‘Or, in our case, out,’ said Matthew.
But the big wooden doors at the back of the building were locked.
‘Oh my God, we’re trapped,’ cried Imogen.
Luke could not resist. ‘Looks like it. Can the last one to die carry our bones downstairs, please.’
Imogen slumped to the floor, leaned against a pillar and closed her eyes.
Matthew and Jane began to work their way around the walls, looking for a way out.
‘Stay together,’ warned Luke. ‘And watch where you put your feet.’
He propped himself against the pillar opposite Imogen, who ignored him.
‘There’s bound to be a door somewhere,’ whispered Matthew. ‘All these animal bones. Something’s getting in and out. We just have to find where.’
The shadows were darker at the other end of the church. Both Jane and Matthew slowed.
Something moved.
An evil yellow eye glowed in the torchlight.
They didn’t clutch at each other for mutual reassurance, but only because Time Police officers don’t do that sort of thing.
The shadows hissed. They stood, rigid and unmoving.
‘A snake?’ said Matthew.
‘An owl?’ said Jane.
She became aware of Matthew’s gaze. ‘Owls hiss,’ she said, defensively. ‘Owls live in churches. Could be an owl.’
‘More likely a hideous monster from the depths of hell preying on the soul of the unwary,’ said Bolshy Jane, contributing nothing to Jane’s peace of mind.
‘A one-eyed cat,’ said Matthew, shining his torch.
‘With kittens,’ said Jane, shining her torch. A soft bundle stirred and mewed. The cat’s hiss changed to a growl of unmistakeable menace.
‘We’ll go the other way,’ said Matthew, although whether he was speaking to Jane or the cat was unclear.
‘No need to mention that to Luke,’ said Jane as they edged away.
‘No, he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment with Imogen. Kinder not to bother him with it.’
It was Matthew who found the broken door halfway down the nave on the west side. Squeezing through, they found themselves in a very small churchyard, overgrown and dark. Tree branches met overhead and everything, gravestones included, was smothered in ivy.
‘It’s like every horror story you’ve ever read, isn’t it?’ said Luke cheerfully, looking around.
‘Can we go?’ said Imogen. ‘I have what I can only hope are cobwebs in my hair.’
Jane was consulting her scratchpad. ‘We’re not far from the pod.’
‘Good,’ said Luke and took hold of Imogen’s arm.
She stepped back. ‘I’m not going over your shoulder again. You nearly killed me last time.’
‘Fine – you were doing my back in anyway.’
She tried to pull free.
‘Not a chance, Immy. Let’s go, everyone.’
They made their way back to what passed for the main street. Where the excitement wasn’t over.
‘Something’s happening,’ said Jane and indeed, something was happening.
There was rising excitement in the crowd, who had ceased to mill aimlessly and were now craning their necks to see down the road, jostling and pushing for a better place. They could hear cheering in the distance. Uniformed guards pushed through the crowd, clearing a path.
‘Someone’s coming,’ said Jane, in excitement. ‘Do you think it could be the king?’
Imogen tried to wriggle from Luke’s grasp. ‘Where? Let me see.’
The sounds of shouting grew ever closer. King or not, something was approaching.
Imogen was galvanised. ‘Let me go.’
‘Out of the question,’ said Luke.
‘No, please. I want to see the king.’
‘Tough.’
The cheering was upon them. ‘Oh my God, that’s him,’ said Jane in excitement. ‘That’s his coach. There he is.’
Accustomed as she was to pictures of the monarch’s state coach on the newscasts, this one was a little bit of a disappointment. Made of wood, it looked like a clumsy teacup slung between two sets of enormous wheels. The gold and black decorations were chipped in places. The streets are so narrow, thought Jane.
The door was emblazoned with the royal arms. The lion and the unicorn supported a shield which was, in turn, surmounted by a lion standing on a crown. She could even see the royal motto – Dieu et mon droit.
A coachman sat high above a pair of horses. They were struggling a little with the weight of the coach behind them. Jane guessed there should be four of them but the streets just weren’t wide enough. Two footmen clung to the back of the coach. Both were armed. The king’s close protection, Jane assumed. The coach rattled and bumped its way along the barely wide enough street.
The crowd, as they say, went wild. Women flung shrivelled flowers and waved wildly. Men took off their hats.
The leather curtains had been looped back so onlookers could see the occupant. Jane’s first thought was that he was the ugliest man she had ever seen. Her second thought, following hard on the heels of the first, was – wow!
Charles II, recently restored to his kingdom after the mistake that had been Oliver Cromwell, was a very dark, swarthy man. Long nose-to-mouth lines were deeply impressed into his thin face. His eyebrows were thick and heavy over dark, heavily lidded eyes. His hair was improbably long, black and glossy – almost certainly a wig. He leaned forwards in his seat, apparently thoroughly enjoying all the attention, waving his handkerchief and smilingly acknowledging the crowd that pressed around the coach.
The horses, already sweating heavily, their bits covered in foam, skittered nervously. Two men went to their heads while more tried to shove the crowd out of the way. The crowd refused to be shoved, cheering with great enthusiasm.
It is said that Charles II was most famous for his mistresses – of whom there were many. Nell Gwyn, Barbara Palmer, Louise de Kérouaille, possibly the incredibly dim but incredibly beautiful Frances Stuart, Moll Davis . . . The list was, literally, almost endless. What was generally less well recognised was the diplomatic tightrope Charles walked with such skill. A precarious hold on his throne, Parliament to placate, perpetually short of funds and always the problem with the succession. For someone who reputedly only had to look at a woman to get her pregnant, Charles had no legitimate children. Jane had always thought of him as a bit of a serial shagger but there was kindness in his face and she remembered his constant refusal to divorce his queen, Catherine of Braganza, to whom he appeared to be quite devoted. Not devoted enough to stop rogering every woman in sight, of course, but he always refused to cast her aside. Not that the need had yet arisen. These were the early days of his marriage. All that grief was yet to come.