The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  A ladder downward, and a light.

  He laid back the door as quietly as he could, and, drawing his sword, made his way down.

  Of what he could see of the room, it was no larger than the one above, and was crammed with shelves full of goods. Some of the goods were in the process of being packed into coffers and sacks. Two candles burned on a high shelf, throwing light into the center of the space, while the edges remained in gloom. Two figures, a man and a woman, stood in the center, while another man lolled in a chair. Crispin could see that the man was bound.

  ‘It’s not for you to decide,’ said the man in a raised voice, clearly trying to put the woman in her place.

  ‘But you’ve hurt him,’ said the woman, gesturing toward the shadowed man in the chair. ‘No one was to be hurt. You said so.’

  ‘It can’t be helped. It’s obviously Guest’s man. That was a poor choice indeed to—’ He stopped and turned.

  Crispin had made it halfway down the ladder and leapt down the rest of the way. ‘This is a surprise,’ said Crispin.

  ‘I could say the same about you, except for your man, here.’

  Crispin gave Jack a quick perusal. There was blood on the side of his face, and he appeared to just be coming out of a stupor.

  ‘You shouldn’t have hit him,’ said Crispin. ‘Now you’ve made me angry. Noll, is it? Short for Oliver. Or should I rather say … Father Bulthius?’

  The man smiled. It was the priest in a layman’s tunic and hose. His tonsure was hidden under a hat with a liripipe. ‘I knew I dallied here too long. I’m afraid my weakness was this creature,’ and he gestured toward Nesta, wearing a heavy traveling cloak and hood.

  ‘What do you mean “Father Bulthius”?’ demanded Nesta, staring at Crispin before she turned again to her paramour. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘Your lover is a priest,’ said Crispin, mind working on escape, arrest, saving Jack all at once.

  Nesta whipped her head toward the man. ‘No. You never said …’

  Crispin huffed. ‘He’s a murderer who lies. How unique. This is Father Bulthius Braydon, brother to Oliver Braydon. You told me as much when we first met.’

  Bulthius shook his head. ‘By the mass, you are as clever as they say. What gave it away?’

  ‘Oh, I had a similar case a few years ago of a mistaken identity, of brothers who were not brothers in that instance. You beat your own brother about the face to bruise and swell it, so he would be just unrecognizable enough as Oliver and instead mistaken for you. And then you switched your clothes with his, after you beheaded him, which explains why you felt the need to smear the clothing with blood, for surely it would otherwise have been covered in it. But to slay your own brother …’

  ‘Well, you see …’ He shook his head and knocked his thigh with his closed fist. ‘He was always getting the better of me. He was the eldest. He got the money, the lands. Yet I was the more deserving son, more studious, smarter by far. But instead, I was relegated to the Church. And I served well for years and years. And what came of it? I knew that bastard Braybrooke planned to close my parish. And what was to become of me? Cast out. Sharing another small parish with some bumbling, inane priest.’

  ‘But Oliver!’

  ‘Oh, you dear, naive girl. I must confess at last, that I am not Oliver. That was my brother, who lies dead in my grave. I killed him and exchanged places. Though I was playing Oliver long before that. That’s when I met this dear thing.’ He touched her chin but she shied away, as if his fingers were hot coals.

  ‘And what did Nesta have to do with your scheme? This rising of revenants? It was she I saw trailing a white gown, wasn’t it?’

  She lowered her head. ‘Oliver … I mean, he told me to do it. It was to frighten everyone away. So … so we could steal away with these goods.’ She swallowed, looking about the cellar.

  Crispin frowned. ‘You hired those poachers to wave about those lanterns at night for effect. And what of the gravediggers? They must have been in on your scheme. It was they who went about dragging coffins. But of course. Someone had to dig them out in the first place. Did you tell them they would get their cut of your stolen goods? Was that all it was? To steal from the church?’

  ‘Well … yes. I discovered this room, you see.’ He chuckled as he spread his hands and looked about. ‘It was filled with gold and silver goods; plate, candelabras, furs, bolts of cloth … all conveniently left out of the inventory. I don’t think anyone knew it was here for a generation. The last priest who knew about it must have died before he told anyone. What a trove to discover! So, I saw my escape. And it was better cover for me if all believed I was dead.’

  ‘But to kill?’

  ‘My brother was useless. Came to me with some sad tale of his profits all lost, and what was he to do? And so I found – then and there – a use for him. He wanted me to help him. Me! Of all people. The impoverished priest. I laughed in his face. But then I thought about it and plotted. And then it all became clear. A new life in France for me, with a beautiful girl at my side, all of these goods, and a new name.’

  Crispin clenched his jaw. ‘And you murdered those gravediggers to keep the secret.’

  ‘I needed their help, but when it was done, they needed to be silenced. I couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘So why hire me?’

  ‘To give the story credence. And to discover “my” body. But I am afraid I got too confident, too cocksure. You see, I’ve had years to work this out. And you were to be the gold-plating on the masterwork. I never thought you’d be able to work it all out before I got away.’

  ‘Perhaps, if it weren’t for Nesta’s involvement, for she was part of another task for me to solve.’

  ‘You don’t say. Well. The Lord does move in mysterious ways.’

  ‘Yes, He does. And now what?’

  Bulthius looked from Crispin to the horrified Nesta; in one smooth gesture, he pulled his dagger, yanked Nesta in close to him, and held the blade to her throat. She screamed but she soon silenced when he shushed in her ear. ‘Now, my love, you must be silent. For if I am to make my escape, you are to be my surety.’

  ‘And you will escape with nothing. For you cannot hold Nesta hostage, climb a ladder, and carry away any of your coffers at the same time.’

  ‘I have already secured some in secret places in London. I will do well enough. Not as well as if you were dead.’

  ‘Why have you deceived me?’ she wailed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I never meant to. For you were truly dear to me. What a cold drink of water you were to my parched and celibate life. It was only when I abandoned all my principles that I began to feel a breath of freedom and contentment. Killing my brother was just an added pleasure.’

  ‘No, no!’ She squirmed in his arms as he edged toward the ladder. ‘You’re a fiend! A murderer! The Devil take you!’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ he said mildly, ‘but not quite yet. You will forgive me, Master Guest, for locking you in the cellar. I’m afraid you won’t be allowed to pursue me.’

  ‘I will get out.’

  ‘Not if you are burned to death.’ He smiled. ‘This old church needs burning. No one will miss it. It’s to be abandoned anyway. No one will find you for many a day. And of course, by then, it will be much too late.’

  Crispin frowned. ‘You are a particularly vile man, Bulthius. I have rarely met the like.’

  ‘Then I hold a special place for you. How gratifying.’ He reached the ladder and shoved Nesta toward it. ‘It will be awkward, my dear, but we must climb together. Master Guest is much too chivalrous to risk my slitting your throat.’

  She sobbed and shook, but he pressed her hard and, with a trembling hand, she reached for the ladder.

  A loud war cry behind him, and suddenly Bulthius was bowled over and tumbling to the ground, leaving Nesta grasping the ladder.

  Jack, still tied to the chair, stood over him, panting. ‘Burn us alive, would you?�
�

  Crispin leapt. He kicked the knife from his hand, but Bulthius rolled away and snapped to his feet. More agile than Crispin had credited him, he bent into a crouch. Crispin still held his sword in a tight grip. He didn’t fancy it getting out of his hands and being used on him.

  Bulthius looked determined. He charged, grabbing Crispin’s sword hand at the wrist and pushing it away. He was strong, and Crispin struggled to keep hold of it, but with an agonizing twist to the joint, he had no choice but to drop it.

  ‘Don’t let him get the better of you, master!’ cried Jack, struggling to free himself from his bonds.

  ‘I’m trying!’ he croaked, as Bulthius got his hands round Crispin’s throat.

  Gritting his teeth and struggling to breathe, Crispin reached up and grabbed the man’s head. With lessening air reaching his lungs and his sight dimming, he dug his thumbs into the priest’s eyes and pressed hard.

  Bulthius cried out and released Crispin as he stumbled back.

  There wasn’t time to catch his breath. Crispin saw the glint of a dagger on the floor and dove for it at the same time Bulthius did. Crispin was faster. He clutched it tight and rolled over and over with it against his chest. He staggered to his feet, coughing. Bulthius crouched against a shelf, squeezing shut his eyes.

  ‘You’re a whoreson, Guest,’ he gritted out.

  ‘And you are a demon. I’m particularly suited to fighting those.’

  Bulthius snapped open his bloodshot eyes. ‘Then demon it is.’ He yanked on the shelf. It teetered and started to fall. He lunged out of the way as it careened toward Crispin.

  Jack was in its path, just freeing himself. Crispin grabbed him by the collar and yanked with all his might.

  The shelf crashed down, splintering its wood and dashing all its goods in a scatter across the floor, missing Jack by inches.

  When Crispin looked beyond it, Bulthius was halfway up the ladder.

  ‘Jack!’ he yelled, pointing.

  Jack leapt for the ladder, grabbing hold of the man’s ankle. Bulthius kicked out, landing a blow to Jack’s temple. It opened the wound on his head again, trickling blood into his eyes but, with furrowed mouth, Jack held on. With a cry, Jack pulled hard and Bulthius clattered down, falling in a heap at Crispin’s feet.

  Crispin quickly placed his boot at Bulthius’s throat.

  Sobbing, Nesta flung herself into Crispin’s arms. He fought to juggle her and his prisoner.

  Jack wiped the blood from his forehead and blinked. ‘Oi! What about me?’

  The sheriffs collected a bound and soured Bulthius. Their bailiffs conveyed him to Newgate.

  Nesta watched him go, hugging herself. ‘I should have known. I should have known,’ she muttered.

  ‘How could you have?’ said Crispin.

  ‘Because … he asked me to secure funds for travel, too. Even if I had to steal them. His words. And, may God forgive me, but I did. The mistress was always saying how valuable that relic was. So it was I who stole it. When I saw it in your hands, I was sure you knew. For how else could you have secured it?’

  ‘It … is a long and curious story.’

  She sniffed and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve got no man. And I might have lost my situation.’ She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands.

  Crispin felt little need to comfort her.

  ‘Master Guest,’ sighed Sheriff Shadworth as the bailiffs marched away with their prisoner, ‘two murderers in one day! I am astounded. You see, Henry. The man is a marvel.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said his recalcitrant companion. ‘But how did you know where to find him? You said you saw the white cloth as a signal. But how did you know what it meant?’

  ‘The cottage was untouched without a cellar or secret room. And I had seen when the cloth was there and when it was not. I assumed it meant a signal. And once I had reckoned that Oliver was in fact Bulthius, I realized it must mean that he was present in the rectory, so that Nesta would know to go there.’

  ‘Seems unnecessarily elaborate. Why would she simply not go directly to the rectory?’

  ‘Because he had intimated that what they were doing was secret. Even so, she couldn’t help mentioning to her friend Clarice that she was seeing a man named Oliver, but she would divulge nothing else. The Walcote affair sparked an old memory about brothers and murder, and I was able to ferret it out.’

  Sheriff Vaunere folded his lips and rubbed his beard. ‘That was impossible to unbind, Guest.’

  ‘It is my bread and butter, my lord.’

  He lifted his face and scowled. ‘Oh is it?’

  ‘Henry,’ said Shadworth, ‘you know very well that it is.’

  The sheriff grunted and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Priests as murderers? What is this town coming to?’ He stalked away toward his waiting horse.

  Shadworth beamed. ‘I am quite amazed, Master Crispin. And at you, too, Master Tucker.’

  Jack snapped up his head, surprised. He bowed, saying nothing.

  ‘What’s to be done with this treasure?’ enquired Shadworth, tapping his lip with a finger. His eye had a gleam to it.

  ‘I suppose it rightfully belongs to the Church,’ Crispin answered.

  The gleam faded. ‘Yes, I suppose it does. I shall have to call upon Bishop Braybrooke. How that man annoys me.’

  Crispin merely cocked a brow.

  ‘Frankly, I’m amazed, Master Crispin, that you aren’t wealthier. This talent of yours is indescribable.’

  ‘Clients are always scarce, my lord.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it. You are better than any jury.’

  ‘It would content me if you could convey that to the citizens of the city, my lord.’ He bowed.

  Shadworth smiled. ‘Of course! Glad to do it. Well! God keep you. And you, Master Tucker. You take good care of your master. London needs him.’

  ‘I do me best, m’lord.’

  He waved and headed toward his horse.

  ‘Blind me,’ muttered Jack as he came up beside Crispin. ‘Did we ever have a sheriff who outright liked you, sir?’

  ‘I can’t remember one who was as enchanted.’

  ‘He is that.’ He winked at Crispin, and Crispin cuffed him for his trouble.

  ‘We should get back home, master. I’m sure the abbot will be anxious to know what has transpired.’

  ‘I think you should tell him.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘You have a colorful way of description.’

  Jack puffed up like a dandelion head. ‘I do at that. I try to make the telling as exciting as the doing. That’s the trick.’

  ‘You go on. I’ll catch up. There is something I must do.’

  Jack’s smile faltered. ‘As you will, sir.’ He paused for an explanation, but when none was forthcoming, he trotted along the churchyard path and out the lychgate.

  Crispin touched the bulge in his scrip, satisfied it was still there, and turned toward the church.

  There had been many comings and goings today, but the church was as empty as he’d seen any. Stripped of its altar goods, including its cross, the structure was bare nave, empty font, and plain altar. The day was drawing on apace, and the sun slanted long upon the darkened floor. He stepped into the nave, his boot scraping on the tiles, and gazed up to where the rood screen was. Not what one would consider accomplished carvings, the screen nevertheless did the job of delineating laymen from cleric. Though there was none of either save Crispin.

  He strode up the nave, his own steps echoing back to him. He passed the rood screen and climbed the one step up to the altar. Simple carvings in stone, as ancient as the building’s arches and vaults. He gazed at the sad state of it before reaching into the scrip and pulling forth the cow. Placing it on the altar, he stepped back to look at it. ‘I think this is where you’d like to be, is it not, St Modwen?’

  He felt suddenly lighter. It had been a full day, to be sure. And much had weighed him down, not the least of which was saving hi
s son. But that was now done.

  He bowed to the little cow. Its bright red paint a startling contrast to the gray of the stone and the dark shadows.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned toward the window overlooking the meadow. As the late afternoon light warmed the plain, tingeing the edges of the grass heads with golden light, a woman with a staff went striding on. She seemed to be urging a cow ahead of her. A red cow.

  Pressing his face to the window, Crispin stared hard. And just before she disappeared behind a hedgerow, she turned and looked directly at Crispin.

  He started back, a chill shaking him, but before he girded himself and regained his place at the window, she had vanished.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A feeling of satisfaction like no other came over Crispin as he strolled back toward the Shambles. He had accomplished much and, for once, he felt he had risen above all the pettiness of his tasks. For though he would not see Philippa or his son again, he had served them well … as would any knight errant.

  He inhaled deeply of the end of the day. Shops were still open, citizens were still at their shopping and crowding the streets. A stray dog followed behind a beggar and Crispin even stopped the man to offer him a farthing.

  He turned at the Shambles and was in sight of the old poulterer’s when Jack burst out of the door and merely stood in the street, dazed. Crispin trotted toward him and grabbed hold of the wild-eyed apprentice. ‘Jack, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Isabel. The baby! It’s coming!’