Witness of Bones Page 12

  “Friend Matthew, what do you spend your time thinking of? You’re as silent as a monument in the churchyard.”

  “I’ve been thinking of the plan you proposed.”

  “And I hope to God have decided it is a good one.”

  “I think it might be the best one, given I have no recourse but to contemplate my own hanging.”

  “You’ll talk then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And name whom?”

  Matthew hesitated. “On that point I’m still uncertain. There are various gentlemen whom I might implicate.”

  “Marry, my friend. It’s best to choose wisely. Now you take my case. There were several of my brother-in-law’s friends I forbore incriminating, thinking they might show gratitude for the relief.”

  “Did they?”

  “One did.” Buck showed Matthew the ring he wore on one of his fingers. “The ring was but a pledge for more, which he presently supplied.”

  “See then my hesitation. I would not offend where I may yet benefit.”

  Buck laughed and slapped Matthew’s knee in a gesture of fellowship. “Now you’re using your brain, Matthew. No more thought of hanging when your prospects have so improved. But tell me, who is the man?”

  “Cecil,” Matthew whispered.

  Buck’s smile broadened showing his rather fine white teeth. “Ah, the queen’s darling, her factotum. He who thinks so much of himself?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “Why it’s perfect!” Buck exclaimed ecstatically. “Your fortune is made. It’s all too probable. It’s well known that Cecil takes money from the Spaniard, that he keeps company with the cousin of Christopher Poole, the most subtle resurrecter that ever plagued England. That he should have secured your services to do away with a vocal opponent of the Roman heretics is all so plausible that it will no sooner be broadcast than believed. Oh, Matthew, you’ll be more than free—you’ll be celebrated. England’s poets will sing your praises. You’ll be the subject of every broadside and traveler’s tale. The queen will honor you for having delivered such a traitor to her knowledge. We shall address you as Sir Matthew within the month at least.”

  Buck fell silent for a few moments as though catching his breath after this torrent of words.

  Matthew said, “I am confirmed in my purpose. My prob-

  lem now is to know how to negotiate with my captors. If I tell too readily, I’ll have nothing to bargain with. If too late I may cinch the knot at my own throat.”

  “You need an intermediary,” said Buck, nodding his head sagaciously.

  “A lawyer or priest?”

  “Neither. Someone, rather, who can appraise the situation on both sides, who is disinterested as was Solomon when he pronounced which quarrlesome mother was the true, and yet one who has your own interests foremost in his heart.” “He hardly can be disinterested if he favors me,” Matthew said.

  “Well, he should seem disinterested to the casual observer. Solomons come rarely along. Most judges are as venal as those they judge. Now I have just the man for you. ’ “Who?”

  “Your humble servant, Thomas Buck.”

  Saying this Buck leaped to his feet and bowed low before Matthew.

  “Trust me as you would your own brother.”

  Matthew stood up too. He looked at Buck, who was effervescent with enthusiasm.

  “You would do this for me?”

  “Haven’t I told you I was a friend from our first meeting?” “You did.”

  “Well then, of course I’ll mediate between you and the magistrate. The burden of all my tale is how I am experienced in such matters as yours. Look, I’ll call the warder and let him know you have a confession to make. You’ll be before the magistrate within the day and doubtless a free man by tomorrow this time.”

  “Oh, but I think this is moving all too quickly,” Matthew said with a heavy sigh. “I’ll wait until tomorrow.

  “Wait until tomorrow? What womanish indecision is this? I speak bluntly, only because I care for you. Tell your tale, secure your release from this vile hole, and make your fortune forever.”

  Matthew shook his head in confusion and sat back down.

  He watched Buck as the man paced up and down the cell, finally called the warder, whispered something, and was removed without any explanation. In a short time he returned. Matthew asked him where he had been.

  “Attempting to secure more creature comforts for you,” Buck said flatly. “You reject my counsel, yet I remain your friend. I am not without influence here in the prison. Wait until you see our dinner. No more of that slop they call food.” Buck’s words proved true. Within the hour the warder arrived with plates upon which were several pieces of savory fowl, cheese, and freshly baked bread that so stimulated Matthew’s shrunken stomach that he almost wept at the first delicious exhalation of the aroma. There was wine, too, not the ditch water he had been made to drink before. Matthew thanked Buck profusely for his help, pledged him with his cup, and gorged to his heart’s content.

  They were no sooner finished when Matthew heard a voice at the cell door. He looked up and saw Richard Staunton peering in. Matthew jumped to his feet.

  “You told Sir Robert of my case?” Matthew asked before his visitor could speak.

  “Pray keep your voice low, Master Stock,” Staunton said, looking around him circumspectly and covering his mouth with a handkerchief. “I have told Sir Robert.”

  “Will he work my release?”

  “He cannot, I’m afraid. There’s nothing he can do.” “What do you mean there’s nothing he can do?” Matthew almost shouted. “I languish here. I will be presently tried for my life. Yet I am as innocent as he in Graham’s murder.” “My master thinks otherwise.”

  “What?”

  “My master is grateful for your past service, but is neither able nor willing to save you from your just doom,” Staunton pronounced. “He condemns the murderer, especially he who would kill one of the Lord’s annointed.”

  “But he knows I have been put in this place by his enemies. So that I will implicate him.”

  “You would be wise not to try it,” said Staunton. “Sir

  Robert must protect himself. He protects more than himself, but also the queen’s good name.”

  “I am expendable then?”

  “My master bids you make peace with God and assures you he will provide for your good wife after your death.” “Provide for my wife?”

  “It’s more than is required of him, being as you are a murderer. The proof is incontrovertible.”

  Matthew turned his back on the well-dressed secretary and in a moment he heard the man departing, saying something to the warder about the stench of urine in the prison.

  He looked down at Buck, who by his self-satisfied smile had overheard the conversation. Buck said, “There is no master so ungrateful as he who has most to be grateful for in a servant. His thanks are brief and treacherous. Whom he commends one day, he condemns the next. Have you not just now seen evidence of Sir Robert s love for you?”

  “I have,” Matthew said gloomily.

  “Then will you do as I have advised?”

  “I will,” said Matthew, sinking down in apparent despair although he was inwardly glad, for if there was ever a doubt about Buck’s duplicity it had vanished forever. What kind of fool did Buck—or for that matter, Cecil’s false servant— think he was?

  Stearforth had followed Joan Stock back to the City, and lost her somewhere in the crowd near Paul’s Cross. After an hour or two of searching, he decided to go to St. Crispin’s on the chance that was her destination.

  Upon arriving at the place, Stearforth observed Motherwell approaching from the other direction and was glad, for to Stearforth’s mind what Motherwell lacked in moral virtue he made up for in his dependable corruptibility. Seeming happy to encounter Stearforth for his part, the sexton immediately informed him of the strange visit of the woman Hop wood had surmised to be Stock’s wife. “Hopwood thinks she came to filch Gr
aham’s diary,” Motherwell said.

  “Damn her to hell,” exclaimed Stearforth. “Why did the imbecile let her in? He should have cried out for the watch and had her taken or at least exposed her and barred the door.”

  “Well, Hopwood, as you know, is a dog brain,” said Motherwell, not eager to reveal the fact that it was he who had admitted Joan Stock to the rectory.

  Stearforth motioned to the sexton to follow him. The two men continued at a brisk pace down the street until they came to a tavern where Stearforth was a frequent patron and where he knew the host had a private room for just such conferences as he now intended.

  “Sit down and start talking,” Stearforth said.

  “About what?”

  “About this diary Hopwood babbles of. It belonged to Graham. And what if it did? What would Stock’s wife think to find therein but the wrangles of churchmen and pious and hypocritical effusions? Has she turned to religion or what?” “I know nothing of her religion,” Motherwell said, not happy to be ordered about by his younger companion. “Or of Graham’s diary. If he had one, I never knew of it. Nor why it should be worth more than the paper it’s written upon.” “Well,” said Stearforth, “the Stock woman thought it worth the risk of a disguise and invasion to have it, so it must be worth more than we supposed. Now let me think.”

  Stearforth paused, massaging his beetled brow and staring off into the middle distance. He continued. “It must have something to do with her husband’s case, that’s clear. If so, then perhaps Graham wrote something that might give her an idea—”

  “Of who killed Graham?” interjected Motherwell. “That’s impossible. Graham would have said nothing about me. ” “Not you, idiot. You were only the tool. Graham may have written something about me—or something about one greater than I. Surely, whatever Stock’s wife might be, she’s no fool. We must get that diary back again.”

  “And put an end to the woman’s meddling,” said Mother-

  well, with happy anticipation. “Tell me but where and when and then let us proceed to a discussion of my fee.”

  “Patience, Motherwell. You’re too quick to draw that blade of yours. Let me first see what he whom I serve would have, before we unleash you upon Joan Stock.”

  “I shall wait like a good dog therefore,” said Motherwell.

  It took Stearforth half an hour to make his way to his new destination, contemplating all the while what he would do to Joan Stock, once he had her in his power. But all of course would be at his master’s approval. That was essential now that Stearforth was sitting where he was, in a position of favor at long last. No, he would do nothing without approval. Then, if things fell out badly, he would not be to blame. He would have done exactly what he was told, and he would have the reward of his obedience without the risk of the plot’s failure.

  He was admitted into the great solemn house as he generally was these days, a considerable improvement from at first when the employer’s butler required him to stand at the door while he determined that it was the master’s pleasure to have him admitted. The same butler, obsequious now that he sensed Stearforth’s star on the rise, hurried before him, leading the way to the handsomely appointed rooms where his employer did his private business. Stearforth was gratified to find him alone, although at supper.

  His employer looked up and said, “Stearforth, is it? Well come have a chair, man. See, my cook has prepared sufficient for at least a dozen men of healthy appetite.”

  Stearforth’s eyes quickly swept the table which was abundantly laid, but he thought it politic not to accept the invitation too readily. He was famished but a hungry servant was generally despised, and he was not about to lose ground by speaking his mind.

  “Many thanks, Your Grace, but I have already dined today. At a friend’s.”

  The man at table looked up at Stearforth with a shrewd

  expression and smiled with his thin lips. “Nonsense, Stear-forth. No tall man like you can stand to reject a good meal. Sit down I pray you. Here, I’ll have Jonathan fetch you a plate and knife.”

  The butler, who had stood patiently by while this conversation was in progress, now hurried off to do as he was ordered. Stearforth sat down, took a napkin from the table, and tucked it in the top of his doublet as he saw his host had done. Before him on the table was the good part of a roast pig, covered with herbs and garnished by boiled turnips and leeks. A flagon of wine was also at hand and a silver goblet to drink it from. Stearforth was so delighted by the repast and the honor of being invited to sit with his host that he nearly forgot the purpose of his visit.

  The butler returned with plate and knife. Stearforth watched as the man expertly carved from the roast pig and laid a generous amount of the succulent meat upon the plate and not a few of the turnips and leeks. Stearforth took the knife and stabbed the meat, brought it to his mouth, and chewed with inexpressible relish. God in heaven, he thought. Was it not good to the tongue, and was not this the life he had dreamed of since a poor student at Oxford?

  While Stearforth ate the other man went on at some length of a recent audience with the queen. He spoke of her appearance, which was, he said, much decayed—so much so that hardly one could be found who knew her that thought she would last out the year.

  Stearforth had asked for a second helping before he had had enough and his mind came back to the matter that brought him.

  “Stock’s wife has been busy at St. Crispin’s.”

  “Praying for her husband?”

  “Preying upon Graham’s library.”

  “What? She’s turned scholar?”

  “Thief—and probably spy as well. Graham had a diary. Joan Stock sneaked into the parsonage disguised as an old woman begging to have her son’s diary returned.”

  The other man looked up quickly. “How do you know all this?”

  “Motherwell told me. Hopwood let her in, believing her tale.”

  “Hopwood is a fool. No wonder the church falters.”

  “She was in and out of the house before either Motherwell or Hopwood knew what she had come for.”

  “And found the diary.”

  “So it is supposed.”

  “I’m afraid Mistress Stock is becoming a thorn in my side, Stearforth. But we shall put her to use. Her husband is slow to accommodate our wishes. He insists on protecting Cecil, despite plain signs that Cecil cares nothing for him and would gladly see him hanged. I’m afraid Stock’s integrity will be our undoing unless we can persuade him to cooperate. There’s a way to do this.”

  “How, sir?”

  “Take his wife. Secure her in some place where she cannot escape and none can rescue her. Then tell Stock she’ll live only upon his confession and accusation against Cecil. Here, Stearforth. You had a healthy appetite after all. But have some of this pudding too. It’s excellent.”

  Stearforth tried the pudding and saw that the other man was right about its quality. He knew he was also right about what to do with Stock’s wife.

  Buck and the other man, whom Matthew had seen at the magistrate’s hall, took him to a little room in the upper part of the prison that had a window and fresh air and was evidently part of the living quarters of him who was in charge of the prison.

  The other man was a short, stout Yorkshireman by his accent. He had a livid scar running from his right eye to his lower lip and the officious manner of a secretary, yet he treated Matthew with surprising courtesy, while Buck had now dropped any pretense that his confinement in Marshal-sea was anything but subterfuge. Matthew was told yet an-

  other officer of the court would come presently and in the meantime would he like a little something for his supper besides salt fish and moldy bread and a potent ale brewed by the warder’s worthy wife.

  Matthew said he would, and this same wife, a small-boned woman with high cheekbones and stern gaze presently came in and brought him the promised supper, a hearty stew, more of the fresh-baked bread he had had before, and a good round orange to crown the feast. He was als
o given a basin of fresh water to wash in and some scented soap and a towel and a razor to shave with, which amenities he had not enjoyed for a whole week, so that a rich growth of gray stubble spread upon his cheeks and he itched in his shirt as though every louse in Christendom had taken up residence there.

  He thanked the warder’s stern wife for her courtesy, washed and shaved. He saw no harm in availing himself of these privileges. Two could play the game of deception even if one was less practiced in it.

  Feeling much better after his second decent meal of the afternoon, washed and barbered and wishing only for a clean shirt to amend himself completely, Matthew waited for the magistrate’s clerk while Buck and Harking—that was the scarred gentleman’s name—played cards on a little table in the corner and made conversation of a most trivial sort, bantering about whether the French were more licentious than the Italians and, once, raising their voices about the proper whelping of dogs, of which Harking evidently was a great fancier. Matthew noticed that although Buck was obviously of higher place in the social order than Harking, he dealt with him in an open and familiar manner. Harking was also very merry, as though the present events were of no more moment than a casual encounter of three old friends.

  Matthew did not object to this delay. He had a chair in the corner to sit in and would have drifted off into sleep had his pulse not been quickened by anticipation of just what he was to offer up as a token of his compliance without doing Cecil any real hurt.

  It was nearly dark and the room had been furnished with candles before anyone came. There were two new persons rather than the one expected: a tall, stooped man named Conley dressed in a lawyer’s gown and his younger assistant who was not introduced. Buck came over to where Matthew sat and said in a low whisper. “You’re not to worry, my friend. Remember what I told you. Throw yourself on their mercy. Tell them what expedience dictates and so be done of this unpleasantness.”

  Then Matthew was brought over to the table where Buck and Harking had been playing cards, made to sit down, and Conley sat down opposite. Buck and Harking stood watching at some distance. Conley’s assistant brought out from beneath his cloak a tablet. He too sat down, drawing a pen and ink bottle from his pocket.