The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (24 page)

“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.

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.