The Deepest Grave Read online

  Christopher turned such a look of hatred to Crispin he almost took a step back. ‘Yes.’

  No hesitation. ‘Did you try to steal a relic?’

  He turned away again. ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened that night?’

  Slowly, the boy shook his head.

  ‘You don’t know what happened, or you can’t tell me?’

  He shook his head again.

  Crispin got in close and crouched to be at the same height. ‘Master Christopher, do you know your life is in danger? The sheriffs will come and take you to Newgate and lock you in a cell. They might even take you to Fleet Prison.’

  The boy shivered. He nodded.

  ‘Do you wish to die?’

  ‘God will save me. I’ve prayed.’

  A deep pang suddenly assailed Crispin’s heart. He’d had so many losses in his life. He couldn’t lose again. Not again. ‘You must help God and his saints to help you.’

  The boy’s eyes suddenly faced his own. ‘Why? Is not God all-powerful?’

  ‘He is. But …’

  ‘Then He’ll save me.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can tell me?’

  He shook his head again.

  The boy was stubborn. ‘Well … I will see you again. Perhaps you’ll feel you can talk to me then.’

  He turned to go but the boy rose and spoke, stopping him. ‘It’s funny. You look like me.’

  ‘Er … there are probably many who … who …’

  ‘Why? No one else here looks like me. Even my father doesn’t.’

  He took several strides before he was standing before the boy again. ‘There are some things we should not speak aloud, boy. For one’s own good. Has your mother never told you?’

  ‘Yes, she has.’

  He was slightly surprised but, given the circumstances, maybe he wasn’t. ‘Then I would listen to that advice.’

  He turned on his heel again and left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Leaning his back against the door, he breathed. A son! He had a son. He could not have hoped for better. He thought he would die without progeny. There was Jack, but he wasn’t blood. And yet … a bastard son. Even as his heart lifted, his soul deflated. A son he could never acknowledge. To do so would be to condemn him.

  He straightened again, and walked unsteadily down the gallery. He descended the stairs and reached the parlor, where the Walcotes were sitting quietly as Jack stood by.

  When Philippa looked up at him he glared. She lowered her face. Clarence acknowledged nothing by his expression or gestures. Could it be he did not know? The man hadn’t been the most intelligent in Crispin’s estimation, and denial of the truth had been the hallmark of many a cuckolded husband, but could it truly be so? When Clarence looked at his black-haired son, did he truly think he was his? Yet, he hadn’t denied him, and that was a mercy.

  Crispin took a moment to compose himself.

  ‘Well, man,’ said Clarence. ‘Did he tell you anything?’

  ‘No. I shall have to investigate. But he says he did not take the relic.’

  Clarence’s brows shadowed his eyes. ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I always believe my son.’

  No, the man wasn’t lying. He believed that Christopher was his son. Believed that he would not lie to him.

  ‘I tend to believe him, too,’ said Crispin softly.

  Jack was studying Crispin’s face curiously. He clearly knew there was something just below the surface, and Crispin well knew he’d be interrogated on the walk back. He tried to avoid eye contact with the lad.

  ‘The Horne estate is in mourning,’ Clarence reminded them.

  ‘And so was this one when Master Guest came investigating that first time,’ said Philippa harshly.

  ‘Investigations are not pleasant,’ said Crispin. ‘They turn over rocks and find the slime beneath.’

  ‘And you were good at that,’ said Clarence. He nodded ruefully. ‘I suppose my brother learned that the hard way.’

  ‘If you are prepared for unpleasant truths, I will proceed. My, erm, fee is still sixpence a day.’

  Clarence huffed. ‘Oh yes. Must pay the Devil his due.’ He took a small coin pouch from his scrip and walked across the parlor to hand it to Crispin. ‘A sennight’s wages. I have no doubt that this might become drawn out. And I know you will do the job, right, Guest?’

  Crispin held the weighty pouch in his hand for a moment before handing it to Jack without looking back at the boy. A week’s wages! Nearly four shillings. That would keep them well.

  He bowed. ‘Thank you, Master Walcote. I will endeavor to do my best.’

  Clarence nodded. ‘It’s my son’s life, Guest. We’ve only got him. I’d give my entire business for him, so don’t fail us.’ His eyes glistened for a moment before he quickly wiped at his nose. ‘I must get back to the warehouse. My wife can help you with any further details.’ He leaned over and kissed her forehead, gave her a conciliatory nod, and strode out of the parlor.

  Jack and Crispin were suddenly alone with Philippa. Crispin felt the sweat trickle down his spine as he stood there, when Jack suddenly announced, ‘I’ll, er, see to the, erm, the matter, shall I?’

  Barely aware of Jack’s nattering, Crispin raised his head. ‘The matter?’

  ‘Aye, sir. The matter. That I’m to see to.’ He dithered a moment before he stalked hurriedly out of the door. The sound of a servant opening and shutting the front entrance rang out in the foyer until all fell silent again.

  Crispin stood while Philippa sat. He breathed, not knowing what to say, what to do. His hands, restless things, suddenly felt like bulky parcels hanging at the ends of his arms.

  ‘You look well, Crispin.’

  He hadn’t wanted to look at her any more than necessary, but this time he did. And now that he had, he couldn’t stop staring. It was as if it all had been yesterday.

  ‘Philippa …’

  She was on her feet in an instant. He hadn’t seen it coming. But once she was close enough he couldn’t help but take her in his arms. When their lips met, the years fell away, and he was in that moment once more. His mouth, his tongue found hers, and the burst of emotions flooded his chest with heat. She was his again.

  His one hand cupped the smooth softness of her hair, fingers itching to unbind it. His other clasped her waist and inched down to a plump hip. And his mouth … Oh, his mouth tasted and suckled the sweetness of her lips, then tore away and trailed down her throat which she bared for him by throwing back her head.

  ‘Crispin, Crispin …’

  He growled, not able to form words, only to revel in the fine smoothness of her skin under his lips. He nuzzled her throat with his mouth, nose, cheek. To feel her again, to touch her, smell her! He nearly lost himself in the sensations … until all at once he stopped. His senses had been calling to him, screaming at him. And it was only now that he heard that voice. It was Reason, and though he dearly wanted to ignore it, he knew he could not. The pain in his heart was almost too much to bear, but his desires, though even now warring with his honor, told him to gently but firmly push her away.

  Her eyes, pupils blown, wildly asked, but he could tell the moment she knew.

  ‘We can’t,’ he whispered. ‘You’re married. And that is one sin for which I will not fall.’

  She touched trembling fingers to her mouth. ‘Aye. You are right, of course. You’re right.’ She took herself from him then, stepping back, putting a shielding hand to her torso over her gown, as if holding down her beating heart.

  Panting, Crispin stood flushed, hard, discontented. ‘Christopher,’ he rasped when he could speak again.

  She turned away and sighed. ‘How could I tell you?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Philippa!’

  Her eyes blazed. ‘How could I tell you!’

  His anger sustained him for but a moment before it dissipated like a puff of smoke. ‘I know.’

  ‘What will you do?’
>
  He ran a hand over his face. A sigh drew his shoulders up then down. ‘Nothing. I will do nothing. I would not jeopardize his place in the world. And you must never tell him either.’

  ‘I know.’ She sniffed, wiping her nose with her hand. ‘So many times I wanted to tell you, send you a message. I must have written so many letters. Letters that I burned.’

  He nodded, his throat too hot to speak.

  ‘But you must know this. Clarence has been good to me. And … he does not know.’

  His skeptical look made her laugh.

  ‘Surely you realize what a … a simple man he is. He never questioned it. And he has been good to Christopher. Christopher,’ she said with a distant smile. ‘I dared not name him after you. But it was as close as I could come.’

  ‘Philippa.’

  ‘And I never would have contacted you again. You must believe me. I never would have torn open that wound if it hadn’t been so urgent.’ She raised her chin and looked at him, a defiant glint to her eye. Her fisted hand pressed against her thigh. ‘But there hasn’t been a day gone by that I haven’t thought of you. And I am more than gratified that perhaps the same could be said … of you.’

  ‘Dammit, woman. What good does it do?’

  ‘Nothing. But it is gratifying nonetheless.’

  He straightened his coat. ‘I will naturally do all I can for the boy. But if it comes out that he did do it …’

  ‘Will you tell that to the sheriffs?’

  He searched his heart but came up empty. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I trust you, Crispin.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I trust you. Your Master Tucker will keep you on the right path. Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way.’

  ‘I daresay he will. Jack isn’t given to sentimentality.’

  ‘He’s grown into a fine man under your tutelage.’

  Talk of Jack opened the clouds and allowed a glimpse of light to unburden his soul. ‘I have depended upon him these last eight years. He’s married now, with a babe on the way, in fact.’

  ‘Oh. Tell him how pleased I am.’

  ‘I shall. And … have you … are there any other children …?’

  ‘No. We tried, but … Poor Clarence. I don’t think he’s … able. He was so pleased when Christopher was born right away. He was so disappointed that there were no more. But he believes he has a son. A name to carry on.’

  ‘Yes.’ He had not meant the word to come out so bitterly.

  ‘And you? Did you ever marry?’

  His hands whitened into fists. ‘No.’

  Her smile waned. The pleasantries were over. ‘It wasn’t Christopher,’ she said. ‘No matter what he says. It can’t be. Find the killer, Crispin.’

  ‘I will do what I can, madam.’

  The pull to her was too strong for him to continue to stay. He jerked his head in a curt bow and strode quickly from the parlor. He was at the entry door before a servant could scramble forward and open it for him.

  He hadn’t made it more than a few steps on the lane when Jack ran up to him. ‘Master Crispin. Is … all well, sir?’

  He scowled at the mud. ‘What do you think?’ he said tightly.

  Jack fell in step with him and did not speak. Until, ‘To Newgate, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ was all he said.

  SIX

  ‘Master Crispin,’ said Jack softly as they neared Newgate Market. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘But it looks like there’s more to it than merely seeing Madam Walcote again.’

  ‘I said there’s nothing wrong!’

  He sighed and muttered, ‘If it’s nothing then it shouldn’t be so loud.’

  Scowling, Crispin glared. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  It wasn’t fair to Jack, his foul mood, but there was little to be done. And with Newgate’s arch now in sight, that foul mood was likely to get fouler.

  Newgate’s troublesome bailiffs were nowhere to be seen, and instead the page, Rafe, was stoking the fire in an iron brazier. ‘Master Guest and Master Tucker,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting me to announce you.’

  Rafe was growing from a boy to a young man, though he was still much younger than Jack, but the blond hair draping over his pale gray eyes gave him a more mature appearance.

  ‘If you would, Rafe,’ said Crispin, surprised at how civil he sounded.

  They followed him up the darkened stair and up into the parlor. Usually the sheriffs’ clerk, Hamo Eckington was there, penning his parchments and grumbling at Crispin, but he, too, was absent. Rafe knocked on the sheriffs’ chamber door and pushed his way in when there was an answering call. ‘Crispin Guest, the Tracker, here to see you, my lords. Master Guest, Henry Vaunere and John Shadworth, sheriffs of London.’ He bowed and left the room.

  Sheriff Vaunere sat at the desk, poring over a pile of rolled parchments. It was Shadworth who scrambled forward. He was short, stout, and dark-haired, with a dark wide beard lying over the collar of his bright green houppelande. His eager eyes took in Crispin and Jack with almost a hunger. ‘So this is Crispin Guest. Oh my! I have heard so much about you. So much, in fact, that I could scarce believe any of it was true. I’ve been sorely disappointed that you have made no appearance to us till now. And here you are at last. And this must be Jack Tucker if he’s anyone. Yes, the ginger beard and curly hair. I’ve been told about you, too, Master Tucker. The Tracker and his apprentice. In our hall.’

  Crispin exchanged a quick glance with Jack, but said nothing. He bowed instead. Jack followed suit.

  ‘There’s no need to drool over the man,’ muttered Vaunere. The opposite to Shadworth in almost every respect, Sheriff Vaunere was tall, blond, and thin as a rail. His dusky beard was clipped tight to his jawline, and he didn’t appear the least bit interested in Crispin’s presence.

  ‘Nonsense, Henry. He must be here for a crime. I love tales of his adventures. And now we’re to be a part of it.’

  ‘So I gathered.’ He put down his quill, pushed aside his parchments, and folded his hands together on the table. ‘Well, what is it?’

  Crispin was about to speak when Shadworth raised his hands. ‘Wait! I want to savor the moment.’ He went to the sideboard and poured himself some wine. ‘Will you drink, Master Guest? The wine is of high spirits from Spain. It is most delectable.’

  ‘I will take a goblet, thank you.’

  ‘How about your man?’

  ‘No,’ said Crispin, at the same time that Jack said, ‘Aye, sir.’

  Sheriff Shadworth looked from one to the other. He laughed and pointed at Jack. ‘Aw, now Master Tucker. One must obey one’s master. He wants you sharp.’ He chuckled as he poured, while Vaunere shook his head and sighed wearily.

  Shadworth trotted towards Crispin and handed him a goblet. ‘To your good health, Master Tracker,’ said the sheriff, raising his cup and taking a long draught. ‘Ahhh. It’s part of Henry’s stock. He’s a vintner. A felicitous wine indeed, eh, Master Guest?’

  Crispin nodded, lowering the cup.

  ‘So now. Tell us. What is it you are investigating? How can we help?’

  Jack made a sound of disbelief, but Crispin ignored it and pushed on. ‘I have been called upon to investigate the murder of the mercer John Horne.’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ said Shadworth. ‘Nasty business, that. He’s in my guild. I, too, am a mercer, did you know? I should say he was in my guild. Such a damned shame. And murdered by another mercer’s son.’

  ‘Specifically, I was hired by the Walcote household to investigate. They don’t believe their son guilty.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they,’ drawled Vaunere. ‘The boy likely did it. He confessed, didn’t he?’

  ‘He’s seven years old,’ said Crispin.

  ‘That young?’ Shadworth took himself to a chair by the wide hearth and nestled his girth into it, flattening the cushion beneath h
im. ‘How was he able to do it?’

  ‘Stabbed, wasn’t he,’ said Vaunere. ‘It doesn’t take much to kill a man with a knife.’

  Crispin clutched the silver goblet to his chest. ‘Did you examine the body?’

  ‘A cursory look,’ said Shadworth, deferring to Vaunere. ‘What about you, Henry?’

  ‘Didn’t look at all. I considered what the coroner reported.’

  Crispin gestured to his torso as Philippa had showed him. ‘A stab wound here?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the gist of it,’ said Vaunere.

  ‘And he supposedly died instantly?’

  ‘That is what the witnesses said.’

  ‘And who are the witnesses?’

  Vaunere rose. ‘Guest, you aren’t going to go about haranguing those poor people? They’re in mourning, man.’

  ‘A murder has been committed.’

  ‘By that boy. Is he in our cells?’ he asked vaguely of Shadworth.

  ‘No, he isn’t. He’s a mercer, Henry.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty.’

  ‘I know. But I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘I am the benefit of that doubt,’ said Crispin. ‘May I see the reports?’

  Vaunere leaned over onto the desk, balancing on his fists. ‘Now hold, Guest. What makes you think you can come in here and make demands of the office of the Lord Sheriff?’

  Shadworth trotted towards the desk and planted himself before the other sheriff. ‘He’s the Tracker, Henry.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn who he is. I don’t answer to him. He answers to me.’

  ‘Now Henry. The Tracker. He knows what he’s about. I’ll get the reports.’

  ‘If you go currying to every man who comes to you, you’ll disgrace this office.’

  ‘We’ve held this office since last Michaelmas. We’re almost done with this office. Gird yourself, Henry. Admit it. We can use the help. And if he helps with this, might we ask that he help with other cases?’

  ‘Well, that’s a good point at least.’ He sat again and spread his arms on the messy table. ‘How about it, Guest? We let you in on this one and you help with some others?’

  He dared not ask for his fee. Instead, he bowed his agreement.

  ‘Well now, see, Henry? It will all work itself out. Let me find those rolls, if that damned Eckington has put them somewhere I can find them.’ He retreated to the outer room, where he called out, ‘Master Tucker! Assist me.’