The Demon’s Parchment cg-3

by Jeri Westerson

  Eyes darted, narrowed, then looked up at him with hatred. “You could not possibly understand.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  “How can I explain to a man unfamiliar with the medicinal arts? It would be like explaining the nature of the Almighty to a simpleton.”

  Crispin reached back without looking and tapped the glass jar with his knife blade. “What is that?” he demanded.

  “That?” Julian frowned at him, his brows contracting to an unpleasant “v.” “It is a spleen. It is one of the organs—”

  “Who is it from, whelp?”

  “Who? You must be jesting. It is from a goat.”

  “Prove it.”

  Julian tore away from the nimbus of candlelight. His face fell into darkness. “I can’t. I won’t. These are important experiments. They might save lives someday. But what would you care with your brutish ways and clumsy oafishness? You break in here without a by your leave and expect answers from me at knifepoint. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone!”

  Crispin’s anger bubbled. He had met murderers aplenty. It seemed in London they came a penny a dozen. But the young corpse that he had seen with his own eyes was beyond murder. He dismissed the idea of a Golem. That was a distraction, a cheap conjurer’s trick to fool the eye. Whatever that thing was, if it existed at all, did not perpetrate these atrocities. The body was handled in too calculated a way, too clinical, too careful. The crime was committed by a man, to be sure. And he was beginning to be certain that the culprit stood before him.

  “You should be afraid of me. And afraid of the hangman’s noose. You are a murderer of a most foul nature. To do the things you have done—it disgusts me to even think of it.”

  “How dare you! I am no such thing! I save lives. It is against the code of the physician. It is against the code of my faith.”

  Crispin proffered his knife again. “You will tell me exactly what you have been doing here. And I will examine the evidence for myself.”

  Julian stepped into the candlelight. His face was contorted with frustration. His hands, those long-fingered hands, gestured at him. “I murdered no one. What do you accuse me of?”

  “Very well. If you must play this game. Four boys were discovered murdered. They were found naked with evidence that their limbs were bound. Their bowels were skillfully ripped from their bodies. And they were sodomized.”

  If actor he was, Julian showed superb skill. His pupils dilated until the irises were a mere pale green ring against the whites. At last his lips trembled and a hand came up to press upon their whitening pallor. “No,” he whispered. “Almighty Lord, no.” His hand groped for a stool and he found one behind him. Sinking down, his taut body fell limp. From the hearth light and the candle, Crispin noticed the sash around the boy’s waist. Such a thing could easily be used to strangle.

  “You accuse me of this,” he said with a husky voice. And then, any amount of sympathy the youth might have engendered was lost as he raised his head and snarled an ugly laugh. His eyes gradually cleared and he gritted his teeth. “Get out.”

  No more of this. Crispin grabbed his shoulder and yanked hard. The youth stumbled to his feet. “Explain it to the sheriff.”

  “What? No! Unhand me!” The boy wrestled, wriggling like an eel until he slipped from Crispin’s grip and ducked away from him, melting against the wall. “I am not a murderer! What will it take to convince you?”

  “Do you conspire with those other Jews? Is this an elaborate plot to kill Christian boys?”

  Julian stared at him. “Other Jews? You are mad. What are you talking about?”

  “Do not play the fool with me, boy. I know of the secret Jews in London. And I also know of the plots to kill Christian boys. Is this part of a larger scheme?” Crispin’s hand hurt. He realized he’d been gripping the knife hilt tighter and tighter.

  Julian’s green eyes darted to both of Crispin’s. “You make no sense. There are no Jews in England. Your own king saw to that.”

  That was enough. Crispin lunged and grabbed the boy by his gown, pulled him forward, and shook him. “Do not play with me! So help me, I will flay you alive—” The blade speared toward the young man’s face and those green eyes contracted, staring down its tip.

  “Maître Guest!”

  Crispin’s attention slid for only a moment toward Jacob staring horrified in the open doorway. But it was enough for the slippery youth to escape again. This time Julian’s blade was free and in his hand. His chest heaved as he inched toward the door.

  “Father! Back away! This man is insane. He speaks nonsense and of horrible things.”

  Jacob looked from one to the other, searching for some sense between them. Crispin sneered. “It is this son of yours whose sin you should fear, Master Jacob. His ‘experiments’ are an abhorrence to God. And these things”—he gestured toward the table—“should be destroyed.”

  Jacob entered and curled a taut hand around the lad’s wrist, pulling him none too gently behind him but not allowing him to leave. “Have I not warned you of this abomination?” he hissed at him. “We are not butchers. We do not need to have such filth in our midst.”

  “But Father—”

  “No, Julian! I have allowed it for too long. These things must go.”

  Crispin was unmoved by the physician’s rhetoric. “All very well, Master Jacob. But surely you are aware that these are human entrails.”

  Jacob did not loosen his grip on the boy’s arm but his attention now lay fully with Crispin. “Human? No! They are animal entrails, Maître. Animals! We examine these organs to understand their functions. Surely you can see—”

  “I accuse your son of most foul murder, Master Jacob. That which you ascribe to some mythical Golem. It is your son who stands accused of murder, disembowelment . . . and sodomy.”

  Crispin expected much, but he did not expect the curiously stagnant expression on the physician’s features.

  Jacob merely shook his head and chewed his lip. “No. No, Maître Guest. You are mistaken. On all counts.”

  “I am not! This is the proof of it! These foul canisters! Can you deny it?”

  “I do,” said Jacob firmly. “Julian might have been in error harboring these forbidden things, these animal things, but he means well.” He turned to his son, still holding fast to his arm. “Your notes are sound. Your conclusions scholarly.”

  Julian beamed at his father’s praise, forgetting Crispin’s denouncement.

  “Damn you both!” That snapped them out of it satisfactorily. The two turned toward him. “I am speaking of murder. Are you deaf?”

  Jacob released the boy’s wrist and calmly set his hands before him, crossing those weathered fingers one over the other. Julian stood slightly behind his father, glaring. “I am far from deaf, Maître. And you are far too loud for the hour,” he said, his voice lowering. “I submit to you that you are mistaken about my son. He is no murderer. Nor is he capable of the other things you accuse him of.”

  “Forgive me, Master Physician,” he said tightly, “but I have seen what lesser men are capable of.”

  Frustratingly, Jacob shook his head again. Crispin dearly wanted to wrench it from his neck. “He is an apprentice physician. He stays at my side, learning. These things you accuse him of, and horrific though they may be, are not possible. We do not kill. We save lives. Further, Maître, the touching of blood is against our faith. True, I must bleed patients to revive their humors,” he said, raising a hand to Crispin’s openmouthed objection. “And in cleansing wounds.” He sheepishly nodded toward Crispin’s arm. Crispin felt a twinge where Julian’s knife had breached him. “But we are assiduous at purification,” said Jacob. “Some sacrifices must be made for our art. The Lord hears our prayers and our pleas for forgiveness. Julian has made his experiments, it is true. But to learn. These horrific tokens”—his hand swept over the table—“will be disposed of and shall not be spoken of again.”

  “Mon père!”

  Jacob closed his
eyes. “They shall not be spoken of again.” He waited for Julian’s silent submission before he opened his eyes and went on. “Julian is always at my side, as I said. Simply, he would not have had time to do the things you would accuse him of.”

  “And yet he was here alone with me,” said Crispin.

  “For a mere few moments. Tell me, Maître Guest, in your expert opinion, would a man have time to do that of which you accuse my son and still have time to erase the offal and blood that would surely follow such an abomination? From the room and from himself? You are a man used to combat. You must realize the amount of blood that would be produced from such doings.”

  Crispin gritted his teeth. God’s blood! The damned man with his slowly blinking eyes and his calm demeanor merely gazed at Crispin, certain in his pronouncement. Of course he could be lying and Julian might have been missing for longer periods of time. But then again, where would he have performed these deeds?

  “This does not sufficiently explain away his guilt.” But even as he said it his stomach swooped unpleasantly. It was explaining it away very nicely, as a matter of fact. “You could be lying to protect him,” he snapped. Only after it left his mouth did he feel a slight twinge of loutishness.

  Jacob lifted his chin and his cheeks darkened to a dusky hue. But his lips firmed and he spoke not a word.

  Their silent joust yielded nothing. The man was formidable and his sharp gaze never wavered. This was no certainty of the man’s veracity . . . but it was close enough.

  With a growl, Crispin spun away from both father and son and shoved his knife hard into its sheath. He found himself staring at the table, watching that god-awful thing floating in its jar. He hated like hell to be wrong. He hated still more to admit it. But there was something about that youth that irritated the devil out of Crispin, got under his skin like a rash. There had to be something he could blame him for—oh yes. With a sly grin, Crispin turned back toward them. “There is also the little matter of a dead servant who was about to inform me of a very interesting fact regarding your parchments, Master Jacob. A servant who made an appointment to meet with me . . . an appointment overheard by Master Julian.”

  Relaxed, Julian’s lids drooped over his eyes and a brow arched. It galled Crispin that he did not seem to fear him or God’s retribution. “Yes, I heard that servant when you were talking to him. But I was not the only one in the corridor. There were several men behind me. Any one of them could have heard. You should have closed the door.”

  “How very convenient. And impossible to prove. Give me your sash.”

  Julian started and his hands went instantly to the scarlet sash at his waist. “W-what? Why?”

  “I’ll give you exactly to the count of three.”

  Those droopy lids snapped open. Whatever expression Crispin wore, it certainly convinced him. Julian hastily grabbed at the silken sash and unwound it. He held it forth and Crispin snatched it and stomped to the hearth. He held it to the light as he carefully untied the thread from his money pouch and laid it upon the silky cloth.

  The colors were not even close.

  Crispin braced himself. He almost tossed the sash into the flames for spite but held himself in check. Instead, he studied it. No tears, no sweat stains, no wrinkles as one would find had it been used as a garrote. It was in perfect order.

  Without looking back, he thrust the sash behind him until someone took it from his fingers. He tied the thread to his pouch again. His shoulders winced when he heard Julian’s throaty laugh. “Are you satisfied now?”

  “No.” His arms were firmly crossed over his chest. “What do you know of these secret Jews?”

  It was Jacob’s step he heard approach and then the man’s shadow quivered beside his. “Secret Jews, Maître Guest? What tidings are these?”

  “I have encountered the unlikely habitation of a secret enclave of Jews, descendants of those Jews supposedly exiled from England. These were supposed to be converts, but they forsook their oaths and their baptisms.” He spat the last, disgusted by anyone whose oaths meant nothing.

  Jacob made a snorting sound and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Interesting. But . . . I have nothing to do with them, if these tidings are true. And my son is also innocent of congress with them.” Jacob’s face was lit from the hearth, half in light while the other surrendered to shadow. The stark line of light served to emphasize the deep creases and wrinkles carving the man’s features. “Maître Guest, it is late. You have had strange encounters today. And these murders are vexing and horrifying. I have not heard these details before. I only knew of the murders. I did not know of these . . . other matters.” He appeared worried, but he did not look at his son. “I will offer a prayer, for it is all I can do.” He gave Crispin a steady look. “And I offer assurances about my son. He is a man of science with a superb mind. But he is not a murderer. Nor is he any of the other things you would ascribe to him. Come back on the morrow, and we will talk of it. Perhaps he can tell you of the other men in the corridor.”

  “No. I do not know who they were,” the boy retorted. Crispin wanted to strangle him. But then he realized the context of his thoughts and felt slightly ashamed. There had been far too much strangling of late.

  He raised his eyes instead to Jacob. He wanted to offer an apology, an explanation, but it withered on his tongue. Holy saints, but he was tired. Bone weary and melancholy at all these events. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not been thinking as clearly as he could have done. He was hungry and in need of wine. It was too late to patronize the Boar’s Tusk, but perhaps not too late to call upon Gilbert and Eleanor.

  12

  Crispin escaped the palace without incident, vowing to return in the morning to further question Julian. When he had looked at the boy to make this avowal, the knave had the nerve to sneer at him.

  The fog was no better at this late hour, but it served to hide him from the Watch and he was grateful for that relief at least. Back to London, Crispin was grounded in the familiar as he made his way down Newgate Market until it became the Shambles. He cast an eye to his window above the tinker shop and frowned at the absence of a candle glow piercing the shutters. Perhaps Jack had gone to bed, tiring of waiting for Crispin to return.

  He traveled down Cheap and turned the corner at Gutter Lane, and because of the dense fog, he had to travel by rote to the shuttered Boar’s Tusk. He was no stranger to this trek, drunk or sober.

  The Boar’s Tusk was a blocky edifice with a stone foundation and lime-washed walls slashed by dark timbering. Some of its roof slates hung precariously over the street, but Crispin viewed all its flaws as a besotted lover disregards the wrinkles of his paramour. The place was as poor as he was and perhaps just as flawed. He felt a kinship with that old building as much as he felt a warm stirring of friendship for those within.

  The door was shut and no doubt barred. The entry was a large expanse of old oak, fastened with heavy iron hinges. He pounded upon it and waited a beat before his fist offered a few more.

  A voice from within called through it, “Peace, friend. The tavern is shut for the night. Come back on the morrow.”

  “But I would have my wine now,” said Crispin as loudly as he dared.

  A pause. “Crispin?”

  “The same. Open up, Gilbert. I’m cold.”

  A heavy beam clunked as it lifted from the door and the way was suddenly opened, revealing Gilbert’s smile and a shadow of a beard on his round face. “Crispin, do you know the hour?” he chided, even as he ushered him in. He closed the door again and replaced the beam to bar it.

  “My apologies,” he said with a cursory bow. “But I was hungry. And I need my wine. It has been . . . a day.”

  “And perhaps you wanted your friends to offer a comforting ear?” He rested his hand on Crispin’s shoulder and steered him toward the hearth.

  The place seemed more solemn without the usual raucous crowd. Forlorn. The shadows hung in the corners like cobwebs. Even the hearth, still glowing from a few good-siz
ed logs, seemed dispirited. But it was warm. He sat, easing a sigh from his lips as Gilbert leaned over him. “I will bring wine and a bit of cold fish. Will that do?”

  “Gilbert, you are a saint.”

  Gilbert guffawed and rubbed the back of his reddened neck. “That I am not.” He trudged back toward the kitchens, and Crispin heard him call to his servant Ned for some fish.

  Crispin leaned back and kneaded the ache in his shoulder, not realizing until he sat down how taut and gnarled his muscle was. Sitting before the fire, he thawed, glad of this small pleasure.

  A few moments passed and Gilbert returned. He had a tray with two stacked bowls, a jug of wine, and a trencher with several fish and a wedge of cheese.

  Crispin reached for his money pouch but Gilbert waved him off. “No, Crispin. Tonight you are my guest. It is a rare thing indeed when you come to us as friends.”

  Crispin ducked his head as Gilbert set the table. He could feel his cheeks warm from more than the fire. It was true. He had neglected this friendship, using the Boar’s Tusk as a convenient tavern and selfishly taking advantage of the kindness of his hosts. They had befriended him when few would. He owed them far more than an overdue tavern bill.

  He mumbled his thanks, too embarrassed to say more.

  “So Crispin,” said Gilbert, settling into his chair. He stretched his thick legs, wiggling his pointed-toed shoes toward the fire. His own wine was half gone as he settled the bowl on his ample belly. “Tell me about this terrible day that has you creeping about into taverns well past curfew.”

  How much to tell? He eyed Gilbert, knowing the man was oath-bound by friendship never to reveal something Crispin told him in confidence.

  “There have been foul murders in the city, Gilbert. Perhaps you have heard—”

  “Oh aye,” he said. He suddenly snapped forward, catching his wine bowl in time. His earnest face searched Crispin’s own. “The boy. I heard of it. You are searching for his killer?”