The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  Jack glanced at Crispin for acknowledgement and Crispin gave it with a nod.

  ‘I’m coming, Lord Sheriff.’

  Crispin found himself alone with Henry Vaunere as they assessed each other.

  ‘So you are this infamous Tracker. You seem old.’

  Bristling, Crispin only raised a brow. ‘The streets of London can age a man.’

  Vaunere scratched his beard. ‘So they can.’

  ‘I found it, sir,’ said Jack in the other room.

  ‘The devil you did. Give it here, lad. That’s fine good work. No wonder the Tracker relies on you so.’ They both re-entered through the arched doorway. ‘You must tell me some of your adventures sometime. Over supper. I’d be happy to feed the Tracker and his apprentice.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you very much, my lord.’

  ‘If we are done with the pleasantries,’ said Crispin, ‘I should like to see that report.’

  Shadworth stared for a moment before he burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Master Guest. You are as surly as they say you are.’ He offered the scroll.

  Surly? Crispin all but snatched it out of his hand and, stepping over to the sideboard, unfurled the scroll. Dated two nights ago, the clerk penned, in a spiky, almost illegible scrip, what was reported: that Christopher Walcote, child, was found in the residence of John Horne, standing over his dead body with a dagger in his hand. The man was stabbed once and bled out and died instantly. That they were alone until the servants came after hearing loud exclamations. It was soon discovered that a relic of great prize owned by John Horne – a saint’s bone housed in a reliquary in the shape of a cow – was missing, and the boy was blamed. He was remanded into the custody of his parents until further investigation.

  He looked up from the paper. ‘The relic was stolen, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sheriff Vaunere.

  ‘But the boy didn’t have it on him. Wasn’t that suspicious?’

  ‘Well … he … he could have hidden it somewhere.’

  ‘He had the presence of mind to hide it and then deliberately stand over the corpse of the man he supposedly killed?’

  ‘The criminal mind, Guest,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘Who can fathom it?’

  ‘I can. It sounds terribly absurd to me.’

  ‘Oh? I suppose you could do better?’

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘The devil you say.’

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘Lying in state at home, I should imagine. Is that where it is, John?’

  Shadworth shrugged, but he was smiling, shaking his head at Crispin. ‘Look at the man’s mind work. It’s a thing to behold, eh, Henry?’

  Crispin sighed. ‘I would be interested in examining it.’

  ‘That’s a ghastly thought,’ said Vaunere. ‘What, by the Blessed Virgin, would you do that for?’

  ‘You claim the man was stabbed here.’ Crispin gestured again to the lower ribs. ‘Even if his lung was punctured, it would have taken him days to die.’

  ‘It said he bled out,’ said Shadworth, looking over his shoulder at the parchment.

  ‘Was there a great deal of blood?’

  Shadworth shrugged. ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘You would have remembered, believe me.’

  ‘Now that’s right,’ said Shadworth, a finger to his lip. ‘Guest here was a lord and knight. He’s seen many a battle. Fought well, didn’t you, alongside the duke of Lancaster. Glorious, that must have been. I myself have ridden a time or two at tournament, but that was long ago.’

  ‘And several stone ago as well,’ muttered Vaunere.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind. Guest, are you determined to exonerate your client even against the sheriffs’ and coroner’s report?’

  ‘Only if the reports are not quite accurate, my lord, which I am not certain they are.’

  Vaunere chuckled. ‘He’s got gall, hasn’t he? Some would call it cheek.’

  Shadworth sighed happily. ‘It’s marvelous.’

  ‘Do what you like, Guest. Just leave us alone about it,’ said Vaunere.

  ‘Are you going to arrest that boy?’

  ‘I don’t see how we can put it off much longer. Walcote or no Walcote. The citizens of London will demand it.’

  ‘Oh Henry. Let’s see what Guest can do first. I should very much like to see how he manages this investigation.’

  Vaunere leaned back in his chair and began cleaning his nails with his dagger. ‘You do know the aldermen of this city elected us to do our jobs.’

  ‘Our jobs involve discretion. And I for one wish to see Guest at his work. It costs us nothing, Henry.’

  ‘That is certainly true. Very well. The boy remains free for a sennight. After that we must do our duty.’

  ‘A sennight?’ Crispin stuck his thumbs in his belt. Seven days to exonerate his son. Could he do it? He had to. He glanced at Jack before bowing to the sheriffs. ‘Then I must take my leave, my lords.’

  ‘This is exciting,’ said Shadworth.

  ‘Good God, John. You’ll unman yourself.’

  Crispin didn’t listen to the rest of their conversation. He hurried down the steps and out of the gatehouse with Jack at his heels.

  ‘Where to now, Master Crispin?’ he asked, trotting alongside him. ‘To the Horne household?’

  ‘We must.’

  ‘Are you so convinced the boy didn’t do it … or is it because it is Madam Walcote?’

  It came over him so quickly and so all-consuming that he was unable to stop himself grabbing Jack by his coat and shoving him hard against the nearest wall. Even before his mind could clear, Jack’s expression, the fear in his eyes, the drooping jaw in shock, came up to greet him.

  He released him immediately. ‘I’m … sorry … I …’ He couldn’t speak. Taking a step back, he lowered his reddening face. ‘I did not mean violence against you, Jack.’

  ‘You … must do what you will. You are my master.’

  ‘It is not that way with us. Forgive me.’

  ‘Of course, master. This crime,’ he said quietly, ‘because of who it involves, must be putting you out of sorts. I know that.’

  Crispin wiped his hand down his face. ‘You are too understanding.’

  ‘I know about love, sir.’

  He grimaced, considering his actions. ‘So you do.’

  ‘We go next to the Horne estate, then?’

  ‘Yes. And then we will talk to the boy once more.’

  Jack walked beside him with only a brief glance. He squeezed the lad’s shoulder to show he meant no harm, and Jack seemed satisfied, his stride growing more eager as they made their way down lane after lane.

  They reached Mercery Lane once more but, before getting to the Walcote gatehouse, they turned down a short lane to another manor. Crispin talked to the porter who escorted them to the front entrance and pulled the bell rope, still waiting beside them until the servant answered the door. He introduced Crispin, and Crispin and Jack waited on the step while the servant closed the door again to speak to his masters.

  The porter was a stout, grim-faced man in livery, who stood like a wall between the door and Crispin. He fixed his eyes on Crispin and never wavered away. Crispin stared back and didn’t so much as move a muscle as their silent duel began.

  Presently, the servant returned and opened the door wide. ‘You may enter, Master Guest.’

  He turned away from the porter with a smirk and stepped into the entry. The servant had dark circles around his eyes. No doubt the household was in turmoil now that the master was dead.

  ‘My mistress has granted a brief audience with you,’ said the servant, ‘but I beg you, sir, to be as soft as you can be. She is suffering greatly from this loss.’

  Crispin bowed. ‘I understand.’

  The servant hesitated and Crispin looked him over. He was a man of middle years, and thin, with a balding head and clean-shaven face. ‘You have served in the Horne household for a number of years?’

 
‘Yes. Nearly twenty-five years. I am the steward here, Robert Hull.’

  ‘Did you see anything of this murder, Master Hull?’

  His eyelids fluttered. His lashes were moist and those reddened eyes seemed susceptible to weeping again. ‘No. By all the saints, I wish that I had. I wish I could have stopped it.’

  ‘And the boy. Christopher Walcote.’ The name threatened to stopper his throat. ‘Did you see anything of him?’

  ‘He frequented this household. He was a friend to Master Horne’s apprentice, Martin Chigwell.’

  ‘So it was common to see the boy here?’

  ‘Yes. He … he usually meant no harm. He was a lad like any other, full of mischief and laughter. He was most often cheerful and courteous.’

  Crispin took a moment to mull his words. ‘Master Hull, do you believe Christopher Walcote stole the household relic?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you believe he killed John Horne?’

  The steward stilled, eyes fixed on Crispin’s. ‘It is not for me to say,’ he said at last. ‘I will take you to my mistress now.’

  He and Jack followed the steward up a wide staircase and to a room that turned out to be a bedchamber. The lady of the house was standing before the window, bathed in its light. It was nearly the mirror of how he had found Christopher.

  ‘Madam,’ said the steward with a bow. ‘I present to you Crispin Guest, the Tracker.’

  She didn’t acknowledge them when the steward bowed again and retreated to the door. But by the position of his shadow, Crispin noted that he hadn’t gone far.

  Jack stood silently behind him, surreptitiously surveying the room.

  ‘Madam,’ Crispin began, bowing deeply. ‘My sincerest condolences to you and your household for this unfortunate event.’

  Slowly she turned her head. ‘Unfortunate event,’ she said. ‘Strange how a life snuffed out can be described thus.’

  He took a step closer. ‘A feeble description, surely.’

  ‘Yes. An entire life chipped down to a platitude. What is a “tracker”, Master Guest?’

  ‘It … is a title that the citizens of London have bestowed upon me. I investigate lost objects, solve crimes …’

  Her face, a pale, lifeless entity, scoured his. ‘Are you here to “solve” a crime? But the crime is already solved. That boy from next door, that Walcote boy, killed my husband and stole a valuable relic.’

  ‘Tell me about it, madam.’

  ‘There is little to tell. There was a commotion of raised voices and then silence. When I went to investigate I saw him standing over my John. He had a bloody dagger in his hand. When will he hang, do you think?’

  Crispin swallowed. ‘The circumstances seem indisputable.’

  ‘I thought as much, too. Has he returned my relic?’

  ‘He claims he never took it.’

  ‘He’s a boy. He lies.’

  ‘Some boys do not lie.’

  She snorted at that.

  ‘Do you have any children, madam?’

  Her face fell again. ‘Sorrow upon sorrow. We had no children that lived beyond a month or two. I have no sons to care for me, and now no husband. What’s to be done?’

  Crispin wanted to leave but he had to ask his questions before the steward tossed him out. ‘These voices you heard. Was it the boy and your husband? Was anyone else in the room?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ She dropped her face in her hand. ‘I can’t answer any more. Please leave.’

  The steward was quick to re-enter the room. ‘I shall escort you out, Master Guest.’ He all but took Crispin’s arm, using the bulk of his body to intimidate, and glared at Jack.

  Crispin wasn’t cowed, but he did comply. As he and Jack walked across the hall to the front entry, Crispin asked, ‘Do you know if anyone else was in that room, Master Hull?’

  ‘I don’t know. There might have been.’

  ‘Might have been? What is it you are not telling me?’

  ‘It is time for you to leave.’

  ‘Hold. What is this relic? What did it look like and where was it kept?’

  Hull sighed impatiently. ‘It looked like a bone inside a little carved wooden cow. The whole was thus.’ He gestured with his hands something six inches in length. ‘A little red cow, as I said, with its paint peeling off. It was kept in the family solar.’

  He glanced up the stairs to a room at the top with a closed door.

  Crispin studied it from below. ‘Is your master in the solar now?’

  He nodded, wiping at his nose.

  ‘I know it is an imposition, sir, but may we see it?’

  He looked toward the bedchamber they had exited, and then down at his feet. ‘The funeral is later today, sir.’

  ‘Master Hull, it is my business to make certain a child does not hang for a crime that he may not have committed. A child, sir.’

  Wavering, the steward finally nodded. ‘Very well. I will take you there.’ They climbed the stairs once more and the steward pointed. It seemed he did not want to enter, and Crispin was just as happy that he didn’t.

  But as Crispin opened the door, the wimpled faces of six women turned to glare at him. God’s Blood, they’re sitting vigil. While Crispin was thinking of a logical way to get them out of the room, Jack was already stepping forward.

  ‘Madams, please come and receive refreshment. The steward will lead you out.’

  ‘But we’ve only just arrived,’ said one, whose face was scored with tiny lines.

  ‘This is to fortify you on your holy cause. Come now. Let me help you.’ He hoisted two women to their feet by grabbing their arms.

  ‘Here now!’ said a hefty woman in a scarlet cote-hardie, waving her rosary like a weapon. ‘You’re too rough.’

  ‘My apologies.’ He opened the door and gently ushered them through, closing it smartly behind them.

  ‘That was very enterprising, Jack.’

  ‘That steward will be none too happy with us after this.’

  Crispin turned at last to the body laid out on a bier, around which the women had been kneeling. Horne was starting to smell. It was best he was buried soon.

  ‘Help me, Jack. We won’t have much time.’

  ‘Help you with what? Oh, blessed Virgin, you aren’t going to—’

  But Crispin was already rucking up the man’s shift, exposing the man’s privities. All of him was pale white. Even the hair on his legs and barrel torso seemed less vivid. His genitals lay limp and shriveled at his legs’ juncture.

  ‘Christ,’ muttered Jack, grimacing as he looked away from Horne’s lower extremities.

  ‘Here is the fatal wound, Jack.’

  The lad moved forward, doing all but holding his nose. He looked where Crispin pointed. ‘Would that be fatal, sir?’

  ‘That’s the question. Help me turn him.’

  ‘Master!’

  ‘Come, Jack. I haven’t all day. Do you imagine I like touching corpses any more than you do?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  They pushed. His heavy corpse yielded as they rested him on his other side. ‘What is this?’ Crispin ran his finger down another two slices at the man’s back, around kidney height. Though they had been cleaned they were raised tears and darkly discolored. ‘Surely these would be a deathblow. Why was this never mentioned?’

  ‘So he died from these wounds, then?’

  ‘Most assuredly, though the one through his ribs didn’t help matters. It might have hastened them. These two here might have harmed his organs, bled him from within but surely caused greater blood loss. He would have lingered for days with a collapsed lung, but with pierced organs here, he would have died quickly.’

  He pulled the body onto its back once more and affixed his shift into place, covering him again with the shroud.

  He turned his attention to the room. There was a niche framed by gilt molding where a candle hung above it on a chain, but the niche was empty. Crispin touched the plaster but saw nothing el
se. This must have been where the reliquary was kept.

  He made sure Jack noted it too before he trotted down the stairs and met Hull before the front entry. ‘I don’t know what you said to those women …’ Hull began.

  ‘I apologize for that,’ said Crispin hastily. ‘The coroner’s report said that servants first found Master Walcote with the dagger. May I speak with them?’

  Exasperated, Hull did not look at first as if he would comply. But after a moment of consideration, he pressed his lips tightly together and nodded. ‘The two chambermaids are in the kitchens, down those stairs. I’ll take you.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, one thing more. Where is the funeral to be?’

  ‘St Modwen’s,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘He was a longtime patron.’

  That’s a coincidence, thought Crispin, suddenly remembering his rendezvous there tonight. Perhaps John Horne will walk the fields this night.

  He did not need to glance at Jack to sense the boy thinking the same thing.

  They followed the steward to the kitchens by a narrow stair.

  Two women and two men were chattering together before the main hearth. One man in a cote-hardie, gray with age, sat before the hearth, peeling turnips. Another older man stood above a great cauldron and held a stirring spoon in his hand. Two women, better dressed than the two cooks, bent close as they talked. None of them noticed Crispin and Jack until Crispin cleared his throat.

  They started and whipped around. They all bowed and curtseyed, eyeing him warily.

  ‘This is Master Crispin Guest, the Tracker of London,’ said Jack by way of introduction, ‘and he’s come to ask questions about the death of your master.’

  They took on solemn faces. The man with the spoon folded his arms and tilted his head back. The linen cap on his head framed his face. The one sitting with the turnips clutched the sides of the wooden bowl in his lap and bit his lips, eyes wide with wonder.

  Crispin soon ignored them in favor of the women. Their kerchiefs were clean, their aprons equally so. Their clothes were in better form so he assumed they were chambermaids. ‘You two. Did either of you witness Master Horne’s murder?’