Spiteful bones, p.3
Spiteful Bones, page 3
‘Of course, of course,’ he said absently, putting the sword back in the shed. ‘For God’s sake, let’s go!’
Jack grinned at Crispin. ‘You heard him,’ he said quietly to Crispin. ‘Let’s go see the skeleton.’
THREE
Of all the damned things, thought Crispin, peering in at the bones wedged into the wall between the uprights. Knees up, wrists and ankles bound, clutching a reliquary in his boney fingers.
‘It’s absolutely horrific,’ said John, ticking his head and standing the farthest away.
‘It’s terrible,’ Christopher agreed with a wide grin.
‘Aye, it is that,’ said Jack, with an equally wide grin.
Crispin glanced at the both of them with an indignant snort. ‘May I remind the two of you bloodthirsty churls that this was once a man. Respect the dignity of a Christian soul.’
Christopher was the first to look chastened. ‘I’m sorry, Crispin.’
Crispin elbowed Jack and his apprentice tried to look equally chastened, but it wasn’t quite working.
Nigellus trotted up the stairs and joined them. He was a slight young man with a serious comportment and the somewhat threadbare attire of the long black gown and black cap of a lawyer. His eyes, as always, were bright with a mind that delighted in learning, even if it seemed at times somewhat scattered. Still, Crispin was glad to call him friend, even though he and the eccentric Rykener lived together as they did.
‘Master Crispin, I am sore glad to see you, sir.’ He gestured toward the bones. ‘What’s to be done? What, by the mass, happened here?’
Crispin leaned in and touched what looked like the remnants of a cloth gag trailing from the mandible. ‘Well, I think you know as well as I, Master Cobmartin, that this was murder.’
‘In my father’s house. In the very walls! By all the saints, the man died here, even as we all went about living our lives. It’s … it’s …’
‘Horrible,’ gasped John, taking his arm.
Crispin scrutinized the interior of the wall, and the plaster that was torn away. ‘This must have made a stink.’
‘There was always something with this house,’ said Nigellus. ‘The roof leaked, the cistern leaked – and a horrendous smell that made! There were rats. I don’t recall any time of any particular strong odor, but there were always rats dying within the walls. Once we found a cat.’
‘But John said this was your father’s room.’
‘He wasn’t here all that often. During the construction, he wasn’t here at all. Left it to the architect to take care of all of it. In fact, he had been traveling for months around that time. I was just beginning at Gray’s Inn, so I wasn’t here either.’
‘You wouldn’t recall his name, would you? The man in the wall?’
Nigellus nodded. ‘Wilfrid, his name was. Wilfrid Roke. He was such a loyal man. No one could believe it, but he was gone and so was the relic, ipso facto. My father was heartbroken.’
Crispin swept his gaze over the wall, the skeleton, the ceiling and open rafters. ‘You say this servant disappeared some twenty years ago?’
‘Yes, I remember it well. It was quite the household scandal at the time. The relic was stolen – and my father ranted and raved about that as he had undertaken a long and costly journey to obtain it, and he a very congenial man – and then Wilfrid disappeared. We all assumed it was he who stole it and ran off. Oh, my father was saddened and disappointed. Father left for business travel directly after the incident. Wilfrid was my father’s varlet, you see, and very trusted. I’m afraid it made it very hard on Wilfrid’s son, who remained in service to the household. He is here still.’
‘This man’s son still works here?’
‘Yes. Shall I fetch him?’
‘Do that. But, er, have a regard for the circumstances.’
Nigellus seemed to put on the mask of a barrister and comported his face into the proper attitude before walking off.
Crispin tapped Jack and pulled him aside. ‘Keep a good eye on the son to see how he reacts.’
‘Blind me, sir. He’s about to see his own sire’s bones. I expect him to react rather badly.’
‘Just so. But see what else you can observe.’
‘What are you whispering about?’ said Christopher, poking his head in.
‘Tracker talk,’ said Crispin.
‘I want to know, too. I’m going to be a Tracker someday.’
‘Christopher, I’ve told you before. You are a merchant’s son. Be a merchant. A Tracker lives the life of a poor man.’
‘You don’t look poor to me. You’re not in rags. You and Jack have a healthy family and you’re all happy.’
Crispin turned helplessly to Jack, and Jack took the hint. He touched Christopher on the shoulders and steered him away. ‘Now, Master Walcote, you know better. Master Crispin has told you time and again. Maybe I should take you home …’
‘No, Jack! I’ll stay. I’ll be quiet. I promise.’
‘See that you do, lad.’ He winked at Crispin, but Crispin wasn’t mollified.
Nigellus arrived back at the stair’s landing with a young man, about Jack’s age. His brown eyes darted here and there, and he twisted the hem of his tunic in his ink-stained hands.
‘This is William Roke,’ said Nigellus. ‘He has served the household as a clerk for a number of years.’
‘What is this about, Master Cobmartin? I’ve only just come from the marketplace and all the workmen here are making a to-do.’
‘This is Crispin Guest, William. You may have heard me mention him. He’s the Tracker of London.’
William bowed, still looking perplexed.
Crispin and Jack stood in front of the hole in the wall, blocking the remains from view. ‘William,’ Crispin began, ‘what do you recall of your father’s disappearance?’
‘My father? Master Guest, that was years and years ago. I was five years old at the time. I scarce remember him at all.’
‘Do you remember the circumstances of his disappearance? What he might have said? Who he talked to?’
William glanced toward Nigellus again. ‘Master Cobmartin, what is this about? I barely remember my father, let alone the circumstances when he left.’ He turned back to Crispin. ‘My mother died and then my father disappeared. It was a terrible time. I could have been left on my own, no one to see to me, but Master Cobmartin’s father kindly took me in and the servants raised me. Master Cobmartin here taught me my letters, gave me a vocation.’
Much as Crispin had done for Jack. He felt his apprentice at his side, though he didn’t turn toward him. Instead, he flicked a glance at Nigellus who lowered his eyes and flushed with embarrassment.
‘And a noble thing it was of your masters to do, both father and son. But William, if you cannot offer any insight as to your father’s disappearance, is there anyone in this household who can?’
He wrinkled his brow. ‘I don’t know why you are asking this. It was too long ago.’
‘Because … because your father has been found.’
‘What? Is he here? Where is he?’
‘I’m very much afraid, Master Roke, that your father … is dead.’ He stepped aside, revealing the bones.
William threw his hand over his mouth. ‘No! Holy Mother Mary! Is that … is that … him?’
‘Steady, William,’ said Nigellus, placing his hands on the man’s shoulders. ‘The workmen found him. I am heartily sorry for this. May God have mercy on him.’
‘Oh, blessed saints,’ the man murmured. He walked forward, peering at the bones in their repose. ‘Wait … is he … tied up? Master Tracker,’ he said, tearing his eyes away for a mere moment to look at Crispin, before staring at the bones once more. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It means your father was murdered twenty years ago. And if I can, I will try to discover who could have done it.’
‘And I will pay your fee, Master Guest,’ said Nigellus.
‘My father was murdered,’ said William, fingers touching his lips. He shook his head. He stared at the bones as if trying to discern the man they used to be. ‘I scarce remember him. Is that a sin? Honor thy father and thy mother. I have honored him. At least I tried. I’ve prayed for him. But since he was a thief and dishonored himself, I tried mostly to forget him. And now … if he wasn’t a thief all those years ago, I have done him a grave injustice.’ He looked to Nigellus. ‘Does that make me a sinful man?’
‘I am no cleric,’ said Nigellus, placing a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder once more, ‘but I can’t think it is a sin not to remember your parents when you last saw them as a little child. And we all thought him a … well. As you said, we thought he had stolen away the relic. How can our Lord fault you – or us – for that?’
He seemed somewhat relieved but still troubled. ‘I was taken in by the old steward and his wife. But they died, him eight years ago and she two years, bless them.’
‘There must be others,’ said Nigellus. ‘Scullions, chambermaids, gardeners, cooks …’
‘Yes, Master Cobmartin. The cook. He is the same from those days, I think. Shall I get him?’
‘Yes. But … don’t bring him here. Let us go to the parlor below. And William … I am sorry.’
William ducked his head. ‘I’m very glad my father was not a thief. That does my heart very well indeed. After all these years …’
Crispin said nothing. For he didn’t wish to break this man’s heart a second time. Simply because his father was murdered did not mean he hadn’t stolen the relic.
He suddenly looked up at Crispin. ‘Master Guest, you are the celebrated Tracker. Find that murderer as quick as you can, sir.’
‘Master Roke, I will do my best.’
He bowed to Crispin and then John Rykener before he trotted down the stairs.
‘Abiit nemine salutato,’ said Nigellus, ticking his head again at the remains in the wall.
‘He couldn’t very well bid no one farewell when he was murdered,’ offered Jack.
‘True, Master Jack. Well, Crispin. You have your work cut out for you on this one.’
‘Fee or no, Master Cobmartin – though I thank you for that.’ He bowed. ‘Contrary to what I just told the son, I don’t know whether after all this time I will be able to solve this mystery. All the clues are long gone. The murderer might even be dead. And … I haven’t ruled out that your father’s varlet wasn’t a thief.’
‘Dear me,’ said Nigellus, worry lines stepping up his forehead again.
‘The clues aren’t all gone,’ said Jack, approaching the skeleton again and scrutinizing closely. ‘He’s the clue, right here.’
‘Indeed. Perhaps the only clue we’ll have. What do you observe, Jack?’
‘Well … he was bound at his wrists and his ankles.’ He touched the wispy remains of the cloth in the teeth. ‘And gagged. Oh. Look here.’ He pulled a silver cross on a leather cord from the detritus on his chest. In its center was a small black jewel. He held it away from the bones and showed it to Crispin.
‘His son should have that,’ Crispin said.
‘Shall I take it now, sir? You know how them sheriff’s men can be.’
Crispin did know. How often had he noted that a corpse’s belongings somehow disappeared after the sheriff’s serjeants got a hold of the body for the coroner.
‘Best do so.’
Carefully, Jack extricated it from the desiccated clothes where it had clearly lain on the man’s chest. He clutched the necklace for but a moment and stuffed it into his pouch.
‘And the relic,’ said Crispin.
Jack turned once more to the bones. In the spindly fingers the reliquary lay unmolested but dusty and stained from the decaying remains. Jack hesitated before reaching for the crystal vial. With delicate fingers – fingers that for years had stolen many a purse or the contents within, Crispin noted – Jack grasped the crystal cylinder and gently pulled. The hands didn’t seem to want to give it up, and for a moment, Jack seemed struck with puzzlement as to what to do. Thankfully, the dead hands gave up their prize at last and fell away, releasing the crystal and its long chain.
Jack peered at it close to his nose before he handed it to Crispin. Now it was his turn to examine it. Cloudy crystal harbored a lock of curled hair, brown. Supposedly from Saint Elmo. The top of the crystal was fashioned with a gold cap, encrusted with gemstones, and at the other end was the same. He turned it in his hands – a thing weighing so little on its own – and turned to Nigellus. ‘Your family relic, Master Cobmartin.’
‘Oh. Yes. God be p-praised.’ Nigellus took it in both hands, though he looked reluctant to touch it. And now that he had it, he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. He showed it to John, but his companion took a step back, unwilling to touch it. Nigellus finally, and with as much reverence as he could muster, placed it in the pouch secured to his belt. He wore a grimace, no doubt from touching the thing that bore witness to a death … and the decay of the man he had once known.
Jack continued his examination of the skull and ran a finger along the top of the cranium. Though Jack gave pause at a newly made corpse, bones did not seem to trouble him as they once had. ‘Ah, look here. A bit of a crack. Could have happened after he died in the decomposing. But it looks as if someone coshed him good. Aye, look at the wood of the uprights here. If he was still awake, there would be scratches and scuffs from a struggle. There’s naught.’
‘Very good, Jack.’ Crispin looked where Jack pointed at the wooden frame. There should have been scratches, dents from kicking at least. He could have been knocked unconscious to stuff him within, and without ever wakening, he simply died. Being shut up in such close circumstances – woven wattle and plaster – it would have been hot and suffocating surrounds. Even if he had awakened, he might easily have smothered. ‘And if all that were so,’ he said, gently touching the bones, ‘then whoever did this was likely part of the company of workmen and knew how to plaster a wall.’
‘Aye. There is that.’
‘And more than that,’ Crispin went on. ‘You see here. There is no wattle. Either it was meant as a door or an alcove, or the murderer made certain there was room within the wall for the body. Looks like straw and plaster. I’m certain the lime in the plaster made short work of the flesh. Or the rats did.’
Christopher poked his head into the opening of the wall, nudging Crispin aside. ‘That’s horrible,’ he said, with still no trace of horror in his eyes. ‘Then the killer worked here. How diabolical. He patched this wall without ever saying a word. And secretly, he knew that time would kill the man within. But why didn’t he take the relic, then?’
Crispin was about to admonish the boy to keep silent when he thought about his words. ‘Yes. Why not take the relic?’ Jewels encrusted the gold caps above and below the crystal cylinder. ‘The reliquary alone would be worth a small fortune. And everyone would assume this man took it.’
Christopher looked up at Crispin with a widening grin. ‘This is what you do all the time, isn’t it? Look at corpses and puzzle out who did it. This is far more interesting than being a mercer.’
‘But it pays far less. Come, Christopher. You promised to be quiet. Especially now that we must interrogate the cook.’
‘I’ll be quiet. I want to watch and learn.’
God save me, Crispin thought.
They trudged down the steps and met not just workmen, but part of the household: a maid, gardener, stablemen, all trying to catch a glimpse of what might be upstairs. Nigellus shooed them away and they scattered, trotting in different directions. Crispin watched them go and shook his head. It was a gruesome discovery, but it was by far one of the more interesting things to have happened to the household. He couldn’t blame them for wanting to see it first-hand.
They came to the parlor, where they awaited the cook. It was a modest and pleasant room on the ground floor with tall windows painting a slant of sunlight upon the tiled floor. Crispin couldn’t help but recall that he had had a room similar to this as his own study, a place for his few books and to go over the household accounts with his steward. The room smelled of the low fire in the hearth and the comfort of spiced wine and the subtle perfumes of the men who came to do business at the Cobmartin household.
When he glanced toward his son, he noted that Christopher, though throbbing with energy, kept his promise to keep silent. Hopping a bit on the balls of his feet, he scanned Crispin, Jack, Nigellus and even Rykener. And all the while, his eyes seemed to gleam with an inner intelligence, perhaps trying to work it all out for himself.
Presently, a mild-mannered man entered the parlor, his hands on his apron, looking about curiously. His nose was large like a beak and his eyes were sunk into dark sockets framed by bushy gray brows. ‘Master Cobmartin, madam …’ He bowed to Rykener. ‘You called me forth?’
‘Yes,’ said Nigellus, puffing himself up like a lawyer at the bar. He even grasped the lapel of his gown and stared down his nose at the man. Crispin tried to catch his eye but he was too focused on the cook. ‘Master Robert.’
‘Aye, sir. God bless you, sir.’
‘Now, Robert, I wonder if you could cast your mind back some twenty years ago. You were a cook in my father’s household, yes?’
‘Twenty years ago? Aye, my lord. I was new to the kitchens in this household, but I hope I did my job well. I moved up in the ranks, so to speak. I became head cook … let me think … ten years ago. Your father, lord bless him, never had any reason to complain. The food was always hot and spiced just how he liked it. There was never a rotten haunch or a stinking bit of fish in this household. No, sir!’
‘Yes, yes, quite. But … if you can remember – and indeed, even I have a difficult time – when Wilfrid Roke ran off with the relic—’
‘Oh lord, yes! What a damnable time that was, begging your mercy, madam.’ He bowed again to John who gave him the generous smile of the matron of the house. ‘That was a terrible time indeed. Your sire … oh, he was fierce mad at Wilfrid. We all were. It comes down hard on the whole house when a servant does wrong. It gives all of us a black eye, so to speak. But why …’
