The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘No. Of course not, my lord.’

  The abbot’s mouth curled into a brief smile. ‘At any rate, her staff is said to help women in labor, and it is much sought after in Burton for that purpose.’

  ‘Oh!’ Jack couldn’t have cared less about resurrected cows, but he perked up at the mention of the staff.

  ‘My apprentice is soon to be a father,’ said Crispin in explanation. Isabel turned from the fire standing in profile, her obvious physical condition unmistakable. Jack blushed.

  ‘So I noticed. Congratulations again, Master Tucker. I grieve that Burton upon Trent is so far away that your wife may not partake of the healing power of the staff. But perhaps this bone of St Modwen will do.’

  ‘Were it not stolen,’ put in Crispin.

  Abbot William shrugged. ‘And so this mercer had a most coveted object of veneration. I’d be interested to hear the tale of how it arrived at his door.’

  ‘I don’t know that the widow would be particularly eager to discuss its history, only its return. She still thinks the boy has it.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But of course, you can ask her yourself. We will be attending the funeral in a matter of hours … at St Modwen’s.’

  ‘You’re jesting.’

  ‘Would I be so careless with you, my lord? It seems our mercer was a great patron of this church. No doubt the relic was bestowed upon him for his charity to the parish.’

  The abbot drank his wine with relish. ‘You do lead a fascinating life, Crispin.’

  ‘Sometimes too fascinating,’ he muttered into his goblet.

  ‘When is the funeral to be?’

  ‘Soon. I was planning on leaving now so as not to miss it.’

  The abbot set his goblet on the table and rose. ‘Then shall we be off? The three of us, like pilgrims upon the road!’ He actually slapped Jack on the back, the latter stumbling forward with surprise on his face.

  EIGHT

  The abbot rode his horse while Crispin and Jack walked beside him. They reached St Modwen’s in little time. The afternoon sun branded the face of the church with radiant light, sharpening the relief of carved statue and stone blocks, some of which were said to be from Roman times when the city was called Londinium. Already the Horne household had gathered for the funeral, with many wealthy friends and business acquaintances. Crispin recognized the mourning vigil ladies from earlier. Horses, carriages, and footmen awaited outside the walls of the churchyard. The abbot dismounted and Jack served as his groom, holding the horse’s bridle and tying it to a nearby post.

  Father Bulthius bustled among the mourners and, when he glanced Crispin’s way, he did it again in quick succession, taking in Abbot William. He excused himself from whomever it was he was talking to and hurried over. ‘Master Crispin. It isn’t nightfall.’

  ‘I am here for this funeral, good Father. May I present to you Abbot William de Colchester of Westminster Abbey? Father Bulthius of St Modwen’s Church.’

  Father Bulthius bowed and dithered with his hands. ‘I am honored by your presence, my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘I am honored to be in your parish, Father Bulthius.’

  ‘Will you do me the further honor of celebrating the funeral mass with me?’

  ‘Of course. We are brothers in the Lord, Father. It is my privilege.’

  The priest and the abbot took their leave and Crispin hung back as the assembled made their way into the little church.

  ‘Jack, I want you to keep a sharp eye out here. Examine the hole that was dug for his coffin. And mark if anyone suspicious draws nigh.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ He bit his lip, glanced toward the rectangular hole and pile of dirt, and crossed himself.

  Crispin entered the church last, dipped his hand into the font and sketched a cross over his person. He took up a place standing in the back corner away from the font, arms folded over his chest. The church was small enough – more like a chapel – that he could see down the short nave through the modest crowd toward the altar that was raised up on a dais. The priest and Abbot William worked in concert, intoning the Latin prayers, their backs to the assembled, their prayers for God’s ears. Finally, the priest stepped forward to face the mourners and the flower-draped coffin that stood below the altar, and preached of death, the inevitable journey for all, of sin and redemption. The usual platitudes, Crispin thought with a jaundiced eye. At least it was likely the priest knew the man, being that he was a patron. Who would keep the roof from leaking now?

  An old man Crispin took to be a sexton, Father Bulthius, and Abbot William walked around the coffin, the priest sprinkling holy water upon the wooden box, the sexton swinging a smoking censer, its perfume shimmering over the mourners. The cloud of incense, like the bowers of Heaven itself, lingered in the air like a fragrant mist.

  It certainly smelled better than John Horne.

  Crispin changed his weight from one foot to the other. It was a long ceremony and he was relieved when it finished at last. Only a few received the holy bread of communion. Like Crispin, many had likely not shrived themselves prior.

  The man with the censer led the procession, the priest and Abbot William walking behind him. Four men stepped forward to heave the coffin to their shoulders. The widow followed immediately. She was veiled, but Crispin could plainly see that she hadn’t been crying. Her mouth was set firmly, her eyes stared straight ahead. She had wept when he had talked to her, but she had been speaking of her immediate difficulties. ‘Who would care for me now?’ she had bemoaned, having no children. Now she looked bitter but determined. Maybe she had found a way to care for herself after all.

  A young man with hair almost as red as Jack’s moved slowly after her. Unlike his mistress, this youth was distraught. His face was red and anguished. Tears marred his cheeks and he kept pushing the heel of his hand against his nose. Perhaps this was the apprentice, Martin Chigwell, friend to Christopher Walcote. He was twelve, maybe even thirteen. Likely he was realizing he had big shoes to fill – or wondering if he would be kept on as an apprentice. Was he master enough at this point in his training? He was young yet to take over a business, though Crispin had known lords who took possession at a younger age. He himself had been seven years old, in fact, when he inherited his own estates in Sheen. The same age as young Christopher, he thought with some irony. But Crispin had been a much more serious child than Christopher. He couldn’t recall the playthings he had owned, except for the dapple-gray wooden horse. He vaguely wondered what had happened to it. But then, when he was a young man, he had purchased a real dapple-gray stallion he had named Hippocrates. A strong horse with a good heart that could turn on the spot with just the slightest pressure from Crispin’s knee. He dared not think what had happened to him.

  Lancaster had been there in his life to see to his estates until he came of age. That was the moment he had moved into the duke’s household, where he was raised to think of Lancaster, only a mere ten years his senior, as a father, for his own father was often gone to war and he seldom saw or remembered him.

  Then his mind went inexorably to King Richard, who had taken the throne at ten. Crispin had objected to it by treason, which, of course, had led to his being disseized and degraded. It was only in the last few years that Crispin had been proven right, that the Duke of Lancaster would have been the better choice to be king. But there was bitter joy in that revelation.

  He shook himself free of his past and looked up just as the last person exited the church. He followed them out to the churchyard, where a grave had been dug, and found his place next to Jack. ‘What have you found out?’ he whispered, leaning close.

  ‘Naught much, sir. The grave was dug like any grave, I suppose. Naught special about it.’

  Crispin gestured surreptitiously toward the apprentice. ‘I believe, but am not certain, that yon lad is Martin Chigwell. He looks to be more upset than the widow.’

  Jack frowned, but he wasn’t looking at Chigwell. ‘God’s blood,’ he swore.
‘The sheriff.’

  Crispin looked over his shoulder. Sheriff John Shadworth had just dismounted and was striding toward the funeral party. After all, he was a mercer, too, but instead of going directly to the widow or the graveside, he made straight for Crispin.

  ‘Master Guest,’ he said in a loud whisper, so loud that the widow turned her head to look.

  ‘Lord Sheriff,’ said Crispin as quietly as he could, taking several steps back. The sheriff followed. ‘Here to pay your respects?’

  ‘Well … in truth, I’m here to watch you do whatever it is you do.’

  Give me strength, he prayed. ‘At the moment, I am giving my due to the deceased.’ He tipped a finger to his lips in hope of quieting the man.

  ‘Oh. Quite right.’ Shadworth lowered his head in prayer, but he was also bouncing on his heels, as if eager to spring forward.

  Father Bulthius sprinkled the coffin again, droned his Latin over it, and nodded to the gravediggers, Tom and Hal, who lowered the coffin in by hauling on two sets of ropes. Crispin eyed the widow, whose face was stern under her veil but not distraught.

  Martin Chigwell – if apprentice he was – sniffed and grimaced in his tears as he watched the coffin descend. Each threw in a clod of earth. The priest sang psalm after psalm.

  ‘But unto the wicked God saith,’ intoned Bulthius. ‘What hast thou to do to declare my statutes, or that thou shouldest take my covenant in thy mouth? When thou sawest a thief, then thou consentedst with him, and hast been partaker with adulterers. Thou givest thy mouth to evil, and thy tongue frameth deceit. These things hast thou done, and I kept silence. Now consider this, ye that forget God, lest I tear you in pieces, and there be none to deliver. Whoso offereth praise glorifieth me: and to him that ordereth his conversation aright will I shew the salvation of God.’

  The assembled solemnly watched as the coffin was carefully covered by the soil, and as the mourners slowly walked away, the gravediggers got down to it, and spaded the earth over the grave with more vigor and more speed than was strictly necessary.

  Widow Horne made her way to her barrel-shaped carriage. Crispin hurried to catch up to the grieving lad at her side. ‘Martin Chigwell?’

  He turned. His red face was streaked with tears. ‘Yes? I am Chigwell.’

  ‘I would speak with you a moment.’

  He frowned and paused to study Crispin before he turned to his mistress. ‘I must accompany my mistress on this horrific day.’

  ‘That’s all right, Martin,’ she said, barely glancing at him. ‘You may talk to Master Guest. I’ll see you back at the manor.’

  She turned abruptly and, barely allowing a servant to help her into the carriage, dismissed him.

  Martin wiped his face and straightened his cote-hardie. ‘She called you Master Guest. Would that be Crispin Guest, the Tracker of London?’

  ‘It is. You are a hard man to find, Master Chigwell.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. I’ve been busy, is all.’

  ‘Covering the tracks of a murderer, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got him there, Master Guest.’

  Crispin slowly turned to face the sheriff. ‘Lord Sheriff, perhaps my apprentice can show you something interesting about the church.’

  Sheriff Shadworth looked back toward the frowsy building and shrugged. ‘Something interesting about this church?’

  Jack stepped forward. ‘Aye, my lord. Over here. Something … er … interesting.’ He took hold of the sheriff’s arm and dragged him back.

  Crispin sighed. But Chigwell was still stewing over Crispin’s last comment to him. ‘I’m not covering anything.’

  ‘You know your friend, Christopher Walcote, is being blamed for the murder of your master. He confessed it. What have you to say to that?’

  The lad’s indignant expression fell away and concern took its place. His eyes shifted, darted among the tombstones and twisted trees, perhaps seeking him out. When they had searched the graveyard, finding no trace of his friend, his gaze settled none too steadily on Crispin. ‘I don’t … I don’t know anything about that.’

  Crispin raised a brow. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. I … I wasn’t there …’

  ‘The maids say you were.’

  His lips trembled. ‘The maids are a gaggle of scolds and should hold their vicious tongues.’

  ‘This is an investigation into a murder, Master Chigwell. All witnesses are admonished to tell the truth. And, so far, the truth seems to be that Master Christopher is guilty of theft and murder.’

  ‘Theft?’

  ‘The relic of St Modwen, Chigwell. The relic has been stolen and Master Christopher is charged with stealing it.’

  ‘But … he’d never do that. He just wouldn’t.’

  ‘Nor would he kill, I presume.’

  Chigwell stared, mouth firming like a locked gate.

  Crispin’s heart gave a jolt as the boy’s expression made itself known to him. Martin Chigwell did think the boy was guilty. It was written all over his face. God’s blood!

  ‘Is … is that all you wanted, Master Guest?’

  ‘No.’ Over the lad’s shoulder he saw Jack and Sheriff Shadworth returning. It looked as if Jack was doing his best to discourage the sheriff, but the man was marching toward him anyway. He had to move quickly. ‘Tell me, Master Chigwell, what did you argue with Master Horne about?’

  He shrugged. ‘I often argued with him. He was sometimes disagreeable about this and that.’

  ‘Disagreeable? And what was he disagreeable about this time?’

  He shook his head curtly. ‘He was just … disagreeable.’

  ‘Did you see him argue with Christopher Walcote?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s a simple question, man. Did you or did you not see or hear him argue with Master Horne?’

  ‘I heard him, all right! I heard him. And then I left. I have to go.’

  ‘One more thing.’

  Chigwell halted, but trembled with the need to leave.

  ‘I noticed that you are aggrieved. You say Master Horne was disagreeable, yet you mourn him. Did you like Master Horne?’

  ‘No. But …’ He wiped his face and straightened. ‘It’s a death, isn’t it? Shouldn’t all men be aggrieved at that?’

  ‘Not that aggrieved.’

  ‘I must go,’ he said again, bowed quickly and hurried away, trotting after his mistress’s rocking carriage.

  Shadworth arrived and turned his head to watch Chigwell grab onto the side of the carriage and hold on. ‘Looks like you were giving that lad a grilling. What was that about, then?’

  ‘Oh, the usual. One must ask many questions before one draws a conclusion.’

  ‘Oh come now, Master Guest. Do you really believe that boy isn’t guilty of murder? He was caught with the dagger in his hand.’

  ‘Law is order, and good law is good order, Lord Sheriff.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That’s Aristotle,’ said Jack. ‘I think Master Crispin is trying to say that just because the boy was caught with the dagger, doesn’t mean that he’s guilty. It’s up to the law to prove it.’

  Shadworth gave Jack a withering look. ‘I know what he means. And I disagree, for it is very much up to him to prove he’s innocent. But clearly in this instance it seems a waste of time to assume his innocence merely because he is a child.’

  That ache in Crispin’s heart grew. The sheriff, much as it pained him, could be right. Was Crispin giving him the benefit of the doubt merely because he was Crispin’s son?

  But no! Chigwell was clearly disturbed, and the widow was hiding something in her contempt of … of what? Or of whom?

  ‘The evidence,’ said Crispin, ‘is likely somewhat misleading.’

  ‘Oh truly, Master Guest! Is this how you actually conduct yourself? You throw out all evidence in favor of something more interesting?’

  ‘I assure you I do not. But in talking with the witnes
ses I find that their testimonies dispute one another. And there is a great deal that seems to be kept hidden. I am further assured that the Walcote boy had little to do with it, but I am not certain why he feels he needs to confess to it, and the others skirt around it. There is a great lie here, Lord Sheriff. I consider it my sworn duty to ferret it out.’

  The sheriff stared for a moment before his face burst into a huge smile. ‘Oh Master Guest, you do not disappoint!’

  Crispin barely refrained from rolling his eyes. ‘Did you know John Horne, Lord Sheriff?’

  ‘Only in the faintest of ways. We had a nodding acquaintance, as they say.’

  ‘And did you find him disagreeable?’

  The sheriff blinked dumbly at him and then that bright smile appeared again. ‘You’re interrogating me! How extraordinary. Well, ask away, Master Crispin, ask away! Oh! I may call you Crispin, may I not?’

  ‘If it suits you, Lord Sheriff.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ he chuckled. ‘Well now, getting back to the business of it.’ He schooled his face into something soberer. ‘I myself had little occasion to speak with the man, but I had heard from others what a whoreson he could be. Especially with other men’s wives.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He was a dallier … so they say. And boorish. It’s little wonder he was murdered. We just never expected it to be a boy who did it.’ Crispin’s pointed gaze seemed to stir the sheriff. ‘Oh! I see what you mean, Master Crispin. So I see. You are clever, aren’t you.’

  ‘Just observant, my lord. This concludes my investigation into the Horne matter for the day. If you will excuse me, Abbot William of Westminster has asked for a conference with me.’ He bowed, motioned for Jack to follow, and walked away.

  When Crispin glanced back at the man, Shadworth drooped. He screwed up his face, ready for a rejoinder, but Crispin was too far away from him at this point. He seemed to change his mind and got his horse, fussed with the bridle before he mounted, and rode back, presumably, toward Newgate.

  ‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ said Jack.