The Deepest Grave

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘I will prove it, madam.’

  ‘How? I swear by Almighty God, by the bones of the blessed Saint Modwen herself, that I did not kill my husband. I have been a good and faithful Christian woman. A loyal wife to my husband, a gentle mistress to my household. Tell me, Robert,’ she said, facing him, ‘do you truly think me capable? After all the years you have known me?’

  He looked down at the floor and considered. His puzzled expression was concerning. If Crispin was to convince the sheriffs, he needed the corroboration of this servant. ‘Well, Hull?’ he urged.

  Slowly, he shook his head. ‘Master Guest, what seemed a miserable certainty before, does not seem so now.’

  Damn the man. And damn himself, for he was beginning to feel the same way. He closed his hands into fists. ‘You could have obtained the key from Hull’s key ring and gone through the passage. You found the boy’s dagger on the floor, you picked it up—’

  ‘How could I have obtained the key from Robert’s ring of keys? He wears it at all times.’

  A sinking feeling overtook Crispin. ‘I take it, Master Hull, that you are never without your keys.’

  ‘Never, sir. Even when I go to my rest, the keys are at my bedside. And they make a terrific noise when moved. Madam would never enter my quarters. Indeed, I doubt she has ever been there … or knows where they are.’

  Crispin glared from one to the other. His carefully cultivated plot was unraveling before his eyes. She could be lying. And so could Hull. But the more he listened, and felt their confident tones, the more he doubted it himself. He walked in a circle and slammed his fist to the wall. ‘Someone has come through that alcove passage.’

  ‘Are you still accusing me?’ she asked, unafraid, it seemed.

  He looked her over, and could not say with certainty now that she was guilty. ‘No, madam,’ he muttered.

  ‘Very well. You may leave. And Robert, I have much to say to you.’

  He hung his head. It was Crispin’s fault that the man might lose his situation. And yet, was it possible that the man was lying to Crispin? That he hadn’t lost the keys, but deliberately got rid of them only after using them for the murder?

  Grasping at straws, he told himself. ‘Do not take out your anger on Master Hull,’ said Crispin aloud. ‘He was reluctant and I convinced him. A loyal servant he is, and loyal to God.’

  Her stern face was unmoved, and Crispin backed slowly out of the room. He stood in the gallery and looked below to the entry floor, its chequy tiles, the tapestries on the walls and finery. And none of it could spare the household its sorrows and its sorrows to come.

  What of Nesta? He had only briefly spoken to her. What reason would she have had to kill the master? If he had been toying with her, promised her things he had no intention of fulfilling, that could make a woman angry enough. But such a thing would be a crime of the blood, of passion, and done at the moment. The passage was part of this crime – the blood proved that much. And it meant planning. It meant stealing the keys from Hull, and that would require access that would not be suspicious. Certainly the maids could go everywhere, just as Hull could go everywhere. Who else could go to as many places in the household?

  Someone was walking across the floor below. Crispin noticed it out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced down. Martin Chigwell was carrying on his duties, a roll of cloth under his arm going on to God knew where.

  It fell into place like a pin in a lock. Martin had a key.

  ‘Chigwell!’ he called.

  Martin stopped and looked upward, eyes finding Crispin. Maybe there was a look on Crispin’s face, betraying his intentions. Whatever it was, Martin’s face lost all color; he dropped the cloth, and ran.

  ‘Dammit!’ Crispin scrambled to get down the stairs, leaping down the steps. He grabbed the railing when he reached the bottom and spun toward the door out of which Martin had exited. He cast open the door and found himself in a courtyard. He scanned through the hedges, the trees, the flowering shrubs, the walkways, but didn’t see him. Then he heard a scrapping and grunting near the wall. He hurried through and found the boy making his way over the top. He grabbed his leg and yanked. Martin tumbled to the ground and struggled to rise. Crispin pulled his sword and aimed the point at the boy’s chest. Martin froze, staring at the blade.

  Tears veiled his reddened eyes and he breathed hard through his mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

  Crispin trembled with rage. ‘You swore to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You swore to me. Then you lied to me. You would have let your friend die for what you did!’

  ‘Have mercy, Master Guest.’ He wiped carelessly at his face with his sleeve. ‘I’m not brave like Christopher. And … not as honorable, I guess.’

  Crispin crouched low, the sword still aimed at the boy’s chest. ‘You stole the key to the passage.’

  His eyes widened. ‘How did you …?’ He licked his lips and hung his head. ‘You know all, then, if you know that. I planned it for some time. He was such a miserable man. He said the most awful things about Christopher’s mother. And about me.’ He snuffled, choking on his own snot.

  ‘And?’

  He wiped his face again. ‘I stole Master Hull’s key. I was often in his rooms. We spoke of this and that. As an apprentice, it was part of my job to know what the steward did and what were the doings of the house. That’s what Master Horne told me. I found out about the passage. I got the key off Master Hull’s key ring. So easily. He never noticed. He was even in the room with me. I kept it for a long time. Then, on that day, Master Horne was a beast to me as usual. I decided it would be that day. I went in from the mistress’s room and through the passage. But before I opened the door, I heard him berating Christopher. He made me so angry. And once I heard that Christopher had left, I carefully opened the door. He was alone. And I saw the dagger on the floor. And I … I … took it up and stabbed him. He was so surprised. But he deserved it.’ Martin had begun to cry again. ‘God have mercy, but he deserved it. And I dropped the knife. I thought Master Hull would find him, or even the mistress. I didn’t know it would be Christopher or that he would be blamed. I didn’t know what to do!’

  ‘Confess. That would have helped.’

  ‘I didn’t want to die.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I … I went through the door and escaped through to the mistress’s room. But I saw the blood I’d left on the door latch. I wiped it off with my apron. And it was then I realized that I must have done the same in my master’s room. I dared not go back, and by then I heard the mistress screaming. It was when everyone was rushing through that I was able to get in and wipe it clean. I burned the apron.’ He stared at the blade and then up at Crispin. ‘Do you have to tell, Master Guest?’

  ‘And leave Christopher Walcote to die for you? What do you think?’

  He pressed his hand to his mouth and sobbed.

  A maid screamed. Crispin glanced over his shoulder. ‘Shut your mouth, girl,’ he growled. ‘Get Master Hull at once.’

  He had liked Martin Chigwell. And Christopher liked and trusted him. And under any other circumstances, he might have found a way for the boy to escape. But someone had to stand on the gallows and it wasn’t going to be his son.

  Justice was justice. It wasn’t a pretty thing. It was often messy and unpleasant. But it had to be so.

  And yet, even as he sorrowed for Martin and a young life soon to be cut short by the hangman’s noose, he couldn’t help but cheer that his son would live. But even that satisfaction was brief for, in telling the Walcote family, it would be the last time he talked to Philippa. He vowed, for the boy’s sake, that he would never see him or her again. There was no other way forward.

  When the sheriffs arrived, Crispin explained it all, even as Martin continued to weep, but in the end, he nodded when asked if he were guilty. All through his explanation, Shadworth kept a sharp eye on Crispin. When the bailiffs took Chigwell away amid the weeping servan
ts, the sheriff accosted Crispin by laying a hand on his arm.

  ‘By the saints, Master Guest. You found the killer. Such a shame. I’m sure the boy had great promise.’

  ‘But no loyalty,’ said Crispin bitterly, ‘to his master or his friend.’

  Shadworth shook his head. ‘You are a marvel. A marvel!’

  ‘John,’ said Sheriff Vaunere disgustedly, ‘if you are done fawning over Guest here, are you ready to depart?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. Well done, Master Guest.’

  Crispin bowed. Vaunere made a sound of revulsion and led the way out the door. Shadworth paused, holding the jamb as he looked back at Crispin. ‘Were I a maid I would fair swoon away at your gifts, Master Crispin. You’ve earned your wage. Oh! Have I paid you enough?’ He reached for his pouch, but Crispin, in a hurry to get away, waved him off.

  ‘I’m certain you did, my lord.’

  ‘Well then. I hope we can work together again, Master Crispin, before my time as sheriff is done.’ He puffed up like a grouse and stomped out of the entry.

  Crispin turned to go himself, stepping out over the threshold and standing in the courtyard … when he was stopped by Clarice the maid.

  She hurried to his side, clutching her apron in her fumbling hands. ‘Master Guest, did this have to be so? Martin was such a good lad.’

  ‘He’s a murderer. He plotted and planned it, and when his friend was accused he stayed silent. Your definition of “good” seems lacking.’

  Her fingers touched her lips. ‘Oh, I suppose. It’s just that …’

  ‘You liked him.’ Crispin scowled. He’d liked the lad, too. Sometimes he hated his vocation.

  Clarice began again. ‘I was afraid to tell anyone. Afraid to tell Master Hull.’

  ‘About the murder? Did you know—’

  ‘No, no. None of that. It’s just that Nesta has gone. She said she was leaving London for good with that Noll.’

  Noll? Oh yes. Noll was short for Oliver. Was Nesta his accomplice after all? ‘How much do you know of this man?’

  ‘Nothing. She’d speak so little about him. Only that his brother was a cleric nearby, but nothing of his worth, his prospects, or even his vocation. I’m worried. Such secretive behavior from her is not right. I can only think the worst, that he asked her to be silent on his matters.’

  He mulled over her words, but his mind was too concerned with getting to the Walcotes. ‘It happens that I am investigating … er, somewhat around that area. I will make further enquiries.’ He pivoted, but then turned back. ‘Do you believe she might be in danger?’

  She balled up the hem of her apron tightly. ‘I don’t know, Master Guest. But I fear it. It doesn’t feel right. I’ve known Nesta since we were children. We look after each other. I would never forgive myself if something happened to her and I could have done something to help her. If I’d only known what Martin was planning, I could have stopped him. We haven’t been good at being our brother’s keeper, have we, Master Guest?’

  He squeezed her hand and hastily gave her further reassurance before he quickly left her behind. When he passed through the gate, he glanced back, and Clarice was still watching him.

  He hurried to the Walcotes’ gate. He had both good news and unpleasant. Perhaps he only had to face the good news, and Christopher could be told later of the bad. For he was a coward, too, when it came to his son. He hadn’t the heart to tell him about Martin Chigwell.

  The steward fetched him into the parlor, but Crispin paused in the doorway, surprised. There, the whole family awaited him.

  He girded himself and stepped in, eyes sweeping carefully over Philippa, who was leaning toward him with her lips parted and her eyes wide. Clarence stood beside her, his hand clutching his belt nervously. And Christopher, sullen, brooding, didn’t look at him at all but was instead tossing small sticks into the fire.

  ‘Master Guest,’ said Clarence breathlessly. ‘What news? We saw the sheriffs’ men on the lane …’

  ‘The news is good, Master Walcote. The true murderer was found and confessed. Christopher is free of all suspicion.’

  Philippa cried out, and looked as if she would run to him, but he took a step back. It seemed to snap her out of it, and instead she turned toward Christopher, and much to his chagrin, she grabbed him into an embrace.

  He batted at her, even as he acknowledged her kisses as the dutiful son he was. ‘Mother, please. Not in front of Master Guest.’

  Crispin hid his grin by bending his head toward his chest. He was unnaturally elated. At the same time, he held himself in check. He watched the boy carefully, surreptitiously. He would not see him again. Not in this life. And he cherished the moment, memorizing his features, still amazed at how much they were a mirror of his own.

  And then there was Philippa. Flushed and pink with pleasure, cheeks bright and wet from tears, she was never more beautiful. How he longed to take her in his arms. With an ache in his heart so deep that it wiped the smile from his face, he took another step back, intending to quit the room and leave them to their celebrations.

  He was brought out of his musings as Clarence gathered him in an awkward embrace before setting him loose and pumping his hand. There were tears in the man’s eyes.

  ‘We can’t thank you enough, Guest. I owe you my life for my son’s, at the very least.’

  Crispin lowered his gaze from the man. Here was Clarence gushing at him, and all Crispin could think about was cuckolding the man. He muttered a prayer of strength.

  ‘And to think how I hated you at one time,’ said Clarence. ‘Oh, it was only a matter of moments and so long ago. For it was you who discovered that my brother Lionel murdered that man who had taken Nicholas’s place. Though Lionel was never a very kind man. You might even call him cruel.’ He turned to Philippa. ‘My dear wife said that this Nicholas imposter had been kind to her, for all his deceit.’ He chucked her chin. She gave him a cautious smile. ‘Still, that whole business was very queer, and certainly convoluted, yet you managed to reckon it out, didn’t you, Guest?’

  ‘Yes. It was a puzzle.’

  ‘By Jehovah, you are good at puzzles. And a good thing, too. You saved my son.’ He wiped a tear from his eye and Crispin choked back his own. For he was pleased to save the life of his son, and content that Clarence thought the boy was his own. His future was secure.

  Yet. Something in the back of his mind concerned him. Something Clarence had said that seemed to mesh with something Clarice had mentioned. ‘Master Walcote, in those long-ago days, when you came for the false Nicholas’s funeral, you recognized at once that this was not your brother.’

  ‘Why, yes. Oh, he had the look of Nicholas, right enough, and many years had passed since we had seen him in the flesh. He could have certainly passed for Nicholas from a distance. But, face to face, I knew instantly it wasn’t my brother. Would that we could know the circumstances of our true brother’s death.’

  But Crispin was staring at him. ‘He could have the look of him, but if he were beaten about the face, that could hide any discrepancies, and no one would be the wiser. Especially if they were … brothers.’

  ‘Eh? What’s that you said?’

  ‘God’s blood! I must go. Forgive me my hasty departure.’ He bowed to Clarence, and turned to Philippa. It barely registered now that this would be the last time he saw her. ‘Madam Walcote,’ he said with deep sincerity. He almost took her hand to kiss, but kept his arm at his side, knowing how dangerous a thing it would be to touch her.

  Christopher stepped forward. Crispin held his breath. ‘You saved my life, just like any proper knight. You said you would, and you did.’

  ‘It was my greatest pleasure, Master Christopher.’

  ‘Will I see you again? I would like to show you my horse. You could teach me to joust.’

  Philippa pulled at his shoulder, dragging him back against her, where she threw a protective arm over his chest. ‘Master Guest is very busy with grown-up matters. He don’t have ti
me to play with you.’

  ‘But he promised to be my knight.’

  ‘Hush, child. He has been your knight. He has been a chivalrous knight to us all.’ Her eyes were full of meaning, full of want, but also harbored a plea.

  Do not fear me, he hoped to convey with his eyes. We shall part as chaste as we met.

  Crispin bowed deeply to her. ‘God keep you,’ he said softly, his eyes on her alone. ‘God keep you all.’

  ‘And you, Guest,’ said Clarence, stepping forward, blocking her from view.

  It effectively broke the spell. Crispin had places to go and another murderer to find.

  TWENTY

  He wished he had a horse to get to his destination all the quicker, though it would have been difficult rushing on horseback through the crowded streets of London. Crispin arrived at the meadow in the shadow of the tower and hurried across it to the cottage, but it was as dark as when he had inspected it last time. Yet there was a white cloth tied to the door as he had seen twice before.

  It was obviously a signal, but what did it mean? And where was Jack, for he had sent him here to talk with Master Oliver. He didn’t like the feeling of his neck hairs bristling.

  He circled the cottage again, looking for clues. In the mud, he saw footprints. And they looked large, like Jack’s long-soled boots. He was here, then. But where did he go?

  Glancing back over his shoulder toward the church, Crispin nodded. ‘Of course.’ He took off running, pelting hard over the uneven meadow, splashing through the mud and running through the taller grasses. Breathing hard, he stopped at the church and raised his head, listening. Nothing … wait. Yes, he did hear something faint. Two people arguing, perhaps? One voice, deep and resonant, the other higher-pitched. He walked the length of the back of the church, cocking his head toward the church wall. It was fainter when he walked closer toward the church, louder when he was near the rectory. He peered into the window of the rectory but it was just as empty as the last time he had searched it. But …

  He climbed onto the sill and stood at the glass window. It was locked, but he used his dagger to press between the windows to lift the bar. He pulled it open and leapt to the floor. No cupboards or other rooms, save for the one open space, with hearth and bed. But, noticing the floors, he paused. It looked like the church, with its chequy tiled floor. But this floor wasn’t tiled. It was wood, only painted to imitate what was in the church. He walked along carefully, bent at the waist and scouring the planks with his eyes … there! Seams. A trapdoor. And now he could hear the argument that was plainly between a man and a woman, though it was too muffled to hear their words. He stuck his finger in the hole he found in the door and lifted.