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  The spy gazed at the bodies and reviewed what he had been told. Margaret had died of a fever three years before, and Pargiter had taken advantage of her burial to keep some of his and Cousin Warren’s money from acquisitive Royalists. The grave had been opened because Warren was in debt, although the man had become increasingly unnerved as the exhumation had proceeded. Had Warren’s unease derived from the fact that an old crime was about to be exposed? And what about his hesitation when Chaloner had asked about the charm? Finally, it had been Warren who had objected to an enquiry that promised to reveal the dead man’s name.

  Next, Chaloner turned his thoughts to Pargiter, who did not need more money, but could no longer bear the thought of it lying uselessly underground. From the very start, the goldsmith had made it clear that only he was to collect the coins from the coffin, and he had issued all manner of threats to ensure he was obeyed – until Chaloner’s fall had inadvertently spoiled his plan. Had he been so determined no one should see the contents of the coffin because he knew what else was in it? He had tried to persuade the others to ignore the grisly discovery, and had joined with Warren in objecting to an investigation. Was it because he had no desire to be ridiculed as a cuckold again, as he had claimed, or did he have a more sinister motive for wanting the matter quietly forgotten?

  Then there were Francis and Eleanor, who had loved their mother – or at least, had not wanted her grave disturbed. Were they devoted children, who had taken her side against a hated father? Or had they made use of her death to conceal crimes of their own? But then, surely they would not have asked Chaloner to investigate the stranger? They would have taken the opportunity supplied by their father to have the matter shoved quickly underground again. Or were they afraid that might have looked suspicious?

  Finally, there was Bretton, who had also objected to the exhumation. As the family rector, he would have had access to Margaret’s coffin three years before. Had he encouraged Chaloner’s investigation because to do otherwise would have looked odd – especially in front of the Lord Chancellor’s spy? He had always referred to the dead woman as “Margaret”, rather than “Mrs Pargiter”. The more Chaloner thought about it, the more convinced he became that the rector might have offered her more than spiritual comfort. Did that mean Bretton had dispatched a rival for her affections?

  “Anyone could have killed him,” said one of Pargiter’s henchmen, who had lingered to watch. “Although I suspect you think it was Pargiter, because this man was probably one of her paramours.”

  Chaloner shrugged. “No one likes his wife sleeping with another man, and Pargiter is violent – he has been threatening me all night. But I imagine Margaret would have been too ill to entertain lovers immediately before her death.”

  “She did die of fever – I saw her shivering and sweating myself. But I’ve been thinking. About the time she passed away, there was a fellow who lurked around a lot, talking to Warren. He disappeared after, and I never saw him again.”

  “Do you know his name, or what he was doing?”

  The henchman shook his head. “All I know is that he was tall with a big nose and a stoop.”

  Chaloner was thoughtful. “There are two peculiar things about Margaret’s burial. First, the presence of an additional corpse. And second, the coins were not in a bag, as Pargiter said they would be, but were scattered across her body.”

  “Worms,” said the henchman. “They do odd things underground.”

  “Not that odd,” said Chaloner.

  Chaloner did not want to spend too much time with the bodies, in case he missed the counting of the money. He trotted across the sodden churchyard to the Rectory, a grand house boasting ornamental drainpipes of lead – few owners bothered, leaving rainwater to cascade from the roof – and was admitted to a warm, comfortable room with a blazing fire. Piles of gold pieces sat on the table.

  “I found these caught in the stranger’s clothes,” he said, producing two coins he had pocketed earlier, in a sleight of hand no one had noticed. “Are you missing any more?”

  Pargiter snatched them from him. “Good. That makes three hundred pounds exactly. It’s all there.” He had spoken spontaneously and then regretted it in Chaloner’s presence. Chaloner wondered how much Pargiter would have left once the find had been reported to the Lord Chancellor – the Court had expensive tastes.

  “Tell me about the day Margaret was buried,” he said, supposing he had better make a show of investigating the stranger’s death, even though he had no intention of furnishing them with answers. His work was done, and he was more than ready to change out of his filthy, wet clothes and move on to the Lord Chancellor’s next assignment.

  “She died in May, three years ago,” replied Bretton with genuine sorrow. “But the churchyard was flooded, and she had to stay in the charnel house for two days until the water had gone down.”

  “So anyone could have shoved that fellow in her coffin,” elaborated Warren. “You’ll never prove his identity or discover what really happened – and if you try, you’ll be wasting your time.”

  Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Was it wishful thinking that made him so sure?

  “It is a lover,” said Pargiter harshly. “Almost certainly.”

  “No – some felon must have hidden the victim of a robbery,” argued Warren, swallowing hard. “And now I must pay my creditors.” He took a step towards the door, but stopped uneasily when Francis approached Chaloner and gazed earnestly at him.

  “My mother’s honour is at stake here, and I want you to prove this was not a beau. Perhaps the fellow was murdered by felons, as Warren suggests. Go to the local taverns and ask known thieves whether he was one of their victims.”

  “That will see him killed,” said Pargiter scornfully. “Let the matter lie, Fossor. I’ll give you two shillings, if it’s a love of money that makes you persist with this nonsense.”

  “Margaret’s coffin would have been heavy with a second person inside it,” said Chaloner, declining to be bribed. “Who were the pallbearers?”

  Pargiter sighed irritably when he saw Chaloner was not going to do as he was told. “I was one. My children objected, since Margaret and I were estranged when she died, but I overrode them. The box was weighty, now you mention it.”

  “I was another,” said Francis softly. “But I’ve never carried a casket before, so can’t say whether it was abnormally heavy or not.”

  “We ordered a leaded one,” explained Eleanor. Tears began to flow, and Francis put his arm around her. “We wanted her to have the best.”

  But the one Chaloner had uncovered had been plain wood. Had the killer removed the metal lining, so the extra weight of a second body would go undetected? It seemed likely.

  “I understand a tall, stooped man visited you at Mr Pargiter’s house around the time of Margaret’s death,” he said to Warren. “Who was he?”

  Warren scowled. “I don’t recall. But you’re talking about things that happened three years ago, so what do you expect?”

  “The visitor was a paramour, I expect,” said Pargiter carelessly. “And he was there to see Margaret, not Warren. She often used such devices in an attempt to deceive me.”

  “That’s unfair,” said Eleanor, grabbing Francis’s sleeve to prevent him from responding with violence. “She was desperately ill, and in no position to entertain anyone. Visit these taverns, Fossor, and talk to robbers. We should at least give this stranger a grave with his own name on it.”

  Chaloner promised to do his best, and took his leave, knowing there were two reasons why no robber was responsible. First, he would have stolen the gold and the silver spurs at the same time. And second, he would not have gone to the trouble of arranging the two bodies with Margaret on top. The more he thought about it, the more Chaloner became certain that the murder was connected to Margaret’s family, and that someone she knew had committed the crime.

  It was still raining when Chaloner headed for his home on Fetter Lane. He scrubbed the mud from his
face and hands, and shoved his filthy garments in a chest that held the clothes he used for his various disguises. Then he sloshed his way to the palace at White Hall, where he was told the Lord Chancellor was with the Swedish ambassador and would not be able to see him that day. Loath to leave a written message in a place that seethed with intrigue, he decided to return the following morning, and deliver his information in person.

  With nothing else to do, he walked to Cripplegate, where his friend Will Leybourn owned an untidy bookshop with cluttered shelves. Leybourn ushered him into his steamy kitchen. He wrinkled his nose in disgust when he heard what Chaloner had been doing, but became thoughtful when he learned one of the bodies had been Margaret Pargiter. As a shopkeeper, Leybourn knew a lot of people and listened to a lot of gossip.

  “Margaret’s affairs were common knowledge – and so were her husband’s.”

  “Was one of her lovers Rector Bretton?”

  Leybourn nodded. “He visited her regularly, long before she became ill of the fever that killed her, although Pargiter didn’t know the meetings were far from pastoral. I heard she was faithful to Bretton, though, because he was special to her. So, your stranger may have been a previous paramour, but he certainly wouldn’t have been a current one.”

  Chaloner rubbed his chin. “Well, that explains why Bretton went to such lengths to prevent her from being excavated. No wonder he was upset – it must have been a grim business for him.”

  “But you say he was the one who urged you to investigate? That should mean you could eliminate him from your list of suspects. He wouldn’t demand an enquiry if he had secrets to hide.”

  “Not so, Will. If he’d agreed to shove both corpses back in the ground with no questions asked, it would have looked suspicious to say the least. He’s a priest, supposed to uphold the law, so could hardly turn a blind eye to something so manifestly sinister – especially in front of the Lord Chancellor’s spy.”

  “I suppose not,” said Leybourn. “What a pity. I like Bretton – although he does preach the most blustering and wordy of sermons. Never go to St Martin’s Ludgate on a Sunday, unless you have a good couple of hours to spare.”

  Chaloner showed him the charm. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who might recognize this? It was around the stranger’s neck. It’s a black bird, perhaps a crow.”

  Leybourn’s jaw dropped. “No, my friend, that’s a raven. And Raven is the name of the man who wore it – Henry Raven. He was in your line of work – a tall, crook-backed fellow with a beaky nose.”

  “A spy?” asked Chaloner. “Working for whom?”

  “For the government, of course. He often came to chat to me, pick my brains – just as you do. But then he stopped, and I assumed something like this had happened. You don’t need me to tell you it’s dangerous work. Poor Raven!”

  “Could he have been one of Margaret’s past lovers?”

  “Never. He wasn’t interested in women – or men, for that matter. Rather, he was consumed by a passionate interest in Barbadan sugar, of all odd things.”

  Chaloner watched the flames in the hearth, his thoughts whirling. If Raven was a government spy, then perhaps it was not the first time the Lord Chancellor had sent an agent to investigate Pargiter and Warren – and he recalled that Warren’s lost fortune had been in the sugar trade. Chaloner supposed he would have to watch he did not suffer a fate similar to Raven’s.

  The notion that it was a colleague in someone else’s coffin was enough to drive Chaloner back into his gravedigger costume. The nature of their work meant spies had few friends, and it was tacitly agreed that they could rely on each other to investigate any untimely ends. First, Chaloner went to see Pargiter at his mansion on Thames Street. The coat of arms over the door was picked out with gold, and there were fine woollen rugs on the floor of the hall. Chaloner, wearing clothes that still stank of death, was not permitted inside.

  “I told you: I’ve no idea who the stranger was,” snapped Pargiter, standing in a position that kept him dry and Chaloner under the dripping eaves. It was a clever way to ensure an unwanted conversation remained short.

  “His name was Henry Raven,” said Chaloner, watching for any sign of recognition. He saw none. “And he may have been involved in government business.”

  Pargiter’s eyes narrowed. “How have you learned this so quickly?”

  “Archbishop Juxon introduced me to a lot of people.”

  Pargiter stared at him, and Chaloner wished Bretton had not saddled him with quite such a prominent master. “Well, my answer remains the same. I didn’t know him.”

  “When you hid your gold in Margaret’s coffin, where did you put it, precisely?”

  Pargiter looked angry. “Under her head, where it wouldn’t be seen by anyone paying his last respects. Look, I know hiding it with her was an odd thing to do, but I was desperate and I didn’t think she would object. God knows, she spent enough of my money when she was alive.”

  Next, Chaloner went to visit Eleanor at an address in Cheap-side. She lived with Francis and his wife in a house with a roof that leaked. When he was shown into the main room, buckets littered the floor to catch the drips, and he was told to watch where he put his feet. It was a stark contrast to Pargiter’s luxurious mansion, and he commented on it.

  “We would never demean ourselves by accepting our father’s charity,” said Francis, watching his wife rock a fretful baby. “He might be rich, but his money is dirty.”

  “There are better things in life than gold,” agreed Eleanor, smiling at Chaloner while she played with another brat next to the fire. Chaloner heard Francis’s wife snort in disgust.

  “We’re happier here – with our leaking roof and smoking chimney – than we would be living with him,” said Francis, glaring at her.

  “But the children have no toys,” snapped his wife. “They use your carpentry tools instead – a chisel is a soldier and a hammer is a dragon. And the reason these items are available for games is because you can’t find work. Pride is all very well, but yours is affecting the welfare of your sons.”

  “You can always leave us and find something better, Alice,” said Eleanor coolly. She turned back to Chaloner. “Our father is a selfish man, and Francis and I are better off here. It was his wicked behaviour that led our mother to seek solace in the arms of other men. He made her miserable.”

  “So did her lovers,” said Alice tartly. “Except perhaps Bretton.”

  “You make it sound as though there were dozens of them,” snapped Francis, turning on her. “There were not. But if that stranger was one of them, then he received his just deserts.”

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. “You sound as though you’re glad he died.”

  Francis gave an impatient sigh. “I didn’t know him, but if he defiled my mother, then, yes, I am.”

  Eleanor came to stand next to him, resting her hand on his arm to calm him, as she had done earlier that day. “It was a long time ago, and she’s at rest now. What else do you want to know, Fossor? Bretton ordered us to cooperate, and we have nothing to hide.”

  “Where did your mother die? Here or in your father’s house?”

  “The latter,” replied Eleanor. “We all lived there, until she died.”

  “The stranger’s name was Henry Raven,” said Chaloner. “Someone recognized his neck-charm.”

  Eleanor was startled by the speed of his discovery. “Then you’ve succeeded, and we owe you a shilling. Do you know any more about this Raven?”

  “He wasn’t your mother’s lover. I have it on good authority that he wasn’t interested in women.”

  Francis gaped at him. “Are you sure?”

  Chaloner nodded. “Why? Do you believe every man was a willing candidate for her affections?”

  Francis was furious, and Eleanor stepped forward to prevent him from grabbing the spy by the throat. “Of course not. But you’ve exceeded our expectations – learning who he was and finding a ‘good authority’ who says he wasn’t one of our mot
her’s follies. You’ve cleared her name.”

  “You haven’t said why he was in Margaret’s coffin, though,” Alice pointed out.

  “We didn’t ask him to do that,” said Eleanor, searching in a pot for a shilling. “We only wanted to know the stranger’s identity, so he can be buried in his own grave.”

  Francis grunted agreement. “We should let matters rest now. I don’t want an ex-agent of Archbishop Juxon poking around in my family’s affairs. Juxon is a creature of the Court, and—”

  Suddenly, there was a piercing howl from the child by the hearth. Eleanor bent quickly to pick him up, soothing a cut finger with kisses and croons.

  A petty expression crossed Alice’s face. “I’ve warned him before about playing with that particular chisel – it’s sharp – but he’s just like everyone else around here. No one ever listens.”

  Warren’s house was shabby, although it had once been fine, indicating that its owner had recently fallen on hard times. He answered his door himself, and explained sheepishly that he had no servants.

  “I invested in Barbadan sugar, but there were several bad harvests in succession. Still, if I can weather this year, I may yet survive. The crops can’t fail for ever.”

  “Did Henry Raven tell you that?” asked Chaloner. “He had an interest in sugar from Barbados.”

  Warren regarded him sharply. “Who?”

  “The man in Margaret’s coffin – as you know perfectly well. The others didn’t recognize his neck-charm, but you did. I saw it in your face.”

  Warren closed his eyes. “Yes, that bauble belonged to Raven, although God alone knows how he got into Margaret’s casket. It was nothing to do with me.”

  “You argued – probably about sugar investments. Did the disagreement end in violence?”

  “No! There was no argument! He was very knowledgeable about Barbados, so I took him to Cousin Pargiter’s house – not here, because I didn’t want him to see the full extent of my losses – and asked his advice. He said mine was a bad venture, and recommended I withdraw while I could. I wish to God I’d listened! But I didn’t kill him and I didn’t put him in the coffin.”