Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  “And what should I do, sir, when he appears?”

  “That depends how eager you are to advance, Stearforth.” “I am passing eager, Your Grace.”

  “Yes, I can see you are.”

  The great man in the velvet robe paused and seemed to study Stearforth’s face as though he were searching out the character behind the visage.

  “I trust you are a good Christian, Stearforth?”

  “As I hope for heaven, sir,” Stearforth replied, not because the statement was true but because he believed it was what he was expected to say.

  “In which case you comply with the Ten Commandments given by God to Moses upon Sinai and reaffirmed by Our Lord himself.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Good, Stearforth. I should not wish it otherwise. But let me put to you a case.”

  “A case, sir?”

  The employer smiled thinly and Stearforth found himself smiling back. His heart stepped up its beating and he felt himself beginning to sweat beneath his shirt. He knew he was about to be manipulated but somehow too that this manipulation would be ultimately to his advantage.

  “The case I put to you is this. What say, there is a man—an ordained clergyman—who by his preachments vexes the Holy Word, seduces others to follow his heresies, and, in brief, makes himself the means by which a whole generation may be spiritually deluded?”

  “Why, I am no theologian, sir, but he would surely be in a damnable position.”

  His employer nodded. “You know, I take it, the scripture that says it is better for one man to suffer than a whole nation dwindle in unbelief?”

  Stearforth dimly recollected the passage, although he could not tell whether it was being quoted correctly or not. “Yes, sir, I know the scripture.”

  “Christ himself said it.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “And therefore its authority is beyond question.”

  “Although I thought the passage referred to Our Lord’s own sacrifice.”

  “Well, yes, that’s true,” conceded the employer without allowing the confident smile to vanish from his heavy face. “And yet you do not deny that it has the force of a general rule. Reason supports it.”

  “The good of one must give way to the greater good,” Stearforth said.

  “Ah yes, I see your Oxford education has not been wasted, Stearforth. But let me move from generals to particulars.”

  Stearforth waited; the movement promised was interrupted by the great man rising from his chair and walking around to where Stearforth sat so the servant was forced to look up to the master looming above him.

  “The rector of St. Crispin’s is just such a one whose works impede the greater good. You are close enough to me to know where my religious sympathies truly lie.”

  “I think I am, Your Grace.”

  “In short, I have no patience with either Rome or Geneva.”

  “Both Papist and Puritan are detestable. I’m of the same mind.”

  “Then we are of one mind. Certain persons at court whose names I won’t mention have advanced Graham’s name as the next Bishop of London.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “It is not generally known. But it must not happen. There is a better candidate, a much better candidate. One who deserves the position by long and futile suit, both to Cecil and earlier to Essex.”

  “I am not sure how Matthew Stock fits into all this.”

  “That you will presently see, Stearforth, but let me come to the crux of things. Graham must not obtain a bishopric, and particularly that bishopric. He is an obstacle to my purposes. Should I hear that he met his end by . . . some misadventure, or perhaps even calculated homicide, I should, of course, be outwardly grieved and pray for his soul, but lose no sleep knowing the danger he represented is gone. Do you understand me?”

  Stearforth was not altogether sure he did. Was he being asked to murder Graham, the man he had imitated only hours earlier, or only countenance it? Was his employer speaking hypothetically or literally? He knew he was treading on unfirm ground. He felt a constriction in the throat.

  “What do you say, Stearforth?”

  Stearforth’s eyes met his employer’s. There was a moment of silence during which Stearforth hesitated, and then realizing that hesitation was worse than a wrong answer, he said what he believed he was expected to say.

  “I live to do your bidding, sir.”

  “And you are satisfied that the means is justified by the end?”

  “Most sincerely.”

  “Graham may be one of the most dangerous men in England. But his present death may do as much good for true religion as his life does now harm it.”

  Stearforth said he was entirely in agreement; he was prepared to say anything to please his new master.

  “Excellent, Stearforth. Then let me see, you brought me what I asked for?”

  “I did.”

  “Let’s see.”

  Stearforth took the knife from inside his cloak. “It is an unusual design; there is an initial S upon the haft.”

  “Very good. The weapon, Stock’s presence, and the implausible story circumstances shall force him to relate will make him a most credible murderer. You have done well, Stearforth. You exceed my expectation of you by several leagues. Now Cecil and his minion are where I would have them. Stock shall himself be entangled in such a web that the spider will eat out his heart before he is half aware of his peril.”

  “You have a great hatred for the queen’s principal secretary, sir.”

  “A profound hatred—it’s a story I’ll tell you when we are better acquainted.”

  “I trust that will be soon.”

  “If you serve me in this it shall be. Remember, make no move against Graham until Stock is in the vicinity of the church. Let him have no alibis to save him.”

  “It shall be as you wish, Your Grace.”

  The great man made a motion indicating that the interview had ended. Stearforth rose slowly, hoping that his master would not be so forgetful as to overlook his promised payment.

  “Oh, Stearforth.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “You’ll find something for you in the coffer on yonder table. When I hear of Graham’s death and Stock’s arrest the sum will be trebled.”

  Stearforth opened the coffer and scooped up the leather purse. He did not look inside although his curiosity about the amount was almost beyond his enduring. He turned slowly

  and bowed at the waist to his patron, who in turn nodded to him.

  In the street Stearforth thought more about what he had just undertaken to perform in God’s name. Although he was not a particularly religious man, he was not without qualms at the thought of murdering one of the Lord’s annointed, even if Graham was a ranting Puritan. If his employer’s judgment of the man as one of the most dangerous in England was excessive in Stearforth’s mind, the excess was his employer’s business, not his own. Yet he would gladly find a way to carry out his assignment without bloodying his own hands. As a middleman in the murder his complicity would be less. Or so Stearforth reasoned as he mounted his horse and began to ride through the streets toward Eastcheap, where St. Crispin’s was.

  But as he drew near the church the solution to his moral qualms became more and more evident. Did he not know just the man for the deed, one who had already proven himself in the present enterprise and proclaimed himself without love for Stephen Graham? Why should not a gravedigger by trade expand his vocation to include the extinguishing as well as the undertaking of the deceased? Motherwell was a moneygrubber, just like Stearforth, even if somewhat lower in the social order.

  Stearforth felt the heft of his master’s purse as he rode. It gave him a satified feeling and he laughed outright. What if anyone seeing him thought him mad? His problem was solved. Having Motherwell as an accomplice would lighten the purse only slightly—and lighten Stearforth’s conscience considerably.

  On the second day of the week Master Stephen Graham (he wou
ld not let his congregation call him “father,” which savored overmuch of damnable Papistry) administered the blessed sacrament to a handful of his parishioners at a noon

  service. At least that is how it had been until all the fuss about Christopher Poole. Now the church of St. Crispin’s East-cheap—an old edifice greatly in need of refurbishing—had become one of the most popular gathering places in London, the resort of the idle curious and the truly pious who expected where one miracle had occurred more would follow.

  At the moment, however, Graham had the church to himself. It was nearly eleven—a whole hour before the worshipers would be admitted through the heavy oak doors. They had always stood open during the day. Since the Poole affair, they had been shut and barred. The church had become a fortress against Roman fanaticism. The weight of his responsibility to true religion hung heavy upon him. He was sure that was why he had been sick at his sister’s house. The heaviness of his burden. But God had strengthened him against Satan. Stephen Graham was not well yet, but daily he improved.

  He thought of his sermon, written out and in his pocket. It was another version of his favorite, a stinging indictment of Papist superstition. It had been his theme since Poole’s body had been snatched and the whole silly tale of a prophesy fulfilled had fired the imagination of the ignorant. Against the alleged miracle, he spoke fearlessly in the pulpit, regardless of the fact that for the past week he had received three letters from Papist sympathizers threatening his life. Let them do what they would, Graham thought as he inspected the altar to make sure everything was in order for the service. He suspected the letters were really pranks. Everywhere Papist superstition was condemned. Why should he be singled out for special treatment when the archbishop himself had decried the so-called miracle of St. Crispin’s only a few days earlier?

  Graham’s thoughts were now interrupted by footsteps in the rear of the nave. He looked around to see Motherwell approaching and recoiled a little. He had inherited Mother-well from his predecessor and because of the man’s long tenure as sexton and grave-digger did not feel free to replace him. But there was something about Motherwell that Gra-

  ham did not like and he suspected the feeling was mutual. Their relations were coldly formal.

  “What is it, Motherwell?”

  “It’s Great Harry, sir. He’s cracked.”

  “You don’t say. How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough. If he be rung he will be as tuneless as an iron pot,” Motherwell said.

  Graham shook his head and told Motherwell to lead the way to the belfry. He would have to inspect the bell himself sooner or later and it might as well be now.

  The stairs to the bell tower were in the rear of the nave. The stairs were narrow so Graham followed the sexton up. They came to the top of the tower where the bells hung. There were three bells, Great Harry being the largest. Graham walked over to have a look at the bell. “I see no crack, Motherwell. Where is it?”

  “Why it is right at your neck.”

  Graham felt Motherwell’s strong arm around his chest and something hard and cold pressed against his throat. He started to cry out but the pressure of what he now was sure was a blade rendered him speechless.

  Motherwell dragged him over to the window. “Say nothing, sir priest, or the words will be your amen to this life. Now we are going to watch for a while and you will keep silent or so help me God this blade will cut your head off.”

  Graham’s heart thundered in his ears. His mouth went as dry as bone. He was only partly aware of the instructions he was being given. He had known Motherwell to be a man of dubious piety but had not suspected him to be a robber—or perhaps even a murderer. Graham looked down into the street, the knife still at his throat. He felt a trickle of warm urine run down his leg, his eyes began to tear, he couldn’t seem to breathe so tight was Motherwell’s grip. He tried to think of a prayer, but found himself so terrified that his mind could not sustain a thought.

  It seemed like a very long time that he was held hostage in the belfry, so long that Graham began to wonder if somehow Motherwell had decided to forgo his murderous design.

  Then he heard a chuckle behind him and Graham looked down to see in the street below a short stout man making his way across the street to the door of the parsonage.

  The vision was still in his mind when he felt a searing pain at his throat, and a great rush of air expelled from his lungs and would not seem to stop.

  Four

  On the first day of that week the Stocks traveled by horse and cart, having left before dawn and achieved the thirty some miles with no broken wheels or lamed horse to delay them, and coming within sight of steeple and tower, by mid-morning the following day they found themselves in such a confusion of coaches, carts, wagons, and foot traffic that they could have made better time to their usual stopping place, the Blue Boar Inn without Aldgate, if they had simply walked.

  Conducted to their chamber by a courteous host who knew them well from other visits, Joan announced that she was too bone weary from the journey to view any churches. She sent Matthew off alone to enjoy the antiquities of St. Crispin’s and sniff out any clues as to the identity or purpose of the body snatchers.

  So having seen to the needs of horse, cart, and wife, Matthew went off alone, feeling uncomfortable as he always did outside the so much more manageable environs of his native place with its sweet flowing Chelmer, familiar faces, and rural peace. London was not so, even though the more temperate season began to assert itself in first buds of green. In a month or two the city would become a veritable garden; rains would wash the skies heavy with wood smoke and coal smoke and freshen the air of noxious smells. But there would be no respite from the press of humanity there; the streets would not widen to accommodate the throngs, nor would the rancorous cry of beast, man, and his mechanical contrivances give way to quiet.

  It was a good mile walk to the area of London known as Eastcheap, for all the merchants who sold their wares there. Matthew had to ask directions to the church of St. Crispin s.

  “I warrant you’ve come to see Poole’s empty grave,” remarked the tall, filthy-handed blacksmith whom Matthew had asked the way.

  Matthew said that he had.

  The blacksmith nodded sagely and stepped to the side of his forge. The event was a great miracle, he said. One had to believe that even if he himself was no Papist, as he assured Matthew he was not. “Does not the Holy Writ speak of a general resurrection of the dead? And must it not commence somewhere? I’faith, then, why not at our own St. Crispin’s as well as some grander churchyard?”

  “Have you seen this Poole walk the streets since his death?” Matthew asked.

  “No, sir, not I, but others have. My wife, for one, and two or her friends, and Samuel Davies the barber who lives in the next street.”

  “All these, I trust, knew the man while he was alive?”

  The blacksmith considered the question. “I cannot speak for the others, but my wife says that she once saw the man when he was more a youth and had not yet gone to France to fall into the clutches of the Jesuits. She swears the man she saw in the street was the spit and image of the young man— or as he might appear were he somewhat older, as he was when he starved himself for his false religion’s sake.”

  Matthew thanked the man for his information and proceeded in the direction he had pointed. Within minutes he spotted the bell tower of a church and asking another less amiable passerby which church it was, was told it was St. Crispin’s Church “and a stronghold of heresy and deviltry too.”

  The speaker was a prosperous-seeming merchant of about Matthew’s age. He eyed Matthew suspiously. “I can tell by your speech you are a stranger here,” the merchant said. “Come to see the churchyard?”

  “The parson of the church, rather, Master Graham.”

  “He’s a relative of yours?”

  “Distant kin,” said Matthew, thinking an innocent fiction might arouse less suspicion.

  The merchant warned Matthew t
hat the excitement at the church had brought a flock of pickpurses to feed upon pious pilgrims and that he had better look to his possessions and then moved off.

  Matthew drew nearer the church and saw that all along the iron fence that surrounded the adjoining churchyard were the pilgrims the merchant had spoken of. By their garments they were of every station in life. They were a quiet orderly group, watched over by three or four leather-vested constable’s men who stood guard by the gate to the yard, forbidding entrance to the curious. To the right of the churchyard was the church of St. Crispin’s itself, a tall edifice of stone constructed in the older style with a plain front and porch, a pitched copper roof, and a bell tower at one side with a flat roof and a brace of lancet windows where the bells were.

  Matthew looked up at the tower and for a moment thought he saw someone standing in the window, looking down but then he could see nothing and thought it might have been no more than a shadow. Next to the church was a modest house he surmised was where the parson lived. He spotted a side door with a little bell hanging on a post.

  He walked across to the other side of the narrow street and rang the bell. Almost immediately a little window in the door opened and Matthew heard a voice ask who he was and what he wanted.

  “I’ve come to see the rector—at his request,” Matthew thought to add, supposing admission to the church would not be easy under the circumstances.

  “What is your name?” asked the voice.

  “Matthew Stock of Chelmsford.”

  “I’ve never heard of you. Master Graham said nothing of an appointment. Go away.”

  “But I have come to London at his request. He came to my house in Chelmsford and asked me to come.”

  There was a pause within. The little door window was opened only slightly and it was impossible for Matthew to see with whom he spoke. It was not Graham’s voice, however, and he assumed it to be that of a lesser church official, say a sexton or curate.

  The voice repeated its command.

  “I will go, if you wish it,” Matthew said. “But both Master Graham and Sir Robert Cecil will surely be angered to find I have been treated so rudely.”