A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  ‘Then … you left?’ asked Loveney.

  ‘Not exactly. She … she was … most seductive …’

  Walcote and Loveney exchanged glances. Even the stoic Eckington looked up from his careful transcription.

  Loveney cleared his throat. ‘So … when did you leave?’

  ‘This morning. I … I found her as you saw her.’

  Loveney pursed his lips. ‘And you were just going to leave her thus, without reporting it?’

  ‘I was deciding just what exactly to do, Lord Sheriff. I had forgotten about the eel monger having seen me. And the others …’

  ‘By St Katherine, Guest! You left her there?’

  ‘My lords, what was I to do? I am now in the very predicament I was trying to avoid. I wanted to investigate it myself before … before all this. I know how it looks.’

  ‘It looks mighty bad, Master Guest,’ said Walcote, seating himself again. He ran his hand over his clean-shaven chin. ‘But not for us.’

  ‘I know.’

  Walcote turned to Loveney and threw his hands up. Loveney asked the obvious. ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘No, I did not. I swear by almighty God.’

  ‘Dammit, Guest.’ Walcote slammed his hand to the table. The candle wobbled and spilled its liquid tallow from the flame down its long column. ‘I do not like traitors. I do not like smug men. In short, I do not like you.’

  ‘And we have three witnesses,’ said Loveney.

  Crispin lowered his face. ‘Yes. I understand your difficulty, Lord Sheriff.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Walcote. ‘“Difficulty” you call it. It is not in the least difficult for us. I should swear out an indictment right now.’

  Loveney crossed his arms over his chest. ‘We must charge someone with this crime. And we would be very pleased – as would the crown – to charge you.’

  ‘I was technically the First Finder …’

  ‘And here,’ said Walcote, scooping up the pouch, ‘your surety. Pray tell us, Master Guest, the reason we should not arrest you now.’

  There goes that silver. ‘I will have a difficult time investigating the murder if I am incarcerated.’

  Loveney scoffed. ‘You don’t have a very good opinion of our common pleas practices.’

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Sheriff, but as you just said, you would be pleased to charge me. If we rely on those witnesses, then I am the one who is guilty. Which I assure you I am not.’

  Walcote sat back and jabbed his dagger into the table where it stuck and quivered. ‘You were there. You were drunk. And you committed this murder. Three witnesses say so. I will have no difficulty whatsoever getting an indictment.’

  ‘You say you know me, Lord Sheriff. Is it in my character to murder innocent and unarmed women?’

  ‘You forget that you were amply paid, Master Guest.’

  Crispin swung away, stalking toward the fire, arms firmly folded over his chest. ‘I can prove it, my lords, if only given a chance.’

  ‘You mean a chance to seek sanctuary,’ said Loveney.

  ‘Only guilty men seek sanctuary,’ said Jack suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him, including Hamo behind his writing desk. ‘So my master said,’ Jack clarified. ‘I begged him to, but he would not go. He wants to solve the crime.’

  Walcote studied Crispin under narrowed eyes. The new sheriffs were so newly hatched – only a fortnight into their freshly elected roles in fact – that they had yet to work with or interfere in Crispin’s cases. But as the former sheriffs had surely told them, Crispin did his job with discretion and alacrity. And was so skilled, in fact, that he often embarrassed the sheriffs when they got it wrong. Though they begrudged him, harangued him, belittled him, there was little denying his proficiency. Crispin could see all of that play out on Walcote’s face, and Loveney wasn’t far behind.

  Walcote grabbed his dagger again, curling his fingers around the hilt until they whitened into a fist. ‘This is damnable,’ he rasped. ‘I don’t trust you not to run.’

  ‘And neither do I,’ said the other sheriff.

  ‘What if the recorder discovers we allowed him his freedom?’

  ‘I think Master Guest’s reputation …’ Loveney began, and then scowled.

  ‘We become just by performing just actions,’ quoted Crispin, ‘temperate by performing temperate actions, brave by performing brave actions. My lords, I give you my solemn oath – on my honor – that I will perform my task in all haste and with truth as my lodestone.’

  ‘A brave action indeed by letting a murderer discover his version of the truth,’ muttered Walcote.

  Loveney winced. ‘We aren’t allowing this, are we?’

  Walcote’s face was a study of indecision. Crispin knew his thoughts. They could try Crispin and be done with it. But there was the tiniest niggling doubt that he might just be innocent. And they well knew Crispin was the only competent man to discover it.

  ‘In the interest of justice,’ said Walcote with a sly look, ‘we will allow a certain amount of latitude. But you report to us daily, Master Guest. You are charged with finding the murderer of Elizabeth le Porter. Bring them or their name to us without delay. Should you bolt on us, I swear by all that is holy that I shall hunt you down myself. And I will make certain that a very unpleasant punishment awaits.’

  Crispin grimaced as he bowed. ‘I understand, my lords. Thank you for your confidence.’

  ‘I have no such thing,’ growled Walcote.

  Crispin pivoted and directed Jack toward Eckington’s desk. ‘Tucker, get the names and addresses of the witnesses.’ He didn’t stop but kept walking from the sheriff’s chamber, amazed that he was still a free man and hoping to remain so by getting out of their sight.

  Down the stairs, out the arch, and he was standing on Newgate Market, reflecting on last night’s events. If he had only awoken. If he had only convinced her to leave!

  He felt Jack at his shoulder and stepped out onto the street, with the boy walking beside him. ‘Where to first, Master Crispin?’

  ‘I want you to question the witnesses, Jack. And perhaps find others who might have seen someone approach the door later that night. The killer came sometime between Vespers and Terce. Yes, I realize that is a wide span of time, but someone might have seen.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘I need to discover who this Elizabeth le Porter was.’

  ‘Very well. I’m off then, sir. God keep you.’

  ‘And you, Jack. I need not tell you I am relying upon you.’

  Jack grinned. ‘As good as done, sir.’ He sprinted away to the first address. Crispin watched him grimly. He knew the sheriffs would be impatient about this. They wouldn’t wait forever.

  He looked up Newgate Market toward the Shambles. Why had someone wanted to kill that woman? Did she know something dangerous about someone? Had she threatened someone somehow? And when Crispin had told her about this contract on her life, she had not seemed as surprised as one should be. Even flippant about it. Maybe she hadn’t believed him … but no. She had, hadn’t she? And what’s more, seemed to know more about it than she should have.

  As for morals, she had taken Crispin to her bed readily enough. She was no stranger to carnal pleasures. It was possible she was a prostitute. But most brothels were situated in Southwark.

  He pulled his hood up over his head, bundled his cloak about him, and headed toward Watling Street.

  He stood at the mouth of the avenue from Bread Street and gazed down the muddy way, watching the townsfolk at their business. A man forced a pushcart over the muddy ruts. A small boy with a wrapped foot and a crutch sat in the cart atop the pile of what looked like peat, staring glassy-eyed back at the man. A woman with a basket of fish had one in her hand, shaking it toward the shoppers and shouting out the merits of her wares. The silvery body of the fish shone in the fluctuating sunshine, and its dead eyes vacantly perused the shoppers.

  Skirting past a man holding a stake with strips of roasted meat hanging fro
m its arms, Crispin walked along Watling. There, just before it became Budge Row was the private door. People passed it with barely a nod, while others pointed, talking in quiet whispers to one another. He trudged forward, crushing fallen autumn leaves beneath his boots. While Jack talked to the eel monger, Crispin would try the other, the roper.

  He kept his head down while slipping by the eel monger, passed the door to the private stair, and stood before the roper’s shop. He knocked, and a young girl no more than eight or nine answered. She looked up at him with bright round eyes and dipped into a curtsey. ‘Can I get my father for you, sir?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, demoiselle. I would appreciate that.’

  She reddened at his address, curtseyed again, and left to find her father. Crispin peered inside the door she had left ajar. Coiled ropes of every description hung on pegs. And long lengths of hemp were tied to rings in the process of being twisted together.

  His peek inside was suddenly blocked by a man standing in the doorway. ‘Good sir,’ the man said with a bow. ‘I’m Regis Croydone, ropes of every kind.’

  Crispin bowed in return. ‘Master, I am here to enquire about your neighbor … Elizabeth le Porter.’

  The man crossed himself. ‘Oh a sore thing is that. Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, I am investigating her murder. I am …’ Should he say? Was it known it was him who was fingered as a possible suspect? The truth was best. ‘I am Crispin Guest. I am known in London as the Tracker.’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’ By his facial expression it was the ‘Tracker’ the man recognized rather than the suspect. ‘Well. What can I tell you, for I know nothing of the crime itself?’

  ‘You saw nothing? No one going in the stairs between Vespers last night and Terce this morning? Heard nothing?’

  ‘No. We were all snug inside at Vespers and well into the working day by Terce.’

  ‘I see. Would you know what Mistress le Porter did for a living? For whom she worked?’

  ‘As her landlord I would. She was recently a lady’s maid, but lost that situation some weeks ago, hence her lodging here.’

  ‘As a lady’s maid? You wouldn’t know whom she served, would you?’

  ‘I do, for I wasn’t about to rent to a young woman alone without references. Who knows what someone like that would get up to? And now I see the folly of it.’ He crossed himself again. ‘She had worked for the Lady Helewise Peverel. She’s a widow, living not far from here in a house on Trinity.’

  ‘Thank you, master. And would you know why she was no longer under Lady Peverel’s employ?’

  ‘No. Mistress le Porter would not say and neither would Lady Peverel. But she did recommend her and so I didn’t see fit to turn her out. Now I fear the place is cursed.’

  ‘Never fear. London being as crowded as it is, I don’t think you will have any trouble renting the space.’

  ‘Let us hope. If I have helped you in your cause, then perhaps blessings will be given to me and mine.’

  Crispin bowed. ‘You have helped greatly, good sir. Much thanks.’ And with that, Crispin withdrew and hurried toward Trinity.

  Once he had crossed to Trinity, he enquired of people on the street where the Peverel house was and found it easily. It stood nearly alone, flanked on both sides with a flourishing garden. Autumn-naked trees pushed sharp branches above the garden walls, grasping into the gray sky.

  He marched past the empty gatehouse, through to the cobblestone courtyard before the door’s archway, climbed the stairs, and knocked. The door was opened by an older man in a crisp cotehardie who looked at Crispin with a faintly enquiring air. ‘I beg your mercy,’ said Crispin with a bow, ‘but is your mistress at home? I urgently require conference with her.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Crispin Guest, Tracker of London.’

  A brow rose only at the mention of his name, but the man bowed and gestured for Crispin to enter. The servant directed him to a parlor brightly lit with window glass and gaily painted murals on its golden walls.

  ‘I will alert my mistress as to your presence, Master Guest.’ He bowed again and left Crispin in the warm room. As the man left through a passage, Crispin walked to the wide fireplace. He basked in the warmth, letting his fingers thaw. Even the damp wool of his cotehardie heated through.

  He looked around the room. About what he would expect from a rich widow’s estate. Fine tapestries, luxurious carvings on coffers and the sideboard. Comfortable chairs with embroidered pillows and footstools. A tall carved post with a flat round platform atop didn’t immediately make much sense to Crispin, until the lady swept into the room.

  Her generous figure was attired in a green gown with gold embroidery and foliate sleeves reaching down to the hem from her elbows. She wore the modern horned headdress with a gold wire-mesh veil. And a red squirrel with a silver collar and leash was perched on her shoulder. She fed it berries, and it sat, holding a berry in its tiny paws, and nibbled with all its whiskery might. Its tufted ears flicked and swiveled.

  ‘Master Guest?’

  He bowed. ‘Madam. Do I have the pleasure of greeting the widow Helewise Peverel?’

  ‘You do. Please, Master Guest, sit down. Will you have wine? It is Flemish and quite sweet.’

  He paused. It would be impolite not to take some, but he had made his own secret vow to cut back on his drinking. If not for his own sake then to mollify Jack. And then that thought filled him with the absurdity of trying to please a servant.

  Before he could reply, a footman was already pouring the wine and offered a silver goblet on a tray. Crispin took it with thanks to his hostess. The servant withdrew to an antechamber and Crispin sipped. It was exceptional wine, but he took only the one sip and set it aside.

  The lady urged her pet squirrel onto the platform. The leash, draping downward attached to her wrist, made a glittering bracelet. She put the last of her berries on the platform top. ‘Here you are Folâtre, you greedy creature.’ She dusted her hands and placed them in her lap. ‘Now then. Why should the celebrated and, may I add, quite handsome Crispin Guest come to me?’

  He smiled briefly. ‘Madam, I fear I come with sad and solemn news. I regret to report that Elizabeth le Porter was found dead this morning.’

  The woman was clearly shocked, and she raised her hand to her mouth. ‘What … what happened?’

  ‘I am very much afraid that she was murdered. I have heard that she used to work for you.’

  ‘Yes, yes. As my personal maid.’

  ‘Can you tell me why she left your employ?’

  The widow Helewise fidgeted with her sleeve. ‘It was by mutual choice.’

  Crispin frowned. Servants spent their lives serving their masters. And then their children came into the same employment. He couldn’t help but voice his skepticism. ‘A servant willingly leave such employment?’ He looked around in emphasis. ‘It does not signify.’

  ‘And yet that is what happened.’ Her face hardened. ‘What else do you need to know?’

  He shrugged it off. ‘Can you think of any reason why someone would wish to do her harm? In fact, hire someone to do the deed?’

  ‘I … can’t imagine.’ She turned toward her pet squirrel, tapping the platform so that he nuzzled her finger.

  Crispin narrowed his eyes. Odd that she believed his tale so readily. ‘Madam Peverel …’

  ‘I know it is difficult for outsiders to understand. Those who don’t know my family and what is here. The troubles.’

  He watched her as she toyed with her pet. The squirrel flicked its tail and jerked from edge to edge of its perch. The little bell on its collar tinkled.

  ‘Troubles, madam?’

  She jolted from the chair, signaled to the squirrel, and it leapt to her shoulder. ‘Come with me.’

  She stalked from the room so suddenly Crispin had barely gotten to his feet before she was out the door. They traveled through a corridor and then to another archway. It opened to a small household chapel, closed tight by a gate
. She took a key from her girdle and unlocked it, casting the metal gate aside. A statue of the Virgin sat in a lighted alcove, the candle flames flickering on the benevolent carved face. The alcove was also protected behind a gate with a lock imbedded within. Below her was a monstrance, a vial encased in gold, fashioned into radiant beams.

  The widow Peverel curtseyed to the statue and knelt on the prie-dieux before the relic.

  It’s always a relic, he sighed to himself before he knelt at a prie-dieux behind her.

  ‘You see,’ she said quietly, ‘this most holy of relics came into my family years and years ago. It is the Tears of the Virgin Mary.’

  Crispin looked closer, leaning forward toward the gate’s bars. Within the crystal vial he saw a small amount of a clear liquid.

  ‘The Tears are precious, not only because they belonged to the Holy Mother,’ she went on, ‘but because … they can heal pain.’

  Crispin took a breath. How many relics had he encountered over the years? How many could actually do what was ascribed to them? He kept silent.

  ‘But that is not all.’ She rose, took a small key from her girdle once more, and unlocked the alcove. She opened the door and reached for the monstrance. Taking the vial out of its golden cage, she lifted it to the light. Tilting it allowed the liquid to ooze from side to side within its crystal enclosure. ‘The Tears of the Virgin … it is precious for other reasons. Because … it can also make one feel the pain of others.’

  Crispin stood beside her. She offered it to him and he carefully took the vial, raising it to the light. The crystal itself was somewhat cloudy, but he could easily see the liquid within. ‘How do you mean, madam?’

  ‘You can feel their pain. Not just their physical pain, you understand, but their grief. Their deepest sorrows, regrets, and guilt. It is a two-edged gift.’

  He handed it back and she cradled it in her hand, closing her fingers on it for a moment, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, Crispin could see her troubled expression. But before he could ask further, she leaned toward the monstrance again and placed the relic back within its radiant beams and closed the alcove’s door. ‘Let us come away.’