“Some men are simply good at what they do.”
The man sniffed and wiped his fingerless glove across his nose. “Well, I ain’t good at much. What are you good at?”
Crispin grinned crookedly. “Oh, a number of things. And none of them pay me enough.”
“Ain’t that God’s truth. And times is hard, ain’t they?” The man rubbed his hands and wrapped his cloak over his chest. “I think we should both forget our troubles for now.” He put out his gloved hand. “The name’s John Hoode. Shall we share a beaker of ale?”
Crispin glanced at the silent house, each door in or out locked tight. He measured the sky. It wouldn’t be nightfall for a few hours. Didn’t trysts usually happen at night?
Maybe the man had information on the Walcotes he could use. He clasped the man’s hand and shook it once. “I will accept your kind offer.”
“Well now!” The man motioned for Crispin to follow and they walked a block to the nearest tavern.
They settled in. Crispin pushed back his hood, running his fingers through his damp, black hair. Hoode talked merrily about London and his amusing adventures as a workingman. Crispin let him talk, only half-listening. He studied him with slate gray eyes, sipping slowly of his ale. He didn’t share as much about himself, saying only that he did a variety of jobs to keep food on the table.
“Tell me,” said Crispin, slipping in between the man’s chatter. “What was your impression of Madam Walcote?”
The man slurped from his beaker and frowned. “A pretty thing. Young. Steadfast.”
Crispin drank. Steadfast? Then why should Walcote suspect her?
“Thinking of getting around him and going through her, eh?” he asked Crispin. “I wouldn’t. She’s loyal to the bone. What’s good for him is good for her. Like I said. Steadfast.”
Crispin dipped his face in his cup and said little else. He wanted to look at the portrait again but that was impossible in Hoode’s presence. Perhaps he should have questioned Walcote more rigorously as to why he had his suspicions, but Crispin’s personal distaste for this kind of task got the better of him. He shook his head at it. He should know better than that.
What matter could it have been that got Walcote’s hackles up? Was there someone loitering near the house, perhaps? Or did she hire servants who were more comely in appearance than Hoode here?
After almost two hours of nursing a beaker of watery ale and listening to Hoode chatter about this and that, Crispin thanked the man, wished him well, and left the tavern. He sauntered down the chilly street, now black and silver under the indistinct glow of a clouded moon.
He reached the brazier across the avenue from the Walcote gatehouse where he first met Hoode, but the dead fire left only gray ashes swirling at the bottom of the iron cage.
For hours he stood in the darkness. The moon had long gone, making the night seem colder. Finally, a small figure appeared near the gatehouse. If the guard had not brought forth his torch to show her face, Crispin might not have recognized Philippa Walcote, but he saw a flash of brassy gold hair and remembered it from the miniature portrait.
She set out alone along the street, looking back over her shoulder at the house, now dark. Crispin let her get a bowshot away before he ducked his head into his hood and followed.
She walked quickly. The shadows of the narrow lane soon swallowed her slim form, but Crispin’s eyes caught the movement. Distantly, he followed her through a stone archway, slick with mist and stinking of mold. Her footsteps echoed within the structure and Crispin waited until they fell away again before he ventured through. She stepped onto a street that gently curved away from the eye, like a river. Tall shops of several stories or lofts towering over one another lined the street, shoulder to shoulder. Their frames seemed squeezed by proximity and they loured over the avenue in stiff indifference to her flight, closing off the black sky. Doors were bolted and shutters closed against the warm, golden light Crispin could just see peeking through the seams. The damp street was deserted, except for the mysterious woman and her shadow.
She stopped and looked back.
Crispin jammed himself against the wall of a stone house, its rugged surface digging painfully into his back. Barely breathing lest the cloud of breath betray him, he quested a cautious eye past his hood to watch her.
She seemed satisfied that she was alone and turned. She gathered her cloak around herself and stepped along the uneven paving stones and sometimes into the mud.
Crispin took a deep breath, allowed her to turn a corner, and hurried, keeping amid the shadows of the eaves like a rat. He slowed when he approached the corner where she had turned and he clutched the lime-washed timber, peering carefully. He saw the hem of her cloak flick as she scurried, watched her tramp across the bridge over the Fleet Ditch, and grimaced. She was making her way south toward parts of London a lone gentlewoman should not go. Crispin snorted. Foolish woman! You’ll get yourself killed. Or worse.
She trailed her hand along a wattle fence and stepped up onto a granite paving stone situated before a busy inn. She looked once back behind her before ducking inside. Crispin stopped and watched the door open to admit her. A bright rectangle of light briefly lit the dark street before the door closed again.
A few moments later a candle was lit in an upper window, its light streaming through the cracked shutter. Crispin approached and craned his neck, but the sill was too high.
He stumbled through the inn’s pitch-dark courtyard, searching for a ladder, and found one leaning against the stable door. Carefully, he carried it back to the window and laid it against the wall, just to the side of the closed shutter. He climbed the rungs—stopped with a wince when they creaked—then made it the rest of the way to the top and peered in through the shutter’s cracks.
Philippa Walcote stood facing the window. This time he could see her features clearly. She was, indeed, young and quite beautiful. Her pale skin seemed smooth, almost translucent. Her dark eyes were large under heavy lashes, though they were draped by drowsy lids. He recalled from the miniature that same pert nose and small mouth whose lips were perfectly shaped in two opposing bows. Her hair, redder than in the painting, shone with bright flashes of wheat when the firelight caught it.
Why would a rich woman go to such a low tavern? It seemed a strange place to conduct an affair, if affair it was.
She unhooked the agrafe at her throat that held the cloak in place and tossed the mantle on the bed. Her blue samite dress was decorated with embroidery along the scooped neckline and displayed both her long neck and her high and pronounced breasts, made more conspicuous by the satiny fabric with its shine and shadow.
Crispin almost felt sorry for such a pretty thing, and he wondered why, with Walcote’s many locks, he could not manage also to confine his wife.
A shadow passed over the woman, and a man stepped into view. He stood behind her and without preamble ran his hand over the back of her neck. His features were dark, with a wide unpleasant mouth and small eyes. He needed a shave and possibly a bath, for his hair hung about his face in greasy, curled locks.
Crispin watched her passive face. It reflected neither lust nor affection, and kept its steady gaze settled somewhere on the floor, lids at half mast. Not quite the expression he expected. An unusual tryst, to be sure.
The man attacked the laces on the back of her gown. He tugged, and her body jerked like a straw manikin, but she did not seem to wish to help him expedite his efforts. He growled, mauling her neck, and the only indication that she acknowledged his presence was a slight wince. The dark hand covering her creamy skin slid to the front of her gown and clawed her breast. At last, the laces opened and her gown slipped, loosened about her shoulders. His long fingers grasped the material and yanked it down. The dark gown crumpled to her waist, revealing her white shift beneath. Those large hands kept roving along her body, pinching and pulling at her. Her eyes betrayed the merest hint of impatience…or was it irritation? Those hands bunched the cloth of her shift in
two fists and pulled downward. There was a sound of tearing cloth and Crispin suddenly got an eyeful of white, pink-tipped breasts.
He slipped off his rung.
“God’s blood!” Arm linked around the ladder, he swung underneath it and hung for a moment, breathing hard. He rested his forehead against a damp tread and waited. Nothing. They had not heard him. No one gave the alarm. They were, no doubt, preoccupied. He shook his head. It had been too long since he had seen a woman that beautiful and in that state of undress. He cautiously pulled himself around to the front of the ladder and made his unsteady way down.
And so. Philippa Walcote was an adulteress. No doubt about it. That was a quick sixpence. Too bad it couldn’t have been drawn out for a few days for a greater fee.
Crispin returned the ladder and pushed his way into the inn. He sat by the fire with a view of the stairs and ordered wine with one silver coin newly received from Walcote. He did not relish his task in telling the merchant about the misadventures of his wife, but it must be done.
When the liquor arrived he drank a bowlful quickly. He poured himself another and quaffed that, too. The wine warmed his belly and he felt slightly better. After a quarter of an hour he saw the woman descend the stairs and stride across the crowded room.
Crispin scrambled to his feet and left the bowl to follow her. Outside, he looked up at the window and saw the candlelight extinguish, leaving the window dark through the shutters. With her tryst quickly over she hurried home.
It was much too late to go to Walcote’s now, especially with such unpleasant news. Home sounded good to him and he left the damp streets for his own bed, dreaming of ladders and open windows.
Come morning, he glanced at his ash-filled hearth and frowned, thinking of his empty larder and growling belly. Sixpence a day did not go as far as it once did.
Sixpence. He tried to make light of the whole affair as just another job, but failed. It wasn’t just the hiding in shadows and peering through windows like a simpering spy that vexed him. The vision of Philippa Walcote’s naked loveliness troubled him far more. He kept seeing her in his mind.
A thump in the shop below drew his thoughts away from her. It was the tinker’s family starting their day. Perhaps he’d better do the same. He got up and went to the basin to wash his face and shave. He tied the laces of his chemise, pulled on his socks, drew up and tied his stirruped leggings, and buttoned the cotehardie all the way up his neck.
Crispin reached the Walcote gatehouse within a quarter of an hour. He entered the courtyard and made the long walk across the flagged stones to the wide stairs of an arched portico made of carved granite. He pulled the bell rope and after a few moments encountered the same servant from yesterday.
“Good morrow, Adam,” said Crispin, smiling at the servant’s agitation at the use of his name. “I have come to see your master. You remember me, do you not?”
The servant returned a wan smile. “Come this way.”
The house lay in quiet that early in the morning. No sound lifted from the cold plaster and timbers but their footsteps on the wooden floor and the jangle of Adam’s keys.
They arrived at the solar, but when Adam reached for the door ring and pulled, the door remained stubbornly shut. He stared at the door dumbly for a moment before knocking. “Master Walcote,” he said, chin raised. “Master Crispin Guest is here to see you.”
They both waited for a reply, but none came. Adam glanced at Crispin before he leaned into the door again. “Master,” he said louder. “You’ve a visitor; Crispin Guest.”
They waited again. Silence.
Crispin glared at Adam. “Are you certain he’s in there?”
Adam’s look of bewilderment gave Crispin pause. Adam did not seem the bewildered sort. By his longer gown and ring of keys, Crispin assumed he was the steward and would naturally be the man who knew all goings on in this house.
“He must be,” said Adam slowly. “It locks from the inside.” He exchanged looks with Crispin. Adam raised his hand and knocked again. The polite knocks turned to pounding and then he turned a desperate expression on Crispin. “Something must be amiss.”
Crispin pushed Adam aside and did his own knocking. “Master Walcote!” Foolish to think that his knocking would have more sway over the steward’s. An uneasy sensation steeled over his heart. “Get something to break down this door. And get help. Make haste!”
Adam ran down the passageway while Crispin yanked on the door ring. He braced his foot against the wall and with both hands pulled until he was blue in the face. Nothing. His eyes traveled over the door, searching for a means in. The heavy iron hinges were beyond his abilities without tools and the door was made of thick, sturdy oak.
He turned at the sound of footsteps slapping against the floor and moved aside for two men, both with axes. “Master Walcote!” cried one of the men. They turned to Adam for permission and he gave them a desperate nod.
Standing squarely before the door, they hacked at the oak, one hitting the door while the other swung back—a rhythmic thudding of blade on wood precisely timed. The wood splintered little by little, breaking off in long staves and flying chips. Adam danced on the balls of his feet behind them, blinking from each hard blow of the ax. At last they broke through the wood above the door ring. They stopped their swinging and one of the men reached through the tight opening to unbolt the door.
When it swung opened, Adam barked a surprised shout and froze. The two men with the axes searched past their steward and murmured prayers as they crossed themselves. Adam stumbled forward into the room.
A prickle started up Crispin’s spine, and when he peered in, his instincts were confirmed. Nicholas Walcote lay on his back on the floor, mouth agape, eyes dilated, with an irregular patch of red beneath him.
2
Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe stood in the center of the room and surveyed its cloth-draped walls, the cold hearth, splintered door, and finally Crispin. The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “What, by the mass, are you doing here?”
Crispin leaned against a far wall. He shrugged. “I happened to be in the parish.”
Wynchecombe sneered. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
Crispin opened his mouth to answer but then thought better of it.
Besides Wynchecombe, there was another sheriff of London, John More, but Crispin seldom saw him performing his appointed task for the king. He supposed the man used his authority elsewhere. Perhaps he favored penning writs. On the other hand, Simon Wynchecombe was often on the streets when trouble arose. Crispin suspected it had less to do with sheriffing and more to do with a step closer toward the mayor’s office.
Sheriff Wynchecombe, tall and dark-haired, cut a menacing figure. A meticulously coifed black mustache curved downward over his upper lip. A black beard neatly trimmed into two curls sprouted from his chin. He scanned Crispin with his usual irritated scorn before dismissing him.
The sheriff turned to Adam and leaned over him, pressing a finger into his chest in emphasis. Crispin chuckled to himself. He’d been in Adam’s shoes many a time, but Adam didn’t seem to be faring quite as well.
Crispin turned his attention to the quiet room and to the body of Nicholas Walcote. He’d been stabbed multiple times in the back. There was no sign of a struggle, no cast-over chairs or torn drapery. The blood had stopped running long ago. Such bodies he remembered from battlefields. These were the kind found in the morning after the corpse had lain all night. He could tell that Walcote was killed sometime the previous night by the look of the blood and the gray skin pallor.
Crispin had made a cursory inspection earlier, but Adam had prevented him from a more thorough search of the room, preferring to wait for the sheriff.
He glanced back at Wynchecombe, still pinning Adam to the wall. Smirking, Crispin wagered the servant didn’t prefer Wynchecombe’s company now.
He stepped over a spilled cup of wine to get nearer. The cup lay rim down. Wine splattered across the buffet. Or was it blood? He crouche
d down and squinted.
Wine.
He left the cup where it lay and crossed the room to examine the window. It was tightly barred. The dust on the sill told him that it had not been opened in some time. When he moved toward the door to examine the twisted lock, the sheriff’s man stood in his way.
Almost wide enough to fill the arch, the man’s shoulders blocked the outer gallery’s light. His flat nose looked as if someone once flattened it for him. Crispin remembered his name was William.
A commotion at the doorway turned their heads. Philippa Walcote burst into the room trailed by anxious servants, reaching for her. She put her hand to her throat and stared wild-eyed at her husband before she let out a resounding scream.
Wynchecombe motioned to Crispin, and Crispin grabbed the woman’s shoulders and dragged her from the room and out into the gallery.
“Now Mistress,” he soothed. But when she refused to stop screaming, he opened his hand and slapped her.
She drew up and clamped her lips together. A red mark formed on her pale skin.
“My apologies,” he said and released her.
She touched her cheek. Her wild eyes scrambled over Crispin’s unfamiliar face, trying to place him. When this proved futile, she took a deep breath, and with it color returned to her face. Her rounded eyes tapered to drowsy slits and she looked at Crispin anew. He returned her gaze with interest, catching the careful relaxing of her shoulders and of her thoroughly taking in the scene before her. It was with surprising calm that she turned to him.
“I don’t understand none of this. Tell me what happened,” she said. He expected her voice to be high and melodic, but heard instead something low and husky. And arousing. Her accent, too, rubbed unexpectedly coarse on his ear with dropped aitches and a certain edge to the form of her speech.
“We do not know. He was murdered. By the look of the—By the look of him, I would say it was sometime last night.”
Veil of Lies Page 2
