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 henchmen 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.
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 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.
“Eleanor told you the man she had killed was another of your mother’s conquests,” surmised Chaloner. “And you believed her – which is why you were startled when I mentioned that Raven wasn’t interested in women. You realized then that Eleanor had stabbed an innocent man.”
“But it was Francis and I who offered to pay you if you discovered Raven’s identity,” said Eleanor with a bemused smile. “Why would we do that, if we were the ones who’d killed him?”
“For two reasons. First, you were confident that you’d left no clues – especially ones that could be unearthed by a mere digger of graves. And second, you knew everyone would think you were innocent because you’d financed the investigation.”
“And how did I kill Raven, exactly?” demanded Eleanor with a sneer. “A small woman against a tall, powerful man?”
“If you never met him, how do you know he was tall?” pounced Chaloner. Eleanor did not reply. “You killed him with one of Francis’s carpentry tools, which he leaves lying around for his children to play with. Raven’s wound was oddly shaped, and will almost certainly match the chisel – and the chisel is sharp, because his son cut himself on it today.”
Rector Bretton regarded Eleanor with cold, unfriendly eyes. “Don’t you remember the Latin I taught you? Fossor means a digger, or a man who delves. And that’s what this Fossor has done – delved until he found the truth.”
“I loved my mother,” said Eleanor quietly. “And she was dying. I didn’t want the gossips saying that she’d entertained lovers in her last hours on Earth – and Raven came to our house when Father was out, so who can blame me for thinking what I did?”
“You admit it?” cried Bretton in horror.
“No,” said Pargiter sharply. “She doesn’t. Fossor has no real evidence, only supposition. But if she confesses to the crime, she’ll hang. Conversely, if she keeps her mouth shut, no one can prove anything. We may have had our arguments in the past, but I’ll not see my daughter on a gibbet.”
He went to stand next to her, gazing defiantly at Chaloner. Francis hurried to her other side, and Warren was quick to join them.
“You won’t repeat what you’ve heard today, Bretton,” said Pargiter softly. “You won’t want Margaret’s name dragged through the courts – nor her beloved daughter swinging on a rope. And who’ll take Fossor’s word over a family of wealthy goldsmiths and the King’s chaplain?”
Bretton hung his head, and Chaloner knew Raven’s murder would never be avenged. Pargiter was right: without a confession, there was not a jury in the country that would convict Eleanor.
The rain had abated by the following morning, and the sun glimmered faintly through thin clouds. Eleanor and her father stood side by side at the empty chasm that had been Margaret’s tomb.
“Fossor came very close to discovering the real reason why I killed Raven,” she said softly. “That Raven only visited Cousin Warren because he wanted to spy on our family; that his real objective was to confiscate our gold and give it to the government. Do you think Fossor will try to do the same – for whichever churchman he is working for now?”
“If he does, I’ll call on your services again,” replied Pargiter. “Only this time, don’t ask Francis to help. He’s too stupid for games of deceit, and almost gave you away.”
Eleanor smiled. “But Warren played his role well. He was very convincing as the desperate debtor, and is more than satisfied with what you paid him.”
Pargiter was less complacent. “What about Bretton? Do you think he was convinced by what Fossor deduced?”
Eleanor shrugged. “He seemed to be. And why not? He loved Mother very deeply, and Fossor’s erroneous conclusions made it look as though I was desperate to protect her reputation as she lay dying. As far as Bretton is concerned, I’m a dutiful daughter, prepared to kill a man and hide his body to save his Margaret from ridicule and gossip.”
“Well, now the spectre of a murdered government spy is truly dead and buried, you can come to live with me again,” said Pargiter, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve missed you these last three years. Francis can live in self-imposed poverty – he’ll never love me as you do – but there’s no longer any reason for you to endure leaking roofs and smoking chimneys.”
Both jumped when someone emerged from the shelter of the churchyard yews.
“I heard you,” said Bretton in a strangled voice. “You didn’t murder Raven to protect Margaret’s name, but to defraud the government. That’s treason!”
“Rubbish,” said Pargiter scornfully. “It’s business. And if anyone ever claims otherwise, we shall blame the whole affair on Margaret – say she demanded to be buried with the gold as a way to stop the Royalists from getting at it.”
“I’ve been such a fool,” Bretton went on brokenly. “Three years ago, you paid for my roof to be mended – not out of kindness, but to pretend to your Goldsmith’s company that you were a reformed man after they fined you for coin-clipping. The repairs included fine new lead drainpipes – lead drainpipes. You used the lining from Margaret’s coffin, didn’t you?”
“It seemed a pity to waste it – lead is expensive,” replied Pargiter with a careless shrug. “And we could hardly sell it as it was! People have admired those drainpipes, so don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed showing them off…”
The rector suddenly shoved Pargiter towards the grave. With a sharp cry, the goldsmith toppled inside the hole, where his head hit the remains of the coffin. He lay still. Eleanor tried to run, but Bretton grabbed her and hurled her after her father. She spat dirt from her mouth and tried to stand. Bretton struck her with a spade, and she dropped to all fours, dazed.
“I don’t want Margaret associated with any more scandal – or her liaisons discussed in a way that make her sound like a whore,” said Bretton brokenly. “I still love her, and I shall protect what remains of her good name. If you’re dead, you can’t harm her, can you?”
He gripped the shovel and began to fill in the hole.
Note
Robert Bretton was chaplain to Charles II and rector of St Martin’s Ludgate. John Pargiter was a goldsmith, whom the diarist Samuel Pepys considered a “cheating rogue”. Pargiter was fined several times by the Goldsmith’s Company for persistently shoddy workmanship and coin clipping, and his name was removed from the list of aldermen in 1668, presumably because of his fondness for dubious practices. A merchant called Francis Pargiter also lived in London in the 1660s, although it is not known whether he and John were kin. Thomas Warren was a merchant who traded overseas.
Shortly after the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, there were many tales of exiled Royalists returning home to retrieve hoards they had secreted years before – some found them undisturbed, others did not. One man was alleged to have chosen his wife’s coffin as his hiding place, and was reputedly delighted when he excavated her and found his money just as he had left it.