“Thank you, Master.” Jack made a sling with his cloak and slipped the bulky books in under his arm.
Crispin smiled, pleased with himself. They followed the lonely gallery from shadow to light. Crispin decided to skirt Adam and exit by the kitchen outbuildings.
When they entered the kitchens, he cast about until he found the tall figure he sought. “Master Hoode.”
John Hoode looked up and smiled on seeing Crispin. He hurried to his side. “Crispin. How did it go?”
“Not badly. I will be here often as I continue my investigations.” He wasn’t certain if Hoode was up to the challenge, but he needed someone to do a little spying for him when he wasn’t about. “Can you favor me with an errand?” He pulled Hoode aside, and glanced about for any others. “You are new to this household. So it may not necessarily be strange for you to be found in the corridor. You were lost, after all. Yes?”
Hoode studied Crispin’s eyes. It took him a few moments but he caught up. “Oh, aye! I get you. Keep me eyes open.”
“That’s right.”
Hoode giggled. “That’s all a bit of fun, ain’t it? Me spying on the likes of the Walcotes. What a grand jest that is.”
Crispin kept his smile in place, though Hoode’s fey manner caused a ripple of discomfort sporting up his spine. “Just don’t be obvious.”
“Oh, no! Course not! Bless my soul. I’ll be like a mouse.”
“Indeed. I bid you farewell.”
He felt Hoode’s gaze on him while he tromped through the kitchen courtyard and out the back gate. Crossing the lane, he looked back at the house and its many chimneys and outbuildings. The manor seemed cold to him. Was it merely because of the death within, or was there something inherent in the stones? A house reflected those within its walls. And the Walcote house was not a happy one.
He and Jack wound down arched alleyways and through narrow lanes. They traveled north up Old Cheap, skirting a cluster of noble women riding by on their white and dappled palfreys. He bowed to them as they passed but did not raise his eyes lest he recognize any of them. Or worse, that they recognize him.
Once the horses passed, a goose girl trotted beside Crispin and Jack, moving swiftly ahead of them. She gave them a cursory glance from under her tattered cloak and used a stick to move her charges along. Their gray necks stretched heavenward and they honked the whole way down the road. No doubt they were not happy with their appointment at the poulterer’s.
Crispin scarce remembered that Jack was beside him until he spoke suddenly, startling Crispin from his reverie.
“I don’t understand.”
They turned east at the corner of the Shambles where East Cheap, Paternoster Row, and St. Martin’s crossed and had to wait until a cart laden with stacked barrels pulled through the narrow lane. The Shambles, in all its bustle, came into view under a froth of mist rumbling up from the distant Thames.
Crispin glanced down at Jack. “What don’t you understand?”
The cart lumbered slowly past them, the wooden wheels straining under the weight of the barrels. The ox pulling the cart lowed and shifted its head in their direction. The long lashes on those dark, liquid eyes blinked at them.
“You’re supposed to be this Tracker,” said Jack, watching the beast amble away. The cart’s wheels splayed the mud beneath it, leaving two long ruts trailing behind. “But all you track are bodies.”
Crispin sniffed the desolate air. A chill fell with the twilight. Braziers came to life down the street; vague glowing points amid a rising mist that smelled of seaweed and salt. Shadowy figures huddled near the shopkeeper’s glowing fires like lethargic moths. London’s underclass. Homeless men. Men and boys much like Jack had been before he insinuated himself into Crispin’s life. “If you’ve no stomach for it you are free to go. I have no hold over you.”
“Well—” Jack swiveled his head to take in the cold street with its damp cobblestones, the murky channel down the center of the crooked lane meandering upstream, and lonely men grasping for warmth about the few braziers. “Where would I go?” he answered softly.
“I see. You stay with me out of necessity. Well, I cannot dispute your reasoning.”
“It ain’t like that.” His face grayed from the dimming light. “I like serving you, Master Crispin. I never been treated this good before. You talk to me and ask me things. It’s like I was your squire!”
A sigh huffed up from Crispin’s chest and settled his mouth into a scowl. Why did the boy have to use that word? “Jack.” It came out more of a growl than a name.
“You’re right good to me,” he pressed on, oblivious to Crispin’s darkening mood. “That’s miraculous!”
“My humiliation is your good fortune. I’m happy for you.”
Jack’s mouth dropped open. “No, no! Why is everything I say vexing to you?”
“Maybe you talk too much!” He fumbled, removing the key from his scrip, and noticed Jack wore the look of a punished child, chin down, mouth taut. Crispin felt a twinge in his heart that nudged the sourness aside. “I apologize for that,” he said soberly. “The truth of it is, I am pleased to have you here. But because I am not a knight, you cannot be a squire. Though were I a knight again—”
Jack’s face broke into a broad smile. “Ah now. That’s a fine thing you said. Even if you don’t mean half of it.”
The lane curved and they spied the tinker shop, now washed in closing shadows. Smoke curled from his landlord’s chimney and candlelight shone from the seams of their shutters.
But there was a man stamping the ground before the tinker’s door. No. Not before the door. Before Crispin’s stair. Instinctively, Crispin pushed Jack behind him and rested his hand on his dagger.
The man looked up at their approach, but by then Crispin was close enough to recognize his livery. Crispin’s weary shoulders sagged.
“I know, I know,” said Crispin. “The sheriff wishes to see me.”
5
Crispin and Jack made their way under the arch of Newgate prison. The tall stone gate scowled over the Shambles, its two towers like the gateposts of Hell. A portcullis hung over the open maw of the dark archway; fangs waiting to snap. To the south lay the Bailey and Ludgate. To the north Aldersgate and then Cripplegate, guarding the byways in and out of London. But it was in Newgate that men suffered the fates of their masters. Thieves, whores, and traitors all found habitation in the most inhospitable of places. Some paid their debts and were released. These debts could be coin, but more often than not for the simple thief, it was to leave behind a hand or an ear, whatever form the Lord Sheriff thought was mete. Still others made the long journey to Smithfield to meet their Maker.
Crispin never failed to shiver as he crossed beneath the portcullis, ever mindful of his time within these walls as its guest. He, too, thought he was to make the journey to Smithfield. But Fate is an inconstant jester. He never dreamed eight years ago that he would walk free of the prison alive.
As he approached the sheriff’s hall, Crispin evened his breathing. The business of crime-solving made strange bedfellows. Crispin’s encounters with Wynchecombe had become no easier even after an uncomfortable acquaintance for the last year. Perhaps Simon Wynchecombe resented a sheriff’s responsibilities. Perhaps he envied Crispin’s education and former status.
Perhaps he’s just a vengeful bastard. Crispin smirked. That one suited best.
Wynchecombe looked up from a parchment and frowned upon seeing the former cutpurse. “What’s he doing here?”
Crispin stepped in and moved easily toward Wynchecombe’s table. “Jack is my servant, remember?”
The sheriff sat back and laughed. “That’s right. You have a thief for a servant. It’s fitting.”
Crispin stood and endured the sheriff’s laughter until Wynchecombe finally invited him to sit. Often, he made Crispin stand throughout the interview just to tweak Crispin’s humor. But today, the sheriff seemed to be in a magnanimous mood. Crispin sat while Jack made himself scarce in the sh
adows. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately, have we, Guest? Until yesterday morning, that is.”
Crispin said nothing. He rested his hands in his lap in an outward gesture of relaxed calm.
Wynchecombe leaned forward over his desk and smiled. The white teeth seemed whiter under the dark mustache—something like the white scales on the underbelly of a snake. “I haven’t any suspects. Have you?”
Crispin looked away. “No, my lord. The case is still fresh.”
“But Walcote isn’t getting any fresher, is he? And his guild is quite impatient and full of equally rich merchants. I was met by a delegation today demanding—demanding, mind you—that I do something about the murder. You know I do not like to be dictated to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Wynchecombe studied Crispin’s blank expression and scowled. “Nor do I like being patronized.”
“If I had pertinent information I would tell you, Lord Sheriff.”
“Nonsense! We both know the opposite to be true. Why do you fight me, Guest? You know I will win.”
Crispin smiled. “There is always the possibility that you won’t.”
Wynchecombe slammed the table with his hand. The candle wobbled and its flame sputtered. “I want to know why Walcote hired you, and I want to know now!”
Crispin plucked an imaginary piece of fluff from his coat and flicked it away. Wynchecombe followed each meticulous motion until his eyes narrowed to furious slits.
“The matter is still private, my lord. Were it not—”
Wynchecombe scrambled around the table. Crispin knew it was coming, but before he could steel himself, the sheriff grabbed his coat and hauled him to his feet.
He wondered how the sheriff would start. He didn’t wonder long.
Wynchecombe backhanded him hard. And just to make certain Crispin knew it was no mere token, the sheriff did it again to the other cheek.
Crispin’s head jerked with each blow, and stars exploded in the back of his eyes. He felt Wynchecombe’s ring tear his cheek, felt the warm blood run in a tickling dribble down his face, felt his eye take the brunt of it.
Jack made a small noise from his place in the shadows, like a trapped mouse.
Taking a deep breath, Crispin slowly turned his head to face the sheriff. He ran his tongue in his mouth and tasted the bitter flavor of his own blood.
“I said I want an answer,” said Wynchecombe. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“And I told you I can’t give you one.”
Wynchecombe’s fist sank into Crispin’s belly and he would have dropped to the floor on his knees had the sheriff not been holding him up. Crispin gasped but no sound came from his lips.
“Tell me.”
Without voice, Crispin shut his eyes and shook his head.
Wynchecombe dropped Crispin and he tumbled to the floor holding his sore belly. He rolled into a hedgehoglike ball.
The sheriff rubbed his tender knuckles into his palm and walked a slow circuit around Crispin. Wynchecombe leaned down and grabbed his hair, jerking Crispin’s head back.
There was no time to feel humiliation at being on his hands and knees. The raw pain of his belly and eye was still too fresh.
“Is it worth taking a beating?”
His eye swelled and shut. Crispin managed a defiant smile. “But you enjoy it so much.”
Wynchecombe drew his arm back, and Crispin tensed for the blow. But the sheriff’s attention was diverted by a movement in the shadows. He dropped Crispin’s hair and stood above him with his legs apart. “It’s true. I could easily, and happily, beat you for the rest of the afternoon. But I think I would rather thrash…him.”
Crispin painfully turned his head in the direction the sheriff stared with such glee, and the rebellious smile fell from his bloody lips.
Jack cowered behind the door when the sheriff neared him.
Crispin lurched forward. “No! Wait!”
Wynchecombe closed his enormous hand over Jack’s tunic and pulled him from the floor. Walcote’s ledgers fell out of his cloak one by one. The sheriff’s other hand closed into a red fist and bobbed close to Jack’s face.
“Oh please,” Wynchecombe oozed, smiling over his shoulder at Crispin. “Just one?”
Crispin’s face burned, and his belly felt as if it were folded together and nailed closed. “Release him and I will tell you everything.”
“I was just getting started.”
“Simon!”
He curled his fist around Jack’s tunic even tighter. Jack blanched. His eyes gaped to terrified holes. “It’s Lord Sheriff to you, remember?”
“My lord…please…”
Wynchecombe held Jack suspended above the floor for what seemed an interminable time before he grimaced a chuckle and dropped him. Jack scrambled back to his corner like a mouse in search of a hole. He collected the books and scooped them into the safety of his cloak. “Weakness for a servant?” The sheriff tutted. “I am surprised at you, Crispin. It’s not a very admirable trait.”
Crispin raised his head but could only do so at an odd angle. He squinted with his one good eye. “‘You become just by performing just actions.’”
“Not your damned Aristotle again. You seem to hold great store by what that pagan said.”
Crispin dragged himself across the floor to the chair but only to lean against it. His head felt close to bursting and his eye felt as if a knife had jabbed it. He put his hand to his head. His hand didn’t help the pain, but it reassured him that his head was still in one piece. “There is much wisdom in the writings of antiquity.” He said the words mechanically. Perhaps he’d said the same words to Wynchecombe before. Difficult to remember when his head was hammering.
The sheriff moved with deliberate posturing back to his chair and sat, gloating over his beard. “You were about to tell me why Walcote hired you.”
Crispin ignored him for the moment and peered as best he could into the dim corner. “Are you well, Jack?”
Mute, Jack nodded vigorously and clasped his cloak up to his chin.
Crispin heaved a sigh, but it sputtered unsuccessfully when a bruised rib twinged his side. “Nicholas Walcote hired me to spy on his wife. He feared she was unfaithful.”
Wynchecombe rocked back in his chair and smiled. His mustache bristled. “And was she?”
He took so long deciding what to say that Wynchecombe pulled his dagger and aimed it at Jack. “I’ll wager I can get him from here. Pin his shoulder to the wall, maybe.”
“Yes!” Crispin hissed with as much scowl as he could muster. “I saw her with her lover.”
“Well! Now we’re getting somewhere.” Wynchecombe sheathed his knife smoothly. “Certainly she must have killed her husband.”
“No. There is something odd about that. She’s afraid of something. She’s more afraid now that he’s dead.”
“Crispin, I do believe starvation has affected your mind. There are a host of motives for a wife to kill. Or hire someone to do the killing for her.” He shook his head. “Could it be you have lost your touch?”
Only my self-worth. He tried to glare at the sheriff but the left side of his head hurt too much, and now he felt dizzy and nauseated.
“The guild has been breathing down my neck for weeks, and now this Walcote business. I tell you, I cannot draw breath without some whining merchant complaining of this shipment and that shipment arriving with less than promised. Now I ask you: what the hell am I supposed to do about a shipment to Calais when I am in London?”
The sheriff droned on. Crispin desperately wanted to hear what he was saying but he found he could no longer understand him, and realized, belatedly, that he was blacking out.
6
Crispin awoke in his own bed and wondered if he dreamed it, though when he tried to move his head, the pain told him otherwise. Only one eye worked and he hazily recalled why. “Jack?”
“Beside you, Master.” Jack put his cool hand on Crispin’s forehead. “Are you feeling bet
ter, sir?”
“I do not know if ‘better’ is the word for it. Conscious, perhaps, but little more.” He tried to rise, but it felt healthier not to. Jack agreed by pushing him gently back.
“You was thrashed right good. You done it to protect me.” He sniffed. His eyes were wet.
“Pull yourself together, Jack.”
Jack ran his finger under his wet nose and took it the length of his sleeve. “I’m right grateful, I am. And as for her. You must truly think she’s innocent to try to protect her from the sheriff. No one blames you for telling him after all.”
Crispin stared up at the ceiling. Jack’s words jabbed at a place in his hollow insides. He had to admit that he didn’t know what he thought of Philippa Walcote. In fact, he hadn’t wished to consider her guilty at all, and that was not like him.
He glanced at Jack’s hopeful expression. Since Crispin was incapable by his rank of striking back at the sheriff, though he dearly wanted to and replayed in his head exactly how it would be done, he couldn’t allow Wynchecombe to hurt the boy. Not on his account.
“Jack, would you do me a favor?”
Jack knelt by the bed and rested his clasped hands on the straw-stuffed mattress in a prayerful posture. “Anything!”
“I want you to go to the Thistle and see if our friend is still lodged in that room.”
“The innkeeper will not say. You heard him.”
“And so did you. Did you believe him?”
“Not when I seen the man with me own eyes.”
“Then do not ask the innkeeper. Look for yourself. Ask the servants. Perhaps they will be more willing to speak of that room to you.”
“I’ll need a bribe.”
Crispin looked down for his belt but Jack had removed it. He saw it and his purse on the table. “Take a few small coins from my purse. There’s a good lad.”
Jack turned to stare at the pouch but did not move to fetch it. He pressed his teeth into his lower lip. “You want me to get money from your purse.”
Crispin chuckled through his aching face. “Yes. No stealing this time. I’m actually giving you permission.”
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