A Maiden Weeping

by Jeri Westerson

  Jack stuffed his hands at his hips. ‘If you would be so good as to go back to your original document, I can get the name and proper address.’

  ‘The original document? Do you know how many documents I have since processed?’

  ‘You must have a …’ Jack waved vaguely at all the rolled parchments. ‘A system.’

  He poked a finger at Jack’s face. ‘That’s none of your business.’ He turned back to his desk. ‘Which writ was it? What was the crime?’

  ‘Murder, sir. The victim was Elizabeth le Porter.’

  ‘Oh, that one. Yes, it’s here.’ He reached up to some cubbyholes above his desk and pulled out a scroll. He laid it on his desk and untied the leather string. Rolling it out, he ran his finger down the writing.

  ‘I’m looking for a witness. I thought it read Thomas Tateham.’

  ‘Tateham. Here. Yes, he is on Mercery.’

  ‘I got that far, Master Hamo, but no farther. Where on Mercery?’

  Hamo frowned. He searched again on the parchment. Sliding an inkpot to keep the parchment open, he reached for another smaller scrap of parchment from another cubby. He glared at the scrap. ‘But this is … highly irregular.’

  Jack sighed. He had the feeling that finding this last witness was going to take a lot more work than he wanted.

  ‘Have you found it, sir?’

  ‘No, I haven’t found it. It doesn’t appear to have this information. It can’t possibly be my error,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Be hard calling him to witness at the trial then, won’t it?’

  Hamo looked up. ‘Don’t take that attitude with me, young man. I don’t need you, after all. You need my help.’

  ‘So I do. I beg your mercy.’ And he bowed quickly.

  ‘Youth today!’ He shook his head, staring at the parchment. After a time he looked up as if he had forgotten Jack was there. ‘Well? What are you standing about for?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Your servant.’ He bowed again. As he turned to go he shook his head, tromping down the steps two at a time. He didn’t even want to guess as to how many shops and houses there were on Mercery Lane, but he’d have to visit every single one of them. ‘Sarding sheriffs,’ he muttered.

  FIVE

  Thursday, 15 October

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Crispin cautiously. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  The two men standing in his lodgings, where they should not be, were younger than Crispin, both dark-haired, with the same pinched noses. He surmised they were brothers at most, kin at the very least. And they were in a great state of agitation. With a quick glance at his room, he noticed that it had been hastily searched. ‘What goes on here? My clients generally do not ransack my lodgings.’

  The bearded man in a russet houppelande stepped forward, wringing his hands. His clothing was of fine material, his belt smooth leather, and his scrip of the same matching leather with a filigree design etched into it. ‘Where is it?’

  The second man moved to join him. His face was unadorned, and his houppelande was of dark green, but it was clear they used the same leather workers for their accouterments. ‘Do you have it?’ he asked breathlessly.

  Crispin slowly closed the door, unhooked the frog with the sword, and hung it gently on the peg by the entry. ‘Let us begin at the beginning,’ he said calmly. ‘Who are you and what is it that you seek?’

  The men looked at one another. ‘We are of the Noreys household. This,’ said the man in the russet houppelande, ‘is my brother John. I am Walter.’

  ‘And we come for the relic,’ said John Noreys. His nervous hand twitched over the hilt of his dagger.

  Crispin raised a brow. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

  Walter ran his hand through his generous mop of hair. ‘The Tears, of course. The Virgin’s Tears. Where is it?’

  Crispin folded his hands before him. ‘The same place it has ever been.’

  ‘But Mistress le Porter was said to have had it. And you were … seen … speaking to her.’

  Crispin’s folded hands whipped away, one falling on his dagger hilt. ‘Who says so?’

  ‘We were told,’ said Walter, chin raised.

  Crispin took a step closer, and they both took a step back. ‘By whom?’

  ‘We have our sources, Master Guest,’ said John. ‘Our quarrel is not with you. We merely want the Tears.’

  ‘And yet you go through my personal belongings at your whim.’ He scowled. ‘It is where it is, and I think you already know that.’

  Crispin watched Walter squeeze the handle of his dagger. ‘But it does not belong to the Peverels!’ Faster than a blink, his dagger flashed free from its sheath. Crispin lunged, grabbed his wrist, and twisted. The blade dropped with a clang to the floor and the man went down on one knee.

  The other cried out and leaped toward Crispin, but Crispin jabbed a well-placed fist to the man’s nose and he wobbled before tipping over, face bloodied.

  Crispin stood and looked them over. ‘You are a sorry pair.’ He kicked the dagger away to a corner. He stalked to his pantry, grabbed a relatively clean rag, and tossed it to the bloody brother. ‘Clean up and behave yourselves.’

  He kicked the chair from his table and sat, propping his foot up on the stool, keeping a sharp eye on the both of them.

  The first brother sheepishly rubbed at his wrist. ‘May I retrieve my knife?’ he asked meekly.

  ‘Not yet.’

  Walter assisted John from the floor and helped him wipe his bleeding nose. John shook his head to waken his senses. He staggered toward the table and leaned on it.

  ‘If you want to vomit, do it out the window,’ Crispin growled.

  The man waved his hand and shook his head. Eventually he stood upright, holding the rag to his face.

  ‘Now then,’ said Crispin, resting his forearm over his thigh. ‘Do either one of you wish to tell me – in a civilized tone – just what the hell you want from me?’

  John acceded to his brother, and Walter stood against the table, somewhat more contritely. He kept glancing at his dagger across the floor.

  ‘We … that is, my family, have owned the Virgin’s Tears since before we were born. It has always been an important part of our household. Our servants venerated it, as did my family. It held a proper place with us. But some ten years ago, the vile Peverels stole it. Legal claims were made, but none came to fruition. The girl, Elizabeth le Porter, we were told, could come by the Tears and restore it to our family.’

  ‘Why would she care to do you that kindness?’

  ‘For money, naturally. Certain persons were sent to talk to her about obtaining the Tears. We were given to understand that the arrangement had been made.’

  ‘So you paid her to steal it from the Peverels. I hope you understand that this was an illegal enterprise and could very well end with you being tossed into gaol.’

  Walter looked at his brother for confirmation. ‘No, Master Guest. It doesn’t belong to them. We were only restoring it …’

  ‘Not according to the law. If you made claims and they were refused then the law recognizes the ownership under the Peverels.’

  The man fisted his hands and stomped Crispin’s floorboards. ‘No! It is not right! For years we have been trying to get it back. We even offered to purchase it.’

  ‘And you think I had it.’

  ‘We were told you had seen the woman. We assumed she gave it to you for safekeeping.’

  ‘And you thought you’d steal it from me.’ Frowning, Crispin pulled his dagger. John gasped and took a step back. Walter cringed but stood his ground.

  Crispin toyed with the dagger, measured the men, and commenced cleaning his nails with the tip of the sharp blade. ‘I have been insulted by your trespass,’ he said, keeping his eyes on his hands. ‘What do you intend to do about it?’

  ‘Well … we …’

  John pulled the bloody rag from his ruined face. ‘We didn’t take anything.’ His voice sounded nasal and higher pitched than before.
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  ‘That does nothing to minimize the violation. You tell me who saw me last evening and I might be amenable to forgetting it.’

  ‘Oh … well …’ Walter and John conferred for some time, whispering hastily.

  Crispin sighed. ‘Come now. I haven’t all day for this.’

  Walter blinked and nodded to his brother. ‘Very well, Master Guest. But the man we employed … just some beggar, certainly … goes by the name of Leonard Munch.’

  ‘Lenny!’ Crispin ground his teeth. ‘That whoreson. Spreading lies about me.’

  ‘You … know him?’

  ‘You will find that I know a prodigious amount of people in London. The great and the small.’

  ‘But he … he seemed quite …’

  ‘I’m certain he did.’

  ‘Well … Master Guest, we are still in need of the Tears. Our fortunes have dwindled of late. We need it … well, frankly, we need it to sell. It is … was … quite the most valuable thing the family owned. We are in peril of losing our estates. It is that dire.’

  Crispin went back to the methodical cleaning of his nails. ‘What’s that to me?’

  ‘People hire you, don’t they? They hire you to find things.’

  Crispin looked up. He sheathed his blade with a snap that startled the two, and he sat up. ‘I find them. I don’t steal them.’

  ‘We are willing to pay.’

  Crispin got to his feet. The chair fell back. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’

  Walter bit his bottom lip. His eyes darted toward his dagger, and in the next instant he dove for it.

  Crispin went after him, but John and his bloody nose was all over him, grabbing him from behind.

  With his arms pinned, Crispin knocked his head back, smacking the man in his already bloody nose. But he would not yield.

  Walter scrambled for his weapon and held it firmly in his hand when he turned. ‘We know you are hiding it for the Peverels. Where is it?’

  ‘You’re a fool, Noreys,’ he grunted. He stumbled backwards, all the while slamming his head into the man behind him, forcing the man back. He felt the grip weakening. But Walter was coming closer. ‘Hold him, John.’

  Crispin shoved back. John stumbled backwards still grasping Crispin until they were up against the open window. Crispin slammed him once, twice. The grip finally loosened. Crispin forced his arms upward, dislodging the man’s clasp, and he shoved back with all his might. Over the sill went John and, with a cry, he sailed out the window and landed hard to the street below. His cry ended abruptly.

  Walter rushed to the window. Crispin grabbed his dagger arm, wrenched it up his back and fell forward, slamming the man to the floor on his face.

  ‘John!’ he cried. ‘John! Oh God! Oh Blessed Virgin! Is he dead?’

  Screams and cries lifted up from the street below.

  Crispin kept his knee firmly in the man’s back as he peered out the window. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Damn you! Damn you, Guest!’ Walter sobbed … and bled, Crispin noticed, in swipes onto his floor. ‘We only wanted to talk to you!’

  ‘At the point of a knife? That’s not how it’s done. And now your brother has paid the price.’

  ‘Oh God! You killed him! You killed him!’

  ‘Crispin!’

  Crispin turned. His landlord Martin Kemp framed the doorway with his outstretched arms. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Best fetch the sheriffs, Martin. There’s been … a death.’

  Crispin leaned against his stairwell, arms folded. The sheriffs had arrived and not too long afterward came the coroner, John Charneye, and his retinue.

  He dismounted and looked over the corpse. He glanced up to Crispin’s open window, and finally swiveled his gaze toward Crispin. He strode over the muddy lane and stood before him. ‘Well, Master Guest?’

  ‘It was self-defense.’

  ‘He killed him!’ cried Walter, pointing a finger at Crispin. ‘Without any provocation!’

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Charneye.

  ‘The deceased’s brother. And trust me, my lord. There was plenty of provocation.’

  ‘Do you wish to press charges?’

  Crispin shook his head.

  The sheriffs made their way to Crispin. ‘You’ve done it this time, Guest,’ said Loveney, adjusting his gauntlets.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘You’ll have to come with us now.’

  ‘Without an indictment?’

  Walcote leaned in to him, his face very close to Crispin’s. ‘You think you are very clever, Guest. But we will get an indictment. Quicker than you think. An Oyer and Terminer commission has been waiting on you for years to satisfy just such an occasion. And a trailbaston to boot. You’re coming with us. Now.’

  Running steps, boots slapping the mud. And then Jack Tucker was there, holding on to the stair rail and panting. ‘What … what’s happened? Master Crispin?’

  ‘I think I am being arrested for murder, Jack.’

  ‘Again?’

  A light sparked in Walter Noreys’s watery eyes.

  ‘Much thanks for that, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘I … I can easily explain away this one. But since this death has occurred they can no longer ignore the other. It’s up to you now.’

  ‘Me? Master Crispin, I can’t do it alone.’

  ‘Yes you can. Just remember everything I taught you.’

  ‘But … Master Crispin! I can’t remember nothing! It’s all gone!’

  He grabbed Jack by his upper arms. ‘Tucker, get a hold of yourself. I need you. Think. Observe. Question. You do remember.’

  Jack wiped at his face. ‘Aye. Aye, I suppose I do. But … I don’t know naught about criminal trials and such.’

  ‘Then get the help of someone who does.’ The sheriffs were mounting, and their serjeants were approaching Crispin with fetters. ‘Listen carefully, Jack. These brothers, John and Walter Noreys claim that their family owned a relic, the Virgin’s Tears, that the Widow Peverel on Trinity has in her possession. The same household that Elizabeth le Porter worked for.’

  ‘God blind me!’

  ‘Yes. And further, these Noreys boys said that one of their own hired the le Porter woman to steal the Tears for them. Probably these brothers themselves.’

  ‘Did she steal them, master?’

  ‘No. I saw them myself. Madam Peverel showed me. But Jack. Lenny saw me last night. He was working for these execrable brothers. And I doubt there will be much truth from his lips. And the sheriffs will be glad of those lies.’

  ‘Lenny!’ He smacked a fist in his hand. ‘I’ll track him down hastily enough.’

  One of the sheriff’s serjeants shoved Jack aside and slipped the shackles on Crispin’s ankles while another serjeant tied a rope around his wrists.

  Crispin took a deep breath. ‘Jack, I’m counting on you.’

  The serjeant propelled Crispin forward by pushing at his shoulder. Trotting, Crispin was able to keep up and not trip himself. He glanced once over his shoulder toward Jack – who looked very sorrowful indeed – and followed behind the horses.

  He felt a little sorry for Jack. Oh, Crispin knew he could easily fight his culpability in the death of John Noreys, but in the case of this other …

  There truly wasn’t much hope for the lad succeeding.

  SIX

  Thursday, 15 October

  Jack walked down the Shambles, head hanging low. How could he possibly help his master now? He hadn’t yet found that third witness, and now it appeared that Lenny was added to the list. Lenny, who had worked many a time for Master Crispin and whom his master had set adrift after the spy had wronged him. And now he was set to wrong his master again.

  Peverels, Virgin’s Tears? What had his master been talking about before his hasty departure?

  Get hold of yourself Jack Tucker. He stopped in the middle of West Cheap, allowing carts and people to mill past him. The call of merchants hawking their wares, of a rooster chortling on a nearby roof, of dogs bark
ing and children singing a rhyme, faded to a far place. Take apart what Master Crispin said. Elizabeth le Porter worked for the Peverel woman and she had in her possession a relic, the Virgin’s Tears. She was supposed to have stolen it for John and Walter Noreys who claim it was theirs – though John Noreys would be explaining himself to God. They were so keen on it in fact that Master Crispin had to defend his life. But Mistress le Porter hadn’t stolen it, Master Crispin hadn’t found out who in the Noreys household supposedly paid her to steal it, and now a man and a woman were dead.

  ‘These sarding relics,’ he muttered. ‘No wonder my master would see the back of them.’

  He began to slowly walk, thinking out loud. ‘So my tasks are fourfold.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Find the third witness, get my hands around Lenny’s throat, find out what these Noreyses have been up to … and keep Master Crispin from hanging for murder. Simple.’

  A lad with a spade over his shoulder and dirt smudged on his face stared at Jack with widening eyes. ‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, mate,’ he said to Jack.

  Jack smiled and pushed back his unruly fringe. ‘Aye. That’s a fact. Pray for me.’

  The boy saluted. ‘You sound like you need it.’ The boy pressed on, and Jack found himself on the way to the Boar’s Tusk without even thinking about it.

  ‘I’ve taken after me master more than I thought,’ he mused, glancing up at the ale stake and then at the wooden sign of the curled tusk with its faded paint.

  He ducked inside and waited at the entrance as his eyes adjusted to the dark. There had been a day when it adjusted immediately so he could do his cutpurse mischief, but he sighed with regret at how age had changed him.

  He sat at a far table with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door, just as his master had taught him, and he leaned on the table, scratching his head.

  He had a lot to do on his own and no mistaking. A little bit of ale for courage would not go amiss. And as he waited for Eleanor or Gilbert Langton to come and serve him, he scanned the low-ceilinged room, searching the shadowed faces. Lenny wasn’t likely to be at the Tusk since he knew Master Crispin frequented it, but there were many familiar faces. The Boar’s Tusk was like any alehouse tavern, he reckoned. A man found a tavern he liked and made that his second home.