‘Where?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
He said nothing. She took that as leave to go. He watched her for a time. She looked back at him to see if he was following. When she didn’t look back again, he dove into the lane and quietly followed.
He almost lost her when he had to wait for a flock of geese to be coaxed out of the way by their child drover, but he saw her just leaving Tower Street and heading up to All Hallows. Clarice had mentioned that she had a sweetheart named Oliver and it would be the height of coincidence if there were two of that name. He waited for her to make any kind of turn near All Hallows Barking, but she kept going … toward St Modwen’s.
EIGHTEEN
She traversed through the churchyard between the stone markers and crosses. And then toward the cottage that belonged to the gravediggers. Crispin noted two new graves – probably for those two – that she passed by.
Poor devils. Buried in unconsecrated earth. Fie on Bishop Braybrooke!
She turned the corner at the church and disappeared behind it, between the church and rectory.
He slipped over the graveyard wall near the lychgate and kept low along the church, trying to avoid the windows. Carefully, he peeked around the corner. No one. He came around and then to the other side. She wasn’t there. He pondered it for a moment and then saw movement in the meadow. She was heading, as he suspected, toward the small cottage at the meadow’s edge.
Crispin waited in the shadow of the church and watched the small figure make its way across the grassy plain. He couldn’t quite tell, but it looked to him as if she had gained entrance. Waiting a while, he came to the conclusion that she was not to emerge for some time. Should he interrupt them at their communion?
He wondered if he should wait and ultimately decided that he had lingered too long. She had spoken her piece to him. But she had seemed unduly disturbed that he was in possession of the relic. Did she think he stole it? No, it was subtler than that. She seemed concerned about where he had got it. A strange thing to worry over for, surely, he would have got it from the Horne solar. Or did she know of another place?
Perhaps he did wish to interrupt her, for he also wanted to talk to this Oliver.
He set out toward the cottage, this time in the light of day. He was wary of animal traps along the way, but didn’t encounter any. Why should this Oliver wish to scare people off from the churchyard with tales of revenants and glowing lights in the meadow? Was it he who had dug up the graves – no. He had hired those gravediggers to dig them up and they had lied to Crispin and paid with their lives. Yes, he had hired them to dig up the graves and perpetuate this story, even to deceiving poor Father Bulthius. Had they murdered him, too? Or had that deed fallen to this mysterious Oliver? Was Nesta an innocent dupe or an active accomplice?
With thoughts of her in Oliver’s clutches, he moved faster, but when he got to the cottage, it was as shut up as it had been last night. There was no sign that Nesta had even entered the front door. It had the same growth of nasturtiums blocking the entrance.
Though again, there was a white rag tied to the front door latch.
He crept around the back to look for other entrances, but there didn’t appear to be any. He looked through the haphazard shutters of another window but saw no life within.
There was certainly no choice. He’d have to break in and do his best to explain it to the sheriffs … should the occasion arise.
He gripped the shutters through the space between them and pulled. The wood was old and battered, and a plank came away easily. He pulled at the next one beside it and made equally short work of that too. Casting the boards aside, he climbed onto the sill and dropped inside. The place smelled musty of disuse, and there was dust on the surfaces. The beaker and plate he had seen last night were still there, and looked as if they had been in that same position for some time.
He looked about the sad room. Nothing there. No one there. Nothing to indicate that they had in fact been there for a very long while.
He kicked at the shredding rush mat along the floor. He knelt at it and lifted it away. No trapdoor.
Where had Nesta gone? He was certain – almost certain – she had entered here. As far as he knew, nothing lay beyond the cottage but Tower Hill.
He left as he had entered and checked behind the cottage just to make sure. Only a wooded area with a trail that led up to the tower. A fruitless enterprise if ever there was one. He felt slightly embarrassed with himself that he had allowed her to escape. He trudged across the meadow along a narrow path and passed by the church again, seeing nothing changed, and made his way home.
When he finally returned to the Shambles and to his lodgings, he faced the solemn stares of Isabel, Jack, and Abbot William.
Jack jerked toward him. ‘The relic is gone!’
‘I know. I have it.’
‘Oh, blessed mercy, Master Crispin,’ he said, hand clutching his heart. ‘You should have told us. Madam Tucker here was in a state.’
‘Oh, Isabel. I do apologize. I am a man used to living alone.’
Jack made an indignant sound. ‘Here now! What’ve I been doing these last eight years, then?’
‘Men alone, then. And I certainly don’t have to answer to you.’
Of course, the implication was that he had to answer to her. What a strange world his life had become!
‘Crispin,’ said Abbot William, shaking his head. ‘All of us have been in a state. Do you have it still? The relic.’
‘Yes.’ He pressed his hand to the scrip and felt its presence there, felt that unpleasant tingle in his hand. ‘I’d like to keep it close. For now. Jack, there is something I need to do. But this is what I’d like you to do.’
It was decided that Abbot William would remain at his lodgings, while Jack went to his task, and Crispin left for his own. The abbot had argued that the relic should remain with him, but Crispin had an unexplainable feeling that he couldn’t trust where it might end up next, and so elected to keep it in his own scrip. He headed back toward the Horne household.
When Hull opened the door to him, he quickly began to shut it again, but Crispin caught the door and held it. ‘Why Master Hull, one would think I was not welcomed here.’
‘You aren’t. My mistress wishes to never see you again.’
‘That’s not very hospitable. Must I remind you that the sheriffs—’
‘The sheriffs don’t know you as I am beginning to.’
He smirked. Very likely. ‘Nevertheless, I am here to investigate, and investigate I shall. Tell me. Which servant is it that used to serve Master Horne?’
Hull narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t know your meaning?’
‘There is a servant’s alcove in his chamber. Who served there?’
‘Oh. Well, alcove there is, but no one has ever served there. Master Horne was a private man.’
‘No one stayed in that alcove?’
‘No.’
‘I desire that you take me up to his chamber, then.’
He quickly glanced toward the top of the stairs. ‘Madam Horne would forbid it. She doesn’t like you, Master Guest.’
‘It is not required that she – or you, for that matter – like me. It is required that you obey me.’
He looked fit to burst, but he merely took a deep breath, shut his lips tight, and marched toward the stairs. Crispin followed, keeping a sharp eye out for Madam Horne.
They reached the room and Hull had to unlock it. He pushed opened the door and stepped aside for Crispin to enter. Crispin moved into the room and scanned it from wall to wall. ‘Master Hull, did you witness the body of Master Horne?’
He shuddered slightly and nodded. ‘It was there.’ He pointed to the same place that Clementia Horne had.
‘And the boy, Christopher Walcote. Where was he?’
He moved to stand in the place that Christopher was discovered. He was before the bed but facing the door.
‘Are you certain he didn’t move?’
‘And was he positioned as you are now? Facing the door?’
‘Yes.’
Scanning the room again, Crispin noted that the alcove would have been to Christopher’s back. ‘That alcove. You say no servant beds there.’
‘As far as I know, no one ever has. Master Horne was a private man.’
‘So you said.’ He strode toward the alcove, grasped the door latch, and tried to open it, but it was locked. ‘Who has the key to this?’
‘Only me.’
‘Open it, if you will.’
He bit his lip and cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, Master Guest, but I cannot.’
Crispin fastened his most accusing glare on him. ‘And why not?’
‘Because … the key has been missing for a fortnight at least.’
‘You are the keeper of the keys.’
‘Yes. I … please don’t tell my mistress.’
A household kept in fear. He relaxed his posture and nodded toward the steward. ‘Have no fear of that, Master Hull. But I need to open that door.’
‘But I don’t have the key.’
‘We won’t need one. I have certain … skills.’ He walked to the shadowed alcove, and knelt in front of the door. A locksmith had owed him a favor, and designed the tools he had long desired, no longer needing the sharpened blade of his dagger or the aiglet of his shirt’s laces anymore. He took them from his money pouch and, fitting the curved, twig-like metal sticks into the lock, he used the two to manipulate the pins inside. They easily clicked into place, and he pulled the latch open.
Crispin looked back at the astonished Hull. ‘I won’t tell your mistress, if you won’t either.’
He rose and stepped into the passage. Looking back, he saw a dark substance on the inside latch and door. ‘Would you be so good as to fetch a candle for me, Master Hull?’
The man hurried to comply, grabbing one from a wall sconce in the corridor, and ran back inside the chamber with it, shielding the flame with his palm. He handed it to Crispin, who hovered the candle near the latch, swiped some of it with his finger, and sniffed. There was definitely dried blood on the latch and door. The murderer had entered from here, he was certain of it, and most likely fled by the same route. He raised the candle to examine the passage.
‘Do you know where this passage leads, Hull?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t say I ever remember opening this door.’
‘Then will you accompany me?’
The man paused for only a moment before he made a curt nod. His expression seemed to say that he had a new respect for Crispin. Crispin hoped that would remain once they got to where he believed that passage ended.
First, they traveled in a long arc, going downward, their footsteps echoing back to them in the tight quarters. But soon enough it rose again, and in the dark shadows ahead, they saw its end. They reached a similar door which was also locked. But Crispin did not immediately kneel to unlock this door. Instead, he leaned over to listen at the wood to make certain the next chamber was uninhabited.
He turned to his companion. ‘And you have no idea what room this might be.’
Hull shrugged. ‘The kitchens, I assumed, but …’ He was thoughtful. ‘We traveled upward again.’ After a pause, he slowly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know where we are.’
Crispin knelt and performed the same work on this lock as he had the other, and when the door latch clicked, he hesitated opening the door. He kept close to it and peered through the jamb as he opened it only a slice.
‘What is it?’ whispered Hull. ‘Where are we?’
‘I can’t be certain,’ Crispin whispered back, ‘but I surmise …’ He opened the door wider. A chamber nearly as large and as well-appointed as John Horne’s.
The steward stood at his back and peered in with widened eyes. ‘It is Madam Horne’s room,’ he said faintly.
NINETEEN
Hull was silent as they entered carefully. Once Crispin established that no one was there, he stood in the archway of an identical alcove to the first, and surveyed the room. Looking back, he did not see blood on the door or latch.
‘As I suspected. She came through the passage to his room from this one. I surmise that she stole the key from you some weeks ago, with this very intent.’
‘To kill my master?’
‘Oh yes. For you said they argued at length and for some years.’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t follow that—’
‘Do you think a wife cannot stew and plot, Hull?’
‘Well … I never much thought about it, but—’
‘Christopher Walcote was a convenience. A very handy one. It could just as easily have been put upon Martin Chigwell … or you.’
‘No. I … I refuse to believe it.’
‘She made her way through this passage, after having secured the key. How she must have plotted. And when she found young Walcote’s dagger upon the floor, she saw her way through to it. She picked it up, caught Master Horne unawares, I imagine, and stabbed him fatally in the back. He must have turned and she gave him one final blow. She left the knife and escaped through the door by which she had come. She likely planned to lock it again, but she heard someone come in. Young Walcote. She heard their brief exchange, heard her husband fall to the floor for the last time, and burst through this door. She left blood upon the inside of the latch. Perhaps later she thought to clean the front of the latch, but not the inside. When she came in, the blood on her hands could be easily explained as she held her dead husband.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t Young Master Walcote say he saw her there?’
‘He told me she “suddenly appeared”. But he was facing the door to the chamber. And she didn’t enter from there. He would have plainly seen her if she had. She entered from behind him, and indeed, she would seem to have “suddenly” appeared.’
‘My God.’
‘Do you see the truth of it, Hull? Will you help me or hinder me?’
‘She is my mistress … but … the boy. He is innocent. Should he hang for her?’
‘That is the question you must ask yourself, Hull. Are you loyal to your murdering mistress … or to God?’
He crossed himself. It seemed that he had decided.
‘Where is your mistress now?’
‘I … I …’
He grabbed the man by his forearms. ‘Have courage, Hull! Where is she?’
‘Likely in the solar. Praying to that damned relic.’
Crispin left him. Surely, she would have noticed by now that it was missing again.
He strode down the corridor to the solar and cast open the door.
She was at a prie-dieu before the empty niche where the reliquary had been. But instead of ranting and raving as he might have expected, she was shaking her head. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she was saying, oblivious as to who had entered. Crispin guessed that she assumed it was a maid or other servant.
‘What, madam?’ said Hull, coming up behind Crispin.
‘It’s gone again, Robert. The relic. St Modwen. I think … I think she is angry with us.’
‘When there is sin in the household, then I suppose that is true.’
She angled her body away from her prayer book atop the prie-dieu and looked behind her. ‘Oh. There is that very troublesome Crispin Guest.’
‘Yes, madam. With your permission, I will have Master Hull send a servant for the sheriffs.’
She huffed and pushed herself to her feet. ‘And why is that?’
‘Because they will come to arrest you for the murder of your husband.’
A pause, before her face reddened. ‘Get out of my house.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’
‘You … you have the gall to accuse me …’
‘I think you have plotted a long time for this, for your opportunity.’
She tu
rned her glare on Hull. ‘And you! You’re helping him? Why? Why would you do such a foolish, foolish thing? Risking your position and your oaths to serve this family.’
Hull’s face was awash with tears and he shook his head. ‘I would see justice done.’
‘Justice? What would you know of justice? What would you know what was in my heart? Or my soul?’
He shook his head again and remained silent.
She raised her chin and looked down her nose at Crispin. ‘Where is your proof?’
‘You obtained the key to the passage door that connects your husband’s room to yours, and there you—’
‘Key? Passage? What on earth are you talking about?’
The merest of shivers passed up between his shoulder blades. Perhaps it was her tone. Oh, some had lied to him. Convincingly, but not many. He suspected she was lying now. Only … there was something in her tone.
‘The passage between your rooms, in the servant’s alcove.’
She frowned. ‘That door doesn’t open. It hasn’t opened for over twenty years.’
‘We did go through it, madam,’ said Crispin, ‘just now, and found blood on the door inside the passage.’
Her indignation turned to shock, and she felt behind her for the prie-dieu to steady herself. ‘Robert, is this true?’
He wiped his nose and gulped back a sob. ‘Yes, madam.’
‘And you think I did it?’
Crispin stepped forward in front of Hull. ‘Yes.’
‘Blessed Jesu,’ she said quietly, crossing herself. ‘While it is true my husband was an adulterer and a scold, he was still … my husband. I could not have killed him.’
‘Christopher Walcote was facing the door to the chamber when he said you “suddenly appeared”, but he did not see you enter, could not have seen you enter. And so I surmised you came from the alcove—’
‘And that is your proof?’ Her shock fell away, replaced by anger again. ‘The boy was obviously confused. He had just murdered my husband! Perhaps he was not in his right mind. I came in from the chamber door. Nothing else is possible.’ She clasped her hands before her. ‘Bring your sheriffs. I will tell them what an incompetent fool they have trusted in you, Crispin Guest.’
The Deepest Grave Page 19
