Hill of Bones

ACT FIVE

A Deadly Dig

Having removed the outer layers of bindings that covered the body, Joe Malinferno delicately cut away the lower garment from the corpse’s torso. It resembled a bag that had been doubled and seamed on two sides. A fringe decorated the bottom hem. Under the garment he found little ornaments decorated with figures of ancient gods. He laid these aside on the surface of the polished oak table he was using as a makeshift mortuary slab. He stood up for a moment, easing the ache in his lower back caused by his bent posture. He heard a church clock chiming somewhere nearby, and he estimated he had been working on the body for almost an hour. He would have to hurry. Wiping the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he continued the process of discovery.

His next step was to reveal the corpse’s face. The lips were pulled back in what resembled a grimace of horror. It seemed as if the man had died a violent death, but Malinferno as yet had no idea if that were true. In fact he had not yet even figured out the identity of the man who lay under his steady hands. He continued his examination in absolute silence, noting that the hair of the head, eyebrows and beard were all shaved off. The skin was a livid grey colour, and when he touched it, it felt greasy. There was a layer of something perfumed over the skin, the odour redolent of cinnamon. The facial features were shrivelled, and the eyes were still in their orbits. He looked at the hands, which were crossed over the body’s chest. Their well-manicured fingernails reflected the person’s privileged lifestyle. What he didn’t know and was endeavouring to find out was the cause of his death.

For the first time, Malinferno broke the silence that hung like a pall over the assembled throng.

‘I estimate this body is…’

There was a communal intake of breath as those gathered to hear the professor’s deductions awaited his opinion. Malinferno did not disappoint them.

‘… three thousand years old.’

There was a gasp from the crowd, followed by a ripple of noise as gloved hands were slapped together in the most refined of ways to applaud his skill, and their hostess’s generously proffered entertainment.

Rosamund, Duchess of Avon, was a widow with too much money, and too much time on her hands since the death of her elderly husband, the fifth duke. Her cold and echoing mausoleum of an ancestral home had for all too long induced in her a stultifying boredom that she ached to assuage. Her childless life was tedious and unfulfilled. The idea of purchasing an Egyptian mummy had suddenly come to her over a dull breakfast one day.

She had been reading the Bathhampton Packet, to which her husband had subscribed, and which, by an oversight, she had failed to cancel after his death. In fact she had never previously read the slender sheet, it being her husband’s predilection to monopolise the rag. A week after his death, she had had occasion to pick it up idly from the breakfast table where the duke’s old butler had continued to reverently lay it in lieu of other orders. She had been going to tell Goring to dispose of it, but an article caught her eye. It appeared that one of her neighbours had set up shotguns attached to tripwires to dispose of unwanted trespassers on his land. A court case had ensued on the death of a gypsy, and the wrangling of the lawyers and judge, as reported in the Packet, was all about whether in such circumstances human life was as forfeit as an errant dog. Lady Rosamund was clear as to her own opinion on the matter, and snorted with satisfaction that the editor of the Bathhampton Packet seemed to concur. Since that date, she had read the newssheet assiduously.

On one particular rather dull and drizzly morning, next to a piece about the scandalous goings-on of the Prince Regent, she saw an item concerning Countess Shrewsbury and an Egyptian mummy. It seemed the latest craze was to unroll these beastly things at a soiree, and offer your neighbours the chance of some grisly voyeurism. She instinctively realised this would provide the ideal opportunity to demonstrate her new-found intention to be the centre of social, if not exactly intellectual, life in her corner of the county. She had undertaken enquiries, and soon made the necessary purchase from a man at the British Museum, who was willing illicitly to supply her needs. Along with a man who could effect the unrolling.

For his part Il Professore Giuseppe Malinferno had been delighted when he had been contacted by his old friend from the BM, Thomas Elder, with a request to examine a mummy. He had been both eager to lay his hands on such a rare object, and fearful that his limited knowledge might be exposed. He realised he need not have worried. The unrolling was not going to take place in the presence of expert Egyptologists – of which there were a small but growing number – but at some remote and exotic site before a bunch of provincial socialites, leavened with the odd vicar and bibulous Member of Parliament. Malinferno soon saw that he could bamboozle them with any old nonsense he cared to utter. This he had proceeded to do, along with a subtle touch of showmanship.

When he had stepped out in front of his audience, a magnificent, white-robed figure, a gasp had come from the gentry present in the marquee. He seemed preternaturally tall as his head was topped with a cruel, staring jackal’s mask, its ears abnormally pricked. It was the very embodiment of Anubis – God of the Dead, Guide through the Underworld, and Hearer of Prayers. Several ladies recoiled in terror, and had to fan themselves for fear of fainting. The unbearable heat in the tent and the anticipation was literally breathtaking. Malinferno as Anubis threw his arms high into the air, and cried out, causing another frisson to run through the crowd.

‘O Great One who became Sky,

You are strong, you are mighty,

You fill every place with your beauty,

The whole earth is beneath you, you possess it!

As you enfold earth and all things in your arms,

So have you taken this great lady to you,

An indestructible star within you!’

The audience was enraptured. But beneath the mask, beads of sweat were pouring down Malinferno’s forehead, and stinging his eyes. However, he was in no position to wipe them away, and blinked, shaking his head slightly. The mask of Anubis wobbled, and settled at a more uncertain, rather jaunty angle on his brow. He invoked the gods once more.

‘Oh Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, Kebehsenuef,

Who live by maat,

Who lean on their staffs,

Who watch over Upper Egypt,

O Boatman of the boatless just,

Ferryman of the Field of Rushes!

Ferry Ankh-Wadjet to us.’

This had been Doll’s cue, but nothing happened. He had cursed under his breath, and called out again, louder this time, ‘Ferry Ankh-Wadjet to us.’

At the last moment, a form appeared as if by magic at the head of the mummy. It was a tall, voluptuous figure wearing the horned mask of Hathor. The diaphanous robe did little to hide the curvaceous attractions of his mysterious companion, whom he had named as Madam Nefre. She was scandalously nude underneath her robe, and the audience loved the fact.

‘Couldn’t ’ear you because of this stupid mask,’ whispered Doll Pocket into Malinferno’s jackal ear, her dulcet tones melting with the heat. ‘And I’m sweating like a pig under it.’

‘I’ve told you before, Hathor is a cow god not a pig, hence the horns. Now let’s get on with this farrago.’

The unravelling of the bandaged mummy had then proceeded well, if a little drily. Malinferno had done his best to perform like a fairground barker, while still slaking his own genuine curiosity about the strange means of burial as practised by the ancient Egyptians. In fact, he had even managed, as he often did, to sneak several funerary souvenirs into the pocket of his jacket as he was exposing the leathery visage of the long-dead Egyptian to the general gaze. He did it not for their intrinsic value, of course – though he had no doubt he could shift them for a tidy sum on the burgeoning antiquities market – but to further his own understanding of ancient Egypt.

He hoped to leave the tedious soiree as soon as his part in it was effected, and carry on with the real reason for his presence on the hill. But he knew his employer expected more. As those she had invited craned eagerly over the large dining table that held the dusty and rather smelly remains of her investment, she reflected on the success of the evening. All in all it had gone well, though she wished that the man she had engaged – this Italian professor with an unpronounceable name – had conducted the event with a little less scholarly sobriety, and a little more élan. His naked assistant had promised well, but the unrolling had been accompanied with too much talk.

‘Professor Ma… Malapropos…’ screeched the duchess, taking Malinferno’s arm in a vicelike grip. She obviously could not even remember his name, but was determined to get full value from his celebrated, albeit bogus, erudition. ‘You must talk to my dear friend the Honourable Sir Ralph St Germans about the Pyramids and suchlike. He’s the Member of Parliament for… err…’ She flapped her hand to denote some remote rotten borough that was represented by this august Member. ‘He is fearfully keen on this Egyptian thing, and is acquiring all sorts of impedimenta from… well, from Egyptia, I suppose.’

She steered him towards an egregiously overweight, and obviously inebriated gentleman, who was using the edge of Malinferno’s erstwhile mortuary slab to steady his wavering bulk. The small items from the mummy that were the professor’s illicit bonus were burning a hole in Malinferno’s pocket. But there was nothing to be done but whisk a bumper of red wine from a passing tray, and sing for his supper. He toasted the noble Member of Parliament, and enquired after his collection of artefacts, hoping the man wasn’t expert enough on Egyptology to unmask him as a charlatan. Fortunately, St Germans chose that moment to pass out from an excess of alcohol, slumping heavily across the table and landing on Doll’s generous bosom.

It had only been a week earlier that Malinferno had lifted his head reluctantly from that very bosom and sighed.

‘I have to get out of London, Doll. What if I am found out? I will be hanged along with the others.’

The reason for his fears had to do with Malinferno’s soft spot for the plight of the masses, coming as he did himself from humble beginnings. After old King George had died in January of that year – 1820 – the rumblings of the radicals got louder as the situation of the working poor got worse. Joe – he hated his proper name of Giuseppe – often took himself off to the Marylebone Union Reading Society, and filled his head with radical idealism. Doll was more down to earth, and didn’t think much could be done other than looking after number one. They rowed about it off and on.

‘We, who are able to look after ourselves, must help the poor.’

Joe’s pronouncement astonished Doll, bearing in mind they were themselves down to their last few coppers. And the meal on the table in Joe’s shabby lodgings in Creechurch Lane, London, was no more than an umble pie of offal, washed down with beer. She opened her arms to encompass their meagre feast.

‘Joe, we are the poor, as things stand. I shall have to troll the streets if we are to pay your landlady the rent for even last month.’

Malinferno’s face was set in a mask of defiance. He had first met Doll Pocket in Madam de Trou’s bawdy house in Petticoat Lane. He had been astonished by both her quick mind, and her obviously pulchritudinous assets. Instead of exploiting those assets as intended, he had spent the night teaching her all he knew about Egyptology. She had absorbed it like a sponge. They had forgotten all about the reason why he had paid the madam in good gold coin. And now that they were good friends, he didn’t want Doll to return to her former trade.

‘No. If the worst comes to the worst, you can become an actress. I know Mr Saunders, the manager of the New Theatre in Tottenham Street. He will find you a position.’

Doll pulled a face. ‘An actress? Why should I want to do that? They have the same reputation as a whore, and earn less than half the money.’

‘At least that is the lesser of two evils.’ Malinferno hesitated a moment. He was trying somehow to get round to telling her the truth about the rent. Finally, he decided he had better just come out and say it. ‘And it’s not one month we owe but three.’

Doll pushed her rickety chair away from the table, and put her hands on her hips in a pose of outrage.

‘But I gave you the money for the other month. It was the last of my savings.’

‘I know. But Arthur wanted some funds and I-’

‘You gave it all to Arthur Thistlewood?’

By now, Doll was stomping up and down their tiny room, causing the chipped crockery on the table to rattle. Malinferno steadied the table and grinned.

‘You know, you would make a wonderful actress. They are putting on The Taming of the Shrew at the Theatre Royal.’

Doll growled, and grabbed one of the plates from off the table. She only stopped herself from throwing it at Joe, when he yelled a warning.

‘Careful, Doll, we’ve got only two plates left. If that one goes, we will have to share our repasts like two dogs fighting over the same bowl.’

She contented herself with another growl, and sat back on her chair abruptly. It creaked ominously under her. She waved her hand at Malinferno dismissively.

‘Go and plot treason with Thistlewood. That’s all you are good for, you and the Spendthrift Philanderers.’

‘Spencean Philanthropists,’ Malinferno corrected her. ‘We follow the ideas of Thomas Spence. Anyway, it’s no good me going to the meeting house today. They are meeting up somewhere else, but I am not in on the secret of what’s afoot.’

Doll snorted with derision. ‘You are not all that important to them, then. Now they have your money. Where are they meeting, anyway?’

Malinferno tossed his head, as though his not being in on the secret meeting mattered not at all to him.

‘Somewhere near Grosvenor Square. Cato Street, I think he said.’

Later, when the news came out of the murderous conspiracy led by Thistlewood, Malinferno was glad he had been excluded. After the conspirators were arrested in a pitched battle in the Cato Street hayloft, it emerged that the Spencean Philanthropists had plotted to kill every single cabinet minister at a dinner hosted by Lord Harrowby. Malinferno, pale and shaken, had refused to leave his lodgings in Creechurch Lane for days. He spent his time peering cautiously out of the dusty window on the first floor, imagining every passer-by was a Bow Street runner come to arrest him for treason. Doll scoffed at his worries, but Joe would not be reassured.

‘George Edwards was an agent provocateur acting for the government, and I spoke to him at a meeting once. He might remember me.’

‘Joe, it’s been weeks since the others were arrested. Has anyone mentioned your name? No.’

Malinferno fingered his damp linen collar nervously. ‘Even so, they say Thistlewood and the others will be hanged.’

He shrank back from the window, where he had been standing, and slumped down on the lumpy bed he shared with Doll. She sighed, and went off to the chop house to fetch in some food, as she had done since the Cato Street Conspiracy had been exposed.

When in April the verdict was reached on those who had refused to turn king’s evidence, Brunt, Davidson, Ings, Thistlewood and Tidd – all known to Malinferno – were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. And though their sentences were later commuted to merely hanging, a deed that took place in May, Malinferno decided it was time to sneak away from London for a while. He wondered if his friend Bromhead had anything for him to do that would remove him from the febrile atmosphere of the capital.

‘Actually, Giuseppe, I do, as it happens.’

Augustus Bromhead was a strange cove to look at. He was very short of stature, standing at less than five feet tall, but his head was that of a much bigger man. It topped his tiny body like the bulbous head of a tadpole, an effect that was emphasised by the unruly thatch of grey hair and goatee beard he favoured. But he was a giant of a man when it came to intellect and knowledge in his chosen field. Bromhead was an antiquarian of repute, and what he didn’t know about King Arthur and all things pertaining to the glorious history of the British Isles was not worth knowing.

He swivelled on the high stool where he perched at his study table, and penetrated his friend Malinferno with a firm gaze. The young man had rushed into his study, hidden high under the eaves of Bromhead’s rickety house in Bermondsey, with a look about him that suggested the devil was on his tail. Which did not surprise him, as Malinferno was often getting into scrapes. He had been surprised, however, by the young man’s earnest request for a commission that might take him out of London. He knew Malinferno was obsessed with this new craze for all things Egyptian, set in motion by old Nappy Bonaparte. Why all that Egyptian stuff should matter to an Englishman, Bromhead could not fathom. But then, Malinferno was half Italian, so there was no understanding his mind. He addressed his visitor again, taking care to use his proper name, which he knew irritated Joe Malinferno beyond measure.

‘But first tell me, Giuseppe, why you want to assist me, when you have nothing but scorn for my researches.’

The pale-faced Malinferno shook his head vigorously, wide-eyed with denial.

‘No, no, Augustus, old friend. I have nothing but respect for your studies of English history. Did I not help you with your examination of King Arthur’s bones?’

Bromhead snorted. ‘Indeed you did, and nearly lost them to body-snatchers and anatomists in the process. I will not trust you with such precious items in the future. However, there is an excavation I want carried out, which I am unable to supervise myself.’

Malinferno groaned. ‘Not more old bones? Arthur’s bones only got me into trouble, and I am trying to avoid trouble at the moment.’

Bromhead squinted at Malinferno over his little, gold-rimmed spectacles, the light from the fire turning his gaze red. But the young man would not supply any further information about the fix he was obviously in. Bromhead smiled secretively.

‘No, it is not bones this time.’ He paused dramatically. ‘It is treasure.’

Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This was more like it – he liked the idea of digging up treasure.

‘Where is this treasure?’

‘In a moment. First, take a look at this. It is a map drawn up many years ago by Christopher Hawkins of Bath. I found it with the text of a poem he had written about Arthur. An awful poem, by the way.’

Bromhead reached across his desk, and pushed over to Malinferno an old crackly parchment. When he looked at it, he saw an outline of what looked like an island with a series of crosses and arrows marked on it. Malinferno’s eyes lit up. This had all the hallmarks of a treasure map. He looked enquiringly at Bromhead.

‘Where is this island?’

‘Island? It is Solsbury Hill, near Bath.’

Malinferno had fretted for days about how to get to Bath in order to launch his treasure hunt on nearby Solsbury Hill. With no money to get him down there, he was stuck in London despite Augustus’ offer. Then a chance meeting with Thomas Elder as he wandered disconsolately around the British Museum had given him part of the solution. A commission in Bath to unroll an Egyptian mummy turned up, something he had done before for the fashionable élite. And it gave him the chance to take Doll with him too. They already had a good act with which to impress their wealthy clients. The trip to Bath was assured, and the dangers of London could be left behind.

Unfortunately, when they got to Bath, he found his reward – their reward – had proved niggardly. The three guineas paid by the duchess would still not be enough to bankroll Bromhead’s project.

‘I don’t know how we are going to get to the site with all the tools we need. The duchess is very sparing with her advance remuneration.’

He jangled the gold coins in his pocket, and looked at Doll. She was draped – dressed was too generous a word to use – in the light muslin shift that she was to wear as Hathor. It did little to hide her charms, which was all to the point. She had been promenading in Bath before returning to the tiny attic room she shared with Malinferno in Cheap Street. He could not help but wonder what the experience had done for the popinjays who frequented the resort. He could imagine the effect of the light from the flaming torchères that lit the Roman baths as they played on her body. Lit from behind, Doll would have appeared naked. An effect she meant to cultivate, as they needed a gullible sponsor for the enterprise that had really brought them to Bath. Apparently, despite a night of debauchery, no more money had been forthcoming.

He looked at the ravishing form of Doll Pocket again, and sighed. But then a thought occurred to him, and he reached over to the bed. Eagerly, he extracted from the deep pocket of his greatcoat two of his most treasured possessions and laid them on the baize-covered card table they were using as both dining and occasional table. He had purloined both items when doing some cleaning work for Thomas Elder at the BM. They had to be worth something.

The scarab beetle glimmered blood red in the evening light that filtered through the dusty windowpanes. But despite its beauty, Malinferno’s gaze was drawn instead to the papyrus scroll. Cautiously, he unrolled it, praying that it would not crack into fragments. He was in luck. The ancient fragment opened up to reveal a glorious, multi-coloured spectacle of hieroglyphs. As yet, no scholar had been able to decipher these antique symbols, but Malinferno was determined he would be the one to do so. He had heard of a Frenchman called Champollion who had made some headway. But he had been engulfed in the troubles in France, and no one had heard of him for a while. In England, Thomas Young had toiled for years only to decipher one word. The name – Ptolemy. Malinferno was scornful of his efforts, and knew a golden prize could be in the grasp of the first man to unravel the mystery of the Egyptian writing. He would be that man, and would make a fortune lecturing to the wealthy. Who would then pay far more to hear him than the few paltry guineas he was getting from the duchess.

He reverently touched the surface of the scroll with his fingertips, marvelling at the finely wrought images. But was each symbol a word or a letter? That was the problem.

‘Gawd. I’nt it gorgeous.’

Malinferno started from his reverie, and looked over his shoulder. Doll was tired and her accent was slipping again. She was peering over his shoulder, and her ample bosom, artfully lifted, protruded just at his eye level. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

‘Oh, yes it is, Doll.’

Doll Pocket’s bolstered charms often made a lustful satyr of Joe Malinferno. He licked his lips, as he surveyed Doll’s figure. She barely came to his shoulder, but then he was over six feet tall himself. And her blonde curls were fixed in the latest fashion, with a golden bandeau round them holding in place a frothy feather. A severe band of the same colour drew in her thin muslin dress just below her rounded bosom, emphasising its shape. The dress draped seductively over her well-formed hips, falling to her tiny, slippered feet. Despite the rather rumpled nature of her dress, and her bleary, red-rimmed eyes, which spoke of an unsettled night for Doll, the whole effect was of half-concealed voluptuousness. Malinferno dragged his eyes from her with reluctance, looking once again at the papyrus.

‘Yes. It is a beautiful thing, is it not.’

Doll snorted contemptuously, and yawned, affording Malinferno a good view of her tonsils.

‘Nah. Not that bit of gaudy paper. This.’ She leaned forward, pressing her bosom carelessly against him, and scooped up the little ruby scarab. ‘Can I have it?’

‘No, you can’t.’ Malinferno smiled wryly. ‘Though it would match the colour of your eyes perfectly today.’

Doll pulled a face, and hissed at him cattily. But she did retreat to the oval ormolu mirror that hung over the unlit fireplace.

‘Lor’, I do look bad, don’t I?’ She pulled one bleary eyelid down, and examined the mottled orb thus revealed. She decided it was not a pretty sight, and turned away from the unpleasant reflection. ‘Only it’s not my fault. I was up till all hours with Lord Bywater… or was it Lord Byworth?’

‘Could it have been Lord Byron?’ Malinferno offered, not a modicum pleased with his ready wit so late at night. The thought of Doll cavorting with the mad, bad poet was a delectable picture.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Lord Byron.’

Malinferno hooted with laughter.

‘I think not, Doll. The audacious poet of that name has been abroad for a good few years. I believe he is now in Ravenna, not Bath, and good luck to him.’

Doll’s features flushed, giving her pale cheeks a more rosy hue.

‘The bastard. He said he was Lord Byron, and even dashed off a poem for me. I have it in my reticule.’

She dug around in her little bag for a while, finally giving up the hunt when the piece of paper refused to be found.

‘Sod it, I must have lost it. Well, if he wasn’t Byron, then the ode wasn’t worth the paper it was written on anyway.’

She hawked and coughed in a most unladylike manner, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

‘Come to think of it, the wine he gave me was like sheep’s piss too. But the point of the story is that whoever he was, he skipped without paying while I was kipping. Result was, me getting back home with no money, and only your lovely self for company.’

She drew one slender finger seductively down the front of Malinferno’s partially undone, soiled linen shirt as she uttered these final words. The professor was unimpressed, and stopped her hand before it reached a region where his brain would cease to function.

‘Nice try, Doll. But I will have the scarab back.’

‘Damn you, Joe Malinferno.’

Doll stamped her pretty slippered foot, and dropped the ruby scarab she had purloined into Malinferno’s upturned palm. He closed his fist over it, and winked at Doll.

‘Anyway, I need to sell it, or you and I will not have any means of getting to Solsbury Hill after we do the unrolling for the duchess.’

Doll Pocket gave out a whoop. ‘Then we are off on the treasure hunt, after all?’

Malinferno grimaced. ‘Yes, if I can sell the scarab.’

As if deliberately trying to annoy him, Doll suddenly cackled like a demented hen, and grabbed Malinferno by the waist. She swung him round in a madcap dance that had the aged floorboards creaking under them.

‘Oh, we’ll have a real good time, won’t we, Joe?’

Her celebration was suddenly drowned out by the most hideous noise Malinferno had ever heard. It resembled the sound of a pedestrianist running the race of his life, gasping for each breath. It would have to be a giant of a man, though, for the breaths were ear-splitting hisses and snorts that rent the air with their exhalations. These frenetic gasps were accompanied by a veritable thrumming, like the parts of a weaving loom, or water pump in a flooded mine, with overtones of howling dogs. Doll pulled up the sash window, and thrust her head out.

‘Oh lawks, it’s the very devil come to carry us away.’

Malinferno peered over her shoulder, aware of the softness of her skin and the alluring scent that perfumed it. He realised her expostulation was not far from the truth. Slowly rolling to a halt in front of their lodgings was a shiny black four-wheeled coach. But the unnerving thing was that there were no horses attached to the front of it. Smoke and steam roiled around the rear of the coach, giving it the very appearance of some demon’s conveyance. The whole contraption vibrated like a living creature. On the driver’s seat perched a dwarfish figure wreathed in a dirty green coat, his face obscured by a heavy black mask. Malinferno realised that the sound that resembled howling dogs had in truth been howling dogs. Wherever this hellish coach had come from, it had been chased by a gathering pack of street curs, which yelped and barked at its passage, baring their teeth in fear and loathing. The pack now stood at a safe distance from the steaming rear of the coach, growling and circling. The dwarf rose from his seat, skipped down nimbly to the ground, and threw a stone at the dogs. They slinked away, apparently more scared of the little demon than his conveyance. He then turned towards Malinferno’s lodgings, and toiled one at a time up the steep steps to the front door. Doll squealed in a mixture of horror and delight.

‘Blimey, Joe, have you made a pact with the devil or something? Because I think he’s come to collect.’

It turned out that there was nothing demonic about the steam-shrouded carriage and its dwarfish driver. In fact, its appearance heralded another stroke of good fortune for Malinferno. For, when Joe descended to the front door to admit the little man, he discovered the conveyance had indeed come for him. But it was not sent by Satan. The owner of the new-fangled, steam-powered horseless carriage was none other than the niggardly Duchess of Avon. The dwarf, John Smallbone by name, pulled the leather mask with round glass portholes for each eye from his face, revealing a quite cherubic expression. He explained that his mistress had sent him to collect ‘the professor’ as the venue for the unrolling had been changed. Malinferno was intrigued, but pulled a face, jingling the coins in his pocket.

‘I am not sure I can afford to work for your mistress, John Smallbone.’

The dwarf cackled, his chubby face turning bright red with the effort.

‘The mistress is careful with her money, isn’t she?’ He tapped the side of his bulbous nose. ‘But I think you will find her more generous due to these changes in circumstance.’

‘What does the new commission entail?’

‘I cannot say, but I am told you are to come with your actress friend…’

Doll, who by now had come down to stand behind Joe, and was listening to the exchange, gave a cry of annoyance.

‘Watch it, titch. I ain’t no whore of an actress, but a lady.’

The dwarf refrained from adding the epithet ‘of the night’ to Doll’s self-description, contenting himself with a deep bow of insincere contrition.

‘My apologies, lady. I meant no offence.’ He turned back to Malinferno to continue his explanation. ‘As the journey is some distance, I have come in the Trevithick Flyer.’ He indicated the infernal conveyance. ‘It will easily carry yourselves and your Egyptian mummy to the rites and festivities the duchess has laid on for her special guests.’

Malinferno was not sure about venturing into the unknown. But the lure of further funds was sufficient to cause him to agree to the change in plans. He ushered Doll upstairs to begin packing their meagre belongings, before turning back to John Smallbone.

‘You said we had a journey ahead of us. Where are these festivities to be held?’

‘Oh, did I not say? The duchess plans a solemn ritual on an ancient and mysterious site some three miles outside Bath. They do say ghosts roam there at night.’ His little body shuddered. ‘I should not like to be there after dark. It is called Solsbury Hill.’

The journey to Solsbury Hill took longer than anticipated, so Malinferno and Doll Pocket’s arrival was closer to dusk than John Smallbone fancied, bearing in mind the ghostly associations he had mentioned. The problem was the Trevithick Flyer, which, it turned out, could not cope with the gradient up from the outskirts of Bath to the hill in question. The horseless carriage huffed and puffed merrily through Bath, drawing attention to its maniacal progress every yard it moved. Fingers pointed at this strange carriage that rolled along without horses, but with a great bubbling canister of steam lashed to its rear portion. And the sight of Smallbone, with his infernal mask once again on his face, was enough to cause many a sign against the devil to be cast his way. But as the ground began to change from level to a steady incline, the carriage rolled along more and more slowly. Malinferno’s scientific mind saw that this increased lack of propulsion was in inverse proportion to a growth in alarming sounds emanating from the boiler behind them. The wheezes and sighs that had marked their initial progress forward became louder and more stertorous. The engine was gasping like a labouring runner whose heart and lungs were about to burst. Doll clutched Malinferno’s arm in alarm.

‘Lawks, what if the boiler explodes, Joe?’

Malinferno pasted a confident smile on his face. A smile that was more optimistic than he felt at heart.

‘Trust in science, Doll. Mr Trevithick is a great engineer…’

Before he could finish his speech lauding the skills of the masterful Cornishman, however, the boiler gave a great, despairing groan. Doll rose from her seat.

‘Bugger Mr Trevithick. I’m getting off before we are blown sky high.’

She jumped out of the carriage, and onto the side of the roadway. Malinferno was much pleased that the lightening of the load seemed to assist the labouring engine. The Flyer began to gain speed once more. He leaned out the window to express his sense of triumph. But he was exasperated to see that Doll, even hampered with her long skirts, was walking faster than the engine could propel the carriage. She was rapidly forging ahead, and Malinferno was too embarrassed to call out to her to wait. Finally, a steep hill was reached, and the not-so-winged Flyer gave up the ghost. With a piercing hiss, the steam pressure gave up and groaned out of the emergency release valve. The conveyance was no more, and Malinferno was left red-faced, staring out the carriage window. Doll sat down on a convenient milestone, her legs akimbo, and roared with laughter.

It took John Smallbone an hour to find a farmer who could bring a pair of heavy horses used for ploughing in order to pull the Flyer to its destination. The coach was exceptionally heavy with Trevithick’s engine stuck on the back, so eventually the passengers had to descend and walk beside their cumbersome conveyance. In fact, Malinferno was reduced to carrying both his and Doll’s baggage. So it was a sweating and purple-faced professor who arrived in the duchess’s encampment on Solsbury Hill, along with his prettily perspiring companion and a more conventionally powered carriage, pulled by horses. Doll’s muslin dress stuck to her curves, and several of the males in the crowd who had assembled at their arrival had eyes for her barely concealed bosom. Servants in knee-breeches and white powdered wigs scurried across the site, which, with its tents and men on horseback, resembled a grand hiring fair. Or maybe Mr Astley’s Amphitheatre of Performing Arts, which usually stood close by Westminster Bridge, for Doll heard a terrible animalistic roar, then spotted, not far away, the brown furry outline of a performing bear tethered to a post in the ground. She almost expected to see tumblers, and a girl standing by a board having knives thrown at her.

John Smallbone leaped from the driver’s box, and his dwarfish stature only added to the carnival atmosphere as he bustled across the site to find his mistress, the duchess.

Malinferno muttered in Doll’s ear, ‘See how the noble lords are looking at us. I think we are the freak show at this grand spectacle.’

Doll laughed, and passed her handkerchief over her brow.

‘I think they are looking at me, Joe. Not you. Though I think someone else has just distracted them.’

She pointed at another carriage, which had just arrived atop Solsbury Hill and debouched a woman dressed in what Doll could only have described as en Venus. That is, she was not dressed much further up than the waist, save for an outlandish peasant headdress ornamented with spangles and fluttering ribbons. Malinferno glanced over at her.

‘What a trollop. She has no doubt been brought in to entertain the gentlemen after we have played our part in this… ridiculous melodrama. Look how they crowd around her, simply because her bosoms are on show.’

Doll poked him in the ribs. ‘If her bosom troubles you, then take your eyes off it for a minute. We need to work out how we are going to set up the mummy so we can unroll him for the delectation of this crowd. And did you bring the spades? We have some digging to do when we have finished with the demonstration.’

Malinferno was irritated by Doll’s suggestion that he was leering over the middle-aged tart who seemed to have attracted everyone else’s attention. But he couldn’t help watching until she disappeared in the crowds making their way towards the duchess’s tent.

‘Yes, yes, of course I have them here. And the scarab and the papyrus, so we can salt the mummy with extra finds. What is more important is how on earth we are going to sneak away in order to dig where Bromhead’s map says the treasure is located.’

He fumbled in his greatcoat pocket for the precious piece of paper entrusted to him by his friend Augustus. He unfolded it and pressed the ancient map flat on top of the box that held the remains of the Egyptian mummy. He pointed a finger at the sketchy drawing. It was of the roughly triangular-shaped earthworks with one point of the equal-sided triangle at the bottom. This point was rounded, and to Doll’s eyes looked more like a naughty child’s sketch of a mound of Venus than anything geographical. She giggled, and Malinferno gave her a funny look before he carried on.

‘Look, we came up to the hill on this track running from the south-east, and Augustus’s notes suggest we should dig where he has put this cross. This means our site is…’ He looked up in order to orientate himself, and groaned. ‘… Exactly where the duchess has pitched her tent.’

Doll looked to where Malinferno was pointing. It was one of the more extravagant tents erected on the site, and was obviously the duchess’s. They could see her speaking to John Smallbone through the opening facing them. The interior was laid out with carpets and a bed, as if it were an Eastern harem. Or at least Malinferno’s image of such a location, though his idea was based only on his intimate knowledge of the rooms in Madame de Trou’s brothel in Petticoat Lane. The duchess peered out into the darkening sky, and waved a dismissive hand at Smallbone. The little dwarf bustled back over to Malinferno and Doll Pocket.

‘The duchess is annoyed that you are late. She says the banquet has finished, and the guests are awaiting the entertainment.’ He pulled a face. ‘I am sorry. It is my fault you missed all the food. Let me guide you to the tent where you can prepare for your show. You are on after the dancing bear. I will try to rustle up some cold meat and potatoes.’

He hurried off before Malinferno could explain he did not put on a ‘show’ like some circus entertainer. He gave his audience an educational experience. He turned to Doll to express his outrage to her, but she was already following Smallbone. She waved a hand at him.

‘Come on, Joe, or the show will be late.’

The whole of the southern end of the hill was littered with tents. It was as if an invading army led by Napoleon Bonaparte had landed close to Bath and was about to strike at the very heart of England. But of course rumours of the Emperor’s escape from St Helena had long been scotched. England’s firmest enemy seemed to be declining into comfortable old age on his tiny island empire.

After clambering over several guy ropes and almost pitching face down over a tent-peg, Malinferno grudgingly entered a small and stiflingly hot tent where Doll was already disrobing. His demeanour improved as he admired her curves, and the pinkness of her flesh. She flashed him a steely look, and threw the long white robe he wore as Anubis over his face.

‘Get dressed, you overgrown satyr.’

Doll’s vocabulary was improving in leaps and bounds in his company, as was her general education. Her voracious mind swallowed up every piece of history Malinferno could throw at her. She was an amazing autodidact, though often he teased her by describing her more as an idiot savant. She wasn’t in any way a fool, however, but rather a very able mind that had been in its raw state when Malinferno had met her. Soon she would be more knowledgeable than he was, if indeed she wasn’t already.

‘Stop wool-gathering, Joe. We will solve the problem of digging the treasure up soon enough. When everyone is too drunk to stay awake, we can get to work.’ She thrust the Anubis jackal-head at him. ‘If you can stay sober tonight yourself.’

He nodded his agreement to her resolve. But just then Smallbone reappeared bearing provender on a tray almost as large as he was. In the middle was a large bottle of red wine. Malinferno licked his lips.

‘Just one glass, Doll. To lubricate my vocal cords.’

Doll sighed. ‘Very well, but pour one for me too, if you please.’

The bottle was well nigh empty before Malinferno and Doll were led by Smallbone to the large marquee where dinner had taken place. Some of the debris from the repast was still scattered over the white tablecloth. Dramatically, Malinferno swept it all away by yanking the cloth off, and imperiously he commanded the bewigged servants carrying the linen-bound mummy to lay it straight on to the polished surface of the oak table. The guests crowded into the marquee, and his anatomical exhibition began.

Now it was over, he was occupied with levering the intoxicated body of the honourable representative of some rotten borough off Doll’s bosom. The phantasmagoria laid on by the duchess had finished, and the box containing the unwrapped mummy was borne away by the servants. Most of the guests had staggered away to their carriages and Bath, or to tents set up on Solsbury Hill. One small group still hovered around the table that bore the remains of the wines and port that had been served over the meal Doll and Joe had missed. At the centre of the little clique stood the old trollop Malinferno had seen arriving soon after they had. Her turban was askew, and her face flushed from drink. Someone whispered in her ear, and she laughed coarsely. Her drooping, veiny dugs wobbled, and she absent-mindedly tweaked one exposed nipple. As though tiring of her entourage she waved them away, and slumped on a balloon-back chair that looked quite out of place on the scuffed grass of the hill. Malinferno grimaced at the sight of her gargantuan thighs.

‘Let’s get the spades, and see what we can do about digging for this treasure.’

Doll ignored his whispered command, and pointed at the old girl. ‘I’ll be with you in a while. I just want to make sure she gets to her bed, poor thing.’

Malinferno gave her a curious look, but guessed her intentions were all mixed up with a fellow feeling for the old tart. There but for the grace of God, and all that. Or for the grace of Malinferno. He had never thought until now that he had saved a fallen woman, but he had. It was not something he would say to Doll, though, if he valued his life. He took one last look at the old woman, who now seemed to have dozed off, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Very well, but don’t be too long tucking her up into bed. We have work to do tonight.’

He went off to the tent they had used to change into their Egyptian clothes, and where he had secreted two spades brought up in the crate containing the mummy. He would have liked to have retained the crate but it and the mummy had been whisked away. Doll watched Joe leave the marquee, then rose and sauntered tiredly over to the half-naked trollop sitting snoring beside the table of scattered bottles. She rummaged around the debris until she found a bottle with some dregs of red wine in the bottom. Holding it to her lips, she tipped it back and drank deep, quenching a sudden thirst. When she lowered the empty bottle again, she saw the old woman was scrutinising her with one bleary eye. Doll smiled.

‘Hard work, pleasing them, isn’t it?’

The woman laughed with that guttural sound that Doll had heard earlier across the tent. When she spoke her voice sounded as though she came from one of the Germanic states, though there was a pleasing melody to it nevertheless. Doll could see there had once been an attractiveness to her, though now her coarsened features gave her more of a homely, careworn appearance. Doll was glad she had kept her vow of getting out of the bawdyhouse as quickly as possible. She wouldn’t admit it to Joe, but she was grateful he had not objected when she had latched on to his coat-tails. That night they had met in Madame de Trou’s she had first thought of him as an easy touch. But it was not long before she saw how unsure he was of himself, despite all his bluster. She decided he could help her, but she could also help him. They were a good team, even though they often bickered about who was in charge. She tried to concentrate on what the woman was saying.

‘… my dear, you do not know how hard it is to please everyone. God knows, I have tried, and look where it has left me.’

Doll patted the old girl’s well-padded thigh, looking over at the tired remains of the gargantuan meal consumed by the rich and famous. One or two weary-looking servants were beginning to drift into the tent in order to clear up the mess. She imagined that was what the old lady meant – that she was used to being left out with the dregs.

‘Well, we can at least find a bed tonight. Some are not so lucky. My name’s Doll Pocket, by the way. What’s yours?’

For a moment, Doll was aware of a strange look in the other woman’s eyes. Then she laughed again, more coarsely with her mouth wide open, exposing her tonsils to Doll’s view. When she had managed to control her outburst, she spoke in those melodious tones again.

‘You can call me Hat… Hattie Vaughan, dear. Now off you go. I shall be fine. They will look after me.’

She waved vaguely at two well-dressed men who were hovering at the entrance to the tent. One had a head of black curly hair and thick mustachios to match, his puffed-out chest and military uniform making Doll think he was a continental – French or Italian, maybe. The other’s naval jib and dress sword, together with a languid look, was a clear sign to Doll that he was an upper-class Englishman of the sort she most disliked. He was probably of no great ancestry himself, but put on airs and looked down on anyone not of the highest rank.

Her new friend, Hattie, waddled over to them and, much to Doll’s surprise, they fawned over her as if she was of high estate and not some ageing trollop. Maybe she had connections with the Prince Regent – or King, as he now was by some months. He was a rake of the greatest degree. Doll even wondered if Mrs Vaughan could be another in a long line of mistresses that included Mrs Fitzherbert, the Countess of Jersey and the Marchioness of Hertford – to name but a few whom the one-time Prince Regent had rogered. Hattie took each of her beaux by the arm and walked out of the tent and into the night. Doll, remembering her assignation with Joe and a spade, hurried after them.

As she picked her way over the obstacle course of guy-ropes and tent-pegs, she passed the Trevithick Flyer. Its boiler was now cold, and the device gave the appearance of somnolence. Or death. Unlike the carriage standing next to it. It was a small Tilbury gig, inside which someone was burning the midnight oils. She could make out, by the light of one of the side lamps, the silhouette of a man bent over a writing slope. The folding top of the Tilbury was pulled up, and as she passed the gig, she saw the man was scribbling in a notebook. He was bowed low, however, and his nether limbs were wrapped in a horse-blanket against the chill of the night. She could not make out more than his dark greatcoat, and thinning brown hair straggling down below his beaver. His hunched shoulders suggested someone on a very secretive task, and Doll’s interest was piqued. She was about to sneak up on him to assuage her curiosity, when she heard a hissing sound from behind her. She looked back at a gap between two areas of canvas, and saw the shape of a man hidden in a heavy greatcoat holding two spades. She stepped back cautiously from the Tilbury gig.

‘Joe Malinferno, you nearly made me jump out of my skin.’

Malinferno dragged her further away from the man in the gig before he spoke.

‘What were you doing, poking your nose in where it is not wanted? We have a job to do. I have been waiting ages for you to meet me behind the duchess’s tent. I had to come looking for you.’

He thrust a spade at her, and she stared at it in horror.

‘You don’t think I’m going to use that, do you? I will ruin my dress, and my gloves.’

Malinferno refrained from suggesting she take both off in that case. He knew when Doll was not in the mood for his innuendo. He simply growled in frustration, and stalked off through the encampment. His noble anger was spoiled by the fact that he tripped over a guy-rope and nearly fell headlong into someone’s tent. Whoever it was, their snores suggested Joe had failed to wake him with his clumsiness.

Doll stifled a giggle and followed him to the edge of the ring of tents where the duchess’s gilded bivouac stood. They huddled together round the back like two schoolboys bunking off school to attend a hiring fair. Malinferno produced the much-folded sheet of paper that Augustus Bromhead had given to him.

‘I’ve been looking at Hawkins’ map again, and I think at least one of the crosses marked is here.’ He scuffed the toe of his boot on a bare patch of earth a few yards away from the tent wall. Doll peered over his shoulder at the bewildering scratchings on the old piece of paper. She had looked at it before, but the blotchy arrows and crosses still meant nothing to her. She would leave it up to Joe, who seemed confident of his topographic skills. She shrugged, and offered to take his greatcoat.

‘The least I can do is hold it while you dig.’

Malinferno grunted and, shrugging off the heavy coat, he handed it to her. He spat on his hands, and picked up one of the spades. His first thrust in the unyielding turf convinced him this treasure hunt was going to be harder work than he had anticipated. After half an hour of toil, he removed his jacket and loosened his cravat. Much to his indignation, Doll spread his greatcoat on the ground, and lay down on it. She yawned, staring up at the almost full moon that illuminated the scene. Grimly, Malinferno dug on. After an hour, all he had to show for his efforts was a very deep hole, some rusty nails and two rather worn old coins. As well as some blisters on his palms. He rubbed the coins vigorously, but could not figure out whose head was on them.

‘I shall have to take them back to Augustus to see if they are worth anything. Maybe I should dig elsewhere.’

His comment as to the appropriateness of the site he had chosen was lost on Doll. She was fast asleep with his coat wrapped snugly around her. Just as he was about to call out to her and wake her up, there was a wail from within the duchess’s tent.

Doll started into wakefulness. ‘What on earth was that?’

‘Some noise from the duchess’s tent.’

By this time Doll was sitting up, clutching Malinferno’s greatcoat around her bare shoulders.

‘A noise? It was more like a banshee scream.’ She shivered. ‘Go and see what it was, Joe.’

‘Send the poor bloody infantry in, as usual.’

Doll huffed, and waved her hands at Joe, encouraging him to his feat of bravery.

‘Please, Joe.’

Malinferno was unsure what he might find in the tent, and gripped his spade all the tighter. He stalked round the tent’s perimeter, advanced towards the tent flap, and nervously lifted it. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of the crate that held what was left of the duchess’s mummy. Beyond it was one of the largest beds he had ever seen. In fact he had never seen a larger one, especially one marooned on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. A woman sat on the edge of the bed staring fixedly at the wooden crate, the lid of which was askew. Malinferno breathed a sigh of relief. The duchess must have woken in the night, accidentally dislodged the lid of the crate, and been frightened by the rictus grin of the mummy’s embalmed head. But as he lifted the flap of the tent higher to gain access, the moonlight spilled inside, and he saw the woman was not the Duchess of Avon. It was the old trollop. She was breathing heavily, her bare bosom heaving, and pointing to the makeshift coffin. Malinferno took a step towards her, and tried to calm her nerves.

‘Don’t be afraid, madam. It is only the remains of a long-dead pharaoh. He can do you no harm.’

The woman took a deep breath, and with her Germanic accent, roughly put Malinferno right. ‘What is in the box is not long dead. And it can most assuredly do me great harm, young man.’

She waved a finger at the crate imperiously, and a puzzled Malinferno went to take a look. Inside the coffin was not the dried corpse of an Egyptian pharaoh, but the still-warm body of a once vigorous-looking, soldierly man with thick black hair and full moustachios. He looked back at the old woman, whose face appeared to go grey before his eyes. She looked as if she might expire in front of him, and he realised he was standing there with a weapon of violence in his hand. He laid the spade on the ground and, uneasily, called quietly to Doll.

‘Doll, I need your help in here.’

Hardly daring to tear his eyes off the old woman, he heard the rustle of Doll’s dress behind him. She hissed in his ear.

‘What’s up now? Lawks!’

Either she had peered over his shoulder and seen the body, or observed the state of her erstwhile companion of an hour ago. Whichever it was, Malinferno prayed that Doll would take control of the situation. Because it was going all to hell in front of his eyes. The old woman slumped on the bed, her fat rump presented to his view. Her swoon caused the bed to tilt alarmingly.

Doll slid past Joe, and pulled the bedsheet over Hattie Vaughan, feeling her wrist for a pulse. Hattie groaned and sat up, causing the bed once again to tip like a ship in a stormy sea.

‘I’m fine, dearie. I just had a funny turn, is all. My stomach feels queer, but then, that’s no surprise after seeing my dear Sacchi in that box there.’

Doll looked for the first time into the box that should have contained the mummy they had worked on that evening. She gasped.

‘Joe, there’s a body in the crate. And I don’t mean Ozzy, the old pharaoh.’

Doll had a penchant for naming all the mummies that passed through their hands as Ozymandias, after the great carved head that had been brought back to England from Egypt four years earlier. And when two years later, Shelley had written his poem of the same name, she was confirmed in her prejudice that all dead Egyptians were called by that wonderful name. Malinferno chose not to correct her, as he was none the wiser either concerning the name of the mummy they had recently unrolled. Besides, they had more urgent matters to resolve.

‘Yes, I know. The old girl called him Sacchi.’

Doll glared at Malinferno for calling Hattie so before her face. But then she began to look more closely at the body.

‘Look here. He’s got a big gash in his neck.’

Malinferno watched in amazement as Doll’s head and shoulders disappeared into the crate, leaving her hips and legs wriggling around as she squirmed further inside. Personally, he could not get so close to a fresh corpse, much preferring the musty odour of someone long dead. Hattie was looking on surprise too, and Doll’s antics must have tickled her. She broke out into a coarse peal of laughter.

‘Poor Sacchi, he would have loved a romp with you, dearie. But alas all that is over for him now.’

Doll wriggled back out of the box, rather red-faced from her exertions.

‘There is little blood in the box, so he must have been shoved into it some time after he was killed. And there are slashes on the fingers of his left hand. He must have got his hand on the blade, trying to save himself. But he was too late.’

Hattie gaped at Doll. ‘I had you for a whore, young lady. It seems you are something else altogether.’

Doll laughed out loud. ‘I had you for a trollop, Hattie Vaughan. Now I am not so sure.’

At that moment, another man burst through the tent flap. It was the naval officer Doll had seen accompanying Hattie along with the now deceased Italian gentleman by the name of Sacchi. The navy man seemed hot and rather unnerved, speaking hurriedly and with somewhat slurred words.

‘Are you safe, Your Majesty? I came to relieve Sacchi, but he is nowhere to be seen.’ He stared at Doll Pocket and Joe Malinferno. ‘Who are these people?’

‘Lieutenant Houghton!’

The old woman gave him a stern look, but it was too late to hide the truth now. Doll and Malinferno had heard what the man had called Hattie. It suddenly dawned on them who the old trollop was. She was no less than the errant Queen of England, Caroline of Brunswick.

Caroline, after a failed marriage to the Prince of Wales, as he was then, had retired abroad to a life bent on embarrassing England and the royal household. Openly taking a string of lovers, she had travelled Europe causing scandal. In retaliation, the Prince – no mean philanderer himself – initiated secret commissions and open smears to discredit her. The Princess of Wales, using a string of villas in Italy, finally settled down to the extent that she fixed on one of her lovers – Pergami by name – and was most often seen in his company. She was congenitally unable to moderate her behaviour, however. Servants were known to report to the Prince’s spies that ‘the princess is very fond of fucking’, having seen her in public with her hand inside Pergami’s trousers. Or having observed him emerging from the Queen’s chamber dressed only in his shirt.

Close to accepting a divorce, everything changed for Caroline, when her father-in-law died. She was now Queen, and horrified the government of the day by suggesting she should return to England to take up her place on the throne alongside her husband. Malinferno was familiar with a few Radicals whose sympathy lay with the Queen. And at a time when the common mob was agitating for better conditions, the government was afraid that Caroline could be a rallying point. To many, she was an injured queen and a weak woman, who needed the mob’s help to fight against a tyrant king. When she had finally arrived in London the cry was ‘The Queen for ever, the King in the river.’

Malinferno was sure he had read in The Times that she had escaped the incessant pressure of the mob by hiding in a mansion on the Thames. He was surprised to have found her at an exotic soiree on Solsbury Hill. He bowed his head to the tired woman sitting on the edge of the grand bed, that was tilted at an alarming angle.

‘Your Majesty, forgive me for not recognising you. The Times reported that you were at Brandenburg House in Hammersmith, on the edge of London.’

Caroline sighed. ‘Indeed I was, and the countryside suited me. But those infernal watermen of the Thames made a trade of offering trips to get sightings of me walking in the gardens. When the Duchess of Avon mentioned her little soiree on Solsbury Hill, I determined to escape in secret, and have a few days unobserved. It seems I failed, however, and that there is a spy and agent provocateur in the camp right now.’

As the Queen spoke to Malinferno, Houghton had drifted over towards the crate. He placed a hand on the edge and leaned on it in a nonchalant pose. Caroline noticed this, and turned to him.

‘I would not get too close, if I were you, Nicholas.’

The unenlightened Houghton looked down at his hand, expecting that he was being warned the wood was dirty or wet. He began to brush his hands together, and looked down at the crate. His eyes widened at the contents of the box, and he slumped against Doll Pocket in a faint.

‘Oh, not again.’

She groaned as another man’s head landed on her bosom, and in a not too gentle way, dumped his prostrate form on the grassy floor of the tent.

Caroline smiled sadly. ‘I would hazard a guess that he is a naval man who has not been much under fire, then.’

Doll laughed. ‘Nor will he be much help in present circumstances, it appears. I suppose Your Majesty is innocent of the crime concerning the body in our crate, then?’

Malinferno felt his face burning at Doll’s boldness, and began to apologise for his companion’s social gaffe. ‘Majesty, I am afraid Miss Pocket is unused to-’

Caroline interrupted him before he could go any further. ‘Stuff and nonsense, sir. Miss Pocket has asked the most necessary of questions in the circumstances. And I think you should both still call me Hattie, while I am incognito. Hat Vaughan was a name Sir William Gell gave me when we… we needed to be discreet, if you get my drift. It will suit the situation well for now.’

Houghton groaned and began to revive, sitting up with his head in his hands. Making a valiant effort to repair his reputation, he tried again to take control.

‘Majesty, let me deal with this. I… oooh.’

Having made the mistake of taking one more look at the crate, he almost swooned away again, collapsing this time on the edge of the great bed. The Queen poked at him and, getting no response, slid past him to examine the contents of the crate. Though she gave a sharp intake of breath, she managed to control her reactions this time. Malinferno could see she was made of sterner stuff than the naval officer, who sat with his head between his knees.

‘Perhaps then you could answer Miss Pocket’s question, Your-Mrs Vaughan. Are we to eliminate you from the list of potential murderers?’

The old woman looked grim. ‘I can only give you my word that I am innocent. I believe Miss Pocket saw me leave the marquee in the company of both the deceased, and…’ she poked Houghton with her finger again. ‘… the lieutenant here. We came back to the tent that the duchess had so kindly vacated for me, and I retired, leaving Signor Sacchi on guard outside the entrance.’

‘And the box was there all the time?’

‘Yes. I was led to understand that the duchess had it brought to her tent after your… enlightening lecture. Neither she nor I had any qualms about being next to a corpse. In fact, there was something quite thrilling about sleeping with a pharaoh.’

Malinferno was about to advise her that the mummy was probably not that of a pharaoh, but of a priest or rich trader. But he could see she was keen to talk, and he let her continue.

‘I fell into a deep sleep that was broken only by some noise that intruded into my dreams.’

‘What sort of noise, Hattie? Can you describe it?’

It was Doll’s turn to carry on the interrogation, and Malinferno marvelled at her ability to act quite normally in the presence of such a notorious figure as Queen Caroline. In only a few days, this woman standing before them was effectively to go on trial in Parliament. A Bill was to be presented in the House that accused the Queen of conducting herself with ‘indecent and offensive familiarity’ with Bartolomeo Pergami, and of carrying on a ‘licentious, and adulterous intercourse’ with him. The end result of a vote in the House in favour of the Bill would be to strip the Queen of her title and prerogatives, and dissolve her marriage with the King. Now, she seemed more concerned with establishing her innocence as concerns the murder of one of her paramours. Pergami had been left behind on the continent, but it appeared there were others in her entourage who kept her amused. Sacchi had obviously been one of them, and it would have suited her to have him silenced.

The Queen’s description of what had woken her was inconclusive. Was it a scraping sound or a groan? Was it someone murdering Sacchi, or heaving his body into the crate? Caroline fiddled with the pink turban that lay on the bed, and plonked it on her head. It sat at an odd angle amidst her tangled, thinning hair.

‘All I can say is that I woke up, and thought I heard a person in the tent. When I looked over towards the entrance, I could see the lid of the box had been moved. I thought at first someone had tried to steal from the box, but when I looked in, I saw Sacchi looking out at me.’ She sighed. ‘Only he wasn’t. Looking out, I mean. His eyes were devoid of life. Poor bugger.’

Malinferno was quite taken with the Queen’s strange mixture of demure English and coarse Germanic expressions. He could see how people could fall in love with her common touch. Doll, meanwhile was all business.

‘Why do you think he was killed? Did he disturb a thief, who was out to rifle the treasures of the pharaoh? He would have been sorely disappointed, if he was. There was not much to take.’

She cast a meaningful glance at Malinferno, knowing that he had already stripped the body of trinkets, removing them as he unbound the wrappings in front of the crowd earlier. His hands were as nimble as any pickpocket from the lowest rookery or flash-house in the East End. Malinferno blushed, and the little hoard of jewels and keepsakes suddenly burned a hole in his pocket. Before he could say anything though, the Queen spoke up firmly.

‘No. I believe this was done to further discredit me. The Government is unsure whether they can win a majority in the House to condemn me. If I were to be associated with the grisly murder of one of my equerries, it would be the end. They wouldn’t have to prove anything. It would be enough for the possibility to exist, and for the rumours to fly.’

She took Doll’s hand in hers, pleading in her eyes. ‘You must help me find out who did this. Find the government spy in the party, and you will have the murderer. And at the same time save me from a fate worse than death. I mean the loss of all that is mine by rights.’

Strangely, it was Malinferno, not Doll, who then came up with the most practical decision. Moving over to the crate, he decisively pulled the lid closed over the corpse, and pushed one of the protruding nails down into its former hole.

‘We shall say no more to anyone about the death of Sacchi, only that he is missing, and we wish to know what might have happened to him.’ He turned to Queen Caroline. ‘If a body will jeopardise your standing and chances of defeating this Bill in Parliament, then there will be no body. If the murder was done to embarrass you, then how to materialise the lost body will vex the killer in the extreme. He might give himself away.’

Caroline clapped her hands in delight, while Houghton at last looked relieved that the corpse was consigned out of sight, if not out of mind.

‘Professor, you are a genius.’

Malinferno took the compliment with a gracious smile, only noticing over the Queen’s shoulder a wry smile on Doll’s face. He could tell she was not much impressed by his plan, which had been blindingly obvious. He pulled a face back at her, as much as to say, ‘Well, I said it first.’ What he did say was that he and Doll would undertake to make enquiries as the lords and ladies of the encampment rose from their beds.

‘If the person who perpetrated the deed is still here on Solsbury Hill, we will find him out. If the murderer has already decamped in the night, then by doing that he will have revealed himself, and will just need apprehending.’

When Doll and Malinferno left the Queen to her ablutions, Lieutenant Houghton followed them out of the tent. He called for them to wait a moment, but made sure they were all three far enough away from the incognito Queen to speak without being overheard. He was nervous, poking the ground with the end of the gilded scabbard housing his ceremonial sword.

‘You need to know that the Queen did not go straight to bed last night. After I had left the tent with Sacchi on guard, I was restless and took a little walk to that oak grove over there.’

He pointed to the stunted woods on the north-western edge of the encampment. Malinferno guessed that Houghton had not walked there for exercise. He had observed many male guests sneaking in that direction to piss away the drink that had been consumed in vast quantities during the festivities. Doll winked at Joe, implying she knew the purpose of Houghton’s stroll also. The naval lieutenant coughed, and continued his narrative.

‘When I came back past the tent, I saw Sacchi in conversation with a man. A very large gentleman with the distinctive braying voice of a politician.’

Doll and Malinferno exchanged glances. He must be referring to the Honourable Member of Parliament who had last night nestled in Doll’s bosom.

‘He appeared to want to speak to the Queen, knowing her true identity. He had to pass Sacchi some coins before he could enter the tent, however. I would not have allowed it, nor have lowered myself to bribery, but Sacchi is an Italian…’

He waved a hand as though that was enough explanation for the misconduct of his fellow equerry. He was quite unaware of Malinferno’s antecedents on his father’s side, and Joe held his temper. He thanked the lieutenant tersely, and they parted company.

Doll giggled. ‘Never mind, Joe. You might be a low Eye-talian on the one side, but you are all stiff, starchy Englishman on the other.’

Malinferno made a face, and poked Doll in the ribs. As they were returning to their tent, the camp began to rouse around them. It was mostly servants they saw, who were up and about lighting fires, and scurrying back and forth from the main marquee to a large tent on the periphery of the encampment. It was altogether a more functional-looking affair than the highly decorated marquee. Made of thick canvas, it bore the stains of long and heavy use. Large tin funnels stuck up above the apex of the canvas, and smoke was already rising from them. The aroma of cooking meats emerged from the tent flaps. Doll licked her lips.

‘The well-to-do don’t stint themselves, do they? Even when they are picnicking, so to speak.’

‘Some picnic that is,’ commented Malinferno, as a liveried servant hurried over the grassy embankment with a large silver dish in his hands. He sniffed as the man passed them.

‘Boiled beef.’

Doll and Joe exchanged looks, and nodded in tacit agreement. The investigation could wait until their stomachs were fed. They followed the servant into the marquee, Malinferno providing the necessary justification.

‘After all, it is most likely we will encounter those we wish to interview there. And it is not as though we have fresh linen to change into in our tent.’ He brushed down his soiled coat. ‘We shall have to make do as we are.’

Inside the marquee, the semi-shade might have obscured a clear view of who had already risen. But a forest of candles burned around the tables, their light gleaming off the silver cutlery set on the not so pristine white linen from the night before. When Doll and Joe cast around to see who was there, they were gratified to see the vast corpulence of the Honourable Member for the rotten borough of Plympton Erle, Sir Ralph St Germans. He was already gorging himself on a plateful of boiled beef and potatoes. With a polite murmur of apology, Malinferno sat himself and Doll opposite.

As though by magic, plates of food appeared at their elbows. Malinferno recognised the pattern of red dragons encircling the plate. It was the highest quality Meissen porcelain – a far cry from the two chipped plates they had been dining on before escaping London. He had a passing thought of slipping the plates under his coat after he had cleaned them of the beef. But when he looked guiltily up at Doll, he saw that she had read his thoughts. She was nodding towards St Germans, who had merely grunted at their intrusion and continued to eat his way through the full plate of food.

Malinferno coughed. ‘Sir Ralph, my name is Malinferno. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance by the name of Mrs Hattie Vaughan.’

The corpulent Member of Parliament paused in his trencherman efforts, and gave Joe a startled look. It took in his shabby coat, and grubby linen, and caused Malinferno to blush. St Germans chortled, revealing a mouthful of half-chewed food.

‘I hardly think she is an acquaintance of yours, sir. You would not presume to claim a propinquity, if you knew who she really was.’

Malinferno grinned wolfishly. ‘And you, sir, make a terrible mistake, if you think, on such a short acquaintance with me, that I do not know the lady is one who will soon be the subject of an enquiry involving yourself and your parliamentary colleagues.’

St Germans’ face turned bright purple, and he began to choke on the half-chewed beef he had just begun to swallow. As he coughed uproariously, Doll rose and politely patted him on the back to relieve his discomfort. Recovering, the fat man waved away the bewigged servants, who had rushed over to his side. They retreated to a more discreet distance, probably regretting being unable to listen in on a conversation that had caused such a reaction. St Germans wiped his mouth with his napkin.

‘You know it is she, by God. Then you can imagine why I was in her tent last night. Though I must say there was no impropriety involved.’ He glanced nervously at Doll. ‘Despite the rumours of her licentiousness, I am prepared to believe the best of her. My hope in speaking to her was to convince her that her best course of action was to give up her quest to be crowned alongside the King. He will not allow it, and neither will the Government. Needless to say, I was not successful in my campaign.’

‘And when you left, did you see the gentleman outside the tent? Mr Sacchi?’

St Germans looked puzzled by Malinferno’s enquiry, his beady eyes almost disappearing into his puffy face.

‘What of him?’

‘He was there when you entered, and when you left?’

‘Why, yes. When I arrived at the tent, I had to give him a guinea, or he would not have granted me access to the Quee-to Mrs Vaughan. Damned scoundrel is an Italian, you know. I should have kicked him up the backside, but I needed to speak with the lady. I cut him when I left, naturally.’

For a moment, Malinferno thought the MP meant he had been responsible for the murder. Then breathed a sigh as he realised St Germans was only employing the vernacular to point out his deliberate ignoring of the venal Italian. Swallowing yet another slight about his half-fellow countryman, he thanked the man for the information, and was about to get up, when St Germans leaned across the table. He peered at Malinferno, as if trying to gauge the man.

‘What is all this about Sacchi? Why are you so interested in him?’

Malinferno waved a hand in dismissal of the enquiry. ‘He has not been seen this morning, and Mrs Vaughan expressed some concern, that is all.’

St Germans pushed away from the table, causing a minor earthquake amongst the crockery on it, and rose ponderously.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised, if he has decamped with the duchess’s silver.’

He laughed and turned to leave. Then he paused, and looked back at Malinferno and Doll Pocket.

‘If you truly want to know his whereabouts, you would do no worse than ask Mr Powell. His carriage is still here, I believe. The Tilbury next to that infernal machine of the duchess’s.’

With no more explanation, the august Member for Plympton Erle waddled out of the marquee. Malinferno shot a look at Doll, who had remained silent during the whole interrogation of St Germans.

‘What do you think, Doll? Was he angry enough at Sacchi to have slit his throat?’

Doll shook her head, and slipped the last piece of beef from her plate into her mouth. She stared longingly at the Meissen plate, and then sighed.

‘We can’t steal them, can we?’

Malinferno cast a quick, frightened look around. The servants closest to them appeared not to have heard. He hissed at Doll, ‘Don’t even think it.’

She laughed. ‘Why not? You did, when you saw them. But in answer to your question, no, I don’t think he would have killed Sacchi for the man having extorted a guinea out of him.’

‘I agree. But who is this Powell he referred to? And why should he know about Sacchi’s movements?’

Doll tapped the side of her nose. ‘I think I have an idea about that. Eat up, and I’ll be back in a minute.’

She disappeared out of the marquee, and Malinferno continued to fill his belly. When he had finished, and Doll hadn’t returned, he shrugged and called for another glass of red wine. As he drank that down, she reappeared, wearing her demure poke bonnet that she only put on if she wished to play the part of his virginal sister, a role that was required normally only to win over suspicious landladies. She sat down beside Malinferno, and took off the bonnet, placing it on the table. She grinned.

‘He is coming to breakfast, so we must act quickly.’

Malinferno frowned. ‘Who is coming?’

Doll twirled the ribbons of her bonnet flirtatiously. ‘Why, Mr Powell, of course. Look, here he is.’

She nodded her head in the direction of a slim-built man, who at that moment had just entered the marquee. His clothes looked as rumpled as Malinferno’s, though being better cut, they had borne the night’s depredations more sturdily. His cravat was retied and elegantly chivvied into shape, unlike Malinferno’s, which hung limply under his chin and was now stained with gravy. He watched as the man chose an area of the tent well away from them, and the glare of the numerous candles. When he sat, Doll nudged Joe, and they rose from their place at the table.

‘Come on. We can search his gig now.’

Malinferno was still at a loss, but followed Doll, who clutched her bonnet to her bosom. He pointed at it.

‘Aren’t you going to put your bonnet back on, seeing as you went out of your way to fetch it?’

Doll grinned. ‘My bonnet is already well filled, Joe.’

She shook it slightly, and he heard the rattle of fine porcelain. He stopped her and peered in the bonnet. A red dragon lay curled in its straw and lace folds.

‘You stole them, after all. Two Meissen plates?’

‘Three. I took St Germans’ plate too. I wanted to allow for breakages.’

He stopped in his tracks, shaking his head in disbelief.

Hurrying ahead, Doll motioned for him to follow. ‘Come on. We don’t have a lot of time.’ She skipped across the grassy sward and past the Trevithick Flyer to an undistinguished-looking little gig with its hood pulled up.

‘Here, hold my bonnet.’

She thrust the headgear with its stolen goods into Malinferno’s hands, and clambered up the step of the Tilbury, and on to the bench seat. It was a small open gig, so there would be few places to hide what she was looking for safely. She poked around unsuccessfully at first. Malinferno, aware of the incriminating contents of Doll’s bonnet, and eager not to be seen with purloined goods, poked his head inside the gig.

‘What are you looking for? How do you know this is Powell’s carriage? And who is he?’

She ignored him, and finally, fumbling under the seat, she found a little compartment hidden away. She felt inside, and pulled out the writing slope she had seen the man using in the early hours of the morning. Opening it, she saw the notebook he had been writing in. She waved it in Malinferno’s face.

‘This proves it. When St Germans hinted that Powell would know Sacchi’s movements, he was telling us that Powell is the spy that Hattie feared had been dogging her footsteps. This carriage is drawn up behind ours, and must have arrived late. And after Hattie’s coach. When I walked past it in the early hours, there was a man in it, wrapped in a blanket as though he had nowhere to lay his head other than the gig. So I deduced he had not planned to be here. Until he found himself following his quarry from Bath.’

She opened the notebook and looked inside. ‘And who but a spy would write in code.’

Malinferno laid the bonnet on the ground and grabbed the book off her. ‘You could not have known he was writing in code until you just looked at the book.’

Doll pouted. ‘Well, no. But it was a good guess, wasn’t it?’ She hopped down and stood beside him, reading over his shoulder. ‘Can you make out what it says?’

Malinferno read from the opening entry in the book: ‘“August, 1818. The whole affair is much canvassed by number eight and number six, though the proper authority is not forthcoming.”’

Doll was perplexed, and a little disappointed.

‘Who is number eight and number six? The Prince Regent? The Prime Minister? How do we decipher it?’

Malinferno was flicking through the pages, scanning for clues. He pointed a trembling finger at a later entry.

‘“1819. Number eight has no proof of an intimate connection between number one and number ten.” Number one is surely Caroline – Hattie, I mean – as she is the purpose of Powell’s investigation. That would then imply the King – the Prince Regent then – should be number two. So number eight or number six would be the instigator of all this dirty work – the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, or the House of Commons generally.’

‘And number ten has to be Baron Pergami, who Hattie left behind on her return to England. Are there any more references to number ten after she came back?’

Malinferno turned page after page until he came close to the end.

‘No, there isn’t. But look here. The entry for the 29th of January this year reads merely, “Number one is now Queen.” The later entries get quite rambling after that, with references to numbers from sixteen to twenty-three. We will never know who they are.’

But Doll was undaunted. ‘And the last entry? What was he writing about when I saw him in the dark?’

Malinferno looked closely at the cramped hand in the notebook. It was increasingly difficult to decipher, as though Powell was getting more and more disturbed about his task and its ramifications. Was number twenty-three Sacchi? Or Houghton? He read the last entry, and gasped.

Doll looked at him. ‘What is it, Joe? What have you seen?’

Just as Malinferno was about to tell Doll what he had read, the gig gave a lurch. Someone was climbing in from the other side, and it had to be Powell. Malinferno grabbed Doll’s arm, and they edged round the back of the Tilbury. Once out of sight of the man climbing back into his conveyance, they made for the rocky outcrop nearby. After they had sat down behind the biggest rock, Malinferno realised two things. He was still clutching the pocket book, and he had left Doll’s bonnet with the stolen plates on the ground beside the gig. He opened the book where he had placed his finger.

‘Listen to this. The last entry reads “I need to deal with number twenty-three.”’

Doll looked questioningly at Malinferno. ‘Twenty-three? Could that be Sacchi?’

‘Only Powell knows that, and we can hardly ask him directly if he is the one who did for Sacchi.’

‘We could ask Sir Ralph.’

‘Doll, you are a genius. He was the one put us on to Powell. He may know more. But where can we find him?’

The site was still a mass of tents, and St Germans could be in any of them. They rose cautiously from behind the rock, and sauntered nonchalantly past the Tilbury gig. Powell glared suspiciously out of the interior, his empty writing slope in his hands. But Malinferno knew that all he saw was a man and a woman who looked as though they had been occupied in some indiscreet activity behind the rocks. Doll smiled sweetly at him and hugged Malinferno’s arm, as if in confirmation of the spy’s guess. Malinferno did notice that Doll’s bonnet was no longer on the ground. As it could not have blown away with its purloined contents inside, he presumed Powell must have it. It was evidence of who had taken his notebook. They hurried on, hoping to find the duchess, who might know where Ralph St Germans was to be found. Powell got down from his gig and stared after them.

It did not take them long to find their employer. She was standing at the entrance to the marquee, talking to a tall, angular man in practical clothes and muddy shoes. She spotted Doll and Malinferno, and beckoned them over.

‘I am glad to have found you, Professor. This is my managing agent, Orford. He wants to know whether you have any further need of the crate in my tent.’

Malinferno cast a wary look at the manager of the duchess’s estates. Had he tried to move the crate containing Sacchi’s body already? It was much heavier than would have been the case if it still contained the mummy, and may have given the game away. Orford looked a little careworn, but otherwise normal. Malinferno assumed his look was because of having to manage the whole entourage surrounding them. He shuffled as if anxious to be on the move, and thrust out his hand.

‘Daniel Orford, sir. I was only desirous of arranging the movement of the crate in order to begin the dismantling of the tent. Everything must come down today, and so I have a lot to do.’

Malinferno took his hand, which was cold and dry, and felt the calluses of a working man on it. Evidently Orford did not limit his activities to the estate office. The duchess, ever full of irrelevant babble, intervened before Malinferno could say anything about the crate.

‘You should talk to Orford, Professor Mal…’ She waved her hand in a vague way to fill in her inability to remember his name. ‘Daniel is a student of antiquities, and is terrifically keen on King Arthur. Is that not the case, Daniel?’

Orford blushed at the revelation, looking at the ground. ‘In a very amateur way, madam.’

The duchess turned to Doll, assuming that, as a fellow female, she would be as ignorant and uncaring about such matters as she was.

‘Of course, it is all beyond us, dear, this delving in the past. Digging holes in the ground to find worm-eaten skeletons and… other such stuff. Though I am sure the professor loves his ancient pharaohs quite as much as Bonaparte did.’

Doll remembered the abandoned trench behind the duchess’s tent that Joe had dug. The discovery of the body in the crate had quite put it out of both their minds. She wondered if anyone had noticed it yet.

She smiled at the duchess. ‘Oh, I am sure these men know what they are doing, standing up to their knees in mud with a spade in their hands. Myself, I would much prefer to walk down the streets of London or Bath and find a new bonnet shop.’

He saw Malinferno’s face fall, as he took her hint about the trench he had dug. They would have to fill it in as quickly as they could before Daniel Orford began clearing the tents. It also made her wonder for the first time where the mummy had gone that had occupied the box before it had been used to conceal Sacchi. She nudged Malinferno as the duchess prattled on about dresses and bonnets. Roused to action, he took Orford’s arm and they walked away from the women. He took savage pleasure in seeing the pleading look in Doll’s eyes as the duchess compared the merits of a poke bonnet to a stove-pipe straw bonnet in full sunshine.

He and Orford walked towards the tent where the crate stood.

‘I will gladly remove the crate and its contents, if I can have use of a carriage to return it to Bath, Mr Orford.’

The managing agent hesitated, breaking stride for a moment. He took Malinferno’s arm.

‘I had not intended to bother you with the shipping of the crate. The Egyptian mummy is the property of the duchess, is it not? I can easily arrange for it to be removed to the duchess’s country house. She will not want it in Bath. No, I only wanted to ensure that there was nothing of yours in the crate first.’

Malinferno was almost inclined to say there was nothing of his there, but that there was plenty belonging to the Queen. They had stopped outside the duchess’s tent. He hesitated about going inside, wondering if Orford knew of Queen Caroline’s presence. And his mind was whirling, thinking how he could remove Sacchi’s body before Orford loaded it on a cart, and it ended up in the duchess’s stately home. There, the growing smell might cause a servant to realise it was not a three-thousand-year-old body, but one of much more recent origins.

How to divert Orford was solved by the timely arrival of Doll Pocket. Swirling the folds of her muslin dress around her curves, she took Orford’s arm, and manoeuvred him away from the tent and the crated body of Sacchi.

‘Mr Orford, the duchess tells me you know a lot about the history of the very hill on which we are standing. That it might have been the site of a battle involving King Arthur. Do tell me all about it. I have an interest myself in the location of Arthur’s bones.’

Reluctantly, Orford allowed himself to be drawn away from the matter of the crate, and he began to relate the story of the Battle of Mount Badon. Though he did still manage to call out some advice to Malinferno: ‘Don’t concern yourself about the crate, sir. I will deal with it.’

Malinferno waved a hand at the retreating couple, and ducked his head through the tent flap. Inside, he was surprised to see the Queen, in the guise of Hattie Vaughan, entertaining none less than the mighty person of Sir Ralph St Germans. A jug of claret sat on a small table between them and, judging by the hilarity evinced by the two of them, it was far from full. They were clinking crystal goblets together as Malinferno entered. The Queen tilted her head in his direction, her black wig and pink turban with its long ostrich feather fully restored to their rightful place. Sir Ralph chortled, and drank down the claret in one gulp.

‘Madam, though I am a Whig, and would soundly whip any Radical who called for the downfall of the King, I have to say you have convinced me that the Queen…’ here he winked knowingly at Mrs Vaughan, ‘… should have my support. She has been hard done by, and deserves to be crowned alongside His Majesty. And if she were present, I would tell her that.’

The Queen giggled, and drank from her own goblet.

‘When I see her next, I will be sure to inform her of your support, Sir Ralph. Though as the trial is to take place in the Upper House, I fear it is in the Lords’ chamber where she needs help most.’

Realising her unintentional innuendo, she put her hand to her mouth and guffawed. Sir Ralph chortled all the more merrily, sounding like a babbling stream running over pebbles. He banged the flat of his hand down on the top of the crate housing the mortal remains of Guido Sacchi.

‘Now, Mrs Vaughan…’ once again he gave a grotesque wink, ‘… tell me again of the time in Italy that the Queen watched Mahomet the Turk perform that obscene dance.’

Malinferno retreated, seeing that he would get no sense from Sir Ralph concerning the meaning of the numbers in the spy’s notebook, now nestled in his coat pocket. But he need not have concerned himself with interpreting the code, for as he backed out of the tent, he felt the end of something poking in his back. He started, and a voice hissed in his ear.

‘Now, sir, return to me my notebook, or it will go ill for you.’

Thinking of the scene inside the tent, and how Powell would love to record it, Malinferno moved decisively away from the tent flap.

‘Of course you may have it back. I would have had no intention of keeping it, if you hadn’t startled us earlier.’ He took out the notebook. ‘May I have the lady’s bonnet back in exchange?’

Powell sneered, and turning, Malinferno noticed that the object stuck into his back was not a pistol as he had imagined but a small twig. He sighed at his cowardice, and defeated, handed over the book. Powell laughed.

‘The bonnet containing the three stolen plates? Perhaps I will keep it as evidence of your wrongdoing, should I need to ensure your silence on this matter.’

Malinferno cursed Doll’s light-fingeredness, conveniently forgetting his own when it came to unravelling the bindings of the mummy. Powell dropped the twig on the ground, and flicked through his notebook, ensuring no pages had been removed. Malinferno indicated the secret document.

‘Very full, and informative, your notes. May I just ask if number twenty-three is Signor Sacchi?’

‘The Queen’s latest Italian paramour?’ The spy’s disgust of the Queen’s activities was evident. ‘Yes, you are correct in your assumption. And the other one – Houghton – is number twenty-two. I have my eye on both of them. And anyone else who entered the duchess’s tent in the night.’

‘Sir Ralph St Germans, for example?

Powell coughed in embarrassment.

‘I cannot say. My commission is from Parliament, so there is a conflict of interest there. Though I am sure Sir Ralph would have tried to persuade the Queen to accept a divorce. I will tell you one thing for free. That man who I saw just now hanging on to the arm of your lady-friend was hovering round the tent in the night too. I saw him sneak inside much later than Sir Ralph when I went to use the bushes for… some relief. Sacchi must have deserted his post by then for I could not see him. He didn’t come out for a while, and I returned to my carriage. It had been a tiring day, and I fell asleep almost immediately.’

Malinferno felt his gorge rise. Powell meant Orford. Could he have been the murderer? If so, Doll was even now in his clutches. He looked nervously around the tented encampment. He could see neither Doll nor Daniel Orford, but spotted Lieutenant Houghton in the distance. He thanked Powell for his information, and rushed after the naval officer.

‘Lieutenant Houghton, wait a moment.’

Houghton turned around to see Malinferno running across the sward towards him, and for a moment looked as though he was going to flee. But he then stood his ground, and waited for Malinferno to catch his breath.

‘Have you seen Doll? She is with the duchess’s estates manager, Daniel Orford. A tall man, dark hair, rough clothes.’

Houghton’s eyes clouded over, and he kicked at the tufts of grass at his feet.

‘The… lady you were with? No, I haven’t seen her. I was looking for the fat man who Sacchi allowed into the Queen… Mrs Vaughan’s tent last night. I saw him there again this morning. He is a Member of Parliament, St Germans by name.’

Malinferno could have got annoyed at such people as Houghton casting doubts on the virtue of Doll Pocket by the innuendo in their voice when they mentioned her. Doll had fought hard to become who she was, using the best means at her disposal. Men like the naval lieutenant had had their way paved with family gold. He knew who he preferred to associate with. But he contained his anger.

‘Yes. Sir Ralph St Germans, and I think you will find that he and Mrs Vaughan are bosom friends by now.’

Malinferno spoke the words without thinking and then hoped they were not too literal a description of the friendship blossoming in the duchess’s tent. Houghton, though, was livid, his face turning a deep shade of purple.

‘What are you suggesting, sir? The Queen is of a trusting and friendly nature, on which some place a sinister interpretation.’

He had clearly forgotten the discreet incognito of the lady concerned, and practically foamed at the mouth as he berated Malinferno.

‘I am sure Sir Ralph’s intentions are honourable, and that he merely wishes to persuade the Queen to retire from public life. Sacchi, of course, could not see that. All he wanted to do was make money out of his association with the Queen. He took Sir Ralph’s coin, and then later I saw him talking to that man in the Tilbury gig. You should be chasing after him, if you ask me, not your lady-friend.’

Malinferno was getting more confused by the hour. The sun had risen over Solsbury Hill, and the camp was stirring. Even the hardiest sybarites had risen from their bucolic beds. And no doubt with thoughts of more comfortable conditions at home, were preparing to leave the encampment. Living alfresco had been an alluring proposition for the duchess’s guests. The reality was proving less attractive. If Malinferno didn’t resolve the murder of Guido Sacchi soon, all his suspects would be dispersed across most of the estates of the West Country, rendering his task hopeless. And there still remained the problem of disposing of the body in such a way that the Queen would not be implicated by association.

Houghton was proving useless to his investigations, and he curtly bade him good day. What mattered now was finding Doll, and the possible murderer, Daniel Orford.

Malinferno hurried hither and thither, amongst collapsing tents, as Orford’s men did the agent’s bidding. Passing one flapping structure, he sensed rather than saw something flying down towards him. He leaped to one side over a small mound on the edge of the embankment, and fell face down, momentarily dazed. He felt a hot breath on his cheek, and opening his eyes found himself staring into the dull and rather sad brown eyes of the dancing bear. Scrambling away from the tethered creature over which he had tripped, he almost fell again over a large, wooden tent pole. It was this that had crashed down just where he had been standing a moment earlier. A roughly dressed labourer emerged from the folds of the tent, his old-fashioned wig askew and his face red. He muttered an unconvincing apology, and retrieved the pole that had very nearly done for Malinferno. He, for his part, wondered if what had just happened had been other than an unfortunate accident. Was the labourer a cohort of Orford, tasked with doing his bidding, and getting rid of Malinferno? Or at least scaring him off his hunt? If so, what he was proposing to do with Doll right now?

Malinferno quickened his pace, and moved away from where other tents were being lowered, and towards the south-west corner of Solsbury Hill. He had recalled the duchess saying that Orford was an amateur antiquarian of some skill. Perhaps he had drawn Doll to where Malinferno knew, from Hawkins’ map in his pocket, the ground was peppered with treasure. His own excavation had been behind the duchess’s tent, but there were other crosses marked on the map on this part of the hill. With the oak grove to his right hand, he began to scour the flat top of the hill. But he still had no luck. So he pulled the old map from his pocket, and examined it again. There were a couple of crosses marked on the down-slope of the embankment. He ran to the edge and peered down. Just below the ridge, he saw two figures, one a woman in a cloak mighty like Doll’s. She was peering at a hole in the ground. The man was tall, and standing behind the woman. He was lifting a spade over his head. Malinferno called out as loud as he could, and scampered down the bank.

‘Orford! What are you doing?’

As he tumbled down the slope towards them, Daniel Orford and Doll Pocket looked at him bemused. Malinferno managed to stop his descent by bumping into Doll, and clutching her arm.

‘I saw… he was…’

Catching his breath, he realised that Orford had the spade slung casually over one shoulder now. Had it been like that before? He simply wasn’t sure. He took a deep breath, and forced a smile on to his face.

‘What are you doing down here, Doll?’

Doll’s eyes sparkled in that special way that told Malinferno that she had learned some new facts.

‘Daniel was showing me where he has been excavating the remains of an ancient battle. One that may have involved King Arthur.’

Orford exercised a word of caution. ‘There is no proof that the Battle of Mount Badon was fought here, or that Arthur was more than a mere legend…’

Doll nudged Malinferno, silently reminding him of the time they had held the bones of King Arthur in their hands.

‘We know a bit about old Arthur. Don’t we Joe?’

Malinferno quietened her with a glare. The bones – if they had been Arthur’s at all – were safely hidden away, and were causing no more trouble.

‘Miss Pocket exaggerates, Mr Orford. My speciality…’ Doll nudged him again. ‘… our speciality is ancient Egypt. A far cry from old England. But tell me, what have you found here?’

He peered into the hole in the ground, being sure to keep Orford and his spade visible in the corner of his eye. He did not want another ‘accident’ like the tent pole to occur.

‘A few things of curiosity. The frame of what might have been a mirror, and some hobnails.’

‘Hobnails?’

Malinferno wondered why old nails, which he had also found in his trench, should be of the slightest interest. Orford smiled, warming to his task.

‘Yes, hobnails. You see, the leather would have rotted away by now, but the nails used would have remained. It would indicate that Britons, influenced in their style of footwear by Romans, were indeed on this site.’

‘What about signs of battle? Broken bones and swords?’ Doll was all eagerness again with her enquiries.

In return, Malinferno thought Orford gave her a shifty look.

‘Ah, yes, well, perhaps elsewhere…’

‘And treasure? Have you come across any treasure?’

This was Malinferno’s question, and one that drew a sneer from Orford.

‘I am not interested in treasure hunting. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’

He nodded curtly at Malinferno, then bowed more deeply towards Doll, who returned his courtesy. They watched him stride off up the hill, his spade still over his shoulder. Malinferno looked at Doll.

‘I thought he was going to murder you and tip you in the hole, Doll.’

‘Why would he do that? He has been the perfect gentleman.’

Malinferno did not like the way she emphasised the first word of her final sentence. Was he not a gentleman in his behaviour towards her? He pouted, and began to walk back up the hill too.

Doll laughed, and poked him in the ribs. ‘Did you manage to shift the crate?’

He shook his head, and sighed. ‘No, I got interrupted. By Powell, amongst others.’

She took his arm and pressed her body against his. ‘So, what have you found out while I was entertaining the good agent?’

Malinferno, always quick to recover from a sulk when his opinion was being sought by Doll, gave her a quick résumé of what he had learned. How Sir Ralph might have resented Sacchi’s request for money, but that the Member for Plympton Erle was now an intimate with Mrs Vaughan. If he had wished to kill Sacchi, it would have been in the open like a gentleman. He also summed up his encounter with Powell, the government spy.

‘He spoke of keeping an eye on both Sacchi and Houghton. But here is the curious thing. He was keen to implicate Orford, telling me that he saw him going into the duchess’s tent in the night. And he was at pains to say Sacchi was nowhere to be seen at the time. Yet Houghton, who I also spoke to, said he saw Powell talking to Sacchi. So we come back to his notebook and his statement that he must deal with Sacchi.’ He looked at Doll. ‘Do you think the murderer is Powell, after all?’

She pulled a face. ‘You thought it was Orford not so long ago. Now do you suspect Powell?’

‘I don’t know. The whole thing is so messy, with everyone claiming to have seen the other entering the tent. How are we going to sort this out, Doll?’

Doll shrugged.

‘I don’t now, Joe. But we better do it soon, because Orford just pulled a cart up next to the duchess’s tent.’

Malinferno yelped, and turned to look where Doll’s gaze was aimed. A cart had indeed been positioned close to the opening of the tent where the queen had spent the night. They ran across the encampment, and into the tent, Malinferno in the lead.

Orford was crouched over the crate.

‘What are you doing? Leave that crate alone.’

He went to grab Orford’s shoulder, but suddenly the ground collapsed beneath his feet, and he fell into a pit. He scrabbled at the sides of the hole, but the soil was loose and poured in over him. He fell back, and felt something hard hit his cheek. He turned his head, and gazed into a leathery face with staring blank orbs in the sockets and a gaping mouth of rotten teeth. He screamed.

‘Doll, help me.’

His saviour’s face appeared overhead, her full lips pulled back in a wide grin.

‘Ozymandias! There you are.’

Malinferno realised she was talking about his partner in the grave. It was the mummy that had previously occupied the crate where Sacchi now lay. But how had it got in the ground? A red-faced Orford appeared, holding out his hand to help Malinferno free of the pit.

‘I think I had better explain.’

He heaved Malinferno back to terra firma, and pointed out the gaping hole into which the heavy bed belonging to the duchess was already slipping.

‘I was excavating the land right here on the basis of an old map I had drawn up by someone obsessed with King Arthur.’

Malinferno thought of the parchment he had in his pocket, guessing that Orford also had a copy of the Hawkins map. He said nothing though at this stage. He looked at Doll, who winked at him.

‘Go on.’

Orford rubbed his soil-covered hands together. ‘It had several crosses on it. I had tried some of the others over several months and found nothing. Then I started digging here. From the beginning, this trench looked promising – hobnails, and rusty blades. I was sure I would find bones, and maybe even gold ornaments. And I was right. Then the duchess said she had plans for a grand event on the hill to which the gentry would be invited. It would be the social event of the year. I tried to dissuade her, but she was adamant. I had to erect a virtual military encampment on the hill top, as you saw when you arrived.’

‘But what was your problem? You could leave your trench covered and wait until afterwards. Then begin again.’

Orford grimaced. ‘Partly it was impatience. I felt I was so close to a great find, and to have it trampled over by lords and ladies was intolerable. And I had been observing the barometer as part of my management of the estate. The weather was due to change, and storms were forecast. Heavy rain would have been disastrous for my excavation. The only thing I could think to do was to site the duchess’s tent right over the trench, which I had covered with planks.’ He looked at the hole. ‘Rotten planks, it would appear.’

Doll wanted to ask a question. ‘But that would still not allow you access until after the site had been cleared. And the rain had started.’

As if on cue, they heard the first pitter-patter of light rain on the roof of the tent.

Orford groaned. ‘It is too late already. But if my plan had worked, I could have removed much of what I had already found during the night. You see, the duchess is devoted to the delights of laudanum. She sleeps like a log, and even my exertions beneath her bed would not have disturbed her.’

Doll immediately understood his dilemma. ‘But then one of the special guests – Mrs Vaughan – took over the tent.’

‘Yes.’ Orford frowned. ‘I would never have imagined the duchess giving up her comforts for anyone but royalty. So I was surprised by this old trollop taking her bed. Who is she?’

He looked quizzically at Doll, but it was Malinferno who answered.

‘Shall we say, someone very close to the King.’

Orford nodded, thinking he understood the implications of Malinferno’s comment. The whole of England knew of the former Prince Regent’s fondness for women.

‘I see. Well, I tried to sneak in the tent several times. But that Italian was posted outside like a sentry. And there were such comings and goings, I can tell you. I debated bribing the fellow like some others seemed to do to gain access, but it was essential that I was not seen. I took a turn round the camp, thinking of what I could do. But when I came back, I saw my chance.’

Malinferno tensed, ready to spring at the tall man. If this was to be a confession, then who knows what the outcome would be for Doll and himself?

‘You resolved to kill the sentry in order to carry out your plans.’

Orford’s face went a delicate shade of green, as above their heads the rain got heavier.

‘Good Lord, no! You can’t think that of me, can you?’

Malinferno thought only of the murderous stance of Orford behind Doll as she peered into the other excavation. And the conveniently falling tent pole close to his head. But Orford did now look truly shocked, holding his hand over his mouth as though he could hardly prevent himself from being sick. He looked at Malinferno with a tear in his eye.

‘I am in a hole. I see that now.’

Malinferno grabbed his arm, and shook the man. ‘Tell me.’

Orford took a deep breath, steadying himself.

‘I have done a very foolish thing…’

Doll and Malinferno were standing in front of Queen Caroline, who was now dressed in the most modest of silk gowns. Her own fair hair was just visible underneath a dark red turban that complemented her dress. This most becoming of decorous ensembles was only slightly spoiled by the surroundings. She was sitting not on a throne, but the edge of the duchess’s bed, which was tilted at the precarious angle it had adopted when sliding into Daniel Orford’s excavation. The central area of the tent was occupied by the crate that had transported the mummy to Solsbury Hill the previous evening. Most of the site had now been cleared, though persistent drizzle had hampered affairs. Inside the duchess’s tent, those present heard another gust of rain sweep across hill, giving the place a gloomy, depressing atmosphere. With the tents gone and the clouds low, Solsbury Hill was bare and open to the worst of the elements.

The Queen, however, was happy, and her short, plump legs swung free of the grassy sward below them. She scanned the others in the tent.

‘I am glad I could persuade you all to remain a little while longer. There is a matter needs settling, and each of you can help. Professor Malinferno, will you proceed?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Vaughan. We are here, as you know, to plumb the depths of the disappearance of your equerry, Signor Sacchi.’

Though everyone present knew exactly who the portly German woman was who occupied the duchess’s bed, the secrecy of her identity was to be preserved. As was the fact that Sacchi was dead – a fact known only to Mrs Vaughan, Malinferno, Doll Pocket, Lieutenant Houghton. And the murderer. Malinferno turned to scan the faces of those present. He prayed he had got the interpretation of the previous night’s events correct. Orford’s confession had provided him with the final clue to the identity of Sacchi’s murderer. Now, he just had to extract the truth from the murderer’s own lips. He looked first at the sweating, red face of the Honourable Member for Plympton Erle – with an electorate of thirty.

‘Sir Ralph, you spoke to Sacchi when you came to the… shall we call it the duchess’s tent.’

‘I did indeed, sir. And he taxed me for money in order to see the… lady over there.’ He indicated the smiling Queen, and returned her smile obsequiously. ‘I told you that the Italian was still at his post when I left last night. He was not present when I came back this morning. I can tell you no more.’

Malinferno nodded sagaciously, though he did not feel all that confident of his next step.

‘Yes. Mr Houghton…’ He indicated the pasty-faced naval lieutenant hovering near the tent flap. ‘… confirms he saw you arrive. As I believe did Mr Powell, who also saw you leave. Did you not, sir?’

Powell, true to his role as government spy, was skulking in the shadows, apparently uncomfortable at being in the same place as his quarry, the Queen. He cleared his throat, and made a considered speech.

‘All I can say is that Sir Ralph can have nothing to do with the disappearance of Sacchi. The man was still at his post when Sir Ralph left the tent.’

Malinferno knew that getting information out of Powell was going to be like extracting teeth. He would be volunteering nothing. And so he threw a speculative card on to the table.

‘Mr Powell, may I ask what you meant, when you wrote in your notebook that you had to “deal with” Sacchi?’

Powell’s face turned bright red, and he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘That is a private document, sir. And I will not comment on what I may or may not have written in it.’

‘You were seen talking to Sacchi. Mr Houghton saw you. Did you deal with him afterwards?’

There was a sudden commotion, and Houghton leaped across the tent towards Powell, his dress sword clanking on the wooden crate.

‘It was you who killed him. You wanted to get to the Queen, and he wanted money from you, as he did from St Germans.’

Houghton grabbed Powell’s collar. But before he could do the man any damage, Malinferno wrapped his arms around the naval officer, and wrestled him away. Houghton slumped on a campaign chair beside the bed, his head in his hands. It was St Germans who realised first what Houghton had said.

‘Sacchi is murdered?’

Doll glanced at Malinferno, and whispered, ‘Well done, Joe. Now they all know.’

He shrugged. The cat was out of the bag, and there was nothing he could do about it. St Germans was livid, his jowls wobbling as he berated Malinferno.

‘You were trying to get us to implicate ourselves in a murder, sir? That is… that is… unconstitutional.’

Malinferno was convinced that the Member of Parliament had no idea of the meaning of the word, only that it sounded good. But he stood his ground.

‘Only one man is guilty of the murder. The rest cannot be implicated in a murder as they are innocent. Mr Powell, in the circumstances as they now present themselves, are you prepared to explain yourself?’

Powell sulkily straightened his collar, but then sighed. ‘I had intended to deal with Sacchi, in the sense that I was prepared to offer him money for information about… well, you know what about. He was alive when I left him. I will swear to that in a court of law, if forced. But I did see that man enter the tent later, with no Sacchi in sight.’ He pointed a long, slender finger at Daniel Orford. ‘Ask him where Sacchi was when he entered the tent.’

All eyes turned on the tall figure of the duchess’s managing agent. Malinferno smiled, knowing where Orford’s confession, which he had heard earlier, would lead.

‘Tell them where Sacchi was, Mr Orford.’

Orford straightened his shoulders. ‘When I entered the tent on private business, I saw Sacchi lying in a trench in the ground, his throat cut. The soil was soaked in blood.’

There was a gasp from all those assembled, except for Doll and Malinferno, who had heard this tale already.

Orford continued, ‘I panicked, as I did not wish it known that I had been in the tent. I should have just left, but there were… items I needed to recover.’

He had told Malinferno of the objects he had found in the trench below their feet, and how he wanted to recover them before someone else did.

‘I transferred the body into this crate…’ he tapped the box, ‘… having first removed the contents. I then gathered the items I was intent on recovering, and left. It was foolish of me. I should have alerted the authorities, but I panicked.’

He pressed his hands down on the crate, and lowered his head in shame at his actions.

Doll patted his shoulder. ‘I understand the difficulty of your position, Mr Orford. I might have done the same thing, in order to avoid being embroiled in a murder investigation by the magistrate.’

Houghton looked up at Doll from where he sat. ‘You do not believe the man, do you? Whatever these “items” were he was removing from the duchess’s tent, they did not belong to him. He was a thief, and Sacchi caught him at it. He killed him, and tried to conceal the body. He must be arrested. I will go and call for the magistrate.’ He rose to his feet, but Malinferno swiftly took his arm.

‘You are going nowhere, Lieutenant Houghton. Isn’t it strange how you wish to cast the blame for Sacchi’s murder on everyone and anyone you can? You see, I have to remind myself how shocked you were when you saw the body in this crate. You fainted.’

Houghton spluttered with indignation. ‘I opened the lid and saw the body of my friend Sacchi. Who wouldn’t feel faint?’

‘But to actually swoon like a lady? A navy man, who in battle must have seen dead comrades before? No, sir, you fainted because you weren’t expecting to see the body in the crate. You expected to see it on the ground, where you had left it when you killed him. May I see your sword? I am sure you have not yet managed to clean the blood off it.’

Houghton roared, startling everyone, and sprang for the exit to the tent. He was outside before Malinferno could react. When he did manage to scramble out of the tent, he saw Hougton running across Solsbury Hill towards one of the few carriages left behind. One was Powell’s Tilbury gig, but the horse was not in the shafts rendering it useless as a means of escape. The only other conveyance close by was the Trevithick Flyer.

John Smallbone had laboured long and hard to make the steam engine work and, despite the rain, had stoked the boiler with coal. Steam burst from every seam of the Flyer, and the carriage shuddered as though it were alive. Clad in a heavy and rain-soaked felt overcoat, Smallbone resembled a large toad. He was perched on the driver’s seat bent on releasing the power of the steam engine. He didn’t see Houghton leap up on to the seat, and was pitched unceremoniously by him to the ground. His assailant then released the brake, and the carriage began to trundle down the hill, the piston at the rear clanking faster and faster. Malinferno ran over, and helped the dwarf up, brushing his muddied coat. Smallbone seemed unconcerned by his tumble, though he was more worried by the Flyer’s madcap departure.

He began to run after it, calling out wildly, ‘Turn the pressure down. Turn the pressure down.’

Houghton could not or would not hear him, and the Flyer gathered speed. The engine on the rear of the carriage gave a mighty groan like some ancient beast risen from the depths of Solsbury Hill. Smallbone cried out, and threw himself to the ground. Malinferno and the other pursuers instinctively did the same. With a second great shudder, and an infernal hissing, the Trevithick steam engine blew up, tossing Houghton forwards into the air like a rag doll. The carriage, still rolling under its own momentum, crushed him under its wheels, before tipping sideways on the steep slope and coming to an abrupt and noisy halt. With the shattered engine still hissing gently, Malinferno and Doll cautiously approached the wreck. There was nothing to be done about Lieutenant Houghton. His neck was broken and he gazed sightlessly into the grey and louring sky.

It was a subdued party that gathered in the Duchess of Avon’s house in Bath later that day. Queen Caroline, still in her guise of Hattie Vaughan, sat beside the fire, clutching her stomach. The pain she was suffering may have been only a symptom of her fears over the impending confrontation with the House of Lords, but it was intense nevertheless, and she thought she might die from it. But even that was a better fate than being divorced, or worse, still being excluded from her husband’s coronation, as had been threatened.

Joe Malinferno and Doll Pocket had hoped for at least a share in any great treasure they may have found on Solsbury Hill. Instead, they were left with the three guineas’ fee from the duchess, and two hobnails to give to Augustus Bromhead when they returned to London. They were the only visible return from the Hawkins map the antiquarian had possessed. The Queen would have liked to reward them for preventing the death of her equerry Guido Sacchi from tainting her already sullied reputation, but, as would be revealed not too much later, the Queen was bankrupt. A pall of silence hung over the three of them.

Finally, Daniel Orford entered the room, bowing courteously at Mrs Vaughan.

‘It is done. The body has been discreetly moved to the duchess’s country estate, where it will appear that some roving gypsy band cut Sacchi’s throat for his money. His death will not reflect on… Mrs Vaughan, and he will receive a decent Christian burial.’

Malinferno ground his teeth. ‘As will Houghton, which is more than he deserves, being Sacchi’s murderer. And all because he felt the man was betraying his mistress’s reputation. To slit a man’s throat over such a matter – he must have been insane.’

Doll might have agreed with him normally. But, deluded as he may have been, Houghton had been concerned for the reputation of a queen. She glanced over at the shrunken figure by the fire. Hattie was ignoring the conversation, deep in her own thoughts. Doll touched Joe’s arm.

‘Yes, but as there was no murder on Solsbury Hill, then there cannot have been a murderer. The lieutenant will be remembered as the unfortunate victim of a horseless carriage accident – perhaps its first victim – and there’s an end to it.’

She looked across again at the figure by the fire. It was dark, and for a moment she thought she saw the veil of death hanging over poor Caroline. She shivered and pulled Joe into an embrace.

Queen Caroline survived the Bill of Pains and Penalties, for though it got a majority in the House of Lords, the vote was so slender that Lord Liverpool abandoned the Bill. However, her attempts to attend her husband’s coronation were thwarted. She was turned away from Westminster Abbey on the pretext that she didn’t have a ticket. She went home and succumbed to an intense stomach upset. Not long afterwards, she died, removing one more embarrassing burden from those of an unpopular King.