We walked back up the gallery. Near the door she paused at a table on which stood a magnificent gold clock a foot high, ticking softly. ‘Time,’ the Queen said softly. ‘Another reminder we are but grains of sand in eternity.’

Mary Odell went in front of us and knocked at the door. A guard opened it from the other side and we stepped through into the heavily guarded vestibule, with its doors leading to the Queen’s rooms, the King’s, and the Royal Stairs. At the same moment another guard opened the doors leading to the King’s chambers, and two men stepped out. One was the red-bearded Lord Chancellor Wriothesley, the other Secretary Paget, a leather folder thick with papers under his arm. They had probably just come from seeing the King.

Seeing the Queen, they bowed deeply. I bowed to them in turn, and rose to see both staring at me, this hunchbacked lawyer wearing the Queen’s badge, who had been walking with her in her gallery. Wriothesley stared with particular intensity, his gaze only relaxing a little when he saw Mary Odell standing by the door: her presence showed the Queen had not been walking alone with a man who was not a relative.

The Queen’s face immediately assumed an expression of regal composure; still, quiet, a little superior. She said, ‘This is Serjeant Shardlake, of my Learned Council.’

Wriothesley’s stare intensified again. Paget’s large brown eyes held mine with a forceful, unblinking look. Then, turning to the Queen, he lowered his eyes and spoke smoothly. ‘Ah yes, the man appointed to help you seek your stolen jewel.’

‘You have heard of that incident, Master Secretary?’

‘Indeed. I was grieved to hear of its loss. A present from your late stepdaughter Margaret Neville, I believe, God save her.’

‘It was.’

‘I see Serjeant Shardlake’s name has been added to the list of those on your Learned Council. And I see young William Cecil has moved to Lord Hertford’s service. He will be a loss, your majesty, he is marked down as a young man of ability.’ I thought, yes, Paget would know of all the changes in the royal household; he would inspect all the lists and ensure nothing of interest passed him by. He would have learned that trick from Thomas Cromwell, his old master and mine.

The Queen said, ‘Serjeant Shardlake is also leaving my council. My jewel has not been discovered, despite his best efforts. There seems little chance of finding it now.’

Paget looked at me again, that stony unblinking stare, and ran a hand down his long forked beard. ‘A great pity the thief could not be caught, and hanged,’ he said, a note of reproof in his voice. He patted his thick leather folder. ‘If you would excuse us, your majesty, the King has just signed some important letters, and they should be immediately dispatched.’