The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  They looked at each other and seemed to take courage. One of them, the blonde one on the right, clutched at her apron. ‘I saw it. I saw that boy.’

  ‘Just what exactly is it that you saw?’

  ‘There was a fierce row. Everyone heard it.’

  ‘A row between Master Horne and whom?’

  She looked again at her dark-haired companion, who nudged her with her elbow. ‘Go on, Nesta. Tell him. You saw more than the rest of us.’

  ‘Well, I sent Clarice to fetch the steward. It’s not that any of us could interfere, mind, but there was always cleaning up to do afterwards.’

  ‘These rows happened often?’

  She gnawed on her finger. ‘I don’t like to say, sir. My master and mistress …’

  ‘You heard them arguing?’

  ‘Not this time. It was the master and Master Chigwell, his apprentice.’

  ‘And what happened when you fetched the steward?’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly in the room, sir, but outside it. And the steward waited with me.’

  ‘And the boy, Christopher Walcote. Was he there?’

  ‘No. He was in the solar.’

  Crispin glanced at Jack. Could it be? Could the boy have been in the solar stealing the relic after all? He didn’t want to believe it of his own flesh and blood, but the boy certainly could have lied to him. And, what’s more, he might very well have killed Horne as well.

  ‘Why was he in the solar?’

  She shrugged. ‘He had the run of the house. Master Chigwell took a fancy to him. And Master Horne didn’t mind.’

  ‘Did young Master Walcote take a fancy to Master Horne?’

  She stared down at the floor, biting her lip. ‘Master Horne … was not easy to like, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say.’ She glanced worriedly at the stoic Hull. ‘I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, him being upstairs and all. And the funeral soon to happen.’

  ‘But you must speak. This is a murder investigation.’

  She glanced past Crispin’s shoulder toward the steward. ‘Master Hull? Must I say?’

  ‘Speak your mind, Nesta,’ said Hull. ‘You might be compelled to by the law court.’

  ‘At the trial? I don’t want to speak at the trial.’

  ‘Then speak now,’ said Crispin, edging closer.

  She nodded. ‘My master was not … well loved. He was sometimes cruel to Master Chigwell and my mistress. He … he toyed with the maids and my mistress didn’t like it.’

  ‘And so when did Master Christopher return to the room with Master Horne?’

  ‘I … don’t know.’

  ‘You said you were nigh when the arguments ensued.’

  ‘Yes, but he came out and told us to go away after my mistress left him. And we did.’

  ‘Then you did not witness Master Christopher and Master Horne argue as you at first claimed you did.’

  ‘No, sir. We do not know whether they argued or not.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well. Thank you.’

  They scurried off and Crispin turned to Hull. ‘We have no choice but to talk to Master Chigwell.’

  ‘I have sent pages to find him, but so far he has not been found.’

  ‘Indeed. Then rest assured I will return.’

  Hull bowed and fidgeted by the door, seemingly itching to escort them out. Crispin let the man stew for another moment more before he gestured for him to do so.

  They left the Horne residence and stalked past the gatehouse, only to glance across the way to the Walcote manor.

  ‘Funny, Chigwell missing and all,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes, funny.’

  ‘Do you think he is at the heart of it, sir?’

  ‘I do. At least … he will have more interesting answers. Let us go, Jack.’

  ‘St Modwen’s?’

  ‘Two birds with one stone. Later. But for now, we must go back to the Walcote house.’

  ‘Are we to talk to Christopher Walcote again?’

  ‘Inevitably. There are now several unanswered questions.’

  ‘Maybe he won’t talk to you.’

  ‘That’s why you’re coming. You’re younger. He might … see a kindred spirit.’

  He needed Jack to see the boy, to understand, for he could not open his mouth to tell Jack himself.

  They passed through the gatehouse again, the porter waving him on. Jack rang the bell rope and the same steward opened the door, surprised to see Crispin again so soon after departing.

  ‘No, I don’t want to see the master or mistress. Just Master Christopher.’ The steward hesitated. ‘You do know why I am here, Master Steward?’

  The steward glanced at Jack. ‘You investigate murders.’

  ‘I intend to exonerate your young master.’

  His lips tightened to a thin line. He nodded curtly. ‘Yes. Come, then.’

  SEVEN

  This time, Jack accompanied him up the stairs to the carved door. The steward knocked and announced Crispin. When Crispin opened the door this time, the boy was waiting for him.

  ‘You’re back,’ said Christopher with an eager face. ‘Does that mean it’s over?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It merely means I have more questions.’

  When Jack walked in after his master, he gasped. ‘Master!’

  ‘Not now, Jack.’ He gestured toward Jack. ‘This is my apprentice, Jack Tucker.’

  ‘You have an apprentice?’ said the boy, studying Jack curiously.

  ‘Yes. And you had a friend at the Horne residence who was also an apprentice, did you not?’

  The boy frowned. ‘They probably won’t let me see him anymore.’ He folded his arms over his chest. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Can you tell me about him? I’m sure Jack would like to hear, too.’

  The boy smiled at Jack. ‘Is being an apprentice fun? I should like to be an apprentice. Though Father says I’m his, it doesn’t feel like it. And cloth is boring.’

  Crispin elbowed Jack, and, catching on, Jack knelt next to Christopher. ‘Well, young master, it isn’t always fun. An apprentice must work hard. He’s to learn his master’s work so that he can take it on someday. When you apprentice with your father, it’s so you can be a mercer when you’re of age.’

  ‘Martin wants his own shop. That’s why he apprentices with Master Horne, but Master Horne was—’ He stopped, biting his lip. ‘I mustn’t say.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jack in the same soft tone. ‘Did … did someone tell you not to say?’

  ‘I mustn’t say. When will all this be over? I don’t like being a prisoner in my room. I want to get down to the vats. That’s interesting, at least. And maybe Martin will be there.’

  ‘Martin Chigwell,’ said Crispin.

  ‘That’s right. He sometimes comes here to talk to our apprentices, but it’s not allowed. Why isn’t it allowed?’

  ‘Your … your father and Master Horne are competitors. Do you know what that means?’

  Christopher slid off his stool and walked to the heavy curtains hanging on either side of his window. He clutched them, stroked the nap. ‘It means we have a business and they have a business and we must fight for every customer we get.’ It sounded like something Clarence would say. Of course it was. He must have told this to his son many a time, possibly scolding him for spending so much time with a rival’s apprentice.

  He showed Crispin and Jack the curtain material. ‘My father imported this from Flanders, he said. I don’t know where Flanders is.’

  ‘It’s across the sea to the Continent,’ said Crispin.

  ‘Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Yes. Many times.’

  ‘They say the people speak funny there. I’ve met men my father says are from Flanders and they speak funny. I didn’t understand them.’

  ‘People from distant places speak differently from you or me.’

  ‘It’s because of the Tower of Babel, isn’t it?’ He let the drapery drop and scuffed along the woode
n floor to his books. Crispin coveted the number of them. Christopher toyed with the edge of a leather-bound tome, flicking his finger at the corner. ‘I like Scripture. It tells you things. Things about life and how God protects us, even in adversity.’

  ‘Yes. It tells us to love our enemies.’

  Christopher frowned. ‘I don’t understand that one. Our enemies aren’t lovable. Else they’d be our friends.’

  ‘Was Master Horne an enemy?’

  ‘He was no friend,’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘Master Christopher,’ said Jack, telling Crispin with his expression to back off. ‘Did you argue with Master Horne that day?’

  ‘Yes.’ His answer was clipped, and he shut his mouth, keeping the rest closed.

  ‘Was anyone else in the room with you?’

  His cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Everyone wants to talk about it and I don’t want to!’

  ‘You must,’ said Crispin, stepping forward and standing over him. ‘Don’t you understand? If you don’t tell us what really happened, you will hang. The sheriffs will have you executed.’

  Strangely, the boy seemed calm, except for his reddened face. ‘They’ll kill me, I know. But greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’

  Taken aback at the boy’s calm and his words, Crispin exchanged a look with Jack. ‘Are you protecting a friend, Christopher?’

  ‘You have to leave now.’

  Jack rose and sucked on his teeth a moment. ‘Can we come back another time? There’s a game I’d like to teach you.’

  The boy brightened. ‘Yes, please. I’d like to learn a new game.’

  ‘Then we will.’ It seemed that he couldn’t help reaching over and rubbing the boy’s head, tousling his hair. The boy didn’t seem to mind. ‘Good day, little master.’

  ‘Farewell, Master Tucker. Come back soon.’ His wide gray eyes looked up hopefully.

  ‘We will. Come, Master Crispin,’ he said softly, poking Crispin in the ribs. They said nothing along the gallery. Crispin’s heart was hopeful of catching another glimpse of Philippa, but his mind scolded him for such a foolish thought. Down the steps they went and across the courtyard, saying nothing to one another, even as the gray skies started a light sprinkling. But once they reached Mercery, Jack rounded on Crispin.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he demanded.

  Crispin frowned and fidgeted at his belt. ‘Only the moment I saw him. Philippa never hinted, never sent a message …’

  Jack paced before him. ‘Oh, Master Crispin, we are in the kettle now.’

  ‘I know. But we mustn’t say anything. No one must know.’

  That stopped the lad’s pacing, and he stared, slack-jawed. Until understanding slowly passed over his eyes and his stiff posture slackened. ‘Oh, master …’

  Crispin couldn’t stand his expression anymore and turned away, stalking up the lane. ‘It doesn’t matter. We must proceed as if we had never known, as if it wasn’t … what it was. At any rate, I’m not convinced the boy is guilty.’

  ‘Neither am I. Someone else had to be in that room. And why didn’t the coroner note the other wounds? Someone is lying. Where to now, sir?’

  ‘Home. I would think on this before I proceed further. And then we have these revenants to think of tonight.’

  ‘Shall we … shall we go to the funeral of John Horne this afternoon?’

  ‘Might as well. We can survey the churchyard. Since this will be the newest grave …’

  ‘Do you think he will walk, sir?’

  ‘There’s no accounting for any of it. I should like to see if he does.’

  ‘But sir!’

  ‘If you’ve no stomach for it, then stay at home.’ He hadn’t meant for his tone to be so sharp, but his nerves were on a knife-edge as it was.

  Jack didn’t seem to notice. ‘I’ve no stomach for it and that’s a fact. But I am an apprentice Tracker and so … and so I must needs gird m’self.’

  They returned to the Shambles. Isabel fed them, and they argued across the table as if she weren’t there.

  ‘I think he was protecting his friend, Martin Chigwell,’ said Jack.

  ‘I agree. So we must find cause of Chigwell to be alone with his master in that room. We must speak with him and soon. Unless he has fled.’

  ‘And Christopher had gone to the solar where the relic was kept. Do you suppose he truly did take it?’

  ‘Unknown. He’s a stubborn boy.’

  ‘Like his father.’

  Crispin raised his face to Jack. Jack smiled sheepishly. ‘He does look hearty and hale … like you, sir.’

  Crispin crushed his hands into fists and stared down at the worn tablecloth. Small repairs in careful stitches was the work of Isabel.

  Why had this had to happen? It always seemed that when everything was going tolerably well, something always came along to throw a caltrop into it. He would have been happier never knowing he had a bastard son. Or would he?

  Isabel waddled toward him, leaning over and pouring him more wine. Seeming to read his sour thoughts, she softly said, ‘It’s better to know he is there, Master Crispin.’ Apparently, Jack wasn’t about to keep such a secret from his wife. Crispin’s scowl deepened. ‘Someday you might even tell him. He might wish to know.’

  ‘I doubt very much that he would wish to know he was the son of a traitor, a pauper living on the Shambles.’

  ‘No. He will be proud to know his heritage comes from mighty warriors and lords. That in his blood runs the blue of nobility, of history. He might be glad to know his father was a knight—’

  ‘And is a knight no more?’ He snapped to his feet. He didn’t offer excuses or his leave when he stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to his chamber.

  He sat hard on his bed and planted his forehead to his hands. The boy was much, much better off not knowing. He could be a wealthy mercer. What was wrong with that? It was an honorable profession. He’d be a town alderman. Maybe even Lord Mayor someday. Though, according to the law, he had to first serve as Lord Sheriff. ‘Oh God.’ How would Crispin cope with that? He shook his head and grunted a laugh. Crispin might be dead by the time that happened, and it would be Jack’s problem.

  Though there were … things … he wanted to tell him. Wisdom he wanted to impart. And dammit, yes, his family history. He should know. He should be told about the proud heritage he came from.

  He threw himself back on the bed, and stared up at the worn canopy of muslin above.

  A timid knock at the door before it squealed open. ‘Master?’

  ‘Come in, Jack.’

  ‘I rounded on my wife, sir. She doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut sometimes.’

  ‘You mustn’t scold her for that. It was the truth. But I can’t in good conscience tell the boy. Surely, if she thought about it, she would realize the wisdom of it.’

  ‘She does, sir. She just hates to see you unhappy, as do I.’

  ‘I’m not unhappy, Jack. It is merely yet another stumble in the road. I have a son, but he must carry another man’s name. And, as it is, it’s better for him that he does. Carrying the name of a traitor? I would not wish that on my worst enemy.’ He thought of his family motto ‘His Own Worst Enemy’ and chuckled. ‘But I do have a son. And that was something I had already put aside, something I assumed would never happen. And so I should be rejoicing. That I have family at last.’

  ‘But you do have family, sir. Me and Isabel and the little one when he’s born. And Gilbert and Eleanor. And even John Rykener and Nigellus Cobmartin. We are all your family now.’

  He stared at the lad a long time before he rolled to his feet. Clapping Jack on the shoulder, he smiled a genuine smile. ‘You are worth ten apprentices, Master Tucker.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll raise my salary?’ He laughed at Crispin’s widened eyes. ‘I jest, sir.’ He ducked out of the way of Crispin’s clout. ‘I truly came to tell you that the abbot is here.’

/>   Crispin felt his cheeks grow cold. ‘Abbot William? Now? He’s early.’

  ‘Aye, sir. Never fear. Isabel has given him a chair and is feeding him wine. All is well. I thought you needed a moment.’

  He allowed his stuttering heart to beat its slow rhythm again. ‘So I did. Let me go down to greet our guest.’

  ‘I must apologize for being so early, Crispin.’ Abbot William seemed at ease, and not the least discommoded by his surroundings. Crispin sat beside him, taking up the cup Isabel pushed at him. ‘But I’m afraid impatience got the better of me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I know it is uncharacteristic, but I was anxious to discuss this whole matter with you. But here. You have a grave look about you … if I can say as much without meaning a jest.’

  ‘It is another client, my lord. A child is accused of murdering a mercer.’

  ‘A child? How can a child be responsible?’

  ‘It is my contention that he is not. But the new widow swears that he did, and stole a family relic as well, a bone of a saint housed in a reliquary in the shape of a cow, or so it is said.’

  ‘A cow, you say? What could that be, do you think?’

  ‘I’m no expert.’

  ‘Ever the skeptic,’ he muttered. ‘It wasn’t a red cow by any chance?’

  ‘I do believe that red was mentioned.’

  Abbot William nodded. ‘Then I should associate that with St Modwen as well. She is often depicted with a red cow and a staff. Are you familiar with the life of Saint Modwen?’

  ‘No, my lord. I confess that I am not. Only that which you have already told us.’

  ‘She was an Irish noblewoman, back in the seventh century. She was an abbess and founded Burton Abbey, performing many miracles—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin. ‘We have been acquainted with one in particular.’

  ‘Of course. The cow … well. There are several stories of her dealing with cows in various ways. A wolf that ate a calf and then she admonished that wolf to protect the mother cow for the rest of its days; the cows stolen by thieves, but who by her miracle were unable to cross the river and escape with them; the calf killed and brought back to life—’

  ‘Why would someone bring a cow back to life?’ asked Jack, scratching his head.

  Abbot William stuffed his hands in his sleeves. ‘One does not always understand the ways of God’s holiest, Master Tucker.’