The grave had not been tended. Thick brambles and stinging nettles covered it, and discarded cans and the ripped and yellowing pages from read-and-throw newspapers were its only decoration. Foxes and badgers navigating the burial ground via their secret pathways avoided this plot because they could sense that there was something not quite right about it. The earth was sick and the ground was cold all year round.
Henry Haverstroke, a man of business and a right bastard to boot, had been buried here in the year of our Lord 1745. At the time of his death, he was a wealthy man. His house was vast, and his business concerns in the city and in the Americas and beyond turned him a pretty penny. He was a ruthless operator though, happy to be hated by all that had the discomfort to come into conta
