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of the dark chasm in the floor she studied a black stone slab that had been neatly cracked into three manageable pieces, laid close together, as originally joined.
    She read what was engraved on the face.
    I N A V AULT
    B ENEATH T HIS M ARBLE S LAB
    A RE D EPOSITED THE R EMAINS
    OF
    J ANE S EYMOUR Q UEEN OF K ING H ENRY VIII
    1537
    K ING H ENRY VIII
    1547
    K ING C HARLES I
    1648
    AND
    A N I NFANT C HILD OF Q UEEN A NNE
     
    T HIS MEMORIAL WAS P LACED H ERE
    B Y C OMMAND OF
    K ING W ILLIAM IV, 1837
    One of the other men explained how Henry VIII had wanted a grand monument here, in St. George’s, to overshadow his father’s in Westminster. A metal effigy and massive candlesticks were cast, but Henry died before the edifice was completed. An era of Radical Protestantism came after him, a time when church monuments were not erected but hauled down. Then his daughter Mary ushered in abrief return to Rome and remembering Henry VIII, the king of the Protestants, became dangerous. Eventually, Cromwell melted the effigy and sold the candelabra. Henry was finally buried beneath the floor, with only the black marble slab marking the spot.
    She stared into the hole under the chapel. A power cable snaked a path across the floor, disappearing downward, ambient light illuminating the space beyond.
    “Only once before has this crypt been opened,” another of the men said.
    Her director introduced him as the keeper of the grounds.
    “April 1, 1813. At the time, no one knew where the beheaded Charles I had been buried. But since many believed his remains might be with those of Henry VIII and his third wife, Jane Seymour, this vault was breached.”
    Now, apparently, it had been opened again.
    “Gentlemen,” her director said. “Will you excuse Inspector Richards and myself? We need a few moments.”
    The other men nodded and retreated toward the main doors, twenty meters away.
    She liked to hear her title.
Inspector
. She’d worked hard to earn it and hated that it might now be lost.
    “Kathleen,” her director said, his voice low. “I implore you, for once, to keep your mouth shut and listen to me.”
    She nodded.
    “Six months ago the archives at Hatfield House were pilfered. Several precious volumes stolen. A month later, a similar incident occurred at the national archives in York. Over the ensuing weeks there were a series of thefts of historical documents from around the nation. A month ago a man was caught photographing pages within the British Library, but he evaded capture and fled the premises. Now this.”
    Her fear dissipated as her curiosity arose.
    “With what has happened here,” her director said, “the matter has escalated. To come into this sacred building. A royal palace.” He paused. “These thieves have a clear purpose.”
    She crouched down to the opening.
    “Go ahead,” he said. “Have a peek.”
    It seemed irreverent to disturb the last tangible bits of someone who’d existed so long ago. Though her bosses at SOCA might think her brash and uncaring, certain things did matter to her. Like respect for the dead. But this was a crime scene, so she lay flat on the checkerboard marble and poked her head below.
    The crypt was supported by a brick arch, maybe two and a half meters wide, three meters long, and a meter and a half deep. She counted four coffins. One pale and leaden bearing the inscription of King Charles, 1648, a square opening surgically cut in the upper part of the lid. Two smaller coffins were entirely intact. The fourth was the largest, pushing over two meters. An outer shell of wood, five centimeters thick, had decayed to fragments. The inner leaden coffin had also deteriorated and appeared to have been beaten by violence around its middle.
    She knew whose bones were visible.
    Henry VIII.
    “The unopened coffins are for Jane Seymour,” the director said, “the queen buried with her king, and an infant of Queen Anne’s who died much later.”
    She recalled that Seymour had been wife