Page 41 of Evil at the Essex House

I squinted at the mess on the other side of the street, and then back at him. “Should that mean something to me?”

He glanced down at me. Not very far down; he’s only a few inches taller than me. “He was the King’s mason a few hundred years ago, and so was his son. Same name for both of them. This chap built Newgate Prison and several of the London hospitals. His son built Argyll House and King’s Bench Prison.”

All rather lovely buildings, if antiquated. Still— “Talented family. Although we didn’t all study history at Oxford, you know.” Some of us studied literature, as it happened.

“This church is mentioned in the Domesday Book,” Christopher said with chagrin. “It’s been here—or a St Olave’s Church has been here—for more than a thousand years.”

“Has it really?”

He nodded. “Since just after the sieges of London in 1014 and 1016.”

“That’s a long time.” Even in England, a country with quite a long history.

Christopher nodded. “Olave was a prince of Norway, who helped Æthelred rout the Danes in 1014. The story goes that when the Danes were crossing London Bridge, Olave tied his longboats to the piers and pulled the bridge down into the Thames.”

“And Æthelred won?”

“Then,” Christopher said, “although it didn’t last long. Two years later, Prince Cnut of Denmark came back and took London.”

“And the church?”

“Belonged to the Earl of Wessex,” Christopher said. “Since 1018.”

“And he’s the one who named it? The Earl of Wessex?”

“Godwin,” Christopher nodded.

“Do you suppose he might have known Olave? The Norwegian prince?” If the church had been built only four years after the incident with the bridge and the longboats.

“Probably did do,” Christopher confirmed. “Contemporaries, weren’t they? It was nice of him to name his private chapel after a bloke he knew in the war.”

We eyed the church, or what was left of it, in silence.

“I wonder what happened to make them decide to tear it down,” I said. “Or do you suppose it happened on its own?”

“I would guess one of two things happened,” Christopher said, with a wrinkle of his nose. “Either it was built too close to the river, and was damaged in some of the floods?—”

The river did have a fairly ripe odor, and yes, the water was quite close by. “Or?”

He glanced around. “This area is more industrial than it used to be. Less need for a church in a location where so few people live.”

Indubitably. Which made for a good drop location for the ransom, I assumed. Fewer people around to see what was going on. Safer that way, for the kidnappers.

“Shall we take a closer look?” Christopher suggested.

“There’s not much left to look at, but I suppose we might as well. We’re here. And I can’t see a sign telling us to stay out.”

“Out of where, precisely?” He headed across the cobblestones at a diagonal, and I followed. “It’s all very accessible, isn’t it?”

“Out of what’s left, I assume. The tower.”

Christopher shook his head. “No, no sign, and no notice on the door. Of course, it might be locked.”

He put both hands to the old wood and pushed. The door moved sluggishly and with a groan of hinges.

“Not locked,” Christopher said, a bit breathlessly, and slipped through.

“Nothing to protect inside,” I added, as I followed, “I would guess. Anything valuable that was here, must have been removed before they tore the nave down.”