Veil of Lies

by Jeri Westerson

  Philippa disappeared through the kitchen curtain. Both men watched her go. Crispin cleared his throat. “I, too, thank you, Gilbert. I feel she will be safe here.”

  “Crispin.” Gilbert took him aside and spoke into his shoulder. “That’s Philippa Walcote!”

  “Very good, Gilbert. I thought I’d have to explain.”

  “What goes on with her? What about the murder? All of London is saying she did it.”

  “She didn’t. I know her.”

  “Begging your pardon, Crispin, but you have been wrong before. Especially about women.”

  Crispin’s jaw tightened. “Are you implying something, Gilbert?”

  “No, only that your judgment may be clouded. She’s a beautiful woman. Sometimes that’s the only weapon they need.”

  “If you don’t want her here then say so.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  Heads turned at the raised voices and Gilbert took Crispin’s arm to steer him to a darker corner. Quietly he said, “I’m saying ‘be careful.’ I don’t fancy the idea of your getting hurt over this.”

  Crispin rested his hand on his dagger. “I take every precaution.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean here,” and he put his hand on Crispin’s heart.

  Crispin sighed from his depths. “I am defenseless in that quarter.”

  “Aye,” Gilbert sighed in return. “As are we all. But I don’t think it a good idea. She’s trouble.”

  Crispin’s smile curved his lips. “When have I ever run from trouble?”

  They both looked back toward the kitchen doorway as if Philippa would emerge from mere mention of her. “She is a fair lass,” Gilbert admitted.

  “Yes,” said Crispin with a sigh. He began to feel that stupid feeling again and he turned briskly away. “I have much to do now. Send for Jack if you need me.”

  He was out the door before Gilbert could stop him.

  Crispin stood in the muddy street, glazed momentarily by his many thoughts. A horseman rambling past startled him awake, and he jumped out of the way, but not before kicked-up mud spotted his cloak. He looked down at the spatters and thought of blood. Blood on the floor in the secret passage. Someone lying in wait for the man everyone knew as Nicholas Walcote. Someone who viciously stabbed him in the back. If the death was an assassination, as the Italians wanted, a slit throat would suit better. No chance of noise, and with the victim’s back to the killer, it kept the culprit’s clothes clean.

  But this was a stabbing, a crime of passion. And who was passionate enough in the Walcote house to do such a deed?

  “Adam Becton is in love with Philippa,” he muttered.

  He stared at the road before him. Gutter Lane. The Walcote manor was at least a quarter of an hour distant but worlds away from the inhabitants of Gutter Lane and the Shambles. Was there such a thing as justice for the likes of Philippa or even Crispin? He had dedicated the last four years of his life to that very ideal. Justice for all. His knightly code professed as much. But never before had it seemed to encompass those on the mean streets of the London he thought he had known those many years ago, this seamy side of the city he was only beginning to truly know.

  “Justice it is,” he said. If not for himself, at least for the dead merchant.

  He stepped into the street and headed south at a trot. He could save some time by taking the shortest cuts through alleys. He knew them all. He had learned the ins and outs of the city well. And a man on foot could easily find ways to elude anyone following him. More so than a man on a horse. He had learned that much in the eight years he was barred from court.

  Crispin turned down the first alley he came to, barely the width of two men walking abreast. He ducked under a line of wash hanging low across his path and hurried through, taking another quick turn down a dark close seldom used by anyone except cutthroats clever enough to trick their victims down the secluded corridor.

  Crispin lurched to a dead stop.

  Three menacing figures blocked his path. They stood as black silhouettes against the sunlight of the street beyond.

  His pulse raced. Their broad shoulders and wary stance did not signal to him that they were merely passing through. He looked behind, wondering if it wasn’t too late to retreat, when one of them spoke.

  “Master Crispin?”

  Crispin glanced swiftly around the narrow alley for weapons. Nothing looked in the least useful.

  “Yes,” he said, his hand making its stealthy way toward his dagger. “You found me. What of it?”

  “We want a word with you.” The man’s tongue twisted over the unfamiliar English. Crispin got the impression Italian was easier.

  “Very well, then. Come see me at my lodgings—”

  “We will see you now. You will come with us.”

  “My apologies, but I’m on my way elsewhere. Later, perhaps.”

  The unmistakable sound of a sword sliding out of its scabbard echoed within the tight passage. “Now, I think.”

  Crispin felt the shadows closing in. With reluctance, he shrugged. “I think you are right.”

  21

  Crispin didn’t bother asking. The three men didn’t appear very talkative and he wasn’t interested in deciphering their grunts.

  They followed every dim alley snaking through London and finally came to a row of abandoned stables. They urged him forward and Crispin listened to his steps echo along the narrow cobbled lane. Rickety structures stood on either side, their tiles drooping like a whore’s hair in the morning. One of the men motioned Crispin toward an open doorway.

  Crispin’s heart pounded and his blood coursed hotly through him. If only his dagger would do him any good. His hand itched to grab it, to spin with it and see how many chests he could slash or how many ears he could slice off. But there were three of them and they had swords as well as daggers. He only hoped he wasn’t to expect another midnight swim in the Thames, because this time he didn’t think they’d make the same mistake twice.

  Dark ahead and dark behind. Though long abandoned, the stable still smelled of manure and moldy hay. Crispin’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. A cloaked figure appeared in the gloom. Only a smattering of daylight filtered through the broken roof, and he could not clearly see the man’s face.

  A hand on Crispin’s shoulder told him to stop.

  “That is close enough, Signore Guest.” A voice harsh and raspy, sounding as if he’d screamed himself hoarse, with an Italian lilt to the precise intonation.

  “I suppose it would be foolish to ask who you are,” said Crispin.

  The man chuckled, a surprisingly soft sound. “Would I go to such elaborate lengths if I intended to introduce myself?”

  “I’m interested to know—”

  “I know what you want. But first I must apologize for my men. The two who tried to kill you. You see, we thought you killed Nicholas Walcote.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “We assumed you crossed us for the Mandyllon. Those who cross us do not live.”

  “But now you’re convinced I didn’t kill him?”

  “That is so. We aren’t interested in the details. Only in the Mandyllon. My men made an offer. Do you accept?”

  “And if I don’t?”

  The man laughed outright. He shook his head, which moved the hood from side to side. “You have an excellent sense of humor.”

  Crispin forced a laugh. “Yes, so I do. Well then, eight hundred pounds for turning over the Mandyllon.”

  “That is the agreement.”

  “When do I get paid?”

  “When you turn over the cloth.”

  “Before I do, I’d like to know something about Nicholas Walcote.”

  The shadow shrugged. “The man you know as Nicholas Walcote was paid to make a copy of the Mandyllon.”

  “Yes, I’ve been told as much.”

  “So? By whom?”

  “Your Abid Assad Mahmoud.”


  He shook his head. “Not mine.”

  “He’s not working for you?”

  “At one time, si. I understand he still represents himself as such. We will put a stop to that.”

  Though the menace was bereft from the man’s voice, it sent a chill down Crispin’s spine. “You never met the real Walcote?”

  “No, we had nothing to do with him nor he with us.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I think”—he tapped his finger against his shadowed lips—“we mistook the true Master Walcote for our thief. Careless of us. I was told they looked remarkably alike. It created quite an opportunity for this thief, no?”

  “All this trouble merely for a holy relic when there are so many to be had. One wonders if there could not be more to an Italian presence in England.”

  Silence. Then, “Do you accept the offer?”

  “I’d be a fool not to.”

  Crispin turned at the steps of the men beside him. Apparently the interview was over. “Just one thing more. Is your master Bernabò Visconti? Professional curiosity.”

  The man in the darkness glared at Crispin. At least Crispin thought he did. “We will pay you for the Mandyllon and your silence. It isn’t too healthy to meddle in these things,” said the man. “Stick your nose in too far, il mio amico, and you might awaken in an alley with the rats gnawing on your flesh.”

  “I see. How vivid.” Crispin looked behind at the henchmen closing in. “Well, I thank you for meeting with me.” He turned his back to leave, then pivoted. “By the way. Your Saracen operative Mahmoud does not seem to be playing your game. My thought is that he had a master other than yours. Perhaps he has another buyer for the Mandyllon.”

  The shadowed man said nothing. His silence was perhaps the most fearsome thing about him.

  “If I were you,” Crispin offered, “I would investigate.” Let Mahmoud worry about his own skin for a change.

  The henchmen surrounded Crispin and forced him to leave. They escorted him almost all the way to where they first encountered him before they fell back, turned without a word, and left him in the street.

  Crispin heaved a sigh between relief and exhaustion. An interesting interview. And unusual. No one was taking any chances. This Italian head of English operations did not want to be recognized, which meant he might already be known in places—like at court. Crispin wondered how long he could stall them. He wanted it to take long enough to discover the players and what exactly they were up to. But the longer it went on, the more danger Philippa was in.

  Philippa. Why was he such a fool to let her into his heart? Didn’t he have enough problems? Jack was a handful. Just making the rent was a weekly challenge. A woman only complicated things.

  Oh, but in such ways!

  He closed his eyes and exorcised Philippa Walcote from his thoughts. There were other pressing matters. A killer still on the loose. He opened his eyes and took a moment to reckon his location. He remembered what he planned to do before the syndicate’s men waylaid him. “Adam Becton.” Now more than ever he was convinced that the syndicate bore little responsibility for the imposter Walcote’s death.

  Crispin straightened his coat. The action helped to ground him in the here and now. He looked in the direction of the Walcote estates and headed there.

  Crispin waited for the door to open and was greeted by a servant. There was comfort in the familiar, and strangely, the Walcote manor felt a little like home. Crispin stepped inside. “Where is Adam Becton?”

  The servant eyed Crispin and shook his head. “He is at his duties, good master. Who do you come to see, master or mistress?”

  “Neither. I want to talk to the steward.”

  The short man squinted at Crispin. “He is unavailable, sir.”

  “Then make him available.”

  Crispin pushed past him and made his way unaccompanied to the parlor. He stepped across the threshold before he discovered too late that Maude Walcote was there. Just as he decided to back out unobserved she looked up. And scowled. “Why are you here?”

  His crooked grin returned and he strolled in. “Why does everyone in this house greet me thus? I am a congenial fellow. Truly I am.”

  “You are a nuisance,” she said. “And I fear you are also a menace.”

  “You clearly do not know me, Madam.”

  “Don’t I? I know your character. There’s something velvety about you, but your nap runs the wrong way.”

  He chuckled at the imagery. “Perhaps it does.”

  She stood and flicked out the creases in her gown—they dared not wrinkle. “And you are insolent. Who invited you in here?”

  “I told you. I am investigating a murder. I want to talk to Adam Becton.”

  “He is busy.”

  “And I don’t care. I’ll talk to him anyway.” Crispin strode to a chair and sat.

  Maude seethed. “Lionel!” She tossed her sewing aside and marched from the parlor.

  Crispin sunk down with relief. God’s Blood! These Walcotes were nothing but arrogant children, but he couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge that he saw a bit of himself.

  Gazing at the fire, he brooded. If Adam killed Nicholas for love and status, all of his plans have gone for nought. Philippa was cast from the house and disinherited, and her love belonged to another.

  Crispin’s smile faded.

  He shot from the chair and paced.

  The squinting servant returned and sloppily bowed to Crispin. “My lord, I cannot find him.”

  “What do you mean you can’t find him? Is he here or is he not?”

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  “I am not a lord,” he grumbled and pushed the man out of the way.

  “Adam Becton!” called Crispin. He walked out of the parlor and looked across the checkered floor of the hall. He strode through the empty hall to the door to the kitchens and opened it. “Becton!” he called into the passage. A rosy-cheeked boy little older than Jack poked his head from the kitchen doorway and ducked back inside. No one else approached.

  Crispin grunted. He reversed his steps and stood in the hall again, glancing up to the gallery above and to the solar, the site of so much mayhem. The servant came up beside him, sputtering in an attempt to confine his untamable guest, but Crispin slid past him and headed for the stairs.

  He grabbed the ornately carved banister and climbed the steps two at a time, the servant following vainly behind. Crispin searched behind curtained alcoves, finding one occupied by a sleepy maidservant, catching a nap on a straw-stuffed cushion.

  A few paces down the gallery, the solar’s door, repaired and as sturdy as before, hung ajar, and Crispin turned to the befuddled servant who arrived breathlessly behind him. “Has Walcote been buried yet?”

  “Aye, my—I mean Master. They buried him in the churchyard just as quick as a wink. It weren’t right, that. He might as well have been Master Walcote. He were good to us.”

  “No doubt,” Crispin said distractedly. He closed upon the solar and noticed one taper burning within. The room seemed strangely empty without the funeral bier, but then Crispin noticed it. The drapery on the wall was torn aside and the secret passage door stood open. The empty box that once contained the Mandyllon lay cast across the floor. But more than that, he saw the body of Adam Becton lying on the floor in the opened doorway of the hidden passage.

  22

  Crispin waited impatiently for the servant to return with Lionel and Clarence Walcote. He had already checked the window—still barred. But the murderer could have come through the secret door, from the kitchens, or from the front door for all he knew. There was little struggle. He was captured from behind, much like Nicholas Walcote.

  There were muffled voices and hard footsteps coming from the stairs. Crispin waited by the body as the brothers entered and gasped at the sight at Crispin’s feet.

  “He’s been garroted,” said Crispin.

  Clarence’s face shone bone white in the torchlight. He eyed Lionel,
who tapped his keys on his front teeth.

  The servant who had tried to rein in Crispin stood in the doorway, grasping tightly to the doorpost. He looked as if he would faint. “You there,” said Clarence.

  “Matthew, sir.”

  “Matthew. Go and fetch the sheriff. Make haste!”

  The servant turned and instantly obeyed. They all listened to his feet hit each step and then slap across the hall.

  Lionel glared at his brother, probably for such impertinence as to supersede his authority.

  Crispin knelt by the body. He pulled away the rope from Adam’s neck, tossing the instrument aside. He straightened and glanced about the room. Adam faced away from the secret passage, but judging from the new footprints in the dust, he’d plainly been inside it. One of his shoes had fallen off in his struggle and lay near the empty box.

  Crispin retrieved the shoe and stepped back into the passage. He found a clean footprint with dried drops of blood and placed the shoe atop it.

  Didn’t fit.

  He let the shoe drop and examined Adam’s body. He found long, fair hairs clutched between his fingers. In his last act to try to save himself, he must have reached behind, grabbed the assailant’s head, and plucked them out. But of course, it had done him no good.

  “What is all this?” Lionel bellowed.

  Crispin walked across the room twice, looking over the body, the box, the open portal, and finally the two men who stared at him. “As near as I can make it, Adam found something here he never expected to find: this portal.”

  Crispin stepped over the box and reached the passage. He turned toward the brothers. “But you two knew it was there. Didn’t you?”

  “I remember it now,” said Clarence. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Lionel?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But what of this box?”

  “It contained something else Adam also knew nothing about. Something that our friend, the false Nicholas hid in it.”

  Lionel edged closer, nudging the overturned box with his foot. “Is that why he was murdered?”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But not now.”