The Last Queen of England (42 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T
hey arrived at St Paul’s Church in Shadwell ahead of a school field trip that consisted of two female teachers and thirty or so ten-year-olds from the local primary school.
 
Tayte watched the procession of pupils file past in pairs like a blue centipede that quickly disappeared beneath the shade of mature trees in the churchyard.
 
He couldn’t feel much of the breeze, but he could hear it rustling the treetops above as it tried to shake free the early autumn leaves.

He stood there a moment, briefcase in hand, like an estate agent assessing a new property listing.
 
He was looking at the north-facing side of the church, which was constructed of brown brick with plain stucco dressings.
 
He would have thought it unremarkable were it not for the impressive spire that sat above the pediment, rising in ornate, pillared tiers like a tall wedding cake whose crowning glory was a high stone obelisk.

“I don’t know how much time we have,” he said to Jean as they made their way through black ironwork gates towards the church.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think it’s going to be long before they catch up with us again.
 
They knew we were at St Paul’s, Covent Garden.
 
They probably knew we were in Hammersmith given that they tried to kill us on the way back.
 
I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew we were at the cathedral, too.”

Jean agreed.
 
“You don’t need to be a Fellow of the Royal Society to work out the pattern, do you?”

“No, you don’t,” Tayte said.
 
“And given they know we were on a boat heading east - a boat that terminated at St Katherine’s, not far from
this
St Paul’s...”

He left his words hanging as the headstones and sarcophagi he could see to either side of the path distracted him.
 
These were old memorials judging from their worn and crooked appearance.
 
The walled churchyard, though relatively small, clearly predated the present building, which Tayte knew from Jean’s research on the BlackBerry, was built around 1820.

The path led them to the entrance where a few stone steps led up to a bright red door that was set between tall white niches and iron railings.
 
The Greek revival facade was topped with a plain stone tympanum that ran the full width of the pediment.
 
Tayte stopped and looked back towards the road, thinking that they were probably okay for now.
 
He figured they had maybe thirty minutes to check the place out.
 
Any longer than that was pushing their luck.
 
He stepped ahead of Jean and opened the door.

“Shall we?” he said.

Inside, they caught up with the school trip.
 
The children were already neatly ordered in the pews and Tayte could see that they had been equipped with tracing paper and crayons.
 
He thought they all looked impatient to get outside again to begin their rubbings, but it appeared they had to take in a little church history first.

The lesson today was being given by someone who looked too young to be anyone other than a very junior member of the church.
 
He wore a dog collar with a black shirt and jeans, and Tayte thought his fair, windswept hairstyle suited a guitar and microphone better than a pulpit and bible, but what did he know.

“St Paul’s Church, Shadwell is known as the
Church of the Sea Captains
,” the young clergyman said.

Tayte wasn’t there for the lesson.
 
He turned away, taking the place in.
 
It was a predominantly white interior with gilded detail and galleried wooden balconies.
 
His eyes strayed to the stained glass windows then back to the walls, looking for pertinent inscriptions.
 
In the background the clergyman continued his lesson.

“More than seventy sea captains have been buried in our churchyard over the years,” he said.
 
“And although not buried here,
 
one important parishioner I’m sure you’ve all heard of is Captain Cook.”

Jean sidled up next to Tayte and studied the wall with him.
 
“Maybe we can talk to one of the churchwardens.”

Tayte looked around.
 
“If we can find one.”

The clergyman giving the history lesson was the only member of the church he’d seen and he seemed settled for the time being.

“Does anyone know where our church got its name?” the clergyman said.

Tayte saw a hand shoot up from the pews.

“Because of St Paul,” one of the children said.

“That’s right.
 
But more specifically, it was named after a very famous St Paul’s in Central London.
 
Can anyone tell me which?”

St Paul’s Cathedral
, Tayte thought, not really registering his answer as he moved around the church and continued to study the inscriptions with Jean.
 
There were relatively few and nothing he saw came close to the dates they were looking for.

“It was dedicated to St Paul in honour of the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral,” the clergyman said, confirming Tayte’s answer when none of the children did.

The words caught up with Tayte then.
 
He suddenly found himself very interested.
 
He turned to listen more attentively and saw that Jean was already ahead of him.
 
He sat beside her in the pews.

 
“In 1669,” the clergyman continued, “Dean William Sancroft - who later became Archbishop of Canterbury - owned the land this church was built on.
 
It was because of his granting of the lease to build our community church that we are here today.”

Jean turned to Tayte.
 
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Tayte was thinking a number of things and chief among them was the self-consuming dragon, Ouroboros.
 
“It goes full circle,” he said.
 
“Ethelred to St Paul’s Cathedral.
 
St Paul to this St Paul’s church, which connects us back to the cathedral and Ethelred.”

“Ad infinitum,” Jean said.

It was a good connection but Tayte needed more.
 
He stood up, not wanting to waste another second.
 
“Excuse me,” he called, raising his hand as he spoke as if that made the interruption okay.
 
“Do you keep your own parish registers here?”

The sudden intrusion seemed to take the clergyman aback.
 
“No,” he said, his brow firmly scrunched.
 
“None.”

“Do you know where the burial registers
are
kept?
 
Maybe the local record office?”

The clergyman nodded.
 
“Since the war years, yes.”

“And prior to that?”

“Everything was destroyed during the blitz.
 
Now, would you mind waiting until we’ve finished?
 
I can answer your questions then.”

“Everything?” Tayte said, more to himself than to the clergyman.
 
He knew the centralisation of England’s parish registers hadn’t begun in earnest until after the war and he supposed such losses had prompted it.
 
“There were no copies?” he added, unconvinced.
 
He thought about the Harleian Society publication he’d looked through at the church in Covent Garden.
 
“Weren’t the registers published anywhere?”

“No,” the clergyman said.
 
“Everything was lost.
 
Now I must -”

Tayte put his hand up again, this time in surrender.
 
“There’s no need,” he said.
 
It was clear that he was testing the young man’s patience.
 
A quick glance at the teachers sitting in the pews confirmed that he was testing theirs, too.
 
He gave an apologetic smile.
 
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” he added and sat down again.

He turned to Jean, who looked mildly embarrassed for him or perhaps because of him.
 
“No records,” he said.
 
“No copies, either.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Headstones and memorials.
 
That’s about it.”

Jean stood up.
 
“Let’s go outside and take a look at the graveyard.
 
Before we’re thrown out.”

They took a clockwise route around the church from the gate they had entered by, checking every memorial they came to for a date that matched one of Queen Anne’s failed attempts to provide an heir - a grave that should not be there.
 
They walked side by side, like crime scene officers looking for the smallest piece of evidence.
 
Typically, they found that many of the inscriptions were worn and difficult to read.

“This is going to take a while,” Tayte said.

They had cleared ten or twelve graves and he was anxiously aware that the clock was ticking.

“We can’t afford to cut corners,” Jean said.

Tayte knew she was right but he had a feeling it was going to take more time than they had.
 
He began to wonder when their expected company would arrive, thinking that if he had to run anywhere else today, the heart attack he’d feigned on the boat would hit him for real.
 
That’s if running was an option.
 
The churchyard was all but empty.
 
He’d only seen one other person: a groundskeeper tending the border by the far wall they were heading towards.
 
They would be easy targets.

They continued in silence, focusing on the dates, quickly ruling out every memorial they came to.
 
Then as Murphy’s Law would have it, the silence was shattered by thirty school children as they ran out into the churchyard armed with their tracing paper.
 
Tayte just wanted to get this done and get out of there.
 
Now an army of ten-year-olds was running riot, covering the headstones they needed to see with tracing paper.

Tayte pushed a frustrated hand through his hair.
 
“That’s just great.”

“Maybe you could recruit them,” Jean said, smiling to herself.

Tayte thought about it.
 
“That’s not a bad idea.
 
Better to have the horde with you than against you, right?”

“I was joking,” Jean said.
 
“Anyway, you’d never get past the teachers.”

Tayte was going to try anyway, but just as he was about to find a teacher to ask, a white-haired man in a green shirt and tan corduroy trousers came over and spoke to them.
 
He was the groundskeeper Tayte had seen, although he looked several years past retirement age.

“Sightseeing, are you?”

Tayte thought it a reasonable assumption given that the man had probably seen them musing over every inscription they came to.
 
“No, not really.”

“Looking for family, then?”

Tayte shook his head.
 
“I’m a genealogist looking for a date.”

The man laughed to himself.
 
“Then you’re looking in the wrong place.
 
Everyone’s dating online these days.”

Jean laughed with him.
 
Tayte just smirked.

“I’m sorry,” the man said.
 
“I couldn’t resist.
 
What name are you looking for?”

“We don’t have a name,” Jean said.

“No name?” the man repeated.
 
“Pity.
 
I might have been able to help.”

“We’re looking for a headstone dated somewhere between 1697 and 1700,” Tayte said.

The groundskeeper drew a long breath.
 
“Then you’re still looking in the wrong place.
 
You won’t find anything that old out here.”

“Why’s that?” Jean asked.
 
She didn’t seem ready to believe him.
 
“This graveyard’s been here since the mid 1600s, hasn’t it?”

“That might be so,” the man said.
 
“But there’s not so much of it now as there used to be.
 
Back in the 1840s it was twice the size, but the London Dock Company compulsory purchased the land for development.
 
All the older graves went.
 
Then in the 1920s much of what was left was cleared for a nature study area.”

Jean chewed her lip.
 
“What about a crypt?”

The man scratched behind his ear, shaking his head.
 
“Times change,” he said.
 
“Space is a precious commodity in London, as in any big city.
 
The church crypt was turned into a community centre in the 1980s.
 
I’d not long started working here then.”