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obviously loved his job for he smiled cheerily through his tangle of beard. 'No news yet, Master.' 'Nothing new?' Agrippa asked. 'Only what he said before.'
    'How long will he last?' Agrippa asked, still keeping well 4n the shadows whilst Benjamin and I stared fearfully at this dreadful scene. Believe me, if you wish to see hell on earth then watch a man being racked till his arms and legs pop out of their sockets, the torso grows longer and the privy parts become ruptured. Once I was forced to watch the torture of Nicholas Owen, the poor Jesuit lay brother who built the priest's hole in my house and others up and down the kingdom. A crafty, subtle carpenter was poor Owen. He was racked until his body fell apart; they had to hold it together with steel plates so that they could take him out and hang him. Lord, what a cruel world we live in! I fainted at the torture inflicted on Owen but, when I saw Master Hopkins, I stood like a rabbit terrified by a stoat.
    'Do you think,' Agrippa asked quietly, 'Master Hopkins knows anything?'
    'Yes and no,' the torturer replied. 'But he won't tell us. He is near death, Master. There's not much time left now.' Agrippa led us back into the daylight. 'Stay here!' he ordered.
    He went up the main steps of the Bloody Tower and came back with a bundle of clothes in his hand, afterwards re-entering the torture chamber. Benjamin and I stood like two school boys dismissed from their classroom. 'What now, Master?' I asked.
    'Hush!' he whispered. 'All we are being shown, Roger, are the opening scenes. I am sure sweetest Uncle will tell us the plot of the play.' He waved a hand at the door to the torture chamber. 'I cannot abide such cruelty! Hopkins may well be a traitor but there's no need for this.'
    The grass was still wet after the rainstorm so he led me across to a wooden bench next to a small paved square.
    'Do you know, Roger,' he muttered when we took our seats, 'common law in England forbids such torture?'
    (Well, I could have burst out laughing, and still do at the memory, for Fat Henry, the evil bastard, believed in torturing everyone. When he wanted to send his second queen to the scaffold, the musician Mark Smeaton was tortured until he confessed to adultery with her, being promised a swift death if he implicated poor Anne.)
    I looked at the square pavement beside me and noticed a small dull stain in the centre. 'What is this, Master?'
    Benjamin shuffled his feet. 'This is where princes die, Roger,' he murmured. 'When the person is too important to be a spectacle for the mob, a scaffold's set up here and the head lopped off.'
    Strange, isn't it? There was I sitting next to the place where Anne Boleyn, who hired her own executioner from Calais, later put her neck on the block, as did poor Catherine Howard who spent the night before her death practising her poise for the execution stroke. Here died poor Tom More, old Fisher, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury and her three sons. Ah, well!
    Benjamin was lost in his own thoughts so I gazed round, half-wondering what might happen to us, when a cart entered the inner bailey bearing a plain wooden coffin. The two waggoners were cursing and laughing between themselves. 'What do you carry, friends?' I asked. The men smiled at each other, got down and hobbled the horses.
    'Half the Earl of Stafford!' one of them quipped. He saw the look of stupefaction on my face. 'Well, the head's on London Bridge!' the fellow continued. 'And the rest-' He gestured towards the small, grey stone church of St Peter ad Vincula, the Tower chapel. 'The rest will go beneath the stones like all the others.'
    He turned away as an officer and a group of soldiers hurried up to carry the loose-lidded coffin out of the cart and along the gravel path into the darkening chapel. A strange place, St Peter's! All the corpses of men and women executed on Tower Hill or Tower Green lie buried there. Now few people know this but, beneath the chapel, runs a secret passageway or gallery