The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Yes.’ Crispin nodded. ‘Quite a coincidence.’

  Abbot William rubbed his hand over his knuckles. ‘I am very intrigued by this. Crispin, I know it is an unusual request, but I should very much like to accompany you on this quest.’

  Taken aback, Crispin took several moments before he replied. ‘You would?’

  ‘Indeed. It isn’t every day that one is faced with a reveniens.’

  ‘If you tarry nigh, Master Crispin,’ muttered Jack, ‘you’ll see plenty. It isn’t all that uncommon.’

  He laughed and pointed toward Jack. ‘Oh ho! Young Master Tucker is not as enamored of your adventures as you are, I see.’

  Crispin gave Jack a narrow-eyed glare. ‘Not this adventure.’

  ‘Then we shall all go together. If I may.’

  Crispin gestured with a bow. ‘You are most certainly welcome to do so.’

  The abbot looked giddy. ‘Bless me. I have not been this excited since … well. I don’t know when. Perhaps my first journey to Rome, when I was a young man, and quite naive. Though this is purely as a matter of research, you understand. And in my abundant abilities to excise evil. I shall be ready. Where can we meet?’

  Crispin kept his face neutral, but he was certain he could feel the warmth at his cheeks. ‘My lodgings, I suppose. On the Shambles. An old poulterer’s.’

  ‘Oh, excellent. I should like to see your lodgings.’

  ‘They are … humble, my lord.’

  ‘Humble is nothing to be ashamed of. After all, our Lord was born in a stable and lived his life in humble surrounds.’

  Crispin couldn’t help but raise his eyes to the ribbed vaulted ceiling, its arched windows of reticulated colored glass, the tapestries, the carved furniture. Not quite as humble in the Church these days. ‘Indeed.’

  They bade their farewells to the abbot and trudged back toward London. The Thames was particularly pungent as the sun beat down on the shore. The smell of dead fish, brackish water, and wet water plants wafted up from the banks. Crispin unbuttoned the top few buttons of his cote-hardie. The sun was overwarming him with his caped hood and mantle.

  ‘Why would the abbot want to see such a horrific sight, master?’ asked Jack, his long strides curtailed to keep himself abreast of Crispin.

  ‘As he said, he is a man interested in these doings. And perhaps – if it is something beyond our ken – it might be expeditious to have his proficiency. I judge that he might have more experience with the excising of demons than our dear priest Father Bulthius.’

  ‘Aye. I’ve been thinking about what you said, sir. If it isn’t as our eyes tell us, what else could it be?’

  ‘A deception of the human variety. Man’s weakness and sin.’

  ‘I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Master Crispin, but I hope it is that.’

  ‘So do I.’

  There didn’t seem much else to do but return to their lodgings to ponder it all and wait until the evening. Isabel was happy to see them and, with broom in hand, urged Crispin to take his ease on the armed chair while she aired out the place, with both front-window shutters open wide and the door standing open as well. She merrily swept, only stopping now and again to put a hand to the small of her back.

  Crispin’s black and white cat, Gyb, made free use of the open windows and doors, taking turns wandering inside, and then out again, weaving around Isabel’s skirts. ‘You troublesome cat,’ she sighed. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and catch us a fat hen?’ She shooed him once or twice with her broom, but the cat wasn’t the least disturbed by her prodding one way or the other.

  Crispin watched the street, vaguely aware of the progress of people parading before him: merchants, servants, women at their shopping tasks. He pictured the, well, the revenant striding through the churchyard, of the Latin texts about St Modwen on that very subject. What were these corpses up to? Father Bulthius said they had become bloodsuckers. Whose blood were they sucking? Horses? Pigs? People? He hadn’t yet heard of anyone complaining, but he hadn’t been out there among London’s citizens lately. Perhaps he should go and listen. It was better than sitting here and waiting.

  He rose and waved off Isabel and Jack as they offered to help. ‘I just feel like a walk.’ He left them. It was good for a married couple to be alone for a time. At least he imagined it would be so. He looked back and caught the soppy gaze Jack turned on his wife.

  Gyb popped out of nowhere and followed him for a bit, his tail straight up like a century’s spear. ‘Are you to accompany me?’ he asked the feline.

  The cat looked up at him once, then turned his gaze toward the street, his ears flicking and twitching. Finally, the animal turned at an intersection and went on his way to his own business. Crispin watched him go, envious of his cat’s carefree nature.

  He walked on, reckoning he’d hear more if he were closer to St Modwen’s. He took the long trek through the heart of London, thinking wistfully of the Boar’s Tusk, and how nice it would be to spend the afternoon within the tavern, drinking the harsh wine and taking his ease, listening to Gilbert talk. But, of course, he could not afford that. He was earning his second day of coins investigating. There was no time to shirk.

  He wondered what these graves looked like as they opened for these corpses. Did they dig their own way out or did it yawn for them like a parting curtain? He actually felt better knowing that Abbot William would be with them. He didn’t suppose the man – the sort of man he knew the abbot to be – would run screaming in the opposite direction. Not a man who had faced the pope on a regular basis.

  He spied an alehouse not too far from the little church and ventured inside, taking a seat near the middle of the establishment, surrounded by men who seemed to be familiar with the small room and wobbly tables. He ordered a goblet of wine and leaned in over his cup, pushing back his hood the better to hear.

  ‘That priest must be mad,’ said one man with a tattered cote-hardie and a walking staff leaning against the table. ‘Have any of you heard of such ravings before?’

  The men beside him shook their heads. One gray-haired fellow with a leather cap and a grizzled beard nodded. ‘We once had a priest way back when the old king reigned, who raved and foamed when he gave a sermon. Oh, he was legendary.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said the third in a blue tunic. ‘Died of apoplexy right in the middle of mass one day, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did. There was many a man who, for once, regretted missing church that day.’

  They all chuckled and clinked their cups together.

  ‘You ever seen them corpses, then, Will?’ said Blue Tunic to the first man.

  ‘I haven’t, but my goat was struck dead.’

  ‘No!’ said the man with the staff. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Found it in the morning, throat torn out and blood all over the yard.’

  ‘Probably a dog,’ said the grizzle-bearded fellow.

  ‘There would have been a row. Growling and such. Heard nothing at all.’ He shivered. ‘The wife won’t leave the house alone now.’

  Blue Tunic shuffled in his seat. ‘I thought you said that priest was mad.’

  ‘Aye, he is. But he might also be right.’

  They drew silent, sipping their ale.

  Crispin drank his wine and rose. ‘My good men,’ he said as he stood over their table.

  They all looked up at him, some with mouths hanging open, lips wet and slick with ale.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing—’

  ‘Nasty habit, eavesdropping,’ said Grizzle Beard.

  Crispin smiled. ‘Ordinarily I’d agree. But since I came to this very alehouse to discover the exact nature of your conversation, I feel I must ask my questions.’

  ‘And who are you anyway?’ Blue Tunic arose and squared with him. The others got up from their seats and joined him; an impenetrable wall of grease-stained tunics, and hairy arms.

  ‘I am Crispin Guest. They call me the Tracker. Have you heard of me?’

  B
lue Tunic exchanged chastened glances with his fellows and slowly sat. The others followed suit. ‘What if we have?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about this … this dead goat of yours.’

  ‘Buy us another round of ale and we’ll loosen our tongues.’

  Crispin pulled up a stool and sat with them.

  He let them talk while he listened. The tavern keeper came around and filled their cups from a round-bellied jug. It seemed everyone in the parish appeared to be talking of these walking corpses. The news had spread fast. But there was little to add to the tale. One of the men had heard of another instance of a dead animal and related the address to Crispin. He thanked the men, they waved at him, and he left them there with their jug of ale.

  The house was at the other side of the lane from St Modwen’s, a lone house at the bottom of Tower Hill, bordered by tall grass and a stand of plump trees.

  Geese wandered and honked at him from the courtyard. Their gray bodies gathered close, but one lone gander propelled forward, neck outstretched and serrated beak ready to do battle. Crispin stood his ground and waved his arms, yelling at the creature. It pulled up short, turned its head to eye him warily, then gave a flourish of honks before it waddled haughtily away.

  ‘Here now,’ said a man coming out of the cottage. ‘You must be blessed indeed for Old Lucifer to give you a wide berth.’

  Crispin watched the gander as it retreated, its tufted tail flicking at him. Old Lucifer, eh? ‘I have no special powers or blessings, good man. Only a fierce determination to avoid being nipped.’

  ‘That you have. Well then. Are you in the market for goose, sir?’

  ‘I might be. But, more importantly, I’ve come to ask you a question about dead geese found on your property.’

  The man’s friendly smile faded. ‘Why ask about those?’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He bowed. ‘I am Crispin Guest, the Tracker of London. And I am enquiring about strange occurrences that have been reported in this part of the city.’

  ‘Strange occurrences indeed. My geese were killed. What am I to do about that?’

  ‘Was it animals? Foxes, for instance?’

  ‘If it were foxes they would have taken them away, eaten them, left entrails or somethin’ behind. But these were just dead. Bloodied.’

  ‘Have you ever seen the like before?’

  ‘No. And bless me, but I never want to see it again. There is something queer out there in the meadow.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I seen it, just at twilight. Strange lights a-floating about, strange sounds like moaning. I stayed inside, I can tell you.’

  ‘And what of the animals?’

  ‘I keep them in the shed back there.’ He pointed to a structure leaning more than the cottage. ‘And it’s locked up good, with a sturdy door and a latch. Something got in there and dragged out me geese.’

  ‘But didn’t take them away or consume them.’

  ‘No. That’s the queer thing.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Do you have a feud with someone, someone who may wish to cause you grief?’

  ‘I’ve got no more enemies than any other man. But what fool would kill a goose and not take the meat home?’

  ‘Who indeed. Have you heard of any other similar animal killings, where the animal was simply left to die?’

  The man scratched his behind, hitching up his tunic in the process. There was a large hole in the thigh of his stocking. ‘I can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Well, I thank you for your time, good man.’

  ‘Erm … are you certain I can’t interest you in a fine goose for the table, sir? They’re plump and tasty.’

  Crispin looked back at the flock of squat bodies and long necks. It had been a while since he had goose, but he shook his head. He knew they weren’t cheap. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well … see that you track this foul fiend then. We’ve no use for such a miscreant going about scaring folk with bloody animals and strange sounds.’

  ‘I will do my best.’ He bowed, and turned away.

  He followed the track again toward the main road, but stopped at the edge of the tall grasses and dips in the land of the meadow. It was daytime now, and none of it looked mysterious or strange. But he well knew how night can change a landscape … and one’s imagination. Every shadow creates a question, every rustling of the grass a stray thought. Had he truly seen what he saw last night, or was it simply the suggestion that put it in his head, painted with shadow and moonlight?

  Still, it was strange that animals had been bled and left to die. A fox or a stray dog would have carried a goose off. Weasels would have eaten it. Even someone plying mischief wouldn’t have left such valuable meat behind.

  He sighed.

  Had not the revenants’ mouths and faces had blood upon them?

  He strode by the churchyard, marking where the graves were again and finally made his way home.

  He was suddenly faced by the solemn features of both his servants. Isabel busied herself, perhaps hoping Crispin had not noted the worried expression on her face, but Jack stood in the center of the room, biting his lip, and rubbing the elbow of his coat.

  Crispin eyed them both. ‘What is it?’

  Jack caught Isabel’s eye before she turned hastily away once more, stirring the pot over the fire with more attention and vigor than was likely necessary.

  ‘Jack, what’s amiss?’

  ‘We … we got a messenger. From a possible client.’

  ‘A possible client? Who, then?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Tucker …’

  ‘You should not get angry, Master Crispin. Or ignore the missive. After all. A client is a client. You’ve always said.’

  He frowned. Isabel was facing studiously away, and Jack was biting his lip again. ‘Yes. But who could it possibly be that vexes you so?’

  ‘You mustn’t get angry.’

  ‘I’ll get angrier the longer you delay.’

  ‘Well … bless you, Master Crispin. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He dug the parchment out of his scrip and crumpled it in his hand for a moment more. Crispin was ready to leap at him but, just as he was about to strangle the boy, Jack handed it over.

  When Crispin unfolded it, he looked at the signature at the bottom.

  It was from Philippa Walcote.

  FOUR

  The name rang out in his head amid the quiet room as his heartbeat ticked away, growing sharper and faster as Crispin rolled the name over in his mind. Philippa? Wanted his help? A younger more naive Crispin would have jumped at the chance, but this older, jaded, present self merely took in the sharp etchings of her name, walked to the table, and traced his finger on the worn surface.

  ‘You received this today?’ He prided himself on the steadiness of his voice.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Crispin swallowed and this time, read from the beginning:

  I hope you are well, Master Guest, and that this missive does not come as a great shock to you, for surely you never intended to hear from me again. Indeed, I never intended to contact you. But I am at a loss as to what to do. It is urgent that I speak with you. Will you come to my home to discuss the matter? I beg that you do.

  Philippa Walcote

  Stupidly, he turned the parchment over, but found it blank on its reverse. ‘Did the … the messenger have no other tidings to convey?’

  ‘No, sir. Only this message. It is very short on pertinent facts.’

  ‘Yes.’ He read it over again, hearing the lilt of her voice recite it in his head. But this was foolishness. Why should he accede to this? He already had a client. He need not answer this.

  As if Jack could read his thoughts, he suddenly said, ‘The messenger specifically asked for “the Tracker”, sir.’

  ‘I could send you, I suppose,’ Crispin said, but even as the words left his lips it left a bad taste in his mouth. Did he fear to go? Was he so much less of a man that he was afraid of this woman who had broken his
heart by marrying another so soon after his refusal?

  Jack wisely remained silent.

  Crispin shook his head, ashamed of himself. ‘This is foolish. I will go and see what the wench wants and be done with it. Likely it is something equally as foolish as she is herself.’

  ‘I will go with you, master.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  ‘I’m going.’

  Jack snatched the letter out of his hands, stuffed it into his own scrip again, and opened the door. He’d wisely left his cloak hanging by the entry, for the weather had grown warm. Crispin unbuttoned his own cloak and hung it, and removed his hooded cape as well. Feeling lighter and cooler, he led the way out the door with Jack following.

  He tried to blank his mind as he made the familiar trek to the mercer’s house. It had been nearly nine years since he’d last seen her. He had tried to avoid that street, avoid gazing upon that house of stone, with its walled garden and courtyard entry. There was little reason to be there, after all.

  It took no time. Not enough time. The gatehouse lay before them and Crispin hesitated across the lane, simply looking at the place. It had little changed. Why should it have? It was still the house of a wealthy mercer, though this time it was the brother of the deceased, though that was a long tale in itself.

  He took a step forward and his boots marked the route and stopped again before the porter. ‘Crispin Guest. I was invited by the … the mistress of the household.’

  The porter only nodded and opened the gate for him. It wasn’t the same porter from eight years ago, of that he was certain. Crispin walked across the flagged-stone courtyard and up to the arched doorway. He pulled the bell rope and heard the jangling ringing on the other side of the heavy oaken door. Jack stood tall beside him, his bearded chin raised – ready, it seemed, to leap before Crispin to protect him should some danger streak toward them. It might have amused under other circumstances.

  The door opened and a servant Crispin didn’t recognize stood in the doorway.

  Jack announced, ‘Crispin Guest, the Tracker.’

  The man’s eyes widened slightly before he gestured for Crispin to follow him into the parlor. Not the solar, he said to himself, for that was where all the mischief had begun in this house the last time he was here. It was best, then, to meet in the downstairs parlor, the proper place to receive business associates.