And Sebastian couldn’t get past the suspicion that both helpful suggestions were as deliberate as they were coordinated.
Chapter 19
There was nothing in London quite like Basil Thistlewood’s coffeehouse, built overlooking the broad waters of the Thames at Chelsea. It had been in existence for nearly a century, with new and exotic items added to its overstuffed rooms every year. Admission was free for the price of a cup of coffee or the purchase of a catalogue.
“You’d like a catalogue, my lord?” asked Thistlewood, bustling forward as soon as he heard Sebastian talking to the barman. “Tuppence each. Three for fivepence, and a tanner will get you a personal guided tour.”
The coffeehouse owner was a wiry, gaunt-faced man, probably somewhere in his early fifties, with watery, bloodshot eyes, beard-stubbled cheeks, and unruly gray eyebrows that met over the bridge of a ponderous nose. A stale, musty odor rose from his old-fashioned frock coat and yellowed, ruffle-fronted shirt, as if he’d borrowed his clothes from one of the cases in his exhibit.
“A personal tour, please,” said Sebastian, duly handing over his sixpence.
Thistlewood swept a courtly bow. “Right this way, your lordship.”
He ushered Sebastian into a chamber jammed with dusty, glass-topped cases and walls crowded close with everything from curious pieces of driftwood and giant turtle shells to primitive spears and antique swords. Items too large for the cases or walls-a stuffed alligator, giant elephants’ tusks, even a canoe fashioned from a hollowed-out log-hung from the ceiling.
Pausing in the center of the room, Thistlewood sucked in a deep breath and launched into what was obviously a well-rehearsed spiel, delivered in a singsong voice. “In this case here, you’ll see a Roman bishop’s crosier, antique coins found when they were laying down new water pipes in Bath, and a set of prayer beads made from the bones of St. Anthony of Padua.”
“Really?” said Sebastian, peering at the rosary. The beads certainly appeared to have been made from someone’s bones.
Thistlewood squared his shoulders and looked affronted. “Surely you are not questioning their authenticity?”
“No; of course not.”
They moved to the next case. “The most notable items here are a piece of sandstone bearing the fossilized imprints of ancient ferns, and a giant frog found on the Isle of Dogs.”
Sebastian studied the stuffed amphibian, which looked to be a good fourteen inches long. “Somehow, I suspect he was not native to fair England.”
“No,” agreed Thistlewood. “Most likely a stowaway hopped off one of the ships docked there, I always thought.” He raised a hand toward the wall above the case. “The sword you see hanging here was used in the coronation of King Charles himself. And-”
“First, or Second?” asked Sebastian, his interest caught.
“First.” Thistlewood nodded to the next case. “And here we have Queen Elizabeth’s prayer book and strawberry dish.”
“Where did you get all these”-Sebastian paused, searching for an appropriate word, and finally settled on-“objects?”
“The original collection was begun by my grandfather, the first Basil Thistlewood. He was valet to none other than Sir Hans Sloane himself, before Sir Hans bequeathed most of his collection to the nation. When my grandfather left his service in 1725 to open a coffeehouse on these premises, Sir Hans most graciously gave him a number of items to put on display. My grandfather himself increased the collection considerably, as did my father after him, and I have continued the tradition. Fortunately, we are quite popular with sea captains, who every year bring us a variety of new, interesting specimens from their worldwide voyages.”
Sebastian leaned over a nearby case to study the array of stone projectile points displayed there. “I’ve heard you were recently frustrated in your attempts to acquire the Duke of Suffolk’s head.”
Thistlewood worked his jaw back and forth, as if so overcome with fury as to find it difficult to spit out his words. “It should have been mine. I’m the one who heard about it first and identified it.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve long suspected Suffolk was buried at Holy Trinity. So when the sexton told me they’d found a small box containing a head while in the process of setting the crypt in order, it took only one look for me to know right away whose it was.”
“You recognized him?”
“Instantly! The resemblance to his portraits is striking.”
“I’d always heard Suffolk was beheaded with one clean stroke.”
“A tale, I’m afraid, put about to quiet the murmurs of the populace.” He nodded to a long-handled sword hanging near the doorway to the next room. “See that? It’s an executioner’s sword. They were typically between three and four feet long, and about two inches wide. The handle was made like that so the executioner could grip it in both fists to get a good leverage.”
Sebastian studied the plain, heavy blade. According to family tradition, two of his mother’s ancestors had lost their heads on Tower Hill. But until now, Sebastian had never given much thought to the particulars of their executions.
“There were two different types of blocks used, you know,” said Thistlewood, warming to what was obviously a favorite topic. “With a high block, like this one here”-he paused to put his hand on a worn chunk of wood several feet high, with a large, polished scoop on one side and a slight indentation on the other-“the prisoners would kneel and bend forward so that their heads rested over the top of the block. But with the low block, the poor condemned souls had to lie down flat with their necks on this little thing here-” He pointed to a long, narrow length of wood resting atop a nearby case. “That put their heads at all the wrong angle for the job, I’m afraid.”
Sebastian tried to ignore an unpleasant tickling sensation along the base of his skull.
“Of course,” Thistlewood was saying, “the block was only used when the executioner employed an axe, rather than the sword. Here in England, we tended to favor the style of axe you see here-” He pointed to a massive specimen hanging precariously from the ceiling. “It’s basically modeled after a woodsman’s axe.”
“Looks nasty,” said Sebastian, squinting up at it.
“It is indeed. The handle is a full five feet long, while the blade is ten inches. In Germany, they used something quite different-essentially a giant butcher’s cleaver, except with a longer handle. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of those, so I can’t show it to you.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. “How many blows did it take to cut off the head of Charles I?”
“Just one; all the reports agree on that. Whoever did it obviously knew his craft, which wasn’t usually the case, I’m afraid. The executioner who did for Anne Boleyn used a sword and did it in one stroke too; but then, he was brought over from France special, at her request, because he was so good. The thing is, beheadings weren’t all that common, and they were typically done by the hangman, who botched the job more often than not. Took three blows to get the head off Mary, Queen of Scots. And the idiot who did for the Countess of Salisbury struck the poor old woman eleven times before he got the job done.”
Sebastian found his gaze drawn, again, to the executioner’s sword. “So how did Preston end up with Suffolk’s head, if you’re the one who first identified it?”
“Pure greed on the part of the sexton, I’m afraid. Once he knew what he had, he went trotting off to Preston and offered to sell it to him.”
“It must have been infuriating to discover that Preston had managed to buy Suffolk’s head away from you.”
“Wasn’t it just!” agreed Thistlewood. “Why, I-” He broke off, eyes widening as he suddenly became aware of the dangerous trap yawning before him. Clearing his throat, he turned away to rub the sleeve of his coat across the top of the nearest case, as if wiping at a smudge. “But then, happens all the time. I’m used to it.”