“Oh? Then what’s on your mind, Guest? Spill it.”
Crispin eyed the two. “I don’t think I’m ready to say just yet.”
Lionel advanced on him but Crispin was spared further explanation when the sheriff arrived.
“Damn this family!” cried Wynchecombe. He swept in without ceremony and planted his feet in the room, his back to the doorway and to Crispin. “What have you done now, by God?”
Crispin took the opportunity to slip from the room and into the gallery. Wynchecombe’s muffled voice boomed in the background, becoming a low rumble the further away he got.
Crispin made it downstairs to the hall. A small boy stepped out onto the hall’s painted floor, but when he saw Crispin, he ducked back in the shadows. Crispin swooped and nabbed him by his shoulder cape.
“Jesus mercy! Help! I’m being killed!” The boy struggled and squealed like a captured piglet.
“Stop that noise, boy. I’m doing nothing of the kind.” He set the boy down and crouched low to look him in the eye. He jerked his thumb behind him. “I’m not part of that crowd upstairs.”
The boy hesitated. He ran his grimy finger under his moist nose. “Are you the sheriff’s man?”
“No, I’m my own man. I am the Tracker.”
As if a taper lit behind his eyes, the boy beamed with pleasure. “You’re Crispin Guest, ain’t you? I heard of you.”
Crispin repressed a blush by nodding his head. “Yes, I am Crispin Guest. Now can you help me? I need to find the servants of Lionel and Clarence Walcote. Can you tell me where they are now?”
“What you want them for?”
“I merely want to talk to them.”
The boy seemed small in the harsh light of the nearby torch. His smudged pug nose sat between close-set brown eyes. The wrinkling of his nose indicated that this was perhaps one of the most important questions he had ever been asked.
“Well, if you only want to talk with them. They’re in the kitchens. Everyone’s there now, talking about Master Adam’s murder.”
“Much thanks,” he said, and patted the boy’s shoulder.
Crispin followed the boy to the kitchen close and clambered through the narrow passage, making sure he ducked for the low beam.
When he emerged into the kitchen the buzz of conversation stopped and all turned to him.
“Greetings,” he said. “I am Crispin Guest. I am not with the sheriff, but I am investigating these murders. If you will, I would speak with the valets of Lionel and Clarence Walcote.”
No one moved or spoke. Crispin wondered if they trusted him as much as the boy did. When his gaze roved over the closed faces, every eye seemed to avert from him. Who was Crispin, after all? As far from their like as could be, he supposed.
After a long, strained silence, a man moved out of the crowd. He was thin with a stick neck and long hands and fingers. He looked over his shoulder and motioned to someone. “Come on, Harry. It won’t do any harm to see what the gentleman wants.”
Harry sidled out of the crowd. He was of average height and girth, with an equally nondescript nose, and small beads of eyes. His mouth was petite and rosy. “Why’d you go and roust me out, Michael?”
“Hush, now,” said Michael. “This here is Crispin Guest. Haven’t you heard of him?”
“No. You go and put importance on people that don’t deserve it.”
“He’s that Tracker they talk about.”
“I don’t often come to London,” said Harry. “Not like you.”
“Gentlemen,” Crispin interrupted. “Please.” Those in the crowded hall did not move and many in the back strained forward to hear. “Let us go to a private location and discuss this.”
Michael motioned with his hand and Crispin and Harry followed him to a door. A pantry; a stone edifice of arches and mews. Harry lit a candle but it did little to light their conversation.
“Now Michael,” said Crispin. He and the other two leaned toward the candle, a coven of faces in flickering gold light. “You say you and your master come often to London?”
“Oh aye. Every two or three months it seems.”
“Were you here when the man known as Nicholas Walcote was killed?”
“No, sir. We did not yet come.”
“Was your master here before you?”
Michael’s face elongated. “Well now! How did you know that, sir?”
Crispin’s grin gleamed in the candlelight. “A good guess.” He turned to Harry, whose features were all angles and planes in the small light. “Was your master at home?”
“Aye, sir. I remember when the messenger came from London to tell us.”
“A messenger from London?” Crispin rubbed his jaw and realized he hadn’t shaved. He turned to the other. “Michael, when you valeted for your master after the death of Nicholas Walcote, was there a stain on one of his leggings?”
“Aye, sir. On his knee. It took a devil of a time to clean it proper. That were a stubborn stain.”
“I will wager, Michael, that your master is Lionel Walcote.”
“Right, sir. How did you know?”
He smiled but did not answer. “How long was he in London?”
“He left ’bout a sennight ago.”
“When he came to London, did he ever visit his brother?”
“Oh no, sir. He and Master Nicholas never did get on well.”
“He never visited his brother?”
Michael nodded. “Master Nicholas always refused to admit him. It’s a sad thing when grown men cannot put their past hates aside.”
“Did he hate Master Nicholas?”
Michael glanced at Harry. “Well now, hate is a strong word. I don’t know if I meant that—”
“Never mind,” said Crispin. “How is Master Lionel’s business? Is that why he came often to London?”
“Funny you should say. I probably shouldn’t speak of it,” said Michael, looking behind him, “but it is rumored that he is all but ruined. And it must be so, for there have been no feasts in the household for nigh on two years now. And he sold off much of the household goods.”
“Indeed. And how fares Master Clarence?”
“Well and good, sir, as far as I can tell,” said Harry.
“Did he know of Master Lionel’s plight?”
Harry looked at Michael and chuckled. “I doubt it. They never have nought to do with one another.”
“Then how do you know each other?”
The two men exchanged glances and smiled. “We’re brothers,” said Harry. “We don’t carry on like them Walcotes, though we was raised in the Walcote household. We’ve seen much, I dare say.”
Crispin nodded. “I dare say you have.” He felt at his purse for the customary gratuity, but realized he had nothing to give. He cleared his throat and reddened while he bowed instead. “I thank you both.”
They returned to the kitchen where the men immersed again with their brethren. Crispin scanned the crowd, missing what he was looking for, and climbed the stairs, ducking the low beam. With money scarce, Lionel no doubt thought it was time to get rid of the rich brother. Even though he would share the inheritance with Clarence, it was bound to be an enormous sum. Crispin’s steps slowed as he considered. Perhaps Lionel stalked him for some time, but since Nicholas never left the house, Lionel would never know it wasn’t Nicholas. Lionel knew about the passage, though, and could make his way to the solar without detection. A perfect murder. Even with a wife, there was bound to be something in the will for the brothers, or they could contest the will and seize all from the wife.
Crispin reached the bottom of the stairs of the main house. He looked up the staircase and still heard Wynchecombe bellowing.
But discovering that Nicholas was an imposter was even better. There would be no difficulty at all now in inheriting his estates. Philippa would have no claim.
Crispin slowly climbed the stairs. Lionel imagined himself free and clear. So why kill Adam Becton? It made no sense, especially as the Mandyllon appare
ntly played no role in the imposter Nicholas Walcote’s death. But it might have played a role in Adam’s murder, else why was the box strewn on the floor?
He waited for the answer to click in his head. Still a missing piece. He was close, though. As soon as he found that piece, he knew all would make sense.
Crispin peered into the solar. Adam’s body was removed and the sheriff was bearing down on a servant with all the malice in his being—until he glanced up and saw Crispin. As if tossing aside a well-gnawed bone, Wynchecombe abandoned the servant and made for Crispin.
“You!” The sheriff pointed a gloved finger at him.
Crispin steeled himself.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I am at your serv—” But Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him along down the stairs before Crispin could fully reply.
Still clutching Crispin’s arm, the sheriff rumbled across the courtyard to several horses held by a page. William, the sheriff’s man, held his own tether loosely and grinned when he beheld Crispin being dragged across the gravel.
“We will talk on the way to Newgate,” said Wynchecombe. He jabbed his boot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up.
Crispin frowned. “Must I trot alongside you like a dog?”
The sheriff’s scowl drooped his beard and mustache. “William. Give him your horse.”
William’s grin fell away. “My horse? Lord Sheriff—”
“Give it to him!”
William glared daggers before he threw the tether at Crispin.
Crispin’s amusement was overshadowed by the sheriff’s severe expression, and he mounted silently.
It was good to feel a horse under him again. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in a saddle. The feel of the reins in his hand, the saddle beneath him. Wasn’t this where he belonged? Looking down upon the populace from a high seat?
He barely listened to the sheriff, and pulled himself back from the deep memories. Crispin kept the corner of his eye on Wynchecombe’s stiff form. They rode knee to knee.
Without looking toward him, the sheriff asked, “Discover the murderer yet?”
He adjusted his seat on the saddle. “For Adam Becton? Not yet. As for Nicholas Walcote, yes. I know who it is.”
“Oh? Who?”
“I believe it is Lionel Walcote. He was here in London at the time.”
“What was his reason?”
“His business was failing and he had no love for his brother. He knew about the secret passage—”
“As did you, I see. A fact you did not share with me.”
Crispin shrugged. “I have been busy.”
“So, he knew of the passage.”
“Yes, he waited therein to surprise his victim. After Lionel stabbed him, he saw it was not his brother.”
“Hence the halfhearted stab to his shoulder.”
Crispin nodded.
“So why Becton?”
“He did not kill Becton. A garrote? That is not common fare for a merchant, even a devious one. A garrote shows planning of another sort.”
“I agree.” The sheriff fell silent and hurried the horse. Crispin jabbed his heels into the side of his own mount to keep pace.
“I shan’t arrest him yet.”
Crispin stared at Wynchecombe. “Why not, Lord Sheriff?”
“Not by your word alone. Especially when you are so dewy-eyed for the woman. His guild would have me drawn and quartered.”
Crispin slumped and fisted the reins. The fool. Can’t he put his faith in me yet?
They rode under Newgate’s gatehouse arch and clattered into the courtyard. Two men rushed forward, each to take a horse as they dismounted. They eyed Crispin but he ignored their stares and followed the sheriff into the building, up the stairs, and into his chamber.
Wynchecombe stripped off his gloves and dropped them on the table. He unfastened his agrafe and tossed the cloak aside. He sat with a dissatisfied huff and glared. “Much thanks for helping with this murder.”
“It is my duty, my lord.”
Wynchecombe sat back and folded his hands on his belly.
Crispin watched him as a cat watches a mouse hole. He hadn’t long to wait for the rodent to emerge.
“Tell me what was in that box.”
Crispin changed his weight from one foot to the other. Wynchecombe hadn’t offered him a chair and it didn’t seem likely he would. “What box?”
“The box on the floor in the solar.”
“I don’t know. What was supposed to be in it?”
“Crispin, Crispin.” Wynchecombe shook his head and rose from his seat. He sauntered around the table and leaned against it. “You are a very poor liar.”
“My lord—”
Wynchecombe backhanded his face. Crispin was unprepared and cocked his own fist in retaliation before he remembered where he was.
Wynchecombe growled a chuckle. “Any intentions you may have had better be put to bed.”
Crispin cleared his face of all expression. His hand shook while he unwound his fingers and lowered his arm.
“I’ll ask you again—and you’d best think carefully about your reply. What was in the box?”
Crispin clenched his teeth. “I don’t know.”
Wynchecombe shook his head and bellowed for his scribe. “Bring in two of my guards.”
Crispin refused to rub his inflamed cheek.
“I think you know there was a cloth in that box,” said the sheriff. “And I think you know where it is now.”
Two men shouldered into the room. Both were tall and burly; each possessed big hands curled into fists, their knuckles crosshatched with scrapes and scabs.
Crispin debated with himself how much to conceal.
“It’s a special cloth,” Wynchecombe continued. “But you know that already, don’t you? You know that a man cannot lie in its presence.”
“I do not know your meaning.”
Wynchecombe moved to his sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. He drank for a moment, savoring the liquor, before he nodded to the men.
This time Crispin was ready. He may not be able to defend himself against the sheriff, but he was damned if he was going to let the sheriff’s lackeys make sausage of him without resistance.
He blocked the first blow with his forearm and landed his own punch into the man’s gut. The guard tumbled back and slammed against the wall.
The second didn’t waste any time. His fist swung upward and caught Crispin on the side of his head. Crispin’s sight exploded in stars and he lost his balance, but only momentarily.
By then the first man recovered. He nabbed Crispin’s arms and in a struggle that left the man’s shins bruised, managed to pin Crispin’s arms behind his back. The second man snapped his fist at Crispin’s chin and the stars fluttered about him again. Crispin hit the floor like a sack of turnips.
He did not see Wynchecombe signal, but the men eased back. Crispin clutched his head and crawled toward the wall, leaning against it.
“I want it, Crispin. More important, the king wants it.”
Crispin raised his head and squinted. “The king?” he managed to say. “So that is who is behind your summons.”
“Yes, and you will obey or I will be forced to place you under arrest.”
Crispin laughed, though it was a chalky sound of sputters and wheezes. “The king wants it, does he? Well he can go begging for it, can’t he?”
“What does it matter who has it? You told me before you do not believe in the power of such relics. Then what harm would it do to turn it over to his Majesty?”
“I won’t give him the satisfaction.” And if there was the least possibility that the Mandyllon did have the ability to compel the truth from those near it, Crispin didn’t dare take the chance that Richard might possess that much power.
“You were once condemned for lese-majesté,” said Wynchecombe. “Do not force the king to look your way again. For all he knows, you may be dead.”
�
��He knows I am not dead.”
“Not yet, but soon, maybe.” Wynchecombe smiled without humor. “Crispin, I have done my best to keep this situation from occurring, but you have been stubborn in the extreme and refused to listen to my good counsel.”
“Were you counseling me?” Crispin rubbed his chin. “Just now, for instance?”
“Damn you, Crispin! Are you going to tell me where that cloth is or not?”
Crispin licked his dry lips. “I can’t help you, Wynchecombe.”
The sheriff straightened. His hand fell to his sword hilt and the fingers drummed. “Then you give me no alternative.” He motioned to the guards. “Crispin Guest, I hereby arrest you in the name of the king.”
23
Crispin stumbled after the guards. Each took an arm to drag him down the passageway. That son of a whore. The sheriff was the king’s tool, after all. But Crispin assumed he had more character than that. Wynchecombe hadn’t the stomach to stand up to Richard. Few men did and lived, he supposed.
The guards lugged Crispin a long way and tossed him into an empty cell. He rolled once along the straw-cluttered floor before righting himself. They said nothing and closed the door. He heard the key scrape in the lock, then their footsteps receded down the long passageway.
He sat on the floor, which seemed the most convenient, and gingerly palmed his head and then his chin. His head throbbed and ached. Feeling woozy, he stared at the blackened maw of the empty fireplace and willed it to ignite. When that failed, he laid back against the wall, the cold stone chilling his back.
“Why do I seem always to be on the wrong side of the king?”
He closed his eyes. It made the room seem less slanted.
The air thickened with the stench of frightened men. The last occupant of the room left behind his own odor of fear, marking the cell with a distinct haze of despair. Crispin tried to ignore it. No telling how long the sheriff would leave him here. When Crispin had been imprisoned for treason, he had languished in his cell for five months.
He allowed his heart its drumroll for several minutes before taking a deep breath. He was done with fear. Hadn’t he suffered enough humiliation? If they wanted to kill him then it was years overdue.
Veil of Lies Page 21
