The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 18

  Why didn’t I confront her? Why didn’t I walk away? I guess because I loved them both so much. I didn’t want to lose the life we had. I just wanted Billy Jean to suffer for a while, that was all. I never truly thought he would have her hanged.

  Jess turned fourteen today. She’s not old enough for the truth. Maybe she’ll never be that old. But there’s one thing she is old enough for.

  Tonight, there will be two of us standing over Billy Jean’s grave, our long black veils drifting in the wind, our tears sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight.

  THE CURIOUS CONTENTS OF A COFFIN

  Susanna Gregory

  London, 1663

  Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Lord Chancellor, hated assignments like the one he had been given that morning. He did not mind the physical labour of excavating a tomb in the hour before dawn – although he would have been happier had it not been raining so hard. And he enjoyed the challenge of disguising himself as a gravedigger – donning the filthy clothes of the trade and staining his teeth brown, so that even his own mother would not have recognized him. He did not even mind manhandling corpses. But what Chaloner didn’t like was causing distress to the dead woman’s son and daughter, who had objected strenuously to their mother’s final resting place being disturbed. Nor did he like the possibility that he might be ordered to steal what was in the coffin with her.

  “How much longer?” demanded John Pargiter, wealthy goldsmith and husband of the deceased. He was a tall man, with a long nose and a reputation for dishonesty – the Goldsmith’s Company had fined him several times for coin-clipping and shoddy workmanship. “My arm aches from holding this lamp and I’m soaking wet.”

  “This foul weather is a sign of God’s displeasure,” declared Pargiter’s son Francis, hugging his sobbing sister closer to him. “This is an evil deed, and you will pay for it on Judgment Day.”

  “Please, father,” begged the weeping Eleanor. “Stop this. Let our mother rest in peace.”

  Chaloner waited to see if Pargiter would agree. He was nearing the casket, and knew he would have to be careful not to step through it. The man who usually dug graves for St Martin’s Ludgate – currently insensible after the copious quantities of ale with which Chaloner had plied him the previous night in the hope of learning a few useful tips – had confided that there was an art to dealing with rotting coffins, but had then declined to elaborate. Chaloner would have to rely on his own ingenuity to perform the grisly task, and only hoped he would convince Pargiter that he knew what he was doing. The goldsmith had brought two burly henchmen with him, and Chaloner suspected they might turn nasty if he failed to impress.

  He exchanged a hopeful glance with the parish priest, Robert Bretton, a short fellow with a mane of long, shiny black curls. Bretton was chaplain to King Charles, as well as Rector of St Martin’s, and it was because of him that this particular assignment had been foisted on Chaloner. When he had learned what Pargiter intended to do, Bretton had approached the King in a fury of righteous indignation – the poor woman had been in the ground for more than three years, and it was shameful to disturb her rest. With a shudder of distaste, the King had passed the matter to his Lord Chancellor to sort out.

  But the Lord Chancellor said there was nothing he could do to stop the exhumation, because Pargiter had the necessary writs. What he had been able to do, however, was lend Bretton one of his men, assuring the agitated chaplain that Thomas Chaloner would not only ensure the exhumation was carried out decently, but could be trusted not to gossip. When Bretton had demurred, the Lord Chancellor had pointed out that he would have an ally at the graveside should he need one, and the family would be suitably grateful to him for “hiring” a man who knew how to be discreet. And, the Lord Chancellor had added slyly, he wanted his spy present anyway, because he was curious to know what Pargiter thought he might find among his wife’s rotting bones.

  Bretton peered at the goldsmith in the gloom, to see whether he was having second thoughts. He sighed unhappily when he saw he was not, and nodded down at Chaloner, telling him to continue. The spy began to dig again, pretending not to listen to the furious altercation that was taking place above his head. The family had kept their voices low at first, unwilling to let a stranger hear what they were saying – even one vouched for by Rector Bretton. But as time had crept by and Chaloner’s spade came ever closer to the coffin, they had grown less cautious, and the foul weather and their increasing agitation encouraged them to forget themselves. In addition, Chaloner had excellent hearing – a valuable asset for a spy – and a decade of eavesdropping in foreign courts meant he was rather good at hearing discussions not intended for his ears.

  “This is very wrong,” said Pargiter’s cousin and business-partner, an overweight man named Thomas Warren, who was the last of the graveside party. His plump face was pale and unhappy, and the hair in his handsome wig had been reduced to a mess of rat-tails in the rain. “Had I known you’d cached our gold in Margaret’s grave, I’d never have asked for it back. I don’t want her defiled.”

  “You’re deep in debt,” said Pargiter with a sneer. “You lost a fortune in Barbados sugar, and your creditors snap at your heels. Would you rather go to prison? Besides, Margaret won’t be defiled. Once the coffin is reached, I shall jump down and remove the gold myself. I was her husband, so she won’t object to me touching her.”

  Francis snorted his disdain. “She would. She hated you – and with good cause.” He added something else in a low, venomous hiss that Chaloner could not quite catch. The spy supposed someone – probably his sister – had warned him to keep his voice down.

  “Why are you so eager to retrieve the hoard, Father?” asked Eleanor softly, so Chaloner had to strain to hear her. “You don’t need your share of this gold: you’re already rich – certainly wealthy enough to lend Warren what he needs.”

  “Yes,” said Warren, sounding relieved. “That’s the best solution. Fill in the hole and I’ll have papers—”

  “I’ve lent him too much already,” interrupted Pargiter roughly. “No, don’t you flap your hand at me to be quiet, Warren! I shall talk as loudly as I please. And, to answer my daughter’s question, our cache has been playing on my mind of late. Gold can’t earn interest if it’s buried, and I want it where it can do me some good.”

  “Tainted money,” said Rector Bretton in disgust. Chaloner had noticed his increasing distress as the exhumation had proceeded, and now he sounded close to tears. “It won’t bring you happiness, and I strongly advise you to leave it where it is.”

  “You did a dreadful thing, burying gold with our mother,” said Eleanor in a broken, grief-filled voice that made Chaloner wince at his role in the distasteful business. The gravedigger’s disguise had been Bretton’s idea, and Chaloner heartily wished the rector had thought of something else.

  Francis murmured something Chaloner did not hear, and Pargiter responded with a sharp bark of laughter that had Francis spluttering in impotent rage. The spy glanced up and saw Eleanor rest a calming hand on her furious brother’s arm.

  “Francis is right, cousin,” said Warren in a low voice. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking when you performed an act of such heartless desecration.”

  “I was desperate,” replied Pargiter with an unrepentant shrug. “You and I supported Cromwell, but when the monarchy was restored, Royalists surged into London and started confiscating Roundhead goods. Margaret’s death from fever provided me with a perfect opportunity to hide our gold where no one would ever think to look.”

  “That’s certainly true,” said Bretton unhappily. “But only a monster would have devised such a plan – and only a devil would consider retrieving the hoard.”

  “Our mother was right to despise you,” said Francis. Chaloner saw Eleanor was hard-pressed to restrain him as he glowered at their father. “And so are we.”

  Pargiter did not care what his son, daughter, rector and cousin thought, and when Warren took a threatening step towards him the two h
enchmen blocked his path. But the goldsmith did not so much as glance at his kinsman: his attention was focussed on the grave. Chaloner’s spade had made a hollow sound, as metal had connected with wood.

  “At last,” said Pargiter. “Now, climb out and let me take over.”

  “You don’t want me to open the coffin first?” asked Chaloner.

  Pargiter shook his head. “I told you: I don’t want anyone to see her. I’m not the heartless fiend everyone imagines and, by retrieving the money myself, I shall spare her the indignity of being gawked at. Then we can cover her up again, and be done with this business. Take my hand.”

  Scaling the rain-slicked sides was not easy, and Chaloner was muddy from digging. He was not halfway out before his fingers shot out of Pargiter’s grasp, and he fell backwards, landing feet-first on the ancient casket. There was a crackle of shattering wood, and the top third of the lid disintegrated. Eleanor cried out in horror, and Bretton began to pray in an unsteady voice.

  “Clumsy oaf!” yelled Pargiter, while Chaloner danced around in a desperate attempt to regain his balance without doing any more damage. “You’ve exposed her for all to see!”

  Warren looked as though he might cry. “This has gone far enough, cousin. I don’t want the gold any more – I’ll find another way to pay my debts.”

  “I’m not leaving without my money,” declared Pargiter, climbing inside the hole himself. He soon discovered it was not easy, and slithered down in a way that broke more of the coffin. One of his men handed him a lamp. “Everyone stay back. I’ll finish quicker without an audience.”

  Sobbing, Eleanor appealed to Chaloner. “Please stop him. You must see this isn’t right.”

  “If you have any compassion, you’ll do as my sister asks,” added Francis in a heart-broken voice. “I’ll pay you – twice what my father offered.”

  “And I’ll pray for you for as long as I live,” said Bretton. He sounded distraught. “Poor Margaret doesn’t deserve this.”

  Supposing a real gravedigger would at least consider their offers, Chaloner moved forward. He stopped when he saw the body for the first time. Margaret Pargiter had been buried in a lacy shroud and a veil that covered her hair. Her face was much as he would have expected after three years, but it was the glitter of gold that caught his attention. Coins covered her chest and shoulders – too many to count. Pargiter was busily collecting them. The goldsmith glanced up and saw his order had been ignored: everyone, even his two henchmen, was gazing open-mouthed at the spectacle.

  “The bag must have broken,” he said in an oddly furtive way that made Chaloner sure he was lying. “I put it under her head.”

  But Chaloner had spotted something beside the hoard, and he edged around Pargiter to be sure of it. “Gold isn’t the only thing to have shared her tomb – there’s another body beneath her.”

  Pandemonium erupted after Chaloner’s announcement. Warren accused him of being a liar, although his furious diatribe faltered when Chaloner pointed out the grinning skull under Margaret’s shoulder. Francis and Eleanor clamoured for the strange body to be removed and their mother reburied alone. Pargiter wanted his gold out and the two bodies left as they were. But Bretton had the authority of the Church behind him, and once he declared his bishop would want both bodies excavated while an investigation took place, the argument was over.

  Knowing the frail coffin would disintegrate if he tried to lift it, Chaloner raised the two bodies separately, using planks of wood, although his task would have been easier if Pargiter had not been in the grave with him, grabbing coins. When he had finished, and the corpses lay in the grass next to the tomb, Chaloner reached for his spade.

  “Don’t bother to fill it in,” ordered Pargiter. “Margaret will be back in it soon. Here’s a shilling for your trouble – you’re dismissed.”

  But Chaloner had no idea how much gold Pargiter had retrieved, and the Lord Chancellor would be annoyed if he was not told a precise sum. He thrashed around for an excuse that would allow him to lurk long enough to see the money counted. “For another shilling, I’ll find out who was the second corpse,” he offered rashly.

  Pargiter gazed contemptuously at him. “And how would a gravedigger know how to do that?”

  “Fossor used to work for Archbishop Juxon,” announced Bretton, before Chaloner could fabricate a story of his own. “And he solved all manner of crimes on His Grace’s behalf. Don’t let his shabby appearance deceive you. Fossor possesses a very sharp mind.”

  Warren peered at the spy in the darkness. “You’ve fallen low, then, if you were in the employ of an archbishop, but now you dig graves for a living.”

  “He does more than that,” said Bretton, before Chaloner could prevent him from inventing anything else. “He hires himself out to many of my clerical colleagues, because we all know him as a man of intelligence and discretion. Why do you think I dispensed with my usual gravedigger and hired him instead? Whatever happened here must be investigated and the results reported to the proper authorities – and I would rather Fossor did it than some half-drunk parish constable.”

  Chaloner wished he would shut up, not liking the increasingly elaborate web of lies or the fictitious name. But Bretton gave him an encouraging nod, and Chaloner supposed he was hoping to curry favour with the Lord Chancellor by supporting his spy’s proposal. However, all Chaloner wanted was an excuse to see the money counted, after which he would dispense with his disguise and disappear from the Pargiter family’s lives for ever. He had no intention of mounting an investigation – Bretton would have to resort to his “half-drunk parish constable” for that.

  “I will discover the truth,” he said, hoping he did not sound as unenthusiastic as he felt. “I shall uncover the corpse’s identity, and you can make an official report to your bishop.”

  “Well, I don’t want to know who it is,” said Pargiter firmly. “It is common knowledge that Margaret made a cuckold of me, and one of her lovers must have contrived to be buried with her. And this is a man – he’s quite tall and look, the fellow was buried wearing spurs.”

  “Our mother had no lovers!” declared Francis hotly, shooting Chaloner an uncomfortable glance. “How dare you defame her good name in front of strangers!”

  Eleanor tried to pull him away, to talk to him privately, but he resisted. “You know she did, Francis. It was her way of defying the husband she didn’t love. And I cannot find it in my heart to condemn her for it. And nor should anyone – including strangers who did not know her and so have no right to judge.” She gazed coolly at Chaloner, who pretended to be absorbed with the skeletons.

  “Nor me,” said Warren. His chubby face was wan in the faint gleam of approaching dawn. “Do you mind if we just count this gold and go home? I feel sick.”

  “We can’t,” said Bretton angrily. “Something evil happened in poor Margaret’s grave, and my bishop will want to know what. We are duty-bound to discover both this man’s identity and how he came to die.”

  Eleanor sighed. “Rector Bretton is right. Once he reports the matter to his bishop, it will have to be investigated. He will think we have something to hide if we object.”

  “How do we know you can be trusted?” demanded Warren of Chaloner. “We have never met you before today.”

  “I trust him,” said Bretton, before Chaloner could point out that anyone could be trusted if enough gold changed hands. “And you have known me for a long time. That should be enough for you.”

  Eleanor nodded slowly, staring hard at the spy. “Very well. If there must be an enquiry, then I suppose I would rather this Fossor did it than that horrible Constable Unwin.”

  “So would I,” said Francis, glaring at his father. “Unwin hates us because someone made a fool of him over a consignment of clipped coins, and we don’t want him poking into our affairs. He’ll invent something to harm us, and who can blame him?” He turned to Chaloner. “If Bretton says you’re all right, then I suppose you’ll do. I’ll pay you your shilling, if you find
out the corpse’s name.”

  “No,” countered Warren shakily. “You might not like what he learns. Margaret was a sociable lady, and you should let matters lie while her reputation is still intact.”

  “It was not a lover,” snarled Francis, rapidly losing what small control he had. “And I want to know why my mother has spent the last three years with a stranger. Do your work, Fossor.”

  “Let sleeping dogs lie,” argued Pargiter irritably. “Folk will have forgotten her infidelities by now, and I don’t want to be labelled a cuckold again, thank you very much.”

  “You were unfaithful yourself,” said Bretton sharply. “And if Fossor needs to ask you questions to solve this wicked business, you will answer them. It is your Christian duty.”

  “You can’t order me around!” cried Pargiter. “I’m a City goldsmith—”

  “Then we shall summon Constable Unwin instead,” said Bretton coldly. He nodded his satisfaction when there were resentful glares from Pargiter and his cousin, but no further objections. “Good. Fossor, you may begin.”

  Chaloner knelt next to the bodies. First, he inspected Margaret, recalling how her graveclothes had been carefully arranged to hide the corpse beneath – someone had been to considerable trouble. Then he turned his attention to the second body. There was nothing left of his face, and the only thing of use was a charm on a chain around his neck.

  “Does anyone recognize this?” he asked, removing it. The pendant was made of jet, and was in the shape of a bird. There were shaken heads all around, although a brief glimmer of alarm flashed in Warren’s eyes.

  Chaloner began the distasteful business of peeling away the decaying clothes, hoping to discover how the stranger had died. Revolted, Bretton invited the others to his house, where they agreed to wait until “Fossor” had finished. From the worn teeth, Chaloner concluded the stranger had been an older man, and his silver spurs suggested he had been wealthy. The only injury was a triangular puncture-wound, clearly visible in the bones of the chest and what little skin still clung to them.