The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispin. He walked into the modest room and looked around. There was still streaks of light enough to see by, but it was getting darker. From what he could tell, the room was stripped. Even the bed no longer had linens.

  ‘Perhaps it is time to speak to the gravediggers,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll go with you, sir,’ said Jack, pushing up his sleeves.

  The abbot grabbed the only thing left: a fire poker. ‘I’ll stay here.’ He was still breathing hard. ‘I won’t let them return.’

  ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ Crispin warned before he marched toward the small cottage. He could see candlelight behind the shutters and smoke puffing from the chimney. If they were the culprits – and he was becoming more certain with every stride that they must be – they wouldn’t have much opportunity to hide their booty.

  He and Jack came up to their door, and it was Jack who pounded on it. ‘Open up! The Tracker is here to talk to you two.’

  They waited. Crispin listened for any sort of scrambling inside – a window opening or perhaps even an undercroft trapdoor lifting – but there was only silence.

  ‘Try the door,’ he said.

  Jack grabbed the latch and it opened easily. He took one step in and gave a shout of surprise. Crispin pushed him aside and couldn’t help but gasp.

  They were both sitting at their single table, bodies lying limply back against the chairs, their throats exposed, showing very clearly where a blade had sliced each one.

  FIFTEEN

  Such blood. Their chests were covered with it. It pooled on the floor beneath them, still dripping from the chairs, and smelled sharply of metal. Crispin reached forward and touched their faces.

  ‘God’s blood,’ he murmured. ‘This was very recent. They are still warm. The blood has not separated. This might even have happened while we were distracted in the meadow.’

  Jack turned a white face to Crispin. ‘I’ll go check on Abbot William.’

  ‘Go!’

  Jack fled from the doorway. Crispin glanced about the small, one-room cottage. He knew that thieves were not all like the gentle Jack Tucker, innocently taking only what they needed to survive. Most were bloodthirsty, for the penalty if caught was steep, and their greed was never sated, no matter how much they stole. How much had the church goods amounted to? Well, the chalice, paten, and ciborium were likely silver, as were the candlesticks. They would be quite valuable and portable enough. And worth killing for, he supposed. But if that were the case, why this dragging it out over many days? And why so brutal a dispatching of Father Bulthius? Had he caught the thieves in the act?

  Of course, Crispin had suspected the thieves were the gravediggers, but their own slit throats belied that.

  Something more cruel and dark was going on than just robbery.

  And the graves were opened, and many bodies of the saints which slept arose. But those were not saints who arose, he thought. They were demons who murdered and sucked the blood from animals and perhaps these two …

  Or was it as he surmised? That something else was happening, for surely God wouldn’t allow the raising of the dead in this little parish that even the bishop of London did not care to reconsecrate.

  He needed more evidence. He poked into the shelves that only contained a small sack of flour, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl of eggs. A coffer held little but ragged clothing. There was nothing of any worth, at least on the surface. But Crispin had been schooled by his own apprentice and erstwhile thief, and so he moved carefully about the room, testing the floorboards with his boot. He dropped to his knees to pull at the squeakier ones, but there were no hiding places in the floor. He ran his hands methodically over the walls, checking with particular care by the timbers, but there was no secret hiding place there either. Whatever it is they might have had in the cottage was certainly gone now.

  Footsteps at the door. The stark faces of Jack and Abbot William peered inside.

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘Go fetch the sheriffs.’

  It was Crispin’s lot to always await the sheriffs, just as it seemed to be Jack’s to retrieve them. Instead of waiting inside where the bodies were, he leaned on the wall outside the gravediggers’ cottage, arms folded. The night had taken away the warmth of the day, and he found himself missing his cloak and hood.

  Shadworth reined in his horse first and, for a man of his girth, sprang off the saddle and landed lightly before Crispin like a much younger man, glaring at him with a hint of scorn. ‘You’ve found more victims, Master Guest.’

  ‘Believe me, Lord Sheriff, I had no intentions one way or the other.’

  ‘What? Oh, of course. But … dammit, Guest. You haven’t solved the thing yet.’

  ‘It is regrettable.’

  ‘Damn well is.’

  ‘Don’t talk to him,’ scowled Sheriff Vaunere, climbing down from the saddle. ‘That’s your problem, John. You’re always talking to Guest. You’ll get very little out of him.’

  ‘Is that true, Master Guest? Will you tell us nothing?’

  ‘Only because I have discovered nothing, my lord.’

  ‘But …’ He huffed a sigh and leaned into the doorway. ‘By the mass.’ He shuddered and crossed himself. ‘I entreat you, Henry, don’t look.’

  ‘I must look. I’m the sheriff.’

  He stuck his head in the doorway and just as quickly lurched away. ‘God’s wounds.’ With a hand pressed to his chest, he breathed in tremulous gulps of air.

  Shadworth moved into the room and looked the corpses over. ‘That’s nasty work, isn’t it?’

  Crispin, rocking on his heels, nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you suspect anyone?’

  ‘Not as yet, Lord Sheriff.’

  ‘Well?’ He tore his gaze away from the ripped throat of the young Hal and glared at Crispin. ‘What’s taking so long?’

  Crispin narrowed his eyes and turned his face away. ‘These things sometimes take some time.’

  ‘We haven’t got time. I’m sure the coroner would not like us to take more time.’

  ‘If I could hurry the process, my lord, I assure you, I would.’

  Shadworth smiled and tangled his fingers with the long necklace at his chest. ‘Why, of course you would. Your methods have always fascinated me. What is it you plan to do now?’

  If only he knew. He configured his face to a neutral pose. ‘I will … think on it. May I go now, Lord Sheriff?’

  ‘Go? Now? I just got here.’

  ‘And you can await the coroner. He knows well where to find me. It is time I get home to my bed. The abbot of Westminster is staying with me. I can’t keep him up too late.’ He saluted Shadworth in the doorway, and another to Vaunere leaning against his horse and trying not to vomit. Without waiting for him to speak further, he darted away to where Jack was standing with the abbot.

  ‘Come, gentlemen. Home is calling,’ he said hastily, urging them onward.

  They walked into the night. Crispin wanted to walk more briskly for the cold, but remembered that Abbot William wasn’t up to the pace.

  ‘I fear my presence here is no longer necessary,’ said the abbot when they were in sight of the Shambles.

  ‘Nonsense, my lord. You are a welcomed guest. And would you not stay to see the truth of it?’

  ‘This is a game for a younger man. I think that tomorrow I shall fetch my horse and return to Westminster.’

  Jack stepped up and took the abbot’s arm. ‘Are you certain, my lord? You wouldn’t like to witness the outcome? I can tell Master Crispin is on the scent.’

  ‘What are you talking about, boy?’ Crispin hitched his belt. ‘I’m nothing of the kind. I am still as perplexed as the next man.’

  Jack laughed and elbowed the abbot, who turned to him with an amused expression. ‘He’s nothing like the “next man”,’ said Jack.

  Crispin watched as the two talked in conspiring tones before him. They reached Crispin’s lodgings and opened the door.


  Isabel, who was sitting by the fire as they entered, stood to face them, a stern look on her face. ‘Master Crispin,’ she said in a severe tone. ‘You did not tell me the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ It was very strange to be reprimanded by a slip of a girl and to feel a disquieting sense of guilt because of her righteous anger. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I thought you said you would take the relic away.’

  He turned to his fellows with arms open. ‘I did. They are my witnesses.’

  Her face suddenly lost all its rosiness. She turned toward the shelves and raised a shaking finger. ‘Then what is that?’

  They all turned, and Jack gasped.

  On the shelf, behind some candleholders and a stack of thick white candles, was the red cow of St Modwen.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ whispered Crispin.

  Abbot William crossed himself. Jack seemed too thunderstruck to even try. ‘You saw that!’ said Jack. He turned a wild eye to both Crispin and the abbot. ‘You saw that! It wasn’t there before and now it is!’

  Crispin stared. ‘It appears … that St Modwen would not be in the Horne house any longer.’

  ‘Blessed Virgin,’ Jack murmured, crossing himself several times.

  ‘This is most extraordinary, Master Guest.’

  ‘Yes. I must admit. It is.’ He studied it from a distance, reluctant to touch it. ‘It seems the saint knows some mischief is afoot in that household and does not wish to be present for it.’ He glanced at the abbot. ‘What should I do with it now?’

  ‘It is a most miraculous thing, Crispin. But it has come to you, and to you it must remain. At least for the moment.’

  Crispin shook his head. ‘Not I.’

  ‘But you have been chosen. You must forget what you think you know … Beware of what you find …’

  Crispin was no longer surprised that Abbot William uttered the same last words as his predecessor Abbot Nicholas. For Crispin suspected something otherworldly was behind it anyway, despite his deep-seated skepticism.

  ‘But Abbot William,’ pleaded Isabel, ‘is it right and proper to leave it in my kitchen?’

  ‘My dear, St Modwen was a maid, and well understood the chores of women. I think it not only proper, but a comfort to you, especially in your condition.’

  She absently rubbed her belly and bit her lip. ‘Oh. I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘Yes. We sometimes forget that the saints were men and women special to God by their devotion and sacrifice. But like us, nonetheless. They are our friends and helpers as well. And since the saint has chosen to reside there, I see no reason to gainsay her.’ He turned to Crispin with a beatific expression. ‘I think this is a very great honor to you, Master Guest.’

  Crispin couldn’t help but feel it was anything but. He refrained from saying so.

  Isabel tried to go about her domestic duties as the others sat quietly before the fire. As the night wore on, the others began moving toward their beds. It was then that Crispin realized he would be sleeping in the same room with it.

  Isabel had situated the footstool and fur for him in his chair, but he paced instead, glancing now and again at the inconspicuous red cow nestled by the candles.

  ‘This is foolish of you,’ he said to the cow once he was alone. ‘To come here like this. What are you thinking? What is so wrong with Clementia Horne?’

  He did not expect an answer – hoped he wouldn’t get one, to be perfectly honest – but glared at the thing nonetheless.

  After a long pause with clenched muscles, he suddenly relaxed and fell into his chair. He tented his fingers, pressing them against his mouth as he brooded, still staring at the shadowed object.

  He studied it for a long time, before he heaved a great, trembling sigh. ‘Can you help me?’ he asked gruffly, breath feathering over his nails. ‘My son … I’ve only just discovered him. Should I lose him now? I promise not to vex him. I promise … to stay away. If only he could live.’

  Tears. He hadn’t realized he’d shed them until he tasted their tracks. He dropped his hands to his thighs. ‘I’m a pitiful man, I know. Blasphemous. Disrespectful. Dishonorable. I’ve made many mistakes. But I … I always meant well …’

  The room seemed to fall into a hush. Even the fire had calmed to glowing embers. Wisping smoke curled up the chimney without a sound. No bird or mouse marred the silence. No creaking beam or settling furniture dared be heard.

  The cow’s painted eye seemed to watch Crispin, even as the shadows deepened around it. ‘If I only knew how to help him, how to find the true murderer. Can you help me at all?’

  The embers flickered, the smoke rose. The shadows wavered with the firelight. But nothing else. No thunderclap. No mysterious and comforting voices. It was as he suspected. He’d be on his own to figure it out. But with so little time left.

  He thought again of those lights deep in the meadow. Were they there now? Were they only a distraction, as he had told Jack, or were they the souls of the lost, lifting from the graveyard out of unconsecrated soil?

  He glanced upstairs, saw a candle still lit. Should he grab Jack to go with him? Just as he thought it, the candle snuffed out. Well, that was that. The man had a wife heavy with child. Let them have their evening together. He’d go it alone.

  He crept through his own house and grabbed his hood and cloak, and eased open the front door. Gyb, his black and white cat, stood on the step, flicking his raised tail at Crispin as he sauntered over the threshold like a lord. Crispin gave him an admiring smirk. ‘Why is it I feel you own me?’ he pondered, allowing the cat to pass, before closing the door softly behind him.

  Out into the street of the Shambles, the night lay soft and blue, without even a breeze to accompany him. He thought little of the Watch as he made his way toward St Modwen’s, passing closed shutters and barred doors. The lilting song from a rebec behind the shuttered windows of an inn told of the merry-making of travelers getting acquainted, of hoist cups and camaraderie. But it did not cause a feeling of emptiness as it once had. He now had comrades, family at home … that he had left behind without any sort of note, he suddenly reminded himself. Should his investigations go awry, would Jack know where to find him?

  He convinced himself it was so, and never slowed his pace.

  It wasn’t long until he saw the church, like a stump against the sky. Its windows were all dark. The small hut where the gravediggers had lived was also silent and vacant. Poor little church. Poor St Modwen, so unloved that even a small relic gone missing again would cause nary a stir. Of course, Crispin knew where it was, and if he knew anything of relics – and God help him he did – then he knew it was in perfect contentment on his kitchen shelf. ‘Foolish, St Modwen,’ he chided into the night.

  He opened the lychgate to the little parish and passed through the covered entrance. He could not help but sweep his gaze over the most recent of graves and was pleased to find them undisturbed. But of course they were, he admonished himself. The dead were not rising. That was merely a tale told to keep the nosey away. Even Bishop Braybrooke had said as much, that rumors of the dead rising had kept the prayerful from the church. And now it had come to its diabolical conclusion when the priest himself had been murdered.

  He rounded the church and looked out toward the meadow. Faint lights bobbed out in the distance, and this time he had no fear in following them.

  Stalking out into the wet meadow, his cloak sweeping beside him with each long stride, he was assured by the night that he would not be immediately seen. When he got to the middle of the meadow, he crouched low, for he could now plainly see that the lights were lanterns held by men with staffs in their hands.

  ‘Be still, Bill,’ said one to the other.

  The other nodded his squared head. ‘You be still, Fred. You’re the one making so much noise that I cannot hear what might be in the traps. Ah! Here is one. A fine fox it is, too.’

  ‘A fine red one, aye. That pelt will m
ake us a pouchful of coins.’

  ‘Better than them coneys, to be sure.’

  ‘Not to mention the deer. That was a surprise.’

  ‘The king’s deer for our table,’ said Bill. ‘Aren’t we eating like lords these days?’

  ‘But poachers always come to a bad end,’ said Crispin, rising from a clump of sheltering grasses.

  The poachers aimed their staffs at him. ‘Who goes there?’ cried Fred in a harsh bark.

  ‘No one but the Tracker of London.’

  Their eyes widened under their lantern light. ‘What would you be wanting from us?’ demanded Bill, adjusting his grip on his staff. His eyes darted around them, looking for possible companions.

  ‘I should haul the both of you to the sheriffs. And you’d hang, wouldn’t you, for poaching the king’s game?’

  Their rough faces, lit by their hanging lanterns, contorted and frowned. Bill gestured with his staff. ‘You have no call to be doing that, Master Guest. We haven’t done you or yours no harm. We’re just making a living as best we can.’

  ‘True that,’ said Fred. ‘It isn’t as if we were cutting purses, or bludgeoning the innocent over the head, is it? It’s just a little game. The king will scarce miss a rabbit or two. Or even this fox. It’s dead anyway.’

  ‘You well know that’s not the point.’ Crispin had not bothered to draw his dagger. He wondered how long it would take these two rustics to figure out that there were two of them, and one of him. He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I did find the remnants of your snare earlier. It wasn’t too hard to find you and evidence of your presence. However, I have a mind to overlook this completely … if you can give me some honest answers to my query.’

  Fred cocked his head. ‘Eh? What is it you want, then? One of our rabbits?’

  ‘I don’t take ill-gotten gains. And I don’t take bribes. No, all I need is information.’

  They exchanged questioning looks with one another.

  Before they could form a thought, he rushed in with, ‘Your lanterns. Do you go out often among these fields? Last night, for instance.’