'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.

Chapter Thirty-five

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.

A knock at the door made me jump. Wincing at a spasm from my back, I hastily covered the jar and plate with a cloth, calling, 'Wait a moment!'

'It's me,' Barak replied through the door. 'Can I come in?'

'I – I'm getting dressed. Wait in your room, I'll come to you.'

To my relief I heard retreating footsteps. I sniffed the air, but the smell was faint and could not have reached him through the door. Leaving the window open, I slipped out of the room, locking it behind me.

Barak had been asleep when I had returned from St Bartholomew's half an hour before and I had left him. As I knocked at his door I recalled that in the conflicts that had raged around reformers over which of apparently conflicting biblical passages one should follow, I had ever preferred, 'Obey God rather than man,' over 'Let every man be subject to the governing authorities.' I knew I would have to lie to Barak now, and did not relish it, but I felt in my heart that taking the Greek Fire to Guy was the right course. I shuddered at the thought that if the servant had not arrived when he did, Rich might have had it. Although he might have plenty already, for all I knew.

Barak was sitting on the bed in his shirt, mournfully examining a pair of dusty netherstocks. He put his finger through a hole. 'Hard riding's done for these,' he said.

'I'm sure Lord Cromwell will pay for more.' The room was a mess, dirty clothes and greasy plates strewn over the floor and the table. I remembered my former assistant Mark, who had once had this room, how tidy he had kept it.

Barak crumpled the torn stocks into a ball and threw them into a corner.

'Any luck at Barty's?'

'No. We dug up the grave but there was nothing in it, only St John's skeleton. Rich was there. He came up and demanded to know my business.'

'Shit. What did you tell the arsehole?'

'I thought there might be trouble, but the summons from Cromwell arrived just then and he went off in a hurry.'

Barak sighed. 'Another trail gone cold. We must see what the earl gets out of Rich. He'll send a message once he's talked to him.'

'And Marchamount is back tomorrow. I'll go into chambers and see him.'

Barak nodded, then looked up at me. 'Are you up to trying the well again tonight? There won't be a message from the earl for hours, perhaps not till tomorrow morning. My shoulder's much better.'

I was far from up to it, I ached with tiredness from head to toe and my arm hurt. But I had promised, and after all it was for Elizabeth that I had agreed to do everything else in the first place. I nodded wearily. 'Let me just get some food, then we will go.'

'Good idea. I'm hungry too.' Barak, evidently restored by his rest, leaped from the bed and led the way downstairs. I followed, guilt at my deception of him gnawing at me.

Joan had prepared a pottage for us, which she brought to the parlour.

Barak scratched at his near-bald pate. 'Shit, this itches, damn it. I'll have to wear a cap when I go out from now on, I hate the way people stare at me, my head bald as a bird's arse like some old dotard-'