Chaloner, spy to the Earl of Clarendon, reined in at the Southwark end of London Bridge. He was used to seeing it crammed with carts, coaches, horses and pedestrians, all vying for space and yelling their displeasure when there was not enough of it. That morning, the only living things were two pigeons, which stood preening in the middle of what had been one of the country’s most hectic thoroughfares.

It was still early – not yet seven o’clock – but the day was already scorching, the sun beating down remorselessly from a cloudless blue sky. It had been hot in Tunbridge Wells, too, but cooling breezes had wafted in from the surrounding fields, carrying with them the clean scent of ripe crops. Here, the air was still, dusty and foul, full of the stink of death and uncollected rubbish.

A fortified gatehouse stood at the entrance to the bridge, presenting a wall of solid oak and stone to would-be travellers. Above it were spikes bearing the heads of traitors, so that a forest of skulls grinned down as Chaloner pressed his heels into his horse’s sides and began to ride forward. He had the uncomfortable sense that they were laughing at him for the folly on which he was about to embark.

‘What do you want?’ came a suspicious voice from one of the gun loops.

‘I have business in the city,’ Chaloner called back.

He watched as the left-hand door was pulled ajar to reveal two guards. One wore a scarf over his face to ward off infection, while the other had donned a plague mask with a long ‘beak’. They were not alone – he sensed unseen eyes watching from various vantage points, and had no doubt that their owners had muskets primed and ready.

‘You cannot pass,’ the scarfed man declared, although he peered at the letter Chaloner handed him – the one Dean Sancroft had written two days before, appointing Chaloner as his official envoy. ‘The only thing that lies over this bridge is death.’

‘And the poor,’ added the second, his voice muffled through the mask. ‘The rich fled weeks ago, and the only folk left now are those with nowhere else to go.’

‘Return home,’ urged the first, firmly but kindly. ‘Only drunks, fools or madmen cross the river these days.’

‘Or those with orders to follow,’ said Chaloner, nodding to the missive.

The fellow handed it back with a shrug that expressed exactly what he thought of such stupidity. ‘As you wish. However, if you live long enough to want to leave again, make sure that you have enough money to buy a Certificate of Health.’

‘A Certificate of Health?’ queried Chaloner.

‘A document signed by a priest and a physician, stating that you are free of the sickness,’ explained the second. ‘Because you will not be allowed out without one. And they are expensive. Very expensive.’

‘So is food,’ put in the first grimly. ‘It is in short supply over there, because no one wants to trade with a disease-ravaged city, and who can blame them? Even coins soaked in vinegar may not be safe, and farmers are unwilling to risk it.’

The gate was pulled open just wide enough to let Chaloner pass, after which it was slammed shut again, setting up a hollow boom that reverberated through the abandoned buildings beyond. The horse shied, and Chaloner leaned forward to pat its neck reassuringly, although the truth was that he was also unsettled. The bridge was eerie without the rattle of wheels, hoofs and feet, and he could not even hear the comfortingly familiar roar of water thundering through the arches below, as the river was too sluggish to make a noise.

When he reached the other end of the bridge, unseen hands unfastened a second gate to let him pass, although there was no acknowledgement of his shouted thanks. He rode on, up Fish Street Hill, dismayed to see that weeds had grown between the cobblestones because there was not enough traffic to keep them clear. When he reached the junction with Thames Street, he stopped for a moment to take stock of his surroundings.

Wooden houses with tiled roofs stood all around him, many with stark red crosses painted on their doors. Looming over them all was the lofty bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral, strong, massive and timeless, although there were cracks in its central tower and patches of moss on its roof. Yet despite the unnerving stillness, there was still life in the city. Shadows flickered as people scurried in the smaller streets, faces prudently covered, and there was even a hackney carriage touting for business outside All Hallows the Great.

A little further on, Chaloner saw a dozen folk queuing outside a fishmongery, the sign above which read Godfrey Wildbore, Purveyor of Fyne Fisshe, Fresh, Dryed and Salted. The fishmonger looked uncannily like the animal that shared his name: he had an unusually hairy face, a snoutish nose, and dark, glittering eyes.

‘But I do not know when my next delivery might be,’ he was declaring, half helpless and half defensive. ‘Fishermen refuse to trade with me. I show them my Certificate of Health, to prove I am free of the plague, but they are too frightened to come near my—’

‘Candles!’ came an excited yell from up the road. ‘A penny each!’

It was criminally expensive for so basic a commodity, but Wildbore’s customers raced away to investigate regardless, leaving the fishmonger alone with his empty marble slabs. He shuffled disconsolately back inside his shop, and closed the door.

Chaloner rode on, wishing Sancroft had chosen someone else to do his dirty work, because he did not feel easy in this strange, sullen, unfamiliar London. Of course, he doubted it had been the dean’s idea to send him there – he suspected he had the Earl to thank for that.

His relationship with his employer was ambiguous. On the one hand, the Earl was proud of Chaloner’s investigative skills, and never missed an opportunity to show them off to his friends. On the other, Chaloner had backed the ‘wrong’ side during the civil wars – he had fought for Parliament and then worked for Cromwell’s intelligence services – which the Earl could not bring himself to forget or forgive. As a result, Chaloner was regularly given assignments that were demeaning, peculiar or sometimes downright dangerous.

He had an unpleasant feeling that Sancroft’s mission was going to fall into the last category, because the dean had been suspiciously reluctant to answer basic questions – such as why the discovery of a body in St Gregory’s Church should have so alarmed him, and who had written to tell him about it. It was frustrating, as Chaloner knew he would find out anyway, and Sancroft’s cooperation would have saved time – which was of the essence, because Chaloner was determined not to spend one minute longer than necessary in the hot, reeking, filthy pit of disease that was currently London.

A short while later, Chaloner stood in St Gregory’s undercroft, staring at a skeleton. The bones were black, dry and dusty, and although no expert on such matters, he could tell that their owner had been dead for a very long time. He glanced questioningly at the vicar, Ralph Masley, a skinny, bald man with asymmetrical eyes – one black, one blue – who had only reluctantly dragged himself from his paper-laden desk to conduct him to the ‘body’.

‘This particular vault should have been empty,’ explained Masley. ‘It was built for Sir Arnold Harbert, you see, on the understanding that he alone would occupy it when he died. But when the verger opened it up at dawn on Sunday . . .’

Chaloner did some quick calculations. It was Thursday morning now, which meant the skeleton had been found exactly four days before. ‘When did Harbert die?’

‘Saturday. But my verger says that whoever these bones belong to must have died at least twenty years ago, because that is when this particular pit was last open.’

Chaloner looked around him. He and Masley were in a huge, cool cellar with a barrel-vaulted ceiling and a bewildering number of interlinking aisles. Its walls were brick, and its floor made of paved slabs, which could be lifted up to provide burial spaces beneath. Coffins of various sizes and states of decay were stacked in recesses along the walls.

Sir Arnold Harbert’s marble-lined vault had pride of place beneath the chancel. It comprised a large rectangular hole, ten feet deep, eight feet wide and twelve feet long. The skeleton lay at the bottom, an untidy sprawl of bones, partly covered by cloth.

‘Do you know of anyone who went missing twenty years ago?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I have only been in post for six months,’ replied Masley. ‘But I assume they belong to a drunken pauper, who fell in before the hole was sealed. I recommend we put Harbert’s coffin on top of him and say no more about it. Then I shall be spared a lot of inconvenience and you can go back to the safety of Tunbridge Wells.’

‘We cannot,’ said Chaloner, although the offer was seriously tempting. ‘Dean Sancroft wants to know who he is and how he came to be here.’

Masley’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He expects you to unearth that after all this time? How? By communing with the dead?’

‘With the living, preferably. There must be someone left who can enlighten me.’

‘Twenty years is a long time,’ harrumphed Masley. ‘And even if there are witnesses who can oblige, they will not be in the city – they will have fled, to escape the plague. Sancroft’s demands are unreasonable.’

Chaloner was inclined to agree. ‘Harbert,’ he said, indicating the fancy casket that stood behind them. ‘How did he die? Plague?’

‘Wounds,’ replied Masley, pursing his lips disapprovingly. ‘He fought a fellow named Tam Denton, and that was the end of him. It was wicked to throw away his life so recklessly when everyone else is struggling to survive. Myself included.’

‘You are brave to have stayed,’ said Chaloner, aware that many clerics had been among the first to go.

‘I am,’ agreed Masley loftily, then grimaced. ‘Although the truth is that I have no choice. St Gregory’s is a plum appointment, and there are vicars galore who itch to leap into my pulpit. Well, they will wait in vain, because I am not abandoning the job that took me so long to win.’

‘Unless you die of plague,’ muttered Chaloner, although too low for the man to hear.

‘Who was the interfering busybody who blabbed to the dean about these bones, by the way? An official investigation is a nuisance for a busy man like me – I have seven funerals today alone. And as my clerk is dead, I have his duties to perform, as well as my own.’

‘The letter was anonymous.’

‘The coward! Meanwhile, his tattling creates extra work for me, and puts you in danger. Why is Sancroft interested in a few mouldering bones anyway? Surely a single, ancient corpse cannot matter when we are burying hundreds of new ones every day?’

‘It makes no sense,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘But perhaps all will become clear once I learn more about the victim.’

‘If you learn more about the victim. I told you – I doubt there is anyone left who can answer questions, and you will almost certainly return to Tunbridge Wells empty-handed. Assuming you do not die of disease first, of course.’

‘If I did, Sancroft would just appoint a replacement.’ Chaloner was under no illusion that he was indispensable. ‘Has the skeleton been moved since it was discovered?’

Masley glared at him. ‘Of course not! Who has time to meddle with old bones? What you see now is exactly what my verger found on Sunday. I just wish we had dumped Harbert on top of them at the time. Then you and I would not be having this conversation.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘Because the verger gossiped about the discovery to his friends, and then the whole parish was awash with the news – which is why everything must now go through official channels. And I am sure you can imagine how time-consuming that will be!’

Chaloner knew enough of Restoration bureaucracy to guess. ‘Are you sure there is no one left who can talk to me? The sooner I learn what Sancroft wants to know, the sooner I will be gone from under your feet.’

Masley was silent for a moment, thinking. ‘I suppose Canon Owen might help, if he is sober. Shall I fetch him?’

*

Once Masley had gone, Chaloner explored the crypt on his own. According to Sancroft, it had been dug because Inigo Jones – the cantankerous architect in charge of repairing St Paul’s before the wars – had thoughtlessly built over St Gregory’s graveyard, leaving the parishioners with nowhere to bury their dead. In revenge, they had started to dig themselves an undercroft – one that just happened to run directly beneath the cathedral’s already precarious foundations. Outmanoeuvred, the Dean and Chapter had hastily conceded defeat, and had donated a patch of land for them to use as a cemetery instead. The excavating had stopped, and church and cathedral had settled into an