The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  They waited as the servant escaped to get the mistress. He wondered if Clarence Walcote would be on hand to greet him, and scowled at the thought. He couldn’t help but glance about the room. It was much the same as he remembered it, but somehow more lived-in. The tapestries were different: more colorful, more joyful. The painted mural on the walls depicted a tranquil scene of animals of various sorts gathering together in a glade. The sideboard had not one but two silver candelabras with fine beeswax tapers.

  The woven rush mat on the floor seemed fresh when he walked across it, and he accidentally kicked a wooden toy he had not seen. He bent to pick it up and examined it. A wooden knight on a horse, its paint rubbed off in some places from being played with to excess. He remembered having something similar as a child and placed it upon the sideboard with care. Jack had told him some years ago that she had a babe who had obviously grown into a child who liked to play with wooden knights. A boy then.

  Crispin’s unease grew the longer they waited. He tapped his fingers irritably on his knife hilt, and then he couldn’t help looking down at his coat and brushing it smooth. Several times.

  Jack must have noticed, for he was suddenly before him, brushing the coat which was surely in fine fettle already, straightening his belt, and buttoning the last few buttons up to his collar. ‘You look fine, sir,’ he said softly. Their eyes met only once, and Crispin read it all in Jack’s gaze. The lad knew. He knew this was no mere client. As he had known since receiving the message.

  But it didn’t make the waiting any easier.

  Finally, a step outside the door and the sweep of a trailing gown in the doorway. Crispin turned and only just held in his gasp.

  She was as he remembered her. Only … there was a new maturity in her features. True, she had been bold and brash even in her youth, but she had lived and weathered these past eight or so years with quiet dignity. At least, he hadn’t been aware of any further gossip.

  She was rounder in the face and hips, but it made her cheeks rosy and her eyes – with that familiar heavy-lidded gaze – that much more appealing. The red tint in her blonde hair had always made him think of brass instead of gold, for she had been a kitchen wench who had married the wealthy merchant and elevated her status beyond what most wagging tongues in London would permit. Yet she had learned the skills of her late husband who turned out to be a fraud … and then married Clarence, the brother of the real Nicholas Walcote. There had been murder in this house and great deception, and she had managed to rise above it and hold her head up high. Clarence Walcote had come from a family of mercers, but Crispin suspected that it was Philippa who ran the business, for she had learned much from her erstwhile husband, Nicholas Walcote, even if that had not been the man’s true name.

  ‘Crispin,’ she breathed, a hand at her throat. Her gown, though of rich material, was simple in design. She wasn’t a fussy woman. She was plain-speaking and practical, and any gown she wore would be similarly straightforward. Where other women would take advantage of their raised status, she seemed to know how easily it could be stripped away. Hadn’t it almost happened that way for her?

  The gown’s weave and embroidery showed her wealth, but they were working clothes, too, for he had no doubt that she was in the warehouses, checking the cloth herself, examining the wool, and sending the servants scattering to do the household’s bidding.

  She stepped farther into the room and he only then noticed Clarence Walcote behind her.

  Clarence was a broad man of a heftier weight, though his head appeared smaller on those wide shoulders. He was ginger-haired with robust cheeks and a cleft chin. He strode in after his wife and steadied his gaze on Crispin.

  ‘Guest. We appreciate your coming.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment, girded herself, and faced him again. ‘Aye, thank you, Master Guest, for coming so quickly.’ She still tried to hide her lowborn accent with the hint of something higher, pronouncing each word carefully. Was the performance for him? Or was this her usual after all these years?

  ‘Master Walcote. Madam Walcote.’ He bowed low, his face schooled to blankness.

  She turned to Jack and never tried to stifle her astonishment, and then she lost any hope of a highborn accent when faced with him. ‘Is this Jack Tucker?’ The artifice fell away and she was the kitchen wench again. Her cheeks glowed with pleasure, and her eyes glittered with excitement. Jack bowed in acknowledgement. ‘Well, blind me! You were just a sprig of a lad when I last saw you, and look at you now! You are quite the man.’

  Jack couldn’t seem to help but blush and smile. He touched his beard as was his habit but dropped his hand quickly.

  ‘Much time has passed,’ she said more soberly, before turning back to Crispin. ‘Won’t you please sit down.’

  Crispin crossed to a chair with a cushion and sank into it. She moved to the chair across from it and joined him, arranging her skirts about her. Her face was turned down but her eyes looked up at him with that same sleepy look that had compelled him all those years ago, a look that had held mystery and mischief, and more intelligence than he had first thought. Clarence stood behind her and laid a proprietary hand on her shoulder. But perhaps Crispin was reading too much into it. They had been man and wife these last eight years. And, as far as he knew, Clarence had never known about … them.

  ‘Perhaps Master Tucker will serve the wine,’ she said, when Clarence said nothing.

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Crispin with a flick of his wrist. Oh, how he wanted the wine, but his heart was already racing and his agitation screamed in his sinews. He needed to be alert, not to relax. He felt a sense of danger with every one of her movements, and with the lack of them from Clarence.

  Jack moved to stand behind Crispin, hands braced behind his back.

  ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Guest?’ said Clarence pleasantly. ‘I’ve since heard of your doings about London.’ He shook a finger at him. ‘Can’t leave well enough alone, can you? But I suppose that comes with the territory. Being this Tracker and all.’

  Philippa glanced down at her hands resting in her lap. ‘I am so glad you came. There is turmoil in this house and I fear its outcome. You were the only one …’ She looked up. ‘The only one I thought to call upon. The only one who could help us.’

  ‘Yes, Guest.’ Clarence sobered. ‘It’s the damnable truth.’

  ‘Very well. I’m listening.’

  Philippa looked up at Clarence, but he deferred to his wife. Crispin had the sense that he deferred to her in most things. He was obviously well-besotted with her. It had happened quickly. Philippa seemed to engender such passion in men, and jealousy in women. ‘It’s … our son. He is being accused of murder.’

  ‘I take it he didn’t do it.’

  She pressed a knuckle to her plump lips and gnawed on it a moment, even as tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away and dropped her hand back to her lap. ‘He is nearly eight years old. He doesn’t know what he is saying.’

  Crispin leaned forward. ‘Madam, does your son say he did do it?’

  She snapped to her feet and wrung her hands as she paced. ‘I tell you he don’t know what he’s saying!’

  ‘My dear.’ Clarence stopped her pacing and clasped her in his arms. He glanced over her shoulder toward Crispin. ‘We don’t know what to do.’

  Sitting back, Crispin watched as she slowly extricated herself from Clarence’s grasp.

  ‘Has he been arrested?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Clarence. ‘But the sheriffs intimated that he would be. Soon. One of the sheriffs is a mercer, a member of my guild. And so …’

  ‘Is it possible that he—’

  She spun and glared at him. ‘Of course it’s not possible!’

  ‘An accident?’

  She shook her head, looking once to Clarence. ‘He will not say. He will not say more than he is responsible. He has always been a stubborn child.’

  ‘Perhaps you would be better off retaining the services of a good
lawyer.’

  Clarence snorted. ‘A lawyer would not be enough. We must prove that someone else killed him.’

  ‘I see.’ There was a sour ache in his chest. He had somehow harbored the notion that she had had a desperate need to see him, but it was her mother’s heart that wanted Crispin only to protect her son. And why not? She only needed Crispin for the one service he could supply. It was his job, after all. And his own idiocy that had carved more out of it than there was.

  He resettled, not only his body in the chair, but his head on his shoulders. This was business. She was a client. He needed clients.

  ‘And yet a lawyer might do you better than I can perform. That’s as may be. Tell me what you know.’

  She seemed to calm with his taking charge.

  Clarence patted her arm and led her back to the chair. ‘You tell him, sweeting. You know more than I do.’

  She nodded and took her seat once more. ‘Our near neighbor, John Horne, was also a merchant in cloth.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘He was murdered. Madam Horne claims that it was my son who had been trying to steal a family relic, and John caught him in the act.’

  ‘God’s blood, another relic,’ muttered Jack under his breath.

  ‘But my son would never do such a thing,’ she continued. ‘Christopher does not steal, nor does he murder. He is only a child, but he knows right from wrong.’

  Crispin measured her words. ‘Where did the murder take place?’

  ‘At the Horne residence.’

  ‘And what is this relic?’

  ‘A bone from a saint.’

  ‘Blind me,’ Jack whispered.

  ‘And when did this all happen, madam?’

  ‘Two nights ago. The sheriffs came, but they did not arrest him because … because he is a Walcote. But I fear that his name will not protect him long. John Horne was nearly as prominent a man as my husband.’

  ‘And where were you and your husband during this murder?’

  She paused and a bitter smile grew from the shadows on her face. ‘We were at home. In the solar.’

  ‘I suppose your servants would corroborate that. How was the mercer killed?’

  ‘He was stabbed.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Horne’s bedchamber.’

  ‘No, I mean where on his body?’

  She gestured to her abdomen just under the ribs on the left side. ‘He died instantly.’

  ‘Did he?’ Crispin mulled over that. ‘Was Christopher’s knife bloody?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. The sheriffs took it.’

  ‘I shall have to talk to the sheriffs. But first …’ He rose. ‘I shall have to talk to your son.’

  ‘You’ll get little out of him,’ she said. ‘He’s stubborn. Like his father.’

  ‘We’ll see. Is he here?’

  She paused again, squeezing her hands together. She looked up at Clarence.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Aye. Yes. He’s in his chamber. Shall I … shall I have him come down …?’

  ‘Would you prefer I go to him?’

  ‘It … might be best. He has been through much and much is to come.’ She took up a bell on the small table beside her and rang it. A servant came immediately to the door. ‘Take Master Guest up to Christopher’s chamber.’

  The servant bowed and turned to go. Crispin rose to follow. ‘Jack, stay with Madam Walcote and Master Walcote.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied, but he didn’t sound happy about it.

  Crispin was nearly out the door when she surprised him by laying her hand on his arm. ‘You will help him, won’t you? If not for his sake, then in the name of God’s mercy.’

  He gritted his teeth and gently sloughed off her hand. ‘I will do what I can, Madam Walcote.’

  More quietly, she said, ‘It is good to see you, Crispin.’

  Clarence was suddenly in the doorway behind her. ‘It’s damned good to see you again, Guest. I don’t mind saying. And I never thought I’d say it.’

  Crispin said nothing to that and hurried to follow the servant up the stairs.

  He tried to empty his mind, but it was crowded with memories. Her scent brought them all back, especially those private moments she’d spent in his bed. They tapped in his brain like a drumbeat, but he knew he had to concentrate on the problem at hand, not on the ghosts of his past.

  Following the servant and checking the inventory of the man’s clothing helped. The man was dressed well for the servant of a mercer, as one might expect. The house itself was still the same house in many ways. Arches were familiar, the tapestries were the same, only there were more items here and there, touches that Philippa herself no doubt added, now that she was unquestionably the mistress of her household.

  They took the stairs up to the same gallery. The door to the solar was there; bedchamber doors there and there. They turned to the other side of the gallery and to a room he was unfamiliar with.

  The servant stopped before the ornate door of curled iron hinges and carved sheep, and knocked.

  ‘Go away!’ came the reply from within, a child’s voice, young and high.

  ‘Your mother wishes you to meet Crispin Guest, young sir,’ said the servant.

  ‘I said, GO AWAY!’

  ‘I’ll proceed on my own,’ said Crispin to the man, who seemed happy to leave it to him.

  When he opened the door, a dark-haired boy stood staring out the tall window, his back to Crispin. The sunlight fell around him, over his narrow shoulders, striking his black hair and turning the shine blue. He was a child of seven or nearly eight, though Crispin wasn’t good at judging children’s ages. He wore a fine red tunic of embossed florets with blue hose and long pointed shoes. There were shelves filled with toys of carved wood, a scopperel, a leather ball, a collection of colorful rocks, several wooden tops. A hobby horse leaned against the shelf, its leather reins well worn. A wooden sword and shield lay on the floor where they had been dropped in disinterest, a table of books and candles where he obviously took his tutoring sat in one corner, and a silver basin and jug perched on a sideboard near another window. A bed with curtains stood in its place on a raised platform against one wall, with a mural of a parade of mounted knights with banners behind it. It was the room of a young lord rather than that of a merchant’s son, but Crispin supposed Walcote could well afford it.

  The boy turned at Crispin’s step.

  The first thing Crispin noticed was the boy’s mouth, twisted in an imperious sneer. The next thing he noted, besides the black hair, was the slate gray of his eyes. Clarence was ginger-haired, and Philippa was blonde. From whence did this changeling come?

  Crispin stood a moment longer, merely studying the boy, until an unwitting gasp left his lips.

  It was suddenly like peering into a mirror from long ago.

  FIVE

  The boy, Christopher, lost his sneer quickly enough when he looked Crispin over. ‘Who are you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I am … I am Crispin Guest. They call me the Tracker.’

  The boy seemed to brighten. ‘I’ve heard of you. They tell all sorts of tales about you. Brave tales. You defied the king once, they said.’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t a very wise thing to do.’

  ‘You were a knight.’ He looked back at his wall mural before turning again to Crispin. ‘And King Richard took it away. A knight is noble. And honorable.’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about me.’

  ‘But what’s it like?’ He took several steps toward Crispin. The boy was unafraid of strangers. It seemed he had been raised like a little prince. ‘You’ve jousted, haven’t you?’

  Dear God, he screamed in his head. Could this be? Christopher was seven. He’d last seen Philippa over eight years ago. The timing was right. Why had she never said?

  Of course she had never said. She was married to Clarence. It would doom the boy’s prospects if Clarence ever suspected … but surely the man must. The boy didn’t look anyt
hing like him.

  ‘You’ve jousted, haven’t you?’ the boy said again.

  ‘Er … yes. Many a time.’

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Often enough.’

  Christopher sighed. ‘I should like to joust someday.’

  ‘You … you’re the son of a mercer. I shouldn’t think you will have much call to joust.’

  He drooped. ‘Cloth is boring.’

  Crispin straightened, fixing his thumbs in his belt. ‘It feeds and houses you. Anything less would be ungrateful.’

  Christopher straightened too, as if remembering his tutoring, and parroted, ‘I am grateful to God the almighty Father, and to my own father for that which he grants to us.’

  ‘Yes, rightly so.’

  ‘But I should still like to joust,’ he muttered.

  Crispin got up close to him and studied his face. His skin was creamy white like any child raised with care, and his cheeks were touched with a rosy blush, as were his lips. His brows were as dark as his hair, which was cut in a neat and straight line just to below his ears. He looked healthy and strong, wiry like any boy his age.

  And exactly like Crispin, down to the red cote-hardie and blue stockings.

  ‘Do you know why I am here?’

  Christopher sighed again and sat in the window seat on his leg, leaning an elbow on the sill and looking out to the courtyard. ‘Yes. Because I’m to be arrested.’

  ‘For murder. Do you understand …’

  ‘Of course, I understand!’ he rasped. ‘My neighbor Master Horne is dead.’

  He still wore his dagger sheath on his belt, and touched it from time to time, no doubt missing the hilt he seemed to want to lean his hand upon. Just as Crispin did.

  No! Stop thinking of it. It isn’t true.

  This was Christopher Walcote, the son of a rich mercer. There was scarce anything better than that life.

  ‘Did you kill him?’