Walters understood her references from the old text, and wondered only why she thought a fireplace might be somewhere in this wall. Being internal, with room for a chimney above, it was plausible enough. “Shall we strip this away, then? It would bring your heritage authorities out in a sweat, but you may be right.”

In ten minutes—all four of them groping along the panels—they had found the chink. Walters called to Temple: “Guy, have you got that Leatherman tool on your key chain?”

Temple stopped mumbling the strange rosary that was inspired by the texts. “Yes. Yes, FW.” He responded wanly, feeling coldness in his limbs and chest, wondering if he was sickening like the archaeologists who open up a long-closed tomb and unleash a virus. The atmosphere in the room was claustrophobic, and he recognized from past association that his boss was inappropriately close to a state of elation. He had no energy to join him in that demi-paradise and was wondering every minute whether the demons and the vile smells of smoke and ale, urine and bad food would return.

“Bring it. Loosen some of this paneling.” Walters pointed to a place in the timbers. Temple tried rather ineffectually to prize it apart until Walters handed him the flashlight scornfully and took the blade himself. He started to probe frantically at the wall. Both were caught in the tension of the moment when the panel gave way without warning, forcing out a loud crash and a billow of dust. A section of wood cladding and a heap of bricks collapsed into the room. Lucy shrieked nervously, caught off guard by the clatter; and in his muddled state Temple dropped the flashlight, which smashed against the masonry on the floor.

“Miss King, your light please. Guy has left us in the dark.” Walters’s sarcasm was icy as he bent in the dim room. Lucy flashed a steady beam into the alcove containing the inscribed box, and Walters whistled softly. “That’ll do. An old oven bricked up for years alongside the main hearth. Angelo, get this coffer out into the room. We’re on the edge of greatness. Thomas Brightman told us that the first of the great seven vials was Elizabeth’s succession to the throne in 1558. The seventh Trumpet of the Revelation was sounded in 1588 with the destruction of the Armada. It is appropriate that the most happy tranquillity from thence to the end of the world should proceed now from the rediscovery of this lost knowledge from the great men of her reign. Who knows? Perhaps the chests contain the actual seventh vial. This is a truly apocalyptic moment.”