The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I’m certain God will forgive it. He has forgiven so much from me as it is, one more won’t strain Him.’

  ‘You shouldn’t blaspheme, sir.’

  ‘We have work to do, Jack.’

  They both looked toward the sun making its long trek toward the western horizon. But there were still some hours to pass before sunset.

  Crispin crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the newly covered grave. Tom the gravedigger leaned the spade over his shoulder, and with his dirty hand resting on Hal’s shoulder, they both lumbered away to a rickety shed at the other end of the yard. As soon as they disappeared, Crispin hurried to the newly made mound of dirt.

  He stooped, examining it, looking for any clues that would give him some idea of why a corpse would rise. It looked like any other grave he had ever seen. And he had noticed the prodigious use of holy water both at the funeral mass inside the church, and over the coffin and dirt outside it. If holy water were not enough to stop a revenant …

  ‘I noticed the gardeners … er … gravediggers,’ said Jack, ‘made extra certain that they tamped down the soil over it, sir. They don’t want Horne walking any more than we do.’

  ‘But I do want him to walk, Jack.’

  ‘What? That’s blasphemy, too!’

  ‘I’m fairly certain that he will. For, as I have said many a time, you must not always believe your eyes. At least at first glance.’

  ‘You still think it’s a trick?’

  ‘I hope to God it is.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’

  ‘Then thank God Abbot William is with us.’ He brushed the dirt off his hands and straightened. He looked toward the sun again. ‘There is time for us to make our way to an alehouse.’

  ‘I thought an alehouse would get into it at some point,’ Jack muttered.

  Abbot William boarded his horse since they didn’t want the beast to be tied up all day and night. The abbot was content to sit in the alehouse, watching the rabble. He filled his horn cup several times with the aromatic ale, while Crispin sipped at his wine.

  ‘So that was the bereaved family,’ said the abbot. ‘I have seen many a funeral, Crispin, as you can imagine. Presided over almost that many more. One can’t help but observe the family undercurrents.’

  ‘And this one?’

  The abbot shrugged. ‘Not all widows wail over their husbands’ coffins. Some are reserved by nature. And some, well … Theirs was a marriage of partnership, of alliances, and though we priests assure both parties that love will come in time … sometimes it does not. We might have the same situation here with Madam Horne.’ He took another drink and set the cup down. ‘Who was the grieving youth? Their son?’

  ‘No. He was Master Horne’s apprentice.’

  ‘I see. Perhaps he fears for his situation now. He isn’t likely to be of an age and experience to take over the business, is he? Or perhaps he had a special fondness for his master. It sometimes happens that apprentices grow very fond of their masters, thinking of them like a father.’ He glanced at Jack over his cup.

  ‘That was not the case with Martin Chigwell. He said that John Horne was disagreeable most of the time. Even the sheriff admitted as much. In fact, the sheriff intimated that Horne was a cuckolder and not well liked by his community of mercers. If I may quote the sheriff: “It’s little wonder he was murdered. We just never expected it to be a boy who did it.”’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ said the abbot. ‘What do you think on the matter, Master Tucker?’

  Jack jerked in his seat, not expecting to be addressed. ‘Aye, Lord Abbot?’

  ‘You’re an apprentice. What do you think is Martin Chigwell’s motivation for his actions today?’

  ‘He’s worried about something, my lord. But I don’t think it’s his master. I think it’s something else, but I can’t put my finger on it. Sir,’ he said to Crispin, ‘if we could put Martin and Christopher in the same room and let them talk, I’m certain we can make much of it, especially if they thought they were alone.’

  ‘That’s good thinking, Jack,’ he said, running a finger thoughtfully over his lower lip. ‘As soon as this business tonight is done, then we can concentrate more fully on the matter.’

  ‘You think it will be done tonight?’

  ‘Yes. We will discover what the truth of the matter is before the night is out. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Bold words, Crispin,’ said Abbot William.

  ‘It’s not pride, Lord Abbot, but mere sure-footedness. Father Bulthius is unaware of what could be behind it, but I suspect something more mundane than demonic.’

  Abbot William leaned forward. ‘Like what?’

  Crispin sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘The most obvious might be to simply lure him away from the rectory at night in order for an accomplice to steal from the church. Last night there were silver candlesticks on the altar. Today they were missing.’

  Jack pushed at him. ‘Why didn’t you say so before, master?’

  ‘We shall have to ask him if other items have gone missing,’ he said with a lopsided grin. ‘I tell you we can clear this up quickly.’

  ‘I’d look no further than the gravediggers’ cottage. Them two could easily dig up graves and steal from them. And take what they like out of the church without the priest knowing what’s happened.’ He nodded toward Abbot William. ‘Nimble fingers, my lord, can do much mischief.’

  ‘I understand that this is something you know about well, Master Tucker.’

  ‘Oh, er, well—’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ cut in Crispin. ‘I’m certain you do not wish to embarrass the boy by bringing up a history long past.’

  ‘But our history is what makes us, wouldn’t you agree, Crispin? For instance, if you had not had the temerity to commit treason, then perhaps you wouldn’t be quite as interesting or noble a person as you turned out to be.’

  So casually spoken, it took Crispin aback. ‘I …’

  ‘I don’t mind talking of my life as a cutpurse.’ Now it was Jack’s turn to rescue him. Crispin appreciated the gesture.

  ‘You were an orphan, were you not?’

  ‘Aye, m’lord. Not a soul on this earth to care for me. It was do the deed or starve. And what does the Church say about this moral dilemma, sir? Should I have starved to death for the good of my soul? For I was later reformed and now I do good in the world.’

  ‘That is an interesting point you make. Certainly the seventh commandment forbids theft. Snatching another’s property against the will of the owner. However, is it truly theft if consent can be presumed?’

  ‘I assure you, Abbot William, consent was the last thing on their minds.’

  ‘Ah, but as St Thomas Aquinas tells us, the starving man’s need makes the other man’s bread his possession.’

  ‘How does coin figure into it, sir? For it was often more expedient to simply steal men’s purses.’

  ‘And what, pray, did you buy with these ill-gotten gains?’

  ‘Well … food, sir.’

  ‘Then, in this case, the coins are as good as bread. Now, if your determination to steal had been to aggrandize yourself, to purchase baubles and entertainments to commit more sin, it cannot be assumed that your needs were great.’

  ‘I never did that, m’lord. My only concerns were food and shelter. I was only a lad, after all. I hadn’t any other sins to add to me mind yet. I mean, I knew it was wrong, but who would take in a lad like me?’

  ‘Only me,’ said Crispin into his cup.

  ‘Your charity was great, Crispin,’ said the abbot. ‘For I’ll wager you had nothing to offer the lad but said food and shelter, and he gladly worked for the privilege. These are great signifiers of grace.’

  He and Jack exchanged glances. ‘I didn’t do it for charity,’ said Crispin softly. ‘I simply couldn’t get rid of the boy.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Aye, I was persistent, that’s a certainty.’

  Crispin snorted. ‘“Persistent�
�? Is that what you call it? I called you a nuisance.’

  ‘I was that too, sir.’ Jack grinned.

  Abbot William downed his cup. ‘And how well it turned out. Well, we should not keep poor Father Bulthius waiting.’ He rose and straightened his robes. ‘I’m certain he’s already agitated enough.’

  Crispin rose and Jack followed suit, and soon they had paid the alewife and made their way to the street again.

  Abbot William chuckled. ‘It feels like a fair day when I was a child.’

  ‘Were you ever a child, my lord?’

  ‘Tut, Crispin, I could say the same of you. You are so serious. True, your predicament is a serious matter, but you seem to have risen above it and recovered your honor, in a fashion.’

  Blunt as always. Abbot William didn’t mince words, though Crispin sometimes hoped he might. He said nothing to that but he saw Jack bristle for him.

  The golden-yellow light from the horizon streaked across the lane and painted the church walls, stealthily crawling up to the top of the bell tower, tipping each crenellation with gold. Until the sun suddenly dipped too far and the light was only like a mist upon the rocky face of the structure. The graveyard was falling into shadows, first gray, then blue, then darkest black. The moon was already up, a gold moon, but it was low yet, just peering over the rooftops of London.

  They ventured first into the church by the side door closest to the rectory building.

  ‘Father Bulthius!’ Crispin called. No answer. ‘Jack, go take a look around. See if our priest isn’t doing his rounds or some such.’

  ‘Aye, master.’ Jack hurried back through the church and called out for the priest.

  Crispin turned to Abbot William who had at last put a solemn face to the proceedings. ‘What now, Crispin? This is your territory.’

  ‘Well, it is best we go into the churchyard and keep watch of the newest grave. And then we—’

  ‘Master! Master Crispin!’

  Jack clung to the doorway, his usually pale face shining even whiter. ‘What is it, Jack?’

  ‘Come quick, master!’ He tore out of the door and disappeared into the gloom.

  Crispin took one look at Abbot William and pelted after his apprentice. He followed his tall, dark figure through the headstones to the mercer’s new grave and stopped dead. The coffin was sitting upright on a pile of newly unearthed soil. ‘What the devil?’

  Abbot William’s heavy footfalls padded after as he came to a stop beside Crispin. His breath was heaving. No doubt the abbot wasn’t used to such vigorous activity as running through churchyards.

  ‘What is it, Crispin?’ But he stopped when he saw the coffin. ‘Blessed Lord.’ He crossed himself.

  Crispin came around to the front, turning to see what Jack was pointing to.

  The coffin lay open, its lid cast aside. But inside the casket … The gown was bloody, and no wonder. His head had been severed from its neck and placed neatly between his legs at his feet. But it was that face that Crispin knew would haunt his dreams for years to come. It was bloody and beaten, mouth open and twisted in an eternal silenced scream.

  ‘It’s horrific, Crispin,’ gasped Abbot William. ‘Who could have done that to poor John Horne?’

  ‘It isn’t John Horne,’ said Crispin. ‘That is Father Bulthius.’

  NINE

  The abbot intoned prayers over the corpse, hands clasped and pressed to his lips.

  ‘Where’s John Horne?’ whispered Jack desperately.

  Crispin couldn’t help himself and spun around, looking into the distance, expecting to see the man’s corpse walking into the rising mist.

  ‘I don’t know. We should fan out. Search for it.’

  Jack pulled his dagger free. And, with a deep breath, he turned and headed south.

  Abbot William was staring at Crispin with a pale countenance. ‘Am I to search as well?’

  ‘It would be very much appreciated, my lord.’

  The abbot seemed to gird himself and compose his face. He took up the metal cross that hung over his chest and raised it aloft. ‘I’ll go that way,’ and he pointed north.

  Crispin felt foolish, but he still thought it the best course to draw his blade, stretching the sharp dagger before him. He moved away from the church, roughly in an easterly direction. Oh how the darkness could give rise to wild imaginings! Any ordinary night would simply be the relief at the end of a long day. But in graveyards, the dark thrust upon a wary mind all the ghosts of one’s past, of every fear and nightmare from one’s childhood bed. Crispin tried to shake it off, but he couldn’t help the hairs on the back of his neck from rising, or the ripple of discomfort from slithering up his spine.

  Footfalls.

  Crispin stilled and listened. Was it Jack or Abbot William? No, they had gone in the opposite direction. He cocked his head, listening hard.

  The tread was steady and slow, as if someone were carrying a burden. When he looked past the trees he thought he saw movement. Stalking carefully forward, he caught sight of the tail end of a gown … or was it a trailing shroud?

  Crispin ran. He slid through the trees and out to the expanse of meadow and saw … nothing.

  Had it been the moonlight playing tricks with his eyes? But he had heard the footsteps, hadn’t he?

  A whisper of a sound on the wind. A moan? His hand readjusted his grip on the dagger hilt.

  A rustling behind him made him spin to look. That trailing hem. He paused just that long before he dove through the brambles for it, but it eluded him again. Especially when a cloud passed over the rising moon at just that moment.

  With the darkness complete, he could see nothing. He strained his eyes and ears and saw in the distance in the meadow a faint bouncing light. It flickered and bobbed and, as he watched it, it grew fainter. He hurried toward it and was startled by an animal scream.

  Stopping, he listened again. A fox? But it wasn’t repeated and suddenly the light winked out. He stood a long time, scanning the dark meadow, listening carefully, and soon gave up. Keeping a sharp eye out, and glancing over his shoulder now and again, he made for the church. He stumbled once and saw what looked like twine – threads twisted together. Likely a snare. He brushed off his cote-hardie and returned to the churchyard and the grave, staring at the ghastly corpse now within the coffin. Had the corpse of John Horne done the deed? The Devil himself?

  Crispin shook his head curtly, as if convincing the voices warring in his head. And then he glanced for only an eye-blink into the dark grave itself and caught a glimpse of something white.

  The cloud passed away from the moon, allowing the disc’s light to shine forth, and a white shroud was illuminated below. And then a white leg from beneath the shroud and that unmistakable stench of the dead.

  ‘Jack! Abbot William! Come here!’

  Crispin stepped to the side of the grave and leapt in. That shiver up his spine returned, for he had escaped death by a hairsbreadth too many times to count. No need to court it by stepping into a grave on his own.

  It smelled strongly of the corpse and the deep, earthy smell of newly turned soil. Roots sprang from the grave’s walls, curling back toward themselves, as if not wishing to touch the body.

  He knelt and pulled the face cloth away from the corpse’s countenance … it was Horne. And on the cloth, specks of blood just where his mouth had been. What had the corpse got up to?

  ‘Master Crispin! Where are you?’ called Jack.

  He popped his head from the grave and said, ‘Here!’

  ‘God’s blood!’ Jack screamed and fell back on his tail. He laid a hand to his heart. ‘God’s teeth and bones! What did you go and do a thing like that for, master? I nearly shat me braies.’

  ‘Sorry. But I have found Master Horne. He is here. In his own grave. Help me out.’ He reached out a hand and Jack grabbed hold of it, while Crispin used that leverage to haul himself out.

  He brushed off the grave soil, grimacing in distaste, and looked down into the hole. Abbot William ra
n up, joining them, and the three of them stood on the edge of the grave and peered down.

  ‘He was there all this time,’ said the abbot.

  Crispin grunted. ‘Was he? I didn’t notice the shroud before. And look at his face cloth.’

  They did. The two on either side of Crispin gasped as they recognized the blood.

  Jack took a step back. ‘Did he do this to Father Bulthius?’

  Crispin shook his head. ‘I refuse to believe it.’

  ‘Crispin!’ cried the abbot. ‘You see it with your own eyes.’

  ‘I see a corpse dumped into a grave. I see a decapitated man thrust into his unearthed coffin. I see foul play.’

  ‘But surely … surely it is the Devil at work?’

  ‘The Devil in someone, perhaps. But mayhem was done and now I must see to this murder. Jack, go to Newgate and have them fetch the sheriffs.’

  They waited. Abbot William knelt beside the grave and chanted his Latin over the corpse lying at the bottom of the grave, and Crispin paced before it, keeping half an ear open to the graveyard, and the other half on the road for the sheriffs.

  The sheriffs’ horses arrived first.

  He approached them and laid his hand on Shadworth’s horse’s bridle. ‘My lords,’ he said to them with a bow.

  ‘I was at my supper, Guest,’ said Vaunere with a scowl. ‘And I don’t like being interrupted when I’m eating.’

  ‘I assure you, Lord Sheriff, that I would not have had my man interrupt you if it hadn’t been of the utmost importance.’

  Just then, Jack popped up. He’d been following behind the sheriffs along with the bailiffs. He gave a nod to Crispin and got out of the bailiffs’ way. The men bore burning coals in cresset cages dangling from poles, illuminating everyone’s faces with mere glances of light.

  ‘See here, Henry,’ said Shadworth. ‘It must be important if Master Guest declares it so. And look! There is the Abbot of Westminster.’ He climbed off his horse and ambled toward Crispin, before Crispin stepped aside so he could see. The sheriff gasped when he beheld the casket.

  ‘Bless us with all of God’s saints! Henry! Henry! Come look.’

  ‘I’m coming. Good grief, John. You do let Master Guest ruffle you.’ He approached and looked where Shadworth pointed. ‘Holy Christ.’