THREE
Abbot William de Warden was white-haired with cheeks as pale as marble. The soft folds of his wrinkled face could not hide the fact that at one time he must have been a fine-looking man. His blue eyes were heavy with sleep and heavier with sadness as Crispin related what had occurred.
‘Jesu mercy,’ said the old monk, easing down into his chair by the fire. Crispin stood above him with Jack slightly behind. ‘How can such a thing be?’
‘I do not know, my Lord Abbot. Please accept my condolences for this unhappy event.’
The blue eyes tracked upward until they rested on Crispin’s face. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Crispin Guest, my lord. They call me the Tracker. I investigate crimes.’
‘Oh!’ The white brows rose. ‘Is it your cause, then, to discover who did this terrible thing?’
‘Since it has come to my very doorstep, I find it impossible to ignore.’
‘Brother Michael,’ said the abbot to the porter. ‘Go to the dormitory at once and see who might be missing. Make haste!’
‘Yes, my Lord Abbot.’ He ran.
‘I will pay your fee, sir. The vile murderer must be brought to justice!’
Crispin bowed.
‘You must do your godly work with all haste. These men,’ he gazed fondly at the door through which the young cleric had disappeared, ‘they are like my sons. To lose any one of them is like losing a portion of my heart.’
Crispin shuffled uncomfortably. It was by far the worst part of his task. ‘Were any of your monks acquainted with any young ladies?’
Abbot William raised his face. ‘Eh? Ladies? Oh, no. Such a thing is not to be. Who would any of our brothers know? We are cloistered here, Master Guest. Seldom do we leave the abbey’s precincts.’
‘And yet your brother was found outside these walls.’
The abbot sat back and sighed. ‘Yes. I cannot explain it.’
‘Were any acquainted with Simon Wynchecombe, the former sheriff of London?’
‘Simon Wynchecombe? I do not know. Is it likely? What has the former sheriff to do with this misdeed?’
‘I’m … not certain,’ said Crispin.
‘When can we retrieve our dear brother?’
‘When the coroner is done with him. I imagine he will be released tonight to you. Perhaps your porter will await the cart?’
There was little left to say. They waited in silence for the young porter to return. The wood in the fire sparked and crackled.
Crispin wanted to pace but it seemed inappropriate. The old abbot mumbled prayers into his fingers and Jack wore a somber expression under his own hood while staring at the closed door.
At last, the door flung open and an out-of-breath Brother Michael braced himself in the doorway.
The abbot looked up. ‘Well, brother? Who is it?’
Brother Michael shook his head. ‘My Lord Abbot. I awoke all my brothers in the dormitory. Even searched in the privies. But my lord, there is no one missing. We are all accounted for.’
The abbot turned to Crispin. ‘Master Guest. Are you absolutely certain your monk was a Cistercian?’
‘I assure you, Father Abbot, it is not a mistake I am likely to make.’
‘But we do not appear to be missing any brothers.’ His eyes tensed, first with relief and then again with agitation. ‘I cannot dispute what you believe to be true, but as you have heard …’
‘Yes, so I have heard.’ His gaze sought a puzzled Jack.
‘I … I grieve for this brother monk,’ said the abbot. His lips trembled but his eyes darted away. Not one of his own but still his problem. ‘Of course, we shall accept this brother until his house can be found.’ He made a vague sign of the cross before he seemed to remember he’d promised Crispin a fee. Fumbling at his belt for a key, he motioned to Brother Michael. ‘Go to the strongbox, brother. Master Guest should receive his portion for his trouble.’
Crispin raised his chin. The man was not of their monastery. But a fee was a fee.
The brother made much of opening the strongbox, carefully counting out the coins and finally handing them to Crispin, who dispatched them quickly to his pouch.
He bowed to both monks and the porter was quick to show him the way out.
‘What now, master?’
Crispin sighed into the night. ‘That was puzzling. This is the only Cistercian house for miles.’
‘Do you think he was lying?’
‘No.’ He eyed Jack curiously in the bright moonlight. ‘Do you?’
Jack scratched his head. ‘Naw. But it is curious. And people have lied to you before.’
‘Yes, they have. But there seems little reason for lying. If the dead man were not a monk …’ He had seen the tonsure for himself, which meant the man was either a monk or a clerk. But why go about dressed as a monk if not one? ‘Well, there is little left to do at this late hour but to return to our lodgings and tell the coroner … ah. Tell him what? We know not who the man is or where he now belongs.’
‘The coroner won’t like that.’ The boy peeked warily out from under his hood. ‘Are we to keep the dagger?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why, sir? If that bastard Wynchecombe is guilty, are we not well rid of him?’
‘These are very suspicious circumstances, Jack. I am not ready to believe that Master Wynchecombe is guilty of these crimes. Anyone can steal a dagger and use it for wicked purposes. Simon Wynchecombe never struck me as a careless man, and only a careless man loses track of his dagger.’
‘Especially in the back of the man he killed, you mean.’
‘Precisely. All that we do is done with an eye to something else.’
‘Meaning he left it in the monk on purpose?’
‘Or someone did. Mark me. There is some purpose to it.’
They trudged back down the winding streets until their noses told them they were back on the Shambles. Milling about near their front door, two servants stood holding the tethers of two horses. The men looked up as Crispin neared. A hand cart was positioned beside them outside the poulterer’s shop and Crispin spied Roger Lymon’s wife peeking at the commotion past her shutter.
Ignoring her, he drew closer and was stopped at his own doorstep by the coroner’s clerk. ‘Hold, sir. The coroner is at his duty and you are not permitted here.’
‘This is my home,’ he said. ‘I am Crispin Guest.’
‘Guest!’ boomed the voice of the coroner from within. ‘Get in here!’
Crispin smirked, shouldering the officious clerk out of the way. But he stopped abruptly when he saw the woman from earlier standing beside John Charneye, the coroner.
‘What in God’s name!’ Charneye admonished. ‘You have absented yourself, Guest, and left this poor fellow in your place.’ He gestured toward Roger, who looked as if he had been wrung dry.
‘My apologies, Lord Coroner … and to you, Master Lymon.’ He paid them little heed. He wanted nothing more than to clasp his hands around the woman’s throat, the woman who stood by so innocently. He bowed to her instead, body tight as a bowstring. ‘But I had to find out from whence this poor monk came.’
‘As if I could not have discovered that for myself from his cassock,’ said the coroner. ‘St Mary Graces, of course.’
‘And so, too, did I think. But apparently, that is not so.’
‘Eh? What nonsense is this?’
Crispin shook his head. ‘There are no brothers missing from St Mary Graces, my lord. Or so I have been told.’
‘Well … bless my soul. Where did he come from, then? And what was he doing so far from his abbey?’
‘That I have yet to determine. But he knew of me and where I lived.’
‘So this man has told me.’
Roger cringed behind the door. ‘Yes. Are you done with me, Lord Coroner?’
The coroner glanced at his clerk who had been busily writing on his parchment. He nodded perfunctorily and Charneye seemed satisfied. He waved off Roger. ‘Yes
, you can go.’
Crispin had never seen the man move with such speed.
The coroner turned to the woman. ‘This lady says she has been looking for you. I told her it was unfit her being alone but she insisted it was urgent. I do not know what England is coming to when young women find it fitting to travel alone … and after curfew.’
‘I do not know either,’ said Crispin between clenched teeth. He hoped his glare conveyed all the vinegar on his mind, but her perplexed and frightened expression dislodged his righteous anger.
Charneye gazed at him steadily. ‘What more do you know about this business, Crispin?’
‘More, my lord?’ He was drawn away at last from her glistening eyes.
The coroner ticked his head and told the clerk to put away his writing things. ‘We have no more to report. I have no doubt Master Crispin will work it out.’ He ordered his clerk to bring the servants up to carry the body to the waiting cart.
Crispin and Jack stepped aside to let the coroner’s men do their work. The limp body was carried slowly across the mud but a wide pool of blood was left behind, swathed across his floor by the monk’s dragging clothes and many feet. Crispin stared at it in disgust and Jack with horror.
In the doorway, the coroner said, ‘I leave you to it, Master Crispin.’ He looked at the bloody floor. ‘Best clean this with all haste before it starts to reek.’
With that, he was gone. Jack needed no prompting to rush to the bucket, and poured a good portion of its water on the floor. He took a rag and began to scrub, wincing all the while. The little splashes made the woman step back.
Crispin heard the coroner and his clerk ride toward Newgate. The cart turned the other way toward Smithfield.
Crispin faced the woman. ‘You are a thief.’
She raised a hand to her throat while a tear trembled on her lash. ‘A thief? What are you talking about? On what can you possibly base your rude assumption?’
He strode toward her, backing her against the wall. Jack scrambled to get out of the way. ‘On the fact that you stole that object the dead monk brought to me, and then ran.’
‘I ran in fear of my life! A man was murdered at your doorstep. Was I expected to remain?’
‘Nevertheless. You have stolen that valuable object and I want it back. Now.’
‘I have stolen nothing,’ she whispered. She seemed to sink into her cloak and furs. Her face was even paler in the scant light of the hearth. ‘You are very much mistaken.’
‘I am not mistaken!’
‘Master.’
‘Not now, Jack.’
‘But master …’
‘God’s blood, Jack! I’m busy!’
‘But master.’ He pointed under the coffer. ‘There is something there.’
Crispin stopped and leaned down. Far in the corner under the rented coffer sat the crystal object that had been in the monk’s hand. Without his asking, Jack scuttled and reached under with his long arm to retrieve it, then handed it to Crispin.
Crispin rose. His face flushed with embarrassment. He turned the odd object in his hand, not daring to look at the woman. ‘It appears, demoiselle, that … well, that I … was mistaken. I apologize most humbly.’
‘Perhaps I was very much mistaken about you, Master Guest. If this is the way you approach your tasks, then I am afraid I cannot in good conscience hire you. I shall have to take my chances with some local henchman.’ She turned toward the door but Crispin stopped her by reaching for her cloak-covered sleeve.
‘Wait. Demoiselle, I beg you to reconsider. I … I was in error. But I do my job well with few complaints. You cannot hope to do better with some other hireling. I will waive a day’s wage to prove it to you.’
Jack gasped at that but Crispin ignored him.
Crispin released her arm. Jack crouched on the floor, wet rag in his hand, his eyes dancing from one to the other. The woman stood beside the door, seeming ready to flee. ‘I will return your silver to you, then,’ said Crispin with a sigh, ‘and you may be on your way.’
She lowered her head and slowly moved toward the table, sinking wearily into the chair opposite him. ‘No, keep the silver. If you only—’ She trembled. ‘I don’t know what else to do.’ Her face dropped into her open palms and he watched as she breathed, or was she weeping?
He did not know what ailed him. Why had he been so quick to accuse her? Was he losing his edge?
Finally, she raised her head and her eyes slowly focused on the object Crispin rolled in his hands. ‘And what is this object that you would so readily accuse me of stealing?’
A circular monstrance, no bigger than a hand, made of beryl, perhaps. It was thick like a bowl on one side and flat and thin like glass on the other, and stoppered on the top end with a cross. The sides were sealed with ornamental silver.
‘It looks to be a reliquary.’ Inside was a rusty liquid moving slowly from one side of the crystal to the other. ‘I suspect it is blood. Some martyr.’
‘Mother Mary,’ she said, crossing herself.
Crispin knew it could easily be goose blood or oil and wax. Relics were valuable as the grisly remnants of holy saints, but they were also valuable to the religious houses that kept and displayed them. Fees were collected from the countless pilgrims who came to venerate the objects. They were indeed valuable. Valuable enough to steal. He set it on its end on the table between them.
‘Why did you think I took it?’
He felt his cheeks redden again. He’d been told how impetuous he was. He had thought that with maturity he would have grown out of it. ‘It was missing and so were you.’
‘One and one equals four?’ She smiled weakly.
His accusation seemed to have been forgiven. He offered a tentative smile in return. ‘Yes. Well.’
‘It rolled under the coffer,’ offered Jack. ‘How was he to know?’
‘My apprentice, Jack Tucker … who should be silent when I am with a client.’
Jack bowed, ignoring the last part, though he made himself scarce by tending to the fire.
‘It occurs to me that I have not introduced myself, Master Guest. I am Katherine Woodleigh.’
‘Demoiselle.’ He nodded. ‘Hmm. I seem to recall one of the barons, Sir Thomas Woodleigh, when I was … when I used to be at court.’
He glanced at her hand, which bore a ring. It had some arms on it but the design was too small for him to discern from that distance.
‘He was my father. He died two years ago.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘So am I,’ she said with a sigh.
‘How do you know Simon Wynchecombe?’
‘He has been a family friend since I was a child.’
‘But you say you saw him with your niece.’
‘Yes. And she confessed it. Said she would be his only.’
‘I … Master Wynchecombe is married.’
‘Yes, I know. That makes it all the more deplorable. I saw them together at my family home near Hailes. The door to the solar was open and I peered in. The fire in the hearth was low and in truth there were only silhouettes, but Master Wynchecombe is tall. It had to be him.’
‘I see. Did he see you?’
She shivered. ‘Yes. I saw him turn toward me and I fled. I needed a servant to help me confront him but by the time I returned with our steward he was gone.’
‘When was this?’
‘A sennight ago.’
‘Where are you staying now?’
‘The Unicorn Inn on Watling Street.’
‘Forgive me, but why are you not staying at court?’
‘My father left the estates in reduced circumstances. There was a scandal. I am not welcomed at court.’
Crispin could certainly empathize with that. He rose. ‘I assume that is where you have your lady’s maid. I need not tell you how unwise it is traipsing about London without an escort, whether day or night.’
She sucked in her bottom lip as she stared at the table.
‘Well, it is late, dem
oiselle. I shall return you there now.’
‘But—’
He raised a brow at her. ‘It is late.’
She seemed reluctant to succumb to his insistence. But after a moment, she tilted her head and rose as well. ‘You are correct, of course, Master Guest. It has been a trying evening.’
Crispin glanced back over his shoulder at Jack standing by the hearth before closing the door behind him. He motioned for her to stay on the step while he checked to see that the street was empty. Assessing the shadows, he was convinced and motioned again for her to come. In silence, they walked the quiet streets, with nothing but the soft song of crickets and the night air cold on his face.
They took the Shambles down to Watling Street where the inn sat, pressed between the cordwainer’s hall and an alehouse. He stood at the door and bowed. ‘Here I leave you. Shall I call upon you in the morning, or …?’ In truth, he wasn’t certain if she should be seen coming to his lodgings in the daylight unescorted. ‘I shall come here,’ he decided. Under her hood, her eyes shone hopefully. Before she could utter another sound, he spun on his heel and turned back toward the Shambles.
Women. She was beautiful, to be sure. No doubt, so was Eve, and perhaps just as dangerous. Secrets she had, for he wasn’t entirely certain she had told him all. Where had she gone when she fled and why had she returned? For his expertise? But she was distressed and very beautiful and, curse him, but he was not immune to it.
Damnable secrets. Annoying enough without a murder joined to it. He preferred not to go on the assumption that Wynchecombe was a murderer. It would be difficult to prove and, ‘Dammit!’ As much as he disliked him, he didn’t want to believe it of the man. No, there was something else afoot. Secrets, stolen daggers, a dead monk—
Crispin stopped. The street was quiet, like a tomb after the stone has been laid in place. Crickets, yes, but it was not a cricket he heard. Carefully, he eased himself back into the shadow of an alley. His whole body listened, sensing the vibrations from the lane. Was that the swish of a cloak? A step? And then silence. Was someone following him? Again?
He waited a long time, listening to his own shallow breaths ease in and out. Nothing. He ventured forth and listened with all the skill he had taught himself while he made his way back to the Shambles, uneasy.
Season of Blood Page 3
