The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I am. And constantly surprised.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should be, sir. I learned all me talents from my days as a cutpurse. Talk about patience.’

  Abbot William howled his laughter. He slapped his thigh. ‘Master Tucker, I do admire you, sir.’

  Jack’s expression was priceless. Yes, he well knew that look. It meant that he had sussed that Abbot William was a bit into his cups. ‘My lord,’ said Crispin, rising. ‘I think we should be escorting you back to Westminster.’

  ‘Oh? Are we done investigating revenants?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Are you not going to see if Father Bulthius rises?’

  ‘I had planned on doing so. But you don’t wish to—’

  ‘But of course I do!’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Jack, my boy, get a message to Westminster, and tell them I will be delayed another day and night. If it is all right with you, Crispin, I should like to take advantage of your hospitality further. Here, Jack, before you go …’ He reached into his pouch and pulled out some silver coins. ‘I am eating all your fare, Master Guest. Have your man refurbish the larder. Get some lamb for tonight’s dinner, and some fruit from the stalls. I’m sure your wife can prepare some figs in cream, and perhaps a savory galette and a cheese pie.’

  Jack stared at the coins filling his hand and blinked at the abbot. ‘I will, sir. Thank you, my lord. I shall do as you bid.’ He nodded once to Crispin before he whooshed out of the tavern.

  ‘I feel you are neglecting your duties to play with us,’ said Crispin seriously.

  ‘I must confess that perhaps I am. But it isn’t every day that a man goes in pursuit of the walking dead.’

  ‘Do you truly believe that this is what we are witnessing?’

  ‘I have the feeling that you don’t believe it.’

  ‘I don’t. I think it is something considerably more prosaic than that.’

  ‘And why do you say so?’

  Crispin rose. Maybe the abbot would sleep the day away and leave the investigating to Crispin. ‘Because it is convenient, Father Bulthius being killed. It gets him out of the way.’

  ‘He was the one who hired you.’ He led the way through the tables and Crispin followed him outside into the sunshine. ‘Those with evil intent clearly wanted to stop him.’

  ‘Yes, but just what is that evil intent?’

  ‘To prevent the blessings of Christ to stop their evil and the encroachment of the Devil.’

  ‘That could certainly be part of it. But I think there is something else to it. I just don’t have any idea yet what that could be. And I am still concerned with the murder of the mercer John Horne.’

  ‘And why so concerned, Crispin?’

  ‘It’s the accused that concerns me – a seven-year-old boy.’

  ‘Oh?’ They walked side by side down the lane toward London, walking in under the shadows of tall shops and houses. ‘Do you think the boy innocent, then?’

  ‘Unquestionably. But if he is not guilty, someone else is. And the sheriffs have only given me a week to discover who it was.’

  ‘Have you considered that it is a case of Occam’s razor?’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he rasped.

  ‘Oh ho! This boy has got under your skin. Is it somehow personal?’

  Crispin stopped and glared at the abbot and priest. He didn’t look as tipsy as he had earlier, and he aimed a blue eye at Crispin.

  ‘Got it, did I?’

  ‘It’s not … personal. You well know how I cannot stand an injustice.’

  ‘Injustice. I see.’

  Should he tell him? If he made it a true confession, then the abbot would be under the seal and unable to speak of it. But he didn’t want to burden the abbot so. Or was it because of Philippa? If he spoke of it, that door would be closed for good, and maybe he still wanted that door … ajar.

  They passed through the lanes and alleys until they reached the Shambles, and made it to the poulterer’s. Crispin opened the door, wiped his feet on the granite step outside, and offered the threshold to the abbot.

  Isabel was working a broom across the floor when she stopped and curtseyed to the abbot, who took a chair by the hearth and settled in.

  ‘Isabel, Abbot William will partake again of our hospitality. Jack has been given coins for shopping. Our friend the abbot has expressed a desire for a savory galette and a cheese pie.’

  ‘That is easily done, my lord,’ she said to the cleric. ‘As soon as Jack returns with the shopping, I can hasten it for you.’

  ‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ said the abbot, scrutinizing his surroundings again, and perhaps taking stock.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all. I used to do a lot of cooking in my father’s house. God rest his soul.’

  The abbot crossed himself. ‘And he would be proud indeed of such a dutiful daughter.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  She set about getting flour and a wooden mixing trough, something that had been added to Crispin’s household inventory of which he knew very little. But she seemed to know what she was doing, preparing a dough of some kind. Then she picked flowers from the window box and set about chopping up the blossoms.

  ‘Wine, Abbot William, and perhaps a game of chess?’

  They sat in the window with the shutters wide open, enjoying the summer air breeze through, each concentrating over the chessboard when Jack arrived, bundles piled high in his arms. He greeted Crispin and the abbot, and kissed Isabel’s cheek as she took in all that he had brought.

  Soon, there was lamb roasting over the fire, with leeks and shallots sizzling in a pan, a galette baking on the hob, and a gillyflower cheese pie cooling on the sill.

  All was calming and domestic, thought Crispin, and it bestowed upon his heart the ease and contentment it had long desired.

  Until he spied the red cow sitting on a shelf.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘God’s blood!’ cried Crispin, shooting to his feet, knocking his chair over. ‘Where did this come from? Jack?’

  Crispin snatched it from the shelf and shoved it toward his apprentice. Jack stared at it. ‘I dunno, sir. Isabel?’

  She looked at it curiously. ‘I found it lying on the floor, Master Crispin. I thought it was something you had brought in. I put it on yon shelf.’

  Clutching it in his fingers, he sank slowly to a chair. He placed it carefully on the table. ‘This is the missing relic of St Modwen,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I first found it in Christopher Walcote’s room this morning.’

  Abbot William knelt beside the table, grabbing its edge to steady himself. ‘Then what’s it doing here?’

  ‘I asked again of Christopher if he had stolen it, presented with the evidence, but he seemed just as surprised as Martin Chigwell to see it.’

  ‘What was Martin Chigwell doing there?’ asked Jack.

  Crispin glared at him. ‘Take aim on the more important part of my story, Jack. This relic!’ He gestured at it. ‘I was convinced that neither of them had taken it, and with the idea to further investigate it, I put it there in my scrip’ – he pointed to the obviously empty bag hanging by the door – ‘with the intention of returning it to Madam Horne, and when I was standing before the woman, it wasn’t in my scrip at all. I thought it must have fallen out, so I went back to the Walcote’s courtyard garden.’

  ‘And … did you find it there?’ asked the abbot.

  ‘No. I returned to you, Jack, with an empty scrip.’

  ‘Surely you must be mistaken.’ The abbot gestured to the cow. ‘For here it is.’

  ‘It must have been in your scrip all this time,’ said Isabel. ‘You just didn’t see it.’

  Jack curved his arm around Isabel. ‘It’s them relics,’ said Jack in a hushed tone.

  Crispin grabbed it again, ignoring the abbot’s gasp, and stared hard at it. ‘Very well, St Modwen. What have you to say for yourself?’

  Everyone stilled … until a spark exploded in the fire and they all yelled.

  ‘Go
d have mercy!’ cried Isabel. ‘Maybe, Master Crispin, you should return it then.’

  ‘Jack, fetch me my scrip.’

  ‘In all haste, sir.’ Jack hurried in stumbling steps to the bag and handed it over with a shaky hand.

  Without a pause, Crispin shoved it deep within the leather satchel, and closed the flap, tying it down. He draped it across his chest, over his shoulder and stood. ‘My Lord Abbot, Jack: will you accompany me to the Horne household?’

  They both nodded warily, and gave Crispin a wide berth.

  They walked through the quieting streets of London. The day was still with them, being summer, but business obeyed a different sweep of the gnomon. Shops were being shuttered, drovers were returning to their fields, and weary shopkeepers were joining their families in a late supper.

  Crispin’s band made it to Mercery and the porter simply waved Crispin through. When he knocked on the door, Hull answered and pressed his lips tight upon seeing Crispin. ‘What is it now, Master Guest?’

  Before he spoke, Crispin felt the bulging scrip. ‘I have something to give to Madam Horne.’

  The expression on his face seemed to say, Are you certain this time? But he said nothing. Instead, he let them in but, instead of leading them to the parlor, had them wait in the entryway.

  They waited for what seemed like an hour. Crispin slipped his hand inside the scrip with his fingers resting on the reliquary.

  Madam Horne came striding from a shadowed doorway, her hands pressed tightly together before her. ‘Master Guest. And a cleric?’

  Hull stumbled over the introductions and Crispin came to the rescue. ‘This is the Abbot of Westminster, William de Colchester.’

  She curtseyed and returned her stern gaze to Crispin. ‘What is it, Master Guest? It must be important to disturb the household’s meal.’

  ‘It is. I thought that you would at least be contented with the return of your relic.’ He pulled free the red cow and presented it to her with a bow.

  Gasping, she took it with trembling hands. ‘You finally got it out of that boy!’

  ‘No, madam. It was found … er, near the house.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care. It is back. My Lord Abbot, will you have the honor of placing it back where it belongs?’

  ‘Well, I …’ Looking toward Crispin, he seemed to decide on his own. ‘Yes, certainly.’ He shook out his sleeves to cover his hands, took the small reliquary and held it before him. ‘Where …?’

  ‘Up the stairs to the solar. Robert! Gather the household. We will place it back in the solar with celebration.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Hull hurried to comply.

  In the meantime, Abbot William slowly progressed toward the stairs. Jack was moving forward before Crispin put his arm across his chest and held him back. Madam Horne followed the abbot and then the household slowly gathered, following them. From below, Crispin counted and assessed the number of people, seeing Clarice but not Nesta.

  ‘Are we not to go up?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Not unless you want to.’

  Jack shuddered. ‘Not particularly.’

  They waited. It seemed that the full complement of the Horne household was now in attendance in and outside the solar, for there were so many – both servant and apprentice – that not all could fit in the modest room.

  ‘While the others are occupied,’ said Crispin quietly, ‘let us look at the place where Master Horne was killed.’

  ‘But sir,’ said Jack, following after Crispin’s stealthy advance. ‘We don’t know which is his bedchamber.’

  ‘I think I can make an educated guess.’

  Up the stairs they went and stood on the gallery. Abbot William began to intone some prayer that they all responded to with bowed heads. Crispin moved to the left of the assembled household and found a large room with an equally large four-poster bed with resplendent curtains around it.

  ‘Blind me,’ cooed Jack. ‘Now that’s a bedchamber.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You’ll probably tell me it’s still smaller than the one you used to have.’

  Crispin sneered. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind.’

  ‘Is it, though?’

  With a world-weary sigh, he nodded.

  Jack smiled. ‘Good. I’m glad yours was bigger.’

  Crispin couldn’t help but paint a lopsided smile on his face. ‘You have the strangest sense of humor, Tucker.’

  The room was like any other bedchamber, with a tall window of glass, a table with a rug over it, chairs with cushions, a sturdy stone fireplace, a curtained alcove for a servant, candelabras, an ambry, two coffers. Every stick of furniture was carved and made of fine, dark wood. A tapestry hung on one wall, a painted mural covered the other. A cabinet with a stool, no doubt, and other decorative pieces here and there, including a silver ewer and basin, and a silver wine decanter and carved horn goblets. The floor was painted in a chequy pattern.

  Crispin crossed to the window and looked down. A stone courtyard below and beyond that the garden. The drapery was heavy and embroidered. He moved to the bed and looked beneath it. No truckle. That led his eye to the alcove. He walked to the niche and tossed the curtains aside. A small ledge where a bedroll was curled into its corner. The servant, if servant there was, certainly served elsewhere during the day. There was a door in the back of it. Crispin pushed on it but it was locked. It likely led through a passage putting it at the end of the gallery or down a stairwell toward the kitchens. It was very much like a lord’s chamber. The rich styled themselves so. It would not be out of place in an alderman’s house.

  Jack peered into the alcove. ‘Blind me, Master Crispin. Could the killer have used this?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘How are we to discover that?’

  ‘Carefully, I should think.’

  Jack planted his hands at his hips. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  Crispin merely raised a brow.

  Jack smacked his own forehead. ‘That’s how you appear so clever. You let everyone think you know, but you really don’t.’

  ‘That’s not entirely true.’ He smiled. ‘But it is mostly true.’

  ‘Well, then. I, too, can easily be a Tracker.’ He raised his chin and caricatured one of Crispin’s inscrutable facial configurations.

  Crispin playfully flicked the boy’s temple. ‘As long as you keep a neutral expression, Jack. It works wonders.’

  Grinning, Jack commenced examining the rest of the room, looking for more secret portals and hiding places. ‘I don’t suppose it matters where exactly he fell.’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘Martin Chigwell likely knows all the passages, sir. Any young man would have explored them.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Jack.’

  ‘You haven’t ruled him out, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you said that he was relieved that Christopher Walcote didn’t do it.’

  ‘Jack, men have lied to me before. Frequently.’

  ‘That’s certainly true. And he is the likeliest. Plausible impossibilities should be preferred to unconvincing possibilities …’

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  They both turned to find the red-faced Madam Horne in the doorway.

  Crispin bowed and Jack followed suit. ‘I hoped to examine the room where Master Horne was killed.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘This is the room, is it not?’

  ‘I said get out!’

  But Crispin stood his ground. He could feel Jack’s agitation behind him. ‘And where, madam, was he found?’

  She strode into the room, hauled back her arm, and slapped his face. It only slightly turned his head but he returned it forward to gaze at her squarely. ‘Perhaps you don’t understand me, madam.’

  She wound up to strike him again when he caught it. Bosom heaving, face as red as a crab apple, she opened her mouth in astonishment. He tightened his grip and she stared at her wrist, purpling under his fin
gers. ‘I do not like to be struck, madam. Especially in the course of my serious work. I will ask again. Where was it that he fell?’

  She yanked her wrist free of him and rubbed it. With her mouth tightly shut, she pointed with the reddened wrist toward the place before the bed, almost the middle of the room.

  Crispin bowed. ‘Thank you, madam. And where did you find Christopher Walcote?’

  Without a word, she pointed to a spot before the place where Horne had died near the chamber door.

  ‘Was he facing the door?’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was clipped, her attitude stony. ‘Master Guest,’ she said stiffly. ‘You are not welcomed into this house further.’

  ‘Noted. And yet, I will have to return to investigate.’

  ‘I forbid it.’

  ‘I have the leave of the sheriffs, Madam Horne. This is a murder, after all.’

  ‘But the boy did it!’

  ‘No, he didn’t. Someone else did. And I have every reason to believe it is someone in this household. So you will not bar me. Is that understood?’

  She said nothing, but her eyes bulged with unspoken frustration.

  Crispin whirled away from her and strode out of the room without looking back. Jack ran to catch up.

  ‘You’ve made an enemy,’ he whispered to Crispin’s back as they stomped down the stairs.

  ‘She’s just another in a long line of them.’

  They waited at the foot of the stairs as the servants filed past him, each giving him and Jack a lengthy stare.

  Clarice hurried past but was unable to escape Crispin’s darting hand. He grabbed her arm even as she tried to squirm out of his grip.

  ‘Clarice. Has Nesta returned? I need to speak with her most urgently.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘Interesting. She is most truantly in her duties. Does Master Hull know?’

  ‘Shhhh!’ she hissed. ‘Please don’t tell him. He’ll be just as cross with me. He thinks I’m trying to cover for her, but I’m not. I’m just as angry she isn’t here.’

  ‘You said she was seeing someone near All Hallows. Who is it?’

  ‘His name is Oliver. But I don’t trust him. He never shows his face around here. Maybe there is no one. Maybe she’s lying.’