Witness of Bones

by Leonard Tourney

  “I have no objection to further questions of the accused,” said the young lord who had spoken earlier. “Although I find Sir Robert’s implication that some among us are his enemies as offensive as it is untrue.”

  “Master Stock,” Cecil said, ignoring the lord’s comment, I understand that your wife, Joan, has been accused as an accomplice. Where is she now?”

  Matthew saw by Cecil’s expression that this was one of the questions Cecil did intend for him to answer, and he spoke honestly. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “Strange for a husband not to know where his wife is. You don’t know in truth,” Cecil said, “or are you concealing her whereabouts?”

  Cecil had altered the tone of his voice; it was not sympathetic as before, but ironic and accusatory. It was a tone Matthew had heard him use with unruly servants and with prisoners. He looked into Cecil’s face; it seemed a stranger’s countenance, hard and unyielding. It was suddenly as though Cecil had changed roles; where he was Matthew’s defender before, he was now his prosecutor.

  “As I hope for my soul’s salvation, Sir Robert, I have no idea where my wife is.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “God knows, Sir Robert.”

  “Isn’t it true, Master Stock, that your wife is being kept a close prisoner so that you will affirm this tissue of lies? Has her life not been threatened?”

  Matthew suddenly felt hope; so Cecil had learned after all how things stood with him, with Joan. Hope, opened like a flower within him. But if he said yes to Cecil’s question he would be putting Joan at risk. If he said no, it would be the first falsehood that had slipped from his mouth. If he said nothing, his silence would be construed as consent.

  “No, sir, I have no certain knowledge that she is being held a prisoner.”

  “No certain knowledge,” said Cecil, mimicking Matthew’s accent. “But were you not told by these gentlemen who have brought you here that you will see your wife again only if you testify against me? Were you not forced to write this . . . so-called confession?” Cecil paused and held the document by the ends of his fingers as if it were a dead mouse he had snatched from the pudding. “Was the knife not stolen from your house in Chelmsford a week before Stephen Graham’s murder?”

  Matthew’s confusion grew; his knees now ached mercilessly and while his body had warmed, his flesh felt clammy. Matthew wanted to answer yes to these questions, but he was still afraid. Stearforth stood behind him, noting every

  syllable and intonation. It would be his word against Stear-forth’s, an uneven contest.

  “Still he makes no answer, Sir Robert,” said the earl. “But methinks he is more confused by the multitude of your questions than affirming by his silence.”

  Cecil ignored this theory and said, “What then, Master Stock, if you were told your wife is in the adjoining room, safe in my custody? Were I to bring her in, would you still refuse to speak?”

  Matthew had no time to answer before Cecil himself strode across the room, opened a door, and Joan entered. She curtsied to the lords, then looked at Matthew and smiled reassuringly.

  All this was done so suddenly that Matthew could hardly believe what he saw. Was he dreaming now, as before, when he walked and talked with Joan familiarly, or was this she in the flesh, safe from the hands of Stearforth and His Grace?

  She greeted him with a soft, timorous voice. He could see she was as intimidated as he was by these awesome lords from whom the queen herself sought counsel. He spoke her name, breathing it out with a sigh of relief. He could say no more but continued to look on her, smiling despite his determination that he should not and remembering that these proceedings had mortal consequences.

  Cecil swept his eyes over the other gentlemen at table. “This, my lords, is Joan Stock, wife of the accused. She was carried against her will toward France, escaping only when the ship that carried her foundered and the whole crew lost save the captain.” He paused and turned to face Joan again. “Mistress Stock, can you point out him in the room who was responsible for your abduction?”

  Joan pointed to Stearforth and said, “That’s the man, Sir Robert, he standing in the corner. Humphrey Stearforth.” “And can you tell us why Master Stearforth spirited you from England when by rights he should have surrendered you to the authorities in London?”

  “I cannot, Sir Robert, save the mischief proceeded from him alone. I sought out the truth from the dead man’s sister;

  he threatened her and her family should she speak to me again. He sent me off to France to keep me from these inquiries that might have cleared my husband’s name.”

  “It is no wonder, Sir Robert,” interrupted the earl, “that the wife should defend the husband by accusing his captor. Her word cannot be considered credible evidence.”

  “This poor man’s extorted confession has been used as evidence, when it is most obvious that the man was forced to it,” Cecil replied, raising his voice. He turned to Matthew again. “What say you now, Master Stock? Your wife is safe here, no more a ploy in this conspiracy. What say you now?” Matthew’s heart raced; he tried to keep his voice steady, not wanting to sound a liar or coward. “I say I was never hired by you to dig any grave, murder any man, nor did I undertake these acts of my own accord. I was falsely accused, my knife was stolen from my house. I was summoned to London under false pretenses by Stearforth, who claimed to be Stephen Graham.”

  “And the confession, what of it?”

  “Forced to write it—told that my wife would be killed if I did not or denied the confession’s validity afterward.”

  From the back of the room, Stearforth and Buck were both denouncing these statements as boldfaced lies, while there was a confused murmur of voices at the table as the lords discussed how this charge should be construed.

  The earl called for silence. He said, “These mutual recriminations accomplish nothing. As I have said. It is no novelty for the accused to accuse the accuser. How can we know this woman was truly prisoner and the confession extorted when he who affirms it is no neutral witness but a party to the charges? A warrant exists for this woman as an accomplice of her husband. Sir Thomas Bendlowes? You said there is further evidence that no recantation of the accused man will impugn.”

  “There is, sir,” Bendlowes said.

  Anxious to learn what this new evidence was, Matthew turned his head slightly to see out of the corner of his eye, the door he had entered earlier open and Poole’s coffin bom in

  by two of the palace guards. Following it was Motherwell. He had been fitted out in a new suit of clothes for the occasion and his beard had been trimmed so that one who did not know the truth of his profession or character would have supposed he was an honest merchant of the town. His craggy face wore a solemn expression. He looked once at Matthew and Matthew caught a glint of malicious triumph in his eye.

  “This is Master Motherwell, my lords,” Bendlowes said. “Sexton of St. Crispin’s. It was he who saw to Christopher Poole’s burial and also was eyewitness to Matthew Stock’s murder of Stephen Graham.”

  The earl asked Motherwell if all Bendlowes had said was true, and Motherwell said it was as true as Christ’s word.

  “I presume the body of the Papist is in this coffin?” said the earl.

  “It is, my lord,” said Bendlowes. “I was present when Matthew Stock confessed to where he had concealed it. In the charnel house it was, beneath the bones of worthier men.”

  “I never confessed, sir,” said Matthew, unable to let tills lie pass and no longer fearing for Joan’s safety. “I was taken there by Stearforth and Buck. I knew no more where the body lay than any other honest man here.”

  “The proof is before you, my lords.” said Bendlowes. “If the council will suffer the coffin to be opened.”

  “Open it,” said the earl. “We shall see for ourselves.”

  Motherwell drew his knife and pried open the coffin lid. There was a general movement in the room toward the coffin; even Matthew was bidden to rise from
his knees and allowed to look.

  Motherwell removed the lid and set it against the coffin, then looking in, he let out a guttural noise of surprise that seemed otherwise to render him dumb. He looked once at Stearforth and then turned quickly to the lords, his expression confused and fearful.

  “This isn’t Poole,” Bendlowes said.

  The body in the coffin had been treated with no great reverence by whoever had disposed of him. It lay on its side with the knees thrust up towards the chest and the arms pinned behind. He was dressed in ordinary clothing rather than burial weeds and wore a patch of dark cloth over his left eye. The neck of the dead man was terribly bruised as though the windpipe had been crushed. The tip of his tongue lay upon his lower lip.

  “This is no seasoned corpse,” said the earl. “But fresh. The man has been strangled. Sir Thomas, what manner of trick is this?”

  “My lord, I know not what to say. This is not Christopher Poole, but one whom Master Motherwell secured to aid him in removing Poole’s body.”

  Everyone turned to Motherwell. The earl said, “What say you, Master Motherwell? You swore you saw to the burial yourself, but this is some other body.”

  “Simkins, sir. Simkins was his name,” Motherwell said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “He’s been murdered.”

  “We can see that,” said the earl.

  “Stock murdered him sir, then hid Poole’s bones again,” Motherwell said.

  Bendlowes said, “My lord, the prisoner left the charnel house with us. Motherwell and this Simkins remained behind together. Stock couldn’t have killed Simkins.”

  Cecil asked now if he could speak again. The earl seemed hesitant; he was staring at Bendlowes, then at Motherwell with deep interest. He nodded in agreement.

  Cecil said, “Master Motherwell, Sir Thomas has caught you in a blatant falsehood with his testimony, unless you intend to give him the lie.”

  Motherwell looked confused by Cecil’s challenge; he gaped stupidly and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Or perhaps you can offer a theory explaining how a man can be in two places at once?”

  “It is not unlikely that Stock has other accomplices in this mischief, one of which revenged himself on Simkins,” Stear-forth offered in an unsteady voice.

  “That’s true, Sir Robert,” Motherwell said. “There was a time I left Simkins alone to put Poole’s body in the coffin. When I returned, Simkins was gone. I thought he’d done his work and gone home. The coffin was closed. I had no reason to open it again.”

  “This seems not improbable, Sir Robert,” said the earl. “Perhaps,” Cecil said. “But it is also possible that Master Sexton, being left alone with a man whom he owed money, had a falling out over the wages.”

  “If so, he would hardly have concealed the body in a coffin he knew was to be opened,” said the earl. “Look, the sexton seemed as surprised to view the corpse as anyone here. I suspect some trickery here, but not Master Motherwell’s.” “You may be right,” said Cecil, nodding politely in the earl’s direction. “On the other hand, what say you to the readiness with which our good sexton makes a lie? First he affirmed that the body was Poole’s, then discovering it was not, lays the blame most confidently on a man he knows full well was in custody of Sir Thomas when this new murder must have occurred. Sirs, I accuse Motherwell not of murdering this poor fellow in the box, but of being a habitual liar. I have read the report of his previous testimony. According to him, his prodigious bladder accounts for his presence in the belfry, where he happens to see Matthew Stock murder Stephen Graham. Then this same demanding bladder takes him from the work of laying Poole’s body to rest in its coffin so some mysterious intruder can wreak vengeance on Simkins. No, my lords of the council, I say not that Motherwell strangled his fellow worker, but that he is so practiced a liar that lies fall from his lips like rotten fruit, riddled with worms. If he so much as farts, it was done by yonder dog, whom he presently kicks for the impugned offense. Would such a miserable fellow not as readily blame another for his own murders, yea, and swear falsely whatever he was paid to?” Cecil swung around and addressed Matthew.

  “While you were being imprisoned by these persons— Stearforth—did he not say who had really killed Stephen Graham?”

  Matthew had the feeling he was to answer yes to this question, but before he could think of a reply, Cecil fired another question:

  “And isn’t it true that he named Motherwell as the murderer?”

  “I never said so much,” Stearforth protested, and then looked abashed, as though he realized how he had forgotten his inferior place in the room. Cecil ignored this breach of etiquette and continued in the same strident vein as before.

  “How much did you say, then?”

  “I said nothing at all. Why should I? Stock’s guilty. All the evidence is for it.”

  “It is not, Master Stearforth,” Cecil said. “A man’s character must be worth something. Stock has acted honestly in the queen’s affairs. He’s no Papist, and most certainly not a murderer. One must be half asleep not to see through these shifts. But look at our sexton’s face. There, my lords, is a face of a conniving villain if ever one was bom. See, Stearforth, despite your resolute denials Master Motherwell understands that you betrayed him. And why should you not? What’s he to you?” Cecil marched over to Stearforth and looked up at him accusingly. “You sweat, sir. Is the fire too hot? Is your choler risen? Or do you fear for your own life that you would fob off your own crimes on Motherwell?”

  “Oh, he shall not do that,” said Motherwell, visibly trembling himself now and looking around him wildly. “If he told Stock ’twas I that cut the rector’s throat he’s a damnable liar, for I never did such a thing. And if I did, then ’twas Stearforth that bade me do it.”

  Cecil approached Motherwell, who had fallen on his knees before him and let his head drop as though already he accepted his fate. The room fell so silent that for a few moments Matthew could hear the faggots crack with their burning.

  “It was you, Master Sexton, who exhumed Poole’s body in the first place,” Cecil said. “Did you do it of your own device—because you are a Papist sympathizer, a traitor who would see our beloved queen followed by the Infanta? Or was it out of some perverse desire for infamy?”

  “Not I, sir,” said Motherwell, his head bent so far forward that only his white hair showed. “Truth is, I have little religion at all and hate Papists as I hate the plague. I am true to Her Majesty, Sir Robert, and would not think of harming a hair of her blessed head.”

  “Her Majesty is poorly blessed in such subjects as you, Master Motherwell, who give the church of God a bad name by your very association. Did you have help in exhuming the body of Poole?”

  “Simkins helped me, your honor. He that lies in the coffin. But I never killed him, and we were paid to do the work by Master Stearforth.”

  “He lies, Sir Robert,” Stearforth cried, pointing at Mother-well. “He murdered Stephen Graham. I had nothing to do with that either. He’s lying now to save his own poxy skin.” “And you’re telling the truth to save yours?” Cecil said, turning slowly. “Let me suggest that it is your turn to play the liar. You hired our sexton to dig up a dead man’s grave that he might become a wonder to the credulous. Then you went to Chelmsford where you pretended to be Stephen Graham and urged Matthew Stock to follow you to London, which, he doing, you then contrived to murder Graham with the knife you stole from Stock’s kitchen.”

  Stearforth’s face was as white as that of Simkins in his coffin, although he was sweating hard. He sank to his knees as Motherwell had done. “I never killed anyone, I swear it before God. It was Motherwell who killed Graham.”

  “And Motherwell says it was you,” Cecil replied, suddenly calm. He turned from both men and faced the other Privy Counselors. “My lords, this tedious matter has kept us long enough from our work. Whether Master Stearforth committed the murder as Master Motherwell declares, or Master Motherwell did it as Master Stearforth a
ffirms, it is now clear that Matthew Stock and his wife have been falsely accused and implicated in a plot to bring me into disgrace. The ultimate contriver of these plots we shall discern in due course. But now I beg you to excuse Matthew Stock and his good wife, who have done no wrong in this business, but have borne the brunt of the plotters’ evil designs.”

  “So be it,” said the earl coming slowly forward. “Guards, take Stearforth and Motherwell to the Tower. As for you Master Stock, Sir Robert has played his part of advocate well and cleared you of blame.”

  “And himself,” said another lord at the table.

  Matthew watched while Stearforth and Motherwell were led out by the tall guards who had stood sentry at the door. Then he turned to Joan. Her eyes were filled with tears and she was smiling the way she did when she was keeping some secret from him and wanted him to know of it.

  Twenty-One

  In the antechamber, Cecil satisfied their curiosity about the true begetter of the Poole conspiracy. Cecil’s spies had done their work, retracing Matthew’s journey from the place of his concealment to the palace by querying bystanders who had watched and remembered the manacled prisoner on horseback and the troop of guards.

  “It wasn’t his house,” Cecil said, “but a relative’s. I know the family well. A suborned servant confirmed what I suspected in the first place.”

  “Then this person will be exposed, brought to account for his crime,” Matthew said, and wanted to know the name that had been forbidden him.

  “No, Matthew,” Cecil said. “It’s better you do not know. Let him think he has escaped. You’ll be safer that way. You’ll pose no threat. Let him worry about Stearforth’s blabbing tongue. It’s sufficient that I know his name and he knows I know. Such mutual recognition will pluck out his sting, believe me. Your safety lies in innocence.”

  “In ignorance, rather,” Joan said.

  “I’ll not distinguish between them,” Cecil said. “The important thing is that the gentleman’s plan failed.”