‘Aha,’ I said and took my guidebook out of my bag.
‘You must have been a girl guide,’ said Felix and sent me a roguish grin. ‘Always prepared.’
I looked down at the book. ‘I’m a writer. We’re always pre-prepared.’
He opened his mouth wide as he bit on the sandwich. ‘Uh?’
‘Research,’ I told him, conveniently overlooking the fact I had only bought the book half an hour since. ‘If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail.’
‘Very wise,’ he said through a mouthful of beef and wiped his mouth on a serviette.
I looked the place up quickly. ‘Apparently no one knows much about St Botolph. He was alleged to have founded
a monastery around here, blah blah blah.’ I skimmed the
text. ‘Patron saint of travel. Gave his name to Boston in Massachusetts.’
Felix started and looked up sharply. ‘Are you joking?’
For a second his face took on a pinched shrewish look.
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s what it says here. It’s a bit of a stretch, I’ll give you that – from St Botolph to Boston – but they have similarities: B, T and two “O”s.’
He shook his head, as if shaking out a thought. ‘No, not that. The fact that he’s the patron saint of travel and ended up going from here to Massachusetts.’ He searched my face as his voice trailed off.
I must have looked completely blank because he nodded then simply said, ‘Sorry. It doesn’t matter. I thought you said something else.’
‘Oh right.’ I must have missed something but had no time to reflect as Felix had already moved on, turning his attention to the book on my lap.
‘What’s that?’ He moved a fraction closer and pointed to a picture. There was a dribble of mayonnaise on his chin. I really wanted to lick it away, but managed to restrain myself and transferred my attention to the double-page spread.
There was a sketch of what the building may have looked like in its heyday: a Norman church, surrounded on its northern side by a chapter house, cloister, refectory and dormitories. It must have been quite an impressive sight pre-Reformation. Unfortunately most of the buildings were demolished by Henry VIII in the 1530s. ‘The priory church,’ I read aloud, ‘served the community until the siege of Colchester in 1648. Says here, that the siege happened during the Civil War. Well, in 1648. A year after Hopkins died.’ That man was never far from my thoughts, crouching in the corners of my mind, waiting to rise up at any opportunity. ‘The city,’ I continued, ‘was forced to open its doors to the Royalist army. When the Parliamentarians rocked up a siege ensued. Went on for eleven weeks, and ended with the surrender then execution of the Royalists’ leaders. After the constant bombardment of the Parliamentarian cannons the city was pretty much in ruins. St Botolph’s was particularly badly hit. It says here that local people are still turning up bullets and shrapnel in their walls and gardens.’
Felix nodded. The mayo had disappeared. He was wiping his hands on a paper serviette.
I cupped my coffee in my hand. Here was a curious paragraph, he’d enjoy this. ‘During the siege messages were sent to the Parliamentarians by concealing letters in hollowed-out bones and throwing them over the city wall nearby.’
‘They don’t mean human bones?’
‘Doesn’t say,’ I told him, glad that he was interested. ‘But the place was a graveyard. There were enough around.’
I watched his eyes wander over the scattered shards of tombstones. His eyebrows were wrinkled and he had swapped his smile for a face-scrunch. I expect he was imagining the grave robbing. ‘Pretty gross,’ he said finally.
My own eyes had returned to the book. ‘This is worse: “When Hythe Church was captured, its defenders were taken prisoner. Sir John Lucas’s house was then attacked. Soldiers broke open the Lucas family tombs in the chapel, cut off the hair from the bodies and wore it in their hats.”’
‘Grosser,’ Felix said and quivered with disgust. I laughed. Despite the reading matter I was feeling light and frivolous. ‘At least they were dead. You can see why the witch hunters came and went without much dissent. The war brutalised people. I guess life at that time must have been absolute hell: soldiers running round seizing what little resources you had, killing, pillaging and raping. Loads of them. Two different sides. Blimey. And all this comes on top of crop failures, famine, zero law and order. You’d