Spiteful bones, p.18
Spiteful Bones, page 18
‘It’s always about family,’ he muttered. ‘Always family.’
‘Eh? What’s that you said, Master Crispin?’ asked Jack.
A knock on the door startled them all. But Jack composed himself and went to answer it. He spoke quietly to someone, offered him a coin, then closed the door. Crispin noticed he held a missive.
He said nothing as he handed it to Crispin, but he stood above his chair, no doubt anxious to hear. He had not known why he had been asked to send the sheriff’s page to that place to ask his question. Crispin wasn’t certain what the reply would mean, but he didn’t hesitate to open the missive, breaking the wax seal from the abbey of St Albans. He read it aloud.
‘Praise God and all His angels, I bid you greetings:
I admit that when I received your message, I was at first confused. Why should you ask of me so obscure a question? But then I realized, belatedly, who you are, and that such an enquiry, though opaque to me, must have great significance to you and whatever truth you sought. I therefore relate the answer to you and hope that it satisfies in whatever way best pleases.
As to workmen in our employ, there have been a fair few over the last twenty years. I had my chaplain search and he could find no gardener by the name of Rafe Hemm. He searched further, as you requested, and did find one man from twenty years ago, who worked for the abbey for five years before abruptly leaving. We had no word of him, and our chaplain did not know where he had gone. That name was Wilfrid Roke. I hope this may help you in some way in your holy quest for the truth.
In all God’s grace and goodness, I am sincerely in His keeping.
John de la Moote, Abbot, St Albans Abbey, Watford.’
‘Blind me,’ gasped Jack. ‘How did you know?’
‘He told me. He said he had worked for the abbey. I rather thought he was lying. But this is corroborative in the extreme, is it not?’
‘Not only is he alive but that he came back to the Cobmartin house.’
‘To watch and observe. If he only suspected that his son was not of his blood, he had to know. And he festered for two decades. But it is a sore thing to kill one’s own flesh and blood without proof and there was none left alive to even ask the question. And so he waited, all the long years. His son would not recognize him. And perhaps he wore that beard now but hadn’t then. His son was a child of five years only when he ran away. And when he returned, the boy was ten. William would never recognize him. Wilfrid must have listened to old talk of the servant who stole a relic and ran away with a certain sense of anxiety … or perhaps, perversely, pleasure.’
‘He must be mad. All them years, watching, waiting, listening to the others speak ill of him. It had to make him mad as a hare.’
‘Perhaps it was so all along.’
‘M-Master Guest,’ came a strained voice from across the room. Crispin turned to Robert, wide-eyed and trembling. ‘Do you mean to say that the murderer is Wilfrid Roke? That he didn’t die? That those bones we just buried were not his?’
‘That is my meaning, Master Robert. The family buried a workman from long ago, a Thomas Courtney.’
‘Courtney!’ he gasped. ‘And that is why you asked of him? It was Thomas Courtney? But yes. He worked there for many years, and then he was simply gone one day. That was after Madam Roke died. There was a rumor about the two of them …’
‘Which turned out to be true, Master Robert. I believe that William Roke was really Courtney’s son.’
‘By the mass,’ he muttered. ‘And all this … and murder too … committed under all our noses. Did the master know, do you think? The elder Master Cobmartin, about the mayhem in his own house?’
‘I do not know.’
Robert shook his head, placing a hand to his heart. ‘But he couldn’t have known. He would have dismissed Courtney forthwith. And then the murders. Blessed Holy Mother. We all thought Roke had stolen the relic and run off. We thought it was grief over his wife’s death. Though now you say he … he murdered her as well? Yes, I heard those rumors, too. How can one ever trust your fellow servants again?’
‘With God’s grace and mercy,’ said a shaken Isabel. ‘By trusting in Him.’
He crossed himself. ‘You have the right of it, madam. But it will be difficult.’ He raised his face to Crispin again. ‘Are you further saying that Wilfrid Roke disguised himself as our gardener, Rafe Hemm? It might be true that his son would not know him, but what of us who did?’
Crispin settled in his chair. ‘Do you recognize him as Wilfrid even now? Did he have a beard when he was a varlet?’
The stark whiteness of Robert’s pinched face shone in the firelight. ‘No, he did not. He was clean-shaven, like you. And when he came to work for the Cobmartins as a gardener, well. He had a familiar air about him, but his beard hid his face and he spoke little to the rest of us. We never imagined it. I can barely imagine it now.’
‘Shall we go get him this evening, Master Crispin?’ Jack hadn’t moved from his place, standing beside his chair. He wore a grim expression.
Crispin wanted nothing more than to sit in front of the warm fire as the evening came upon them, but he knew he had the responsibility of rising and doing his sworn duty. Lives were at stake. With a muffled groan, he pushed himself up. ‘Get my cloak.’
Shops had closed. The streets and buildings were painted in twilight blue, shimmering in that brief color before the sun entirely disappeared.
It was a quiet time. Peaceful. A time for sitting by one’s fire and contemplating sleep. Not traipsing into the cold of the city to lay hands on a murderer and conveying him to the sheriffs.
Jack’s jaw was steady as he looked straight ahead. Crispin studied him, seeing the man he had become. If it weren’t for Jack’s children reminding Crispin how Jack used to look, he might have lost the memory of that boy of long ago. But the boy was still there in the spark of adventure in his eye … as well as in his gravity.
They came to the Cobmartin house and Jack knocked on the door. The footman, Michael Loscroft, answered and immediately let him in. ‘Steward Able will meet you anon in the parlor.’
‘We have somewhere else to go first,’ said Crispin, pushing past him. He headed for the back of the house to the garden door. Once outside again, the shadows seemed to draw over their path. Tree and vine, all laid patterns over the way before them. Crispin came to the little cottage of the gardener and knocked on the door. He waited, but there was no answer. There was smoke coming from the chimney and a small light near the window, so he knocked again.
When he received no answer a second time, he motioned for Jack to go around the back of the cottage while he tried to peer in through the window’s shutter. Of what he could see, it was a small room, the only room, with a pallet bed, a glowing hearth, and little else.
He went to the door again and pulled at the latch. It opened and he stepped inside. ‘Master Hemm? Are you here?’ There was only a small alcove for storage, and nothing else. No platforms in the rafters to hide in. And under the bed was an easy thing to see. Jack came around to the door and came inside.
‘The fire’s still lit,’ he said.
‘Yes. It would appear to be a hasty exit.’
‘Maybe he’s …’
‘Doing gardening at night?’
‘Oh. I’ll look around.’ Jack withdrew his dagger and disappeared again.
Crispin drew his and followed him out, going in the other direction. He could be hiding among the foliage, but it wasn’t a very large garden, and there were few places to truly hide.
He came around the other side and met up with Jack again. ‘Perhaps he sensed I was too close to discovering him.’
‘I think you may be right, sir.’
They went back into the house where they met Philip Able in the foyer. ‘Master Able,’ said Crispin. ‘I believe the gardener has left the premises.’
‘What did you want him for so late in the evening?’
‘Because he is a murderer, sir. He is really Wilfrid Roke and terribly dangerous.’
NINETEEN
The steward gathered the whole house and explained what Crispin had said. There were expressions of disbelief and other arguments, but Crispin silenced them all. ‘We haven’t time for this. We must search for him. All of us.’
They scattered. The frightened maid, Jenna, went with Able, and the others searched the grounds both inside and out.
It soon became apparent that the man was no longer on the estate.
Once they had gathered back around Crispin in the parlor, he thanked them and told them to keep an eye skinned for him.
‘Should we alert the sheriffs?’ asked Jack as they made their way to the door.
‘And what good would that do?’ He took a last look at the manor house before he strode down the pathway to the street.
‘You have the right of it. It’s doubtful they’ll even believe you. But where would he go, sir? Back to Watford?’
‘No, he hasn’t been there for fifteen years. But …’ A dreadful thought occurred to him. ‘God’s blood! We must hurry!’ He didn’t wait for Jack and ran. He heard his apprentice’s steps behind him, and thank God Jack didn’t bother asking.
They came to the Walcote manor and Crispin skidded before the gatehouse. But there was no porter. ‘Where’s the damn porter?’ he hissed.
‘Here!’ said Jack. He was standing behind the gatehouse among the trees.
Crispin came around and saw the man lying on the ground. ‘Is he …’
‘Dead, sir. We’d best get in the house.’
Crispin’s thrumming heart filled his head. He felt numb all over, could barely breathe, but his feet still ran up the steps and through the open door. Where was the footman? He was supposed to be guarding.
‘Philippa! Christopher!’ Crispin took the steps two at a time, seeking them out on the upper gallery.
Christopher came out of his room and stood before his door. ‘Crispin? What are you doing here?’
Crispin grabbed his arm. ‘Where is your mother?’
‘In her chamber.’
‘Take me!’
But before they reached it, Philippa emerged herself with a puzzled expression. ‘What’s amiss?’
Crispin used all his strength to hold back from embracing her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course, Crispin …’
‘Where are your guests?’
She pointed down the corridor. Crispin didn’t knock. He trotted to their chamber door and rammed it, shoving his shoulder into the wood and dislodging the lock.
He stumbled inside while Nigellus scrambled from the bed and another figure threw the blankets over himself, remaining a lump beneath the canopy.
Shocked, Nigellus held a pillow before him.
Crispin caught his breath. ‘I … I apologize. The murderer has been discovered and now he has vanished from your estate.’
Nigellus blinked and took a step closer. ‘What?’
‘He’s here somewhere. The porter has been slain.’
‘Dear God!’ cried Philippa behind him. She turned and grabbed Christopher. ‘Get your sword,’ he heard her say as they disappeared out of the chamber. Jack walked in, staring at the door and then at Nigellus in his chemise and stockings.
‘Where’s Master Rykener?’ he asked.
There was movement on the bed and John’s face popped out of the gathered blankets. ‘I’m here. We’re unhurt.’ He crawled backwards out of the bedclothing and stood beside it, leaning on one of the bedposts. He pushed his messy hair off his face. ‘Who is the murderer?’
Crispin swiveled toward Jack. ‘You go help Philippa and Christopher. I fear they will put themselves in the middle of danger.’
‘Right, sir!’
‘Crispin,’ said John, coming around the bed. He was wearing his woman’s chemise that came down to his ankles. ‘You look so pale. Are you well?’
‘I … I feared for this household. He’s here.’
‘Who is it?’
He took them both into his gaze. ‘Wilfrid Roke.’
Nigellus was taken aback. ‘Wilfrid? That’s impossible. He’s dead.’
‘No, it wasn’t him in the wall. It was Thomas Courtney, a workman in your father’s house. You know Wilfrid now as the gardener, Rafe Hemm. Wilfrid killed Courtney because he was having an affair with his wife. And he killed William … because he believes he is Courtney’s son.’
Nigellus threw his hands to his face. ‘This is dreadful! Master Hemm?’
‘And the bastard is here?’ John stomped over to his discarded clothes on the floor and pulled his dagger from its sheath. ‘He’ll not harm a hair on anyone in this household.’
‘Stay here and lock the door,’ said Crispin, pulling his own dagger.
John gestured toward the entry. ‘I think you’ve made that impossible.’
Crispin looked at the door and saw that he had broken the lock and the jam when he forced his way in. ‘Oh. Perhaps take one of the other chambers.’
‘I want to fight him!’ said John, gesturing with his dagger.
‘I don’t want to have to worry over you two. Lock yourselves in!’
‘Perhaps,’ said Nigellus, ‘we should do as he says.’
‘No! This has become a little too personal. Nigellus, I think that you should lock yourself away. You’ll be safe, my love.’
‘But if you’re going to fight, then so will I.’
Crispin swore. ‘God’s blood! Make a decision. I must go.’
‘We’ll be all right, Crispin,’ said John. ‘Go on. Defend the house. Get that knave.’
He nodded, swept his gaze over the two of them one more time, and rushed out of the room. He opened doors in the gallery to look inside the other rooms, saw no one, and finally rushed down the stairs to stand in the foyer. He stopped and listened. The house was eerily quiet. Where was everyone? A full household such as this? There should be more sounds, more people.
He went to a door and pulled it open. The footman was crumpled in a corner. Crispin strode to him and felt for a pulse. Not dead, simply knocked out.
But where was Jack?
He rushed to an archway and out to the kitchens. A boy ran into him, squirming and crying out. ‘Hold, boy. I am a friend.’
The boy stopped struggling long enough to look up and recognition bloomed in his eyes. ‘You’re Master Guest.’
‘Yes. Listen to me. I want you to run to Newgate and get the sheriffs. Tell them murder is taking place at the Walcote manor.’
The boy’s eyes widened. It would have been comical in any other circumstances.
‘Did you hear me? Go now. Don’t stop running till you reach Newgate.’
The boy went. Crispin was pleased to hear his feet pelting across the floor and out of the entry.
He raised his head and bellowed. ‘Where are the servants in this household? This is Crispin Guest.’
It didn’t take long for the others to poke their heads out of their places, from doorways and alcoves, looking perplexed. Crispin pointed to a man coming out of a curtained alcove. ‘You there! Find me the steward. The rest of you, gather here. Stay together.’
‘The steward should be nearby,’ said the man. ‘There he is.’
The Walcote steward was an old man. He was Clarence’s steward brought from his other estate once he’d married Philippa all those years ago. James Cradel. ‘Master Cradel,’ said Crispin, helping him from his small room under the stairs. ‘Where was everyone when mayhem was going on?’
‘Mayhem? But …’ He searched around the room with yellowed eyes. ‘We were not made aware that anything was amiss.’
‘You did not know a mad man had entered the house?’
‘I … I don’t understand …’
The fool, he thought. They were told to be on their guard, but had any of them done so? ‘Gather everyone here and organize a search. You have a man down in yon alcove, and I’m afraid the porter is dead.’
‘Blessed Jesu,’ he said, crossing himself.
‘I want guards at your mistress and master’s chambers. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Master Guest. It shall be done.’
Crispin watched as more servants gathered, both men and women. He ordered them to break into groups and go in search. They had grabbed fire irons and daggers and other such tools that could be used as weapons. ‘Stay together,’ he admonished them, and took the stairs again in search of Philippa and Christopher. The gallery wasn’t well lit. It wasn’t all that late, but the Walcote residence kept sober hours, he supposed. Only a few of the oil lamps were lit in their niches. But there was enough light to see something that didn’t belong on the floor in the darkest corner.
‘Jack!’ he cried. He flew toward him and dropped to the floor, praying all the while that his apprentice wasn’t dead. He didn’t think his heart could take the loss. But Jack was moving even as he arrived. Moaning, he touched his head.
‘Blind me,’ he muttered, and Crispin was never so glad to hear that oath.
‘Jack.’
‘Master Crispin, he’s here. That whoreson is here. He took me by surprise …’
‘Where are they?’
‘I think the solar. Leave me. I’ll be fine in a moment or two.’
Crispin had to take his word. He hurried to a heavy door that lay ajar. Stealthily, he pushed it open enough to peer inside.
‘Come in, Master Guest,’ said the voice of Rafe Hemm. When Crispin pushed it wider, he saw Christopher cradling one of his arms, and Philippa standing before Hemm, his arm around her waist, and a dagger at her throat.
TWENTY
It was so familiar a room. A murder had happened here some sixteen years ago. Philippa’s first husband who had claimed to be Nicholas Walcote the prominent mercer, had been an imposter. He was slain by the man who thought Nicholas was his brother, by using a secret entrance. Clarence, the brother of the slayer, had married Philippa, saving her from a life of poverty and ill repute. He had recognized in her the genius behind Nicholas Walcote’s success. It was fortunate he had been a kind man. A forgiving man. But also a practical man who was glad that both his brothers were out of the way of his inheritance.
