Traitor's Codex

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Did you hear anything? An argument? Shouting?’

  ‘No. Naught like that. It was just as quiet as it is now.’

  Crispin listened to the commerce of people talking but was not able to discern the words. Carts squeaking, dogs barking, and children squealing and running. It was like any ordinary street.

  ‘What did the man look like?’

  ‘Wore a dark coat. Brown I think it was. Naught special about him.’

  ‘And what did he look like leaving? Did he run away?’

  ‘No, that’s the queer thing. He looked like he’d concluded his business and he was on his way.’

  ‘And you saw no one approach the shop after him?’

  ‘Well, the thing of it is, I can’t say. I have me own customers to tend to, don’t I?’

  Crispin looked back toward the shop. She had a clear view of it. ‘I see. So you can’t be sure if he were the last person to visit Master Suthfield’s shop?’

  She fiddled with her apron. ‘Well, you are correct there, Master Guest. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘I thank you just the same, madam.’ He bowed and, taking Jack’s elbow, steered him back toward the middle of the street.

  ‘Just as unhelpful,’ said Jack.

  ‘We know that a man in a dark-colored coat visited him. Let us go to the barber’s place to see if a similarly clad man visited him.’

  ‘But master.’ Jack gestured toward the street. ‘Most men have dark-colored coats. Even I do. What would that prove?’

  ‘It proves nothing if we don’t bother to ask.’

  Jack fell in step beside him toward Wood Street in London proper. Unlike the shuttered bookseller, there was a crowd of people milling in and out of the barber’s shop: men, women, and even children. As Crispin and Jack approached, those who noticed elbowed those who didn’t, and the conversation, though a low buzz, quieted to a soft murmur before petering out completely. The men stared at him. The women shushed the children standing closest to them and drew them back protectively behind their skirts.

  Crispin straightened his coat and bowed. ‘Masters, demoiselles, I am Crispin Guest, and I—’

  The murmurs began again and two men approached him. ‘We are the sons of Peter Pardeu,’ said one. The dark-haired men were well dressed like merchants and moved closer than Crispin would have liked. ‘We know you, sir,’ said the other quietly. ‘I am John. And this, my brother William.’

  ‘Masters,’ said Crispin with a nod. ‘I am deeply sorrowed for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. You came to see my father on his last day,’ said William. ‘A shopkeeper to whom you told your name told us.’

  ‘What happened to our father?’ asked John. ‘We – his friends and family – have come to see his shop, to try to understand who could have done this.’

  A flash of guilt assailed him and he felt he could do nothing short of telling them the truth. ‘I fear it was because of me, good masters. I asked him to …’ He paused, deciding not to say. ‘He … helped me with something most important and I fear he was killed because I came to him with it. I am sorry.’

  William looked down at his feet for a moment. ‘But … he helped you in your important endeavor?’

  ‘Yes. It was extremely helpful.’

  ‘Ah, then. He did not die in vain.’

  ‘I will find his killer, Master William, Master John. I will.’

  ‘We did not doubt it,’ said John. ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘If any of your people – any of your neighbors – saw anything, anyone, it would help my cause.’

  Tired faces searched his. None of his family and what he presumed were fellow Jews had seen anything. They confessed that they didn’t work or live on this street.

  ‘But you could ask his immediate neighbor, Geoffrey Little. He spoke to the coroner.’

  ‘And where is he?’

  John Pardeu pointed to the shop beside the barber’s. It looked to be a cobbler’s with a broken shoe for a sign.

  ‘I thank you, Master Pardeu. Please accept our sincere condolences for this tragedy.’

  ‘He lived a good and pious life, Master Guest.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ He bowed and left them for the shop next door. The door was open and so he and Jack walked in. Shoes were stacked up high on shelves. Crispin wondered how the man could ever get to all of them to repair.

  The cobbler in question was at his bench, bent low over a shoe placed upside down on a wooden form. He pulled a sharp metal needle through the sole of a slipper and gently pulled the threads.

  ‘Master Little?’ said Crispin.

  The man startled, pricked his finger, and jumped off the bench. ‘Jesu, you … you frightened me! And with what happened to Master Pardeu, well …’

  ‘Forgive me. We are here to enquire about that very thing. I am Crispin Guest and this is my apprentice, Jack Tucker. I am called the Tracker and investigate crimes.’

  ‘Bless me, so you do. Crispin Guest, eh? I thought you’d be taller.’

  Crispin brushed the comment aside. ‘Were you in your shop yesterday when Master Pardeu was murdered?’

  ‘Indeed I was. I heard such a ruckus! I thought the man was destroying his furniture.’

  ‘Did you hear any voices?’

  ‘No, just the ruckus.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘See? Oh, no. I stuck to my work.’

  ‘But … did you not enquire to see if Master Pardeu needed help?’

  ‘Well … Perhaps it isn’t a very Christian thing to say, but I simply assumed all was well when the noise stopped. He does do surgeries there, after all. Some men yell like a banshee when he must do … things … to them.’

  ‘And you never looked? The man was your neighbor.’

  He sucked on his sore finger. ‘Look, Master Guest. He had his own business to attend to and I had mine.’

  ‘A man is dead, Master Little.’

  ‘And is that any fault of mine? I didn’t look, I didn’t glance at the window, for what was there to see?’

  ‘A murderer perhaps.’

  ‘And perhaps he would have murdered me.’ He sucked his finger again before pulling it from his lips. ‘I’m sorry I cannot help you.’

  ‘I am sorry too.’ Without another word he spun and left, with Jack scrambling to catch up.

  ‘That’s a sorry excuse for a Christian,’ said Jack. ‘What’s this town coming to when the Jew is more charitable than the Christian?’

  Crispin thought that he would mourn the bookseller the most, but he found that the quiet little scholar who hid himself as the parish barber was a very great loss. All his learning gone. All his great wisdom. Crispin was suddenly sorry he hadn’t treated him better.

  ‘Shall I go to the other businesses, sir?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Yes. See what you can find out. Meet me back at our lodgings in about an hour.’

  ‘Aye, sir. I’ll do what I can.’

  Crispin left him to it. He was discouraged by the lack of information. That damned cobbler had heard it all but did nothing.

  He headed home, unlocked his door, and looked around his deserted hall. Nothing looked disturbed and he was satisfied that all was well. With a great sigh he dropped into his chair and covered his face with his hands, rubbing away the cobwebs, when some little weight flopped into his lap. ‘Gyb? How did you get in here?’

  The cat yowled at him and he set to smoothing his hands over its soft fur, bringing out a purr rumbling from deep within the black and white pelt.

  ‘Have I been ignoring you? I do apologize.’

  The cat butted his head insistently against Crispin’s hand and he took the hint to scratch the cat’s head in earnest.

  ‘Do you miss your tormentor, that little knave, Crispin?’ He looked around again at the shadowed corners and the interminable quiet. ‘So do I. We must conclude this soon so they may return.’

  Gyb seemed unimpressed, especially when Crispin stopped petting. ‘What can I
do, Gyb? I must solve these murders and avenge these men.’

  The cat merely blinked slowly at him and Crispin sighed, laying his head back against his chair. Oh yes, he was getting old. Talking to cats, not racing down the street after some knave as he used to do. But these deaths were a heinous plot by someone. And if not the bishop’s men – and was he truly ready to give up on them as suspects? – then who and why?

  A knock on the door startled him. He gently pushed the cat from his lap and stood, hand on his dagger hilt. There was no point in opening the door if he didn’t have to. Of course, in an earlier day he wouldn’t have hesitated. ‘Getting old,’ he grumbled, before standing next to the door. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Master Guest, it’s me!’

  ‘Who is “me”?’

  ‘You know damn well. Now open this door!’

  The voice sounded familiar. He shrugged and threw the bolt.

  The man who had paid Crispin’s imposter to burgle for him pushed his way over the threshold.

  SEVENTEEN

  The man looked around Crispin’s lodgings. ‘Strange surroundings. Why you should move to the Shambles from Bread Street is beyond my ken.’

  ‘Let us make one thing clear. You hired a man claiming to be me. I am the one and only Crispin Guest and I would never have agreed to steal for you.’

  ‘I … I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’ve been cheated, sir. Your money has been stolen just as surely as your nephew stole from you. A man impersonated me. I have since put a stop to it.’

  The man put a hand to his cheek and slowly sat. ‘This is preposterous! I … I can scarce believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I. But … if you wish to hire me, I’m afraid you will have to pay me.’

  ‘Absurd!’ He jumped to his feet. ‘I won’t do it! I have already paid you.’

  ‘You are mistaken. You have paid an imposter.’

  The man walked slowly forward, examining Crispin’s face from far too close. ‘This is … remarkable.’ He threw up his hands. ‘And how by all the saints can I know that you are the one true “Crispin Guest”?’

  Crispin sighed. He could not fathom how to prove it until he glanced at his sword hanging by the door. He took down the scabbard and drew the blade. Showing it to the nervous man, he explained, ‘You see here what it says?’

  On the blade was the engraving A donum a Henricus Lancastriae ad Crispinus Guest – habet Ius – A gift from Henry Lancaster to Crispin Guest – He Has the Right.

  The man read it slowly, lips moving slightly. When he’d finished, his eyes widened. ‘Then you are the true Crispin Guest.’

  Crispin took the blade in both hands. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then damn it all! What am I to do? I’ve been robbed twice!’

  Crispin returned to the scabbard and sheathed the blade. ‘I can help you … twice. But I must be paid my fee. Sixpence a day.’

  ‘Less than that scoundrel was charging,’ he muttered to Crispin’s scowl. He stuffed his hand in his money pouch and withdrew three days’ worth. ‘Here. I shall be glad to pay it to make two thieves humble.’

  He took the coins without counting and placed them in his own pouch. ‘And as you now know my name, perhaps I should know yours.’

  ‘Edward Howard. I’m a mercer on Threadneedle at Bishopsgate. My nephew is Francis Bastian, my sister’s boy. He is a knave, and it was thought that to give him more responsibility was to make a man of him. Alas. It has not. And with my gold. He was to deliver it to a vendor of mine but instead he has spent it on himself.’

  ‘Have you told this to the sheriff?’

  ‘My sister would not let me. So I decided to go by more irregular means.’

  ‘I will not steal it for you. I have my honor, after all.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He waved his hand. ‘I can see that. Your blade tells me, at least.’

  ‘Where does your nephew live?’

  ‘With his mother. On Trinity, near Walbrook. Her husband was a furrier.’

  ‘Very good. I shall go to see him and discuss the matter.’

  ‘But Master Guest! He will surely lie to you, dismiss you.’

  ‘You will find, Master Howard, that I can be very persuasive.’

  His fleshy face twitched into a smile. ‘Oh, I see. You’ll rough him up a bit. That boy needs it.’

  ‘I do not think I shall have to resort to violence … only the threat of it.’

  ‘Very well. I depend upon you, Master Guest.’ He rumbled to the door and cast it open, nearly upending a boy with a dirty face. ‘Watch yourself!’ he barked to the boy, shoving him out of the way.

  Crispin hoped to God that he had never behaved such when he was a wealthy man. Making amends for his client, he reached down and helped the boy up. ‘Are you all right there, lad?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Are you Master Guest?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I have a message for you, sir.’ Out of his grimy shirt he pulled a scrap of parchment and handed it over.

  Crispin opened it and read:

  In all mercy and God’s splendid grace, I greet you, Master Guest.

  I hope you will be pleased that I am obeying your order to tell you I have alighted on East Cheap.

  In God’s humble service and in yours,

  Walter Spillewood

  ‘Speak of the devil.’ Crispin smiled, but the boy looked at him askance. He patted the boy’s shoulder and reached into his pouch to pull out a farthing. ‘For your trouble, lad.’

  He took it with widened eyes. ‘Oh, thank you, sir!’ It was hidden as quickly as Jack Tucker used to hide the purses he cut. Then the boy was off the step and whirring down the Shambles before Crispin could take another breath.

  He stepped out, locked his door, and headed toward Trinity. He perused the signs hanging before the shop fronts. A silk merchant. A cordwainer. A tailor. And finally, the furrier. Crispin walked up to the shop and knocked on the door.

  A servant answered. ‘I am looking for Master Francis Bastian.’

  The servant lowered his eyes. Crispin noticed a bruise on the boy’s right cheek. ‘He is very busy, sir.’

  ‘Is he? Did he give you that?’ He pointed to the boy’s bruised cheek.

  ‘I’m just … clumsy, is all, sir.’

  ‘I’m certain you are. Clumsy enough to let me pass to find him.’ Pushing his way through, Crispin looked around the shop, walls hung with furs from a variety of animals. But no customers and no one working on the furs themselves at the empty worktables. In fact, the place had a shabby air about it, as if it had been a fine place once but now languished under disuse.

  ‘But sir,’ said the anxious servant, ‘he’ll be angry.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ Crispin made his way to the stairs to what he presumed was the lodgings of the family, put his foot on the first tread, and looked back at the servant enquiringly.

  The boy nodded and then ducked through a doorway, disappearing.

  Once he got to the gallery he began opening doors. He reached what he supposed was a solar, and a plump man in a velvet houppelande trimmed with fox lounged before the window, stuffing himself with sweetmeats. ‘What do you want, Hob?’ he said without turning toward the door. ‘Didn’t you learn your lesson about disturbing me?’

  ‘I think he has. And so have I.’

  He startled out of his chair and nearly spilled himself on to the floor. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Two strides took Crispin into the room and in front of the nephew. ‘I take it you are Francis Bastian.’

  ‘What … what …’

  Crispin grabbed him by his fur collar and lifted him up but didn’t let go. ‘You are Francis, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well … yes, but …’

  ‘The nephew of Edward Howard?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘The man who struck that boy downstairs?’

  ‘He … he …’

  Sneering, Crispin looked him over. ‘Oh, you are a sorry excuse for a merchant.
Yes, I can well see why your business suffers.’

  ‘Unhand me! Who are you?’

  Instead of releasing him, Crispin pulled him closer. ‘I’m Crispin Guest, and your uncle hired me to get his money back.’

  ‘Y-you … you …’

  ‘I what?’

  ‘You … can’t do this to me.’

  ‘I can’t? You plainly don’t know me, boy.’ He yanked the struggling man out of the solar and dragged him to the rail of the gallery. ‘You see, if you knew me, you’d know that I was a convicted traitor to the king and prepared to die in a most unpleasant manner. When I was spared, I vowed that I would never suffer fools. And you look to be a great fool indeed, squandering the life you were given, stealing from your own relatives, destroying a business your father built.’ He shoved him against the railing and stood over him.

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll call the sheriff.’

  ‘Call him. If you can. Right now, I’m waiting for you to give me the money you stole.’

  ‘I won’t give you a farthing. I know who you are, right enough. You’re a criminal, a traitor. You belong on the gallows, not in a fine shop.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case, I shall suffer no more ill treatment if I do this.’ He grabbed the man and shoved him over the side … and caught him just in time by his furred collar.

  Francis yelled murder, and the servants and apprentices at last came running, standing below and looking up with horrified faces at his fat, dangling legs.

  ‘Don’t let me fall!’

  ‘I won’t,’ grunted Crispin, struggling to keep hold of the large man. A ripping noise made the man slip farther. ‘Tell me where the money is you stole from your uncle. Come, man. This seam is ripping.’

  ‘I … I don’t have it any more!’

  ‘That’s a pity. You see, I get paid either way.’

  ‘“Either” way?’

  ‘Whether you fall or not.’

  ‘No, no! Someone help me!’

  His servants took cautious steps toward the stairs but never hurried about it.

  ‘You can judge a man’s actions on how his servants act. See the fruit of your labors.’

  ‘Get up here, you miserable wretches!’ cried the red-faced nephew.