Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

“In a matter of a few days I’ll be free. Say, Matthew, you’re a good man. I can read it in your face and I believe every word you’ve said about your innocence. It’s a shame you can’t use such a stratagem.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Why, I mean do as I do, plan as I have planned. Is there not someone whom you could lay the blame upon? It stands to reason that there is. You’re accused of murdering a churchman, of being a Papist agent. It requires little wit to see that were you guilty as charged you would be acting under orders—orders from someone higher up, so to speak.”

  “Go on,” said Matthew.

  “Well, my meaning is that were you to offer to reveal the identity of that person, say in exchange for your skin, you might find your offer taken.”

  “The authorities are not likely to let me go free for supplying that information. Why, they could gain the same results with torture.”

  “Ah,” said Buck excitedly. “But all the more reason, friend Matthew, for you to make the offer. You’ll save them the trouble of torturing you. And you, in turn, will be spared the pains. It makes perfectly good sense to me. They’ll have the truth from you, you know. They have ways of making a man talk his head off, though he has thrice-stitched his mouth with oaths to God and angels. I could tell you a hundred tales, horrible to imagine.”

  Matthew had no interest in hearing such stories. Thoughts of torture and death had been too much on his mind as it was, but he was intrigued by this man Buck—and also suspicious. Was Buck a well-meaning friend, eager to share a means of escape with him out of the goodness of his heart, or a false friend, interested only in encouraging him to betray Cecil?

  “I would be loath to perjure myself,” Matthew said.

  “Perjure? Why not, if that is the only way justice may be done? Consider, Matthew. Perjury is condemned because it impedes justice.”

  “It is condemned because it is the same as bearing false witness, a thing expressly condemned in the ninth of the Commandments.”

  “Tush, tush, Matthew, now you speak as a churchman yourself. But be sensible. Grant me that perjury, in the eyes of the law, impedes justice.”

  “I cannot deny it does.”

  “Well, then, if justice already be impeded by false testimony of another, how is justice betrayed by false testimony that merely corrects the first? I say the end justifies the means.”

  Matthew thought Buck was beginning to sound like a lawyer. He professed his inability to follow Buck’s logic, although he understood it very well. Buck went on undaunted.

  “Perjury as a remedy for perjury’s ill is no crime or sin, Matthew. I mean no more than that. The principle is irrefutable. A practical man cannot deny it. Think deeply, then, who might have put you to the task of murdering the parson?”

  “I cannot think of one,” Matthew said.

  Buck emitted a sigh of exasperation. “Well,” he said. “In due time perhaps a name may come. Indeed, I may provide one to you at length, should your imagination fail you. Let me be your teacher in these mysteries. That you are an honest man is more than obvious here. You need someone more schooled in practical wisdom rather than in these Christian homilies you treat as eternal laws. Trust me.”

  Matthew looked at his cellmate where Buck sat in the shadows and nodded as though in agreement.

  Joan ordered supper sent up to her chamber, picked at her solitary meal, felt a powerful need of sleep. She was in her nightgown when she heard the knock at her door. She threw her wool cloak about her and asked who it was, hoping it was the host or his boy who had brought up her supper and not the constable’s men come to arrest her.

  “Moseby,” said the voice on the other side of the door.

  For a moment she made no sense of the name, then remembered. But was it Moseby indeed or an impersonator? A name was a thing easily acquired in a city of strangers. One could put it on, take it off, lend it out, like a mask.

  “I don’t know any Moseby,” she said, deciding caution in such a case was better than boldness.

  For a moment there was nothing but silence beyond the door. Then her visitor spoke again:

  “Jacob Moseby. If you are the woman who sought me at Paul’s earlier today. A friend told me where you lay and I came after.”

  Joan opened the door. Out in the passage stood a man with the wary look of a fugitive, a hesitant and vulnerable man, no leather-vested officer as she had feared. “Come in, then.”

  Moseby stepped into the chamber. The beggar’s description had been uncannily accurate. Moseby was lean and pinch-faced; he wore a tattered cloak and a broad-brimmed hat with a high crown. A silver earring dangled in his left ear and the dark strands of hair descending from beneath the hat were lank and oily.

  In an instant Joan decided what she would tell this lean and hungry man before her. She would say nothing of murder and arrests, would not so much as mention her husband’s name or the name of the dead priest or of his church. She knew Moseby’s kind. Little that happened in the City passed them by. Such men were the perfect calendar of the news, and they lived on the edge of the law so that the very hint of prison or authority sent them to ground. She didn’t want to scare him off before she discovered for herself where Stearforth was or whom he served.

  “Are you discreet?” she asked, making a doubtful face to draw him out.

  “As a dead man.”

  She nodded and pointed toward a chair for him to sit in. She walked to the bed and sat down on its edge to enlarge the distance between them. Strange men were ever danger-

  ous company for a woman alone; Joan had not forgotten that simple truth. She would not tempt him with a mere foot or two, not as she was half dressed, the door fast behind them, and a bed in sight to put mischief into a brain already disposed to it. There was but one candlestick in the room and it held a lone taper that flickered; in the hearth the ruins of an earlier fire gave off a glow. So much for the light by which she studied Moseby’s face.

  “Well, I do have work for the right man,” she began, slowly as though she were still doubtful about her visitor’s qualifications. “He whom I would employ must know the City.”

  “Like the back of my hand,” he said.

  “And its more often-encountered citizens.”

  “I am still your man.”

  “Particularly one.”

  “Only say his name. There’s a goodly chance I know him well. If he frequents Paul’s churchyard, why I am blood brother to every second gentleman and a close cousin to the rest.”

  “Marry, you might be the man I need,” she said. “Do you know one named Humphrey Stearforth.”

  Moseby quivered a little at the name. It was an obvious sign of recognition, but he acted as though he had to search his inventory of names to be sure.

  “I might know such a fellow.”

  “Do you know him or not?”

  “I said I might. It would depend on why he was wanted.” “He owes me money—more, he wronged my daughter.” Moseby smiled slightly at this and Joan wasn’t sure whether he had detected the falsity of her hasty invention or merely understood her professed motives. Stearforth was a lecher, among his other crimes. Perhaps he was infamous for it.

  “You want me to avenge your daughter’s sullied honor, or merely get your money back or both?”

  “Let’s begin with the first,” Joan said, thinking quickly. “But I don’t want you to kill him.”

  “That’s good,” said Moseby. “Murder is not exactly my humor. I prefer more subtle shifts.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Joan drily. “To be truthful, I have something more elaborate in mind, something that requires a certain deftness—and also absolute secrecy. And for both these skills I am prepared to pay generously.”

  Moseby nodded and folded his arms. “How generously?” Joan named a sum, having no idea what such treachery demanded on the market. Moseby countered with a higher number and they settled on a figure in between.

  “Your first duty is to find him.”
r />   “No sooner commanded than done. The next?”

  “To bring word of it to me, along with an account of his habits—where he lies of nights and for whom he works and the nature of that work.”

  “Give me but a day.”

  “You have it,” Joan said, rising from the bed.

  But Moseby continued to sit in his chair. He seemed more relaxed now, now that their bargain had been struck, and he looked at Joan with an expression of mild interest.

  “Our business is concluded for now,” Joan said abruptly, suddenly flushing under his direct stare which seemed to take in not only her face but her entire body. “My husband will return shortly. He knows nothing of what I intend for Stearforth and would not be pleased to find a strange man in his room.”

  Moseby let out a little laugh and stood up. “I don’t think you have a husband,” he said. “I doubt you have a wronged daughter. I suspect it was you who were wronged and want revenge for yourself.”

  Joan was about to counter this version of events before she realized it was superior to her own. She forced a smile. “Then you will appreciate my determination. A woman’s vengeance is not to be taken lightly.”

  “There are other consolations,” Moseby said moving toward her.

  “I said my husband would return shortly.”

  He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. Quivering, she looked up in his face. “Do you want the money or not?” she said. “The walls are thin. If you want more, you shall have to fight for it and suppress my cries for help. I promise you I have prodigious lungs for screaming. Do it. Put me to the test.”

  At this threat he pulled back and smiled again as though the whole thing were a joke.

  “Bring by noon tomorrow what information I need and you shall be paid. Do that much for me and we shall see what other services follow.”

  “Where shall we meet—here?”

  “No, in the City. You name it.”

  She was relieved when he named a place she knew that was sufficiendy public, a tavern only a few steps away from Paul’s churchyard. When he left she bolted the door behind him and scolded herself for the dangerous game she had played. Matthew would have had a fit had he known of it.

  Ten

  The next morning Joan awoke early to go to Elspeth’s cottage. The shipmaster’s young wife had promised to secure her brother’s diary, and Joan supposed Elspeth would have had sufficient time during the previous afternoon to accomplish her mission. Joan planned to be back in the City in time to meet Moseby and receive his report. If Fortune smiled, as that Good Housewife sometimes did, Joan might have as much information as Cecil needed by nightfall.

  But when she arrived at Elspeth’s cottage she felt at once something was amiss. Nothing seemed outwardly changed. The cottage looked as it had the day before, and across the lane the same congregation of dappled cows grazed indolently. But she saw no sign of the cowherd who tended them.

  She knocked at the door for some time and heard stirring within and what sounded like whispers, but no one answered. She called out Elspeth’s name and thinking that she was gone and it might be the children she heard she called out their names too. Still there was no response. She would have supposed them all gone had it not been for the smoking chimney, the whispers she had heard, and her own intuition that the cottage was inhabited.

  She stepped off the doorstep into the soft earth of an old flower bed and walked around to the back of the cottage. She found herself in a kitchen garden yet to be tilled and planted for the new season. About twenty feet from the cottage was a privy made of weathered boards. The door stood open. She walked out to look inside, then went back to the cottage. There were no windows in the rear of the structure but there was a back door. She pressed her ear against its rough wood and listened. At first there was a hollow silence; then she heard a titter of childish laughter.

  It was unthinkable that Elspeth would leave her children alone in the cottage, or that the children, being there, would laugh were their mother in danger. Joan went around to the front of the cottage and walked toward the lane, but only walked far enough until she believed the hedge concealed her. There she waited for a long time, peering through the thick foliage.

  After a while, Elspeth’s little son came out. He was carrying a pail in his hand, swinging it back and forth, and she could hear him singing, but didn’t recognize the words. Behind him came the cat Joan had seen the day before, walking deliberately across the yard as though it were stalking the child. When the boy noticed the cat, he put the pail down and called the animal, but the cat scurried past him, coming so close to where Joan was concealed behind the hedge that she thought surely the boy would see her.

  But the boy was intent on his pursuit and scurried around in some low-growing bushes as the cat continued to stay out of his reach. With a moment’s reflection, Joan decided to confront the mystery directly. She stepped out from behind the hedge, leaned down, and swept the cat up in her arms. Surprised at her sudden appearance, the boy froze and looked up at her, his eyes round, glistening. He started to move away but she held him.

  “Oh, please don’t go,” she said.

  The boy stopped again, but seemed on the verge of escape. He looked up at her, his little white face a mixture of curiosity and fear.

  “Is your mother home?”

  The boy shook his head. His eyes told Joan the truth.

  There was no point in giving the child the lie. Joan nodded. “Well, I trust she will be home soon if you’re worried about being alone. I won’t ask to come in, just to stand here by the hedge. Would you like your cat?”

  The animal had been content in Joan’s embrace and was no more reproachful for being extended toward the child, limp and glassy-eyed. The boy made no movement. He continued to stare at Joan warily.

  Joan was at a loss to understand this new manner in the family. Had she offended Elspeth in some way to bring this disdain upon her? Surely, Elspeth was inside the cottage, perhaps peering from the window even as Joan spoke to the woman’s son.

  Then she looked beyond the child and saw Elspeth step out on the doorstep in full view. Frowning, she called her son to come in. Her voice was shrill, almost hysterical, as though Joan represented some great danger. When the boy didn’t move at his mother’s command, Elspeth crossed the yard at a quick pace, seized him by the hand, and started to pull him back. “Go away, Mistress Stock. Leave us alone.”

  “But what have I done?” Joan protested.

  “Enough to give us more trouble than we deserve. Now let us be. Go back to Chelmsford.”

  “I can’t leave my husband.”

  “Let him look to God for his salvation, if he is deserving of it.”

  By now Elspeth had her son in tow and was halfway back to the cottage. Joan called after her. “Your brother’s diary. Did you find it?”

  Elspeth didn’t answer. She was already within the cottage again, the door shut firmly behind her.

  For some time Joan stared at the cottage, perplexed by this sea change. What was Elspeth thinking?

  *

  *

  Matthew’s suspicion of his new cellmate was not allayed by the man’s first comment of the day, which was to ask whether Matthew had given any thought to his proposal of the night before.

  “Touching what?” Matthew replied with a yawn, as though it was too early in the morning to recall what had been talked of hours earlier, when the truth was that he remembered every word.

  The other man grimaced with annoyance. “My device of shifting blame to another. I recommended it to you. Consider it, friend Matthew. It might well save your life.”

  “Ah, I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Matthew said. He rose from against the wall, his bones protesting the movement and yet aching for it. He felt the pain of worry in his heart, penetrating like a searing needle.

  “Easy,” Buck went on confidently. “Answer their questions. If they ask who gave you orders to knife the parson, say it was this lord or that. I
wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t suggest some names to you. Graham was hated by the Papists, which makes all Papist sympathizers suspect and there are a good dozen of them at court. On the other hand, the plotter may be a Puritan wanting to give the Papists a bad name. In this world anything’s possible.”

  Matthew thought about this. It was true. In this world anything was possible. Corruption was universal. A good man was hardly to be found in these days of shame. The whole world was worse than it had been before the days of Noah. “I’ll think on it.”

  “Please yourself,” said Buck with a reassuring smile. “But think hard and soon. You may have but one chance; once you are tried, time to strike a bargain will be passed.'

  Breakfast came, such as it was. The guard passed two bowls of gruel through the iron bars and then two slices of moldy bread that Matthew doubted would tempt a rat from his corner.

  “Fine fare for one who is wont to dine with gentlemen,” said Buck with a heavy sigh.'

  Matthew nodded, thinking of Joan and what she might be

  doing—and eating. He sniffed at the gruel, felt the texture of the bread and gave both to Buck, who for all his professed delicacy of appetite consumed both with the greatest relish.

  The tavern was full to overflowing. Joan was unable to find an empty stool. She got a cup of wine from a passing drawer and took up a position just outside the front door where she could spot Moseby when he appeared. Her feet were tired from the long walk to Elspeth’s house and yet she was too excited to be preoccupied with her discomfort. She felt she was on the track of something important. Elspeth’s sudden and mysterious hostility confirmed it.

  It was long past noon when Moseby appeared and in fact she had difficulty recognizing him at first, for he was dressed differently—and better—in a doublet of Lincoln green and hose of the same color, plain worsted but without patches. He wore a short cloak and a velvet hat. She had no doubt the villain had put the money she had given him on his back. She could only hope he would have something to show for his efforts.

  Moseby saluted her with an ingratiating smile and led her back into the tavern. He had no trouble finding the stool Joan had sought in vain in an inconspicuous corner. Joan was glad to sit.