The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (25 page)

“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 mother’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.”

“How did you get into Pargiter’s house? Does he not keep it locked?”

Warren looked furtive. “I have a key. Margaret gave it to me, a few years ago.”

A short while later, Chaloner went to see the last of his witnesses. Rector Bretton was more welcoming than the others, and offered him wine and a seat by the fire. He was clearly under the
impression that the liaison forced on them by the Lord Chancellor meant he was exempt from suspicion, and was surprised when Chaloner started to ask questions.

“You can refuse to answer,” said Chaloner. “But the Lord Chancellor will want to know why. Everyone else has cooperated, although not always with good grace – people
don’t like Archbishop Juxon very much, and you should have chosen me a more popular master.”

“He is a saint,” said Bretton in surprise. “Who doesn’t like him?”

“Margaret,” prompted Chaloner, deciding he had better change the subject before he landed himself in trouble. Francis was right: Juxon
was
a creature of the Court. “Tell
me about her.”

Bretton stared unhappily into the flames. “All right. Yes, I was Margaret’s lover. I think I was more important to her than the others, but perhaps I flatter myself. I was with her
when she died.”

“When was she put in her coffin?”

“The morning after her death. Francis had ordered a lead-lined box, and we put her in it together. We left it open for another day, then Pargiter and I sealed it before taking it to the
charnel house. I know the others said someone could have put the stranger in at that point, but it isn’t true. I stood vigil until her funeral – although I never told
them
that
– and I’d have noticed anything untoward.”

“The stranger was named Henry Raven,” said Chaloner.

Bretton stared at him. “The tall man with the stoop? He came to see Warren around the time of Margaret’s last illness, although I have no idea why. During one visit, he told us he
disliked close contact with women, because he was afraid of catching the plague. He was an odd man.”

“Who was the last person to visit Margaret, before the casket was closed?”

“Pargiter. He asked for a moment alone, and when I returned, he’d placed the lid across her and we nailed it down together. But this happened in Margaret’s bedchamber, and
unless Raven’s body was hidden under the bed . . .”

Chaloner stood. “Will you summon the others? I think I know what happened now.”

It was an uneasy company that gathered in Bretton’s home. Warren and Pargiter claimed they were too busy for nonsense they never wanted started in the first place, and
Eleanor and Francis said the investigation should have finished when Chaloner learned Raven’s name. Only Bretton said nothing. The spy began his analysis.

“At first, I assumed Warren was the culprit. He recognized Raven’s charm, and it was obvious they’d known each other. They discussed sugar investments, and the debate might
have ended in violence. But it was Warren who asked for Margaret’s grave to be opened, and he isn’t so desperate for funds that he’d risk hanging for murder to claim
them.”

“But he was deeply unhappy about the exhumation,” Bretton pointed out. “His reaction wasn’t that of an innocent man.”

“That’s because he was one of Margaret’s past lovers, too,” explained Chaloner. “He said she gave him a key to the Pargiter house a few years ago – she would
not have done that without good reason. And he still harbours an affection for her. He was torn between a selfish need for money and leaving her undisturbed.”

Warren hung his head. “It’s true – I did love Margaret. But I didn’t kill Raven. Why would I? He gave me some good advice.”

“Who
is
the culprit, then?” demanded Eleanor. She turned to the rector, who was regarding Warren with open-mouthed horror at the confession. “Bretton? Perhaps he was
afraid Raven would take his place in my mother’s heart – that he didn’t come to discuss sugar with Warren, but to court
her.
”

“Bretton didn’t kill Raven, either,” said Chaloner, cutting across the rector’s spluttering denial. “He knew – from Raven himself – that the man spurned
any kind of physical contact, because he was afraid of catching the plague. Thus there was no need for jealousy, and Bretton was more concerned with tending Margaret on her deathbed than in
dispatching imaginary rivals.”

“Well,
I
didn’t do it,” said Pargiter, when the others regarded him accusingly. “I didn’t even know him. You say he was in my house, but I never saw him
there.”

“Warren invited him when you were away, hoping Raven would think the mansion was his,” said Chaloner. “But Raven was killed in your house – and he was certainly stuffed
in the coffin there.”

“How can you know that?” demanded Pargiter in disbelief.

“Because Bretton was in constant attendance once Margaret’s casket was in the charnel house. Therefore, Raven was hidden
before
you and Bretton closed the lid. At the same
time, the killer removed the lead lining, to disguise the additional weight. I suppose he concealed it under the bed, or spirited it out of the house when everyone was asleep – we may never
know. But although you lied about the coins, it proves you didn’t kill Raven.”

“I don’t see how –” began Francis, while Pargiter gaped in astonishment.

“Pargiter claimed he put his bag of gold under Margaret’s head,” explained Chaloner. “But if that were true, he would have noticed Raven, who was already there –
and he certainly would have said something. Instead of placing the coins
beneath
her, he tossed them
over
her in an act of defiance.”

“I didn’t –” began the goldsmith indignantly.

“You resented the amount of money Margaret spent; you said so yourself,” Chaloner continued. “You hurled the gold at her, no doubt adding a taunt about her not being able to
fritter it away now.”

Pargiter regarded him with dislike. “I didn’t anticipate that we’d have to reclaim it in the pouring rain
or
that there’d be another corpse to consider while we
did so.”

“And that leaves you two,” said Bretton, looking at Francis and Eleanor. “Did you kill Raven and defile your mother’s grave?”

Chaloner addressed Francis. “You disliked your mother’s liaisons, and you loathed the men who took advantage of her. But you loved her, and you’re the only one who stalwartly
defends her reputation – everyone else acknowledges her indiscretions.”

“Indiscretions is putting it mildly,” muttered Pargiter. “She was flagrant.”

Chaloner’s attention was still fixed on Francis. “You said you’d never met Raven, and that’s probably true. But you were so hostile to your mother’s men that you
were more than willing to dispose of the corpse of one of them – especially when it was to help someone else you love.”

Francis licked dry lips. “This is pure fabrication. You have no proof.”

“You’re a man of fierce passions, who either loves or hates – there’s no middle way for you. When someone told you Raven was one of your mother’s beaux, you were only too
happy to get rid of his body. At first, I thought you were the killer – you objected to the opening of the coffin, and you didn’t agree to my investigation until Eleanor said it was a
good idea. But you’re a follower, not a leader, and you hid the body because you were obeying instructions.”

Eleanor gazed at him, then started to laugh. “I hope you’re not implying that
I
killed Raven!”

Chaloner nodded. “I
know
you did. You see, you jumped to the wrong conclusion about Raven – you
assumed
he’d come to tarnish your mother’s reputation
because he visited when your father was out. But poor Raven had come to discuss sugar with Warren. You killed him because
you
misjudged Margaret. By this time, she was in love with Bretton,
and had forsaken all the others.”

Francis rounded on Eleanor. “You said he was—” He faltered when she glowered at him.