'Good. I'll get Simon to bring you in some beer. I'll be back before dark.'

'All right.' He laughed. 'I think the boy believes I'm a soldier of fortune. He's always asking me what I do for Lord Cromwell, whether he sends me to battles.'

'He's sent us both to one this time. Don't let Simon bother you.'

'He's no trouble.' He looked at me. 'Good luck.'

I left the room and stood in the corridor. I felt relieved at Barak's ready acquiescence, but also guilty. Evidently he trusted me now; I doubted he would have let me go alone on such a mission a week before. I shuddered at the thought that in deceiving Barak, I was deceiving Cromwell too.

THE STREETS WERE quiet in the late afternoon heat as I rode up to Smithfield. As I turned into the open area a cart passed, driven by an old man with a rag covering his face. I saw that it was full of ancient bones, ribcages and sharp pelvises and limb bones piled together in an unholy jumble, skulls peering out with their mocking grins. Rotten scraps of ancient winding sheets trailed through the bones and as the cart passed I caught the damp, sickly smell of the tomb. I knew many skeletons from the monastic graveyards were driven out to the Lambeth marshes and quietly dumped; these must be from Barty's. I hoped that I would be in time; Rich had said it would be a few days before they got to the hospital graveyard. As I spurred Genesis on across Smithfield, feeling a welcome breeze in my face, I noticed that though the Anabaptists might have recanted the stake stood already planted in the ground, the iron fetters hanging from it a grim reminder of its purpose.

A new watchman from Augmentations stood by the priory gatehouse, a keen young fellow who demanded to know my business. I cursed when I remembered Barak had Cromwell's seal, but my lawyer's robe and mention of the earl's name were enough to gain me entrance. I enquired after progress in excavating the graveyards. Looking surprised, the man said the work on the hospital graveyard had just begun. He called to another watchman, a lantern-jawed old fellow with a limp, to escort me there.

The old man led me through a maze of buildings, some destroyed and others awaiting conversion to residences, across Little Britain Street to the grounds behind the priory hospital. The high crenellated City wall loomed in the distance.

'Is the work far advanced?' I asked.

'They started yesterday,' he grunted. 'There's hundreds of graves to dig up. Filthy business – it's a known fact corpse odours can bring plague.'

'I saw a cart full of bones on my way.'

'The labourers have no respect for the dead. Reminds me of my time fighting in France, corpses everywhere 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. '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.