She stared into the hole under the chapel. A power cable snaked a path across the floor, disappearing downward, ambient light illuminating the space beyond.
“Only once before has this crypt been opened,” another of the men said.
Her director introduced him as the keeper of the grounds.
“April 1, 1813. At the time, no one knew where the beheaded Charles I had been buried. But since many believed his remains might be with those of Henry VIII and his third wife, Jane Seymour, this vault was breached.”
Now, apparently, it had been opened again.
“Gentlemen,” her director said. “Will you excuse Inspector Richards and myself? We need a few moments.”
The other men nodded and retreated toward the main doors, twenty meters away.
She liked to hear her title. Inspector. She’d worked hard to earn it and hated that it might now be lost.
“Kathleen,” her director said, his voice low. “I implore you, for once, to keep your mouth shut and listen to me.”
She nodded.
“Six months ago the archives at Hatfield House were pilfered. Several precious volumes stolen. A month later, a similar incident occurred at the national archives in York. Over the ensuing weeks there were a series of thefts of historical documents from around the nation. A month ago a man was caught photographing pages within the British Library, but he evaded capture and fled the premises. Now this.”
Her fear dissipated as her curiosity arose.
“With what has happened here,” her director said, “the matter has escalated. To come into this sacred building. A royal palace.” He paused. “These thieves have a clear purpose.”
She crouched down to the opening.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Have a peek.”
It seemed irreverent to disturb the last tangible bits of someone who’d existed so long ago. Though her bosses at SOCA might think her brash and uncaring, certain things did matter to her. Like respect for the dead. But this was a crime scene, so she lay flat on the checkerboard marble and poked her head below.
The crypt was supported by a brick arch, maybe two and a half meters wide, three meters long, and a meter and a half deep. She counted four coffins. One pale and leaden bearing the inscription of King Charles, 1648, a square opening surgically cut in the upper part of the lid. Two smaller coffins were entirely intact. The fourth was the largest, pushing over two meters. An outer shell of wood, five centimeters thick, had decayed to fragments. The inner leaden coffin had also deteriorated and appeared to have been beaten by violence around its middle.
She knew whose bones were visible.
Henry VIII.
“The unopened coffins are for Jane Seymour,” the director said, “the queen buried with her king, and an infant of Queen Anne’s who died much later.”
She recalled that Seymour had been wife number three, the only one of the six who provided Henry with a legitimate son, Edward, who eventually became king, ruling six years, dying just before his sixteenth birthday.
“It appears Henry’s remains were rummaged through,” he said. “The opening in Charles’ coffin was made two hundred years ago. He, and the other two, seem to have been of no interest.”
In life, she knew, Henry VIII had been a tall man, over six feet, but toward the end of his life his body had swelled with fat. Here lay the mortal remains of a king who fought with France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Emperor, transforming England from an island at the edge of Europe into an empire-in-the-making. He defied popes and possessed the courage to found his own religion, which continued to thrive five hundred years later.
Talk about audacity.
She stood.
“Serious things are happening, Kathleen.”
He handed her one of his business cards. On the back was an address written in blue ink.
“Go there,” he said.
She noted the address. A familiar place. “Why can’t you tell me what this is about?”
“Because none of this was my idea.” He handed back her SOCA badge and credentials, which had been confiscated three weeks ago. “Like I said, you were about to be dismissed.”
She was perplexed. “So why am I here?”
“They asked, specifically, for you.”
Four
LONDON
IAN KNEW EXACTLY WHERE HE WAS. HIS AUNT LIVED NEARBY and he’d many times wandered Little Venice, especially on weekend afternoons when the streets were filled with people. When he finally ran away, the posh villas and modern tower blocks had offered him his first education in life on his own. Tourists flocked to the area, drawn by the quaint neighborhoods, the blue iron bridges, and the many pubs and restaurants. Houseboats and water buses plowed the brown waters of the canal between here and the zoo—offering exactly the kind of distractions that helped with stealing. Right now, he needed a distraction to lose Norse and Devene, who would surely be after him once they were through dealing with Cotton Malone.
Maybe his aunt’s flat would offer him a safe place to hide, but the thought of appearing on her doorstep turned his stomach. As much trouble as he was now apparently facing, the prospect of listening to that fat prat seemed worse. Besides, if whoever was after him knew enough to know that he was returning today, they surely would have learned about his aunt.
So he continued running down the sidewalk, in the opposite direction from where she lived, toward an avenue fifty meters ahead.
Gary stopped and said through heavy breaths, “We have to go back.”
“Your dad said to go. Those are bad people. I know.”
“How?”
“They tried to kill me. Not those two buggers, but others.”
“That’s why we need to go back.”
“We will. But first we have to get farther away.”