Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir

by Westerson, Jeri

  Jack went to the door and slammed it hard before he threw the bolt. He swung to face Crispin, glared at him once, before stomping to the fire. He picked up the iron and jabbed the wood with it, watching the logs crumble into glowing blocks of coal.

  Crispin dragged himself wearily to the bed and sat. With a long sigh he fell back, throwing an arm over his eyes. The room felt unnaturally warm and comfortable. Enough wood in the hearth, for once, kept the small room snug while the snow fell relentlessly outside. After a long pause wherein Tucker said nothing but could be heard clanging the iron against the stone hearth, Crispin finally said, “He brought fuel, at least. We are warm, for once.”

  “He’d be better than me, there’s no mistaking that.” Jack’s tone was sour and he spoke low to the fire. “He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s better than me in every way I can think of.”

  God’s blood. Jealous again? Every new person in their life lately had caused Jack to lose his nerve, to grow insecure of his place. Was it his age? Did Crispin act this way when he was fifteen? Possibly. Fifteen was a time for stretching one’s legs, for doing battle and riding furiously. Crispin had been a blur at fifteen. Why shouldn’t Jack feel anxious? “Give it a rest, Tucker. He will not replace you. For one, he is a lord and heir. Why would he content himself with doing our business? He has far more important work to do.” He winced at that. Those sentiments could have been better expressed.

  Jack snorted and Crispin heard the chair creak as he leaned it back. “He shall rule the duke’s lands someday,” Jack muttered. “He is leading an army now, isn’t he? But we find murderers and stop them. Murder is a great sin. What’s more important than that?”

  You are seeking a knot in a bulrush. “Be still, Jack, and stop being a fool. No one’s replacing you. Now give me a little peace so I may recover myself.”

  Jack fell silent again and Crispin let his worries fall away. He let thoughts of Henry and Lancaster and treason disperse. It wasn’t long till he dozed.

  * * *

  HE AWOKE WITH A start and saw that it was early morning. Jack was already up, casting his wash water out the back garden window. Crispin squinted at the rosy sky. Clear, at least. No snow today if God smiled on them. But he shivered at the cold draft, and Jack snapped the shutter closed.

  “Good morning, Master. Should we not go in search of Madam Flamel today?”

  Oh God. That hadn’t been a dream, then? He rubbed his head, shaking loose the cobwebs. “Remind me, Jack. What is it we are doing … exactly?”

  With his fists at his hips, Jack glared at him. “Don’t you recall anything?”

  “Well … I seem to recall … a French alchemist?” Jack nodded. “And a strange female servant?”

  “Aye.”

  “And then…?”

  “God blind me, Master Crispin! You give a man gray whiskers. Here’s a client—a paying client—and you don’t remember?”

  He cradled his head from Jack’s loud admonishment. “Give me a moment.”

  “Well, I was there, too, so I can tell you all about it, I suppose.”

  Jack moved about the room, fetching Crispin’s wash water and explaining about the missing wife and apprentice; how they had gone to the apprentice’s family, but the man wasn’t there. And then, as he handed Crispin a bowl of watery broth, he mentioned curtly about the unexpected visitation of Henry of Derby.

  Oh, yes. Crispin seemed to remember that! He made a secret glance at Jack as he stoked the fire and noted the red tips of his ears. Crispin smiled into his bowl. A jealous Jack was an amusing one.

  But none of it was amusing once they got outside. It might have been a clear day with only a wintry haze along the horizon, but it was starkly cold. His feet were already numb even under two layers of stockings.

  “Tell me, Jack,” he said, climbing carefully down the stairs. “Had we any idea where to start this search?”

  He still wore a hurt expression, one he seemed to hold dear from last night when Henry taunted him. “I’m not the Tracker, you are.”

  Crispin would have rolled his eyes, but his head still hurt. “Very well. We could— God’s blood!”

  A cluster of women chattered close together in front of the poulterer’s, vying for the plumpest hen hanging by its feet from a hook in the front of the stall, and the poulterer smiled broadly at his good fortune. But just beside them, not part of the group, stood Avelyn.

  Her sparkling eyes followed Crispin as he descended the stairs, but she made no move to approach.

  “What’s she doing here?” said Jack, voicing Crispin’s thoughts.

  “I don’t know.” They both stood on their own patches of dirty snow, regarding each other across the lane. But the longer they stood at this silent battle, the more foolish Crispin felt. “She doesn’t seem to have anything to offer. Let us go, Jack.”

  As he threw his hood up over his head, his foot hit the street and sank into the cart-rutted snow. Slyly, he looked back over his shoulder. Avelyn hadn’t moved. Very well, then.

  Of course, he had no idea where he was going. It seemed foolish to simply wander all over London looking for a lost wife. Though more likely, she had returned. If the servant Avelyn were only able to talk, he might have asked her. He stopped and whipped around, looking for her tiny frame, but she was no longer standing in the drift by the poulterer’s.

  He supposed it might be best to see this Nicholas Flamel again to find out what had transpired.

  He turned and headed toward the Fleet. Shopkeepers set out their wares. A baker’s apprentice wandered the streets with a heavy canvas bag slung across his shoulder. Inside were warm meat pies and small loaves of maslin. Whenever he was stopped to sell his wares, the apprentice opened the flap of the bag and steam arose, sending the tantalizing whiff of fresh bread and meat spices into the air.

  The broth seemed a mere memory in Crispin’s belly, and his mouth watered to smell the aromas.

  Along the way, Crispin let the familiar scenes of an awakening London trickle past him. A master here and an apprentice there, plying their trade in open doorways. Braziers burned with sticks and dung along the avenues, and travelers warmed their hands and faces over the smoky fires.

  He passed a familiar shop with its heavy posts in each corner. Crispin had passed it hundreds of times, perhaps a thousand times, without giving it thought. But this time, he came to an abrupt halt. Walking backward, he returned to stare at the dark wood of the corner post. It rose to the second story with white lime plaster swathed in between window and corner. He’d never had reason to take note of it before, but today, carved crudely into the wood, was a set of strange symbols.

  He approached and raised his hand. Cold fingertips slid over the crudely carved shapes. “Jack,” he said softly, “am I imagining this, or…” He had been about to ask if the symbols had always been there only he had never noticed. But the truth was under his fingers, for the carving was new and even left a splinter in his skin.

  He rubbed it free and studied the wall. Jack came up beside him.

  “What is that, Master?”

  “I don’t know. It is writing of some sort. Reminds me of something.” Try as he might, he could not recall the memory.

  Dismissing it, he turned and suddenly came face-to-face with Avelyn. Her unexpected appearance disconcerted him.

  “What do you want, wench?” He realized even as he said it that she could not hear him.

  But her face was drawn in consternation and she grabbed his arm, yanking him forward.

  Reflexively, he pulled away from her, but she was not put off. She leapt up and grabbed him again, jerking his arm hard.

  “What the devil—”

  Jack grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back, but she spun in his arms and elbowed him in the gut with surprising strength. Jack doubled with the blow, and she seized Crispin’s arm again, pulling him into the middle of the lane.

  “I’m going to go with her, Jack. Are you all right?”

  The boy sputte
red and staggered after him. “Aye … Master. God’s teeth but she’s got a sharp jab.”

  Crispin let himself be dragged along. It was useless trying to slide her grip from him. She’d only grasp on again like a limpet.

  They were steadily making their way to the alchemist’s shop. Passersby stared at them with amusement, but Crispin was far from amused. He’d give the man a piece of his mind for his servant’s actions!

  They turned the corner and she let Crispin go to run to the shop. She stood at the door, looking back at Crispin and beckoning with urgency. Crispin felt compelled to trot forward, his heart thumping faster, a strange feeling stirring in his gut.

  When she opened the door, he stopped dead.

  The alchemist sat on the floor on his knees, weeping. Above him, swinging gently back and forth, hung a young man.

  Upside down he hung, his left leg bent and tied behind his right to form a triangle. He’d been hung by his left foot, which was wrapped with a heavy rope leading up to the rafter beam.

  And on his chest a dagger was thrust through, holding in place a piece of parchment with dark writing and a blotch of blood.

  5

  JACK HAD GONE TO fetch the sheriffs while Crispin carefully removed the dagger and the bloodied parchment.

  “How long, Master Flamel? How long were you absent from your shop? This had to have been a difficult thing to hang him thus without anyone seeing.”

  “I was gone all morning,” he said between wiping his eyes. “Doing your job, Maître! Looking for my Perenelle. Oh, my saints. Oh God, keep his soul, the poor, dear boy. For I had accused him most foully of great sin. The greater sin is mine.”

  Guilt twinged Crispin’s gut. Had he not been in his cups … “This is your apprentice, then? Thomas Cornhill.”

  “Yes,” he said, sobbing.

  Crispin directed his attention to the spidery script of the parchment. In Latin, he read:

  You will deliver up the Stone or the fair Perenelle will die.

  Crispin read it twice. “Do you recognize this hand, Master Flamel?”

  The man did not look at Crispin and shook his head.

  “What does he mean by ‘the Stone’? Some gem you possess?”

  Flamel wiped his eyes and moved quickly to the other side of the room. “Can we not cut him down?”

  “We must await the sheriffs.” Crispin looked up at the dead man, one leg extended, one leg crooked. “The gem, Master Flamel. It must be worth a great deal to kill for it.”

  “It … I do not know of what stone he speaks.”

  Crispin glared at him. “Do you not? You are aware that I am here to help you. And the person who has captured your wife has already killed once. I suggest you confide in me.”

  His hands closed over his robe, clenching tightly. “I tell you I do not know!”

  “He thinks you do. What could he mean, then?”

  “I … I do not know,” he said in defeat.

  Of course he was lying. But Crispin couldn’t make the man confess. Well, one couldn’t if the man was a client. Exasperated, Crispin cast his glance at the servant girl, who was watching the proceedings with a keen eye. She caught Crispin’s glance and held it, gazing at him steadily as if trying to impart her knowledge with just a look. What did she know of it? How could he ask? How could she answer?

  “I need to ask your servant girl questions.” Flamel crushed his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Annoyed, Crispin bent down and grabbed the man under his arms and hauled him to his feet. “Master Flamel, gird yourself. Obviously … I was wrong. So, I need your assistance now. If you still want my help.”

  Flamel’s eyes were red when he raised them. “Of course I want your help. Do you think I trust these English sheriffs?”

  “Forgive me, Master, but do not forget that I am English.”

  He waved his hand distractedly. “Yes, yes. But you are more French in your rational thinking.” He winced when his eye caught the slowly swinging man again, a counterpoint to the brass planets and stars moving distractedly overhead. He turned away and spoke over his shoulder. “What help do you need from me?”

  “I need you to communicate with your servant. Ask her what she might know of this. Was she with you?”

  “Yes, she was with me. We discovered him together.”

  “Please, Master Flamel. Ask her.”

  Flamel waved at Avelyn, and the girl gave him her attention. His fingers danced again and she replied in kind. But an argument seemed to have ensued, and they went back and forth, Flamel growing increasingly flustered.

  “What is it?” asked Crispin, looking from one to the other.

  “She says she knows nothing, only … well. It is ridiculous.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Come now.”

  “Well, she says that Thomas—his position—is familiar to her.”

  Crispin turned again, eyes scanning the dead man in his macabre condition, purposely hanging upside down. “In what way?”

  “She … cannot say.” Flamel suddenly jumped up. He bustled about the place, turning over books and parchments, opening small coffers, and collecting things in his hands. “I must pay you your fee, before the sheriffs come. Here, Maître Guest.” He offered his cupped hands to Crispin.

  Expecting coins, Crispin cupped his own hands to receive them, but instead, a collection of strange objects fell into his palms. A nail, a spoon, a key. Crispin was about to object until he noticed they were all made of gold. He scratched the spoon with the key. They appeared to be solid gold.

  “What … what is this?”

  “Your payment, Maître. I hope that will be enough.”

  Crispin gauged the heavy weight in his hands. “Far more than sufficient,” he said distractedly before dropping them into his scrip.

  A commotion at the door told him the sheriffs had arrived. He prepared himself. It was Simon Wynchecombe all over again, only doubled. Both sheriffs, appointed as was the custom on Michaelmas, had no liking for the Tracker they had inherited. Already, with each assignment, they had proved they did not appreciate Crispin’s help or interference.

  Sheriff William Venour, alderman and grocer, stepped through the open door, followed by Sheriff Hugh Fastolf, alderman and pepperer. They were both momentarily diverted by the huge moving display of planets before they turned their attention to the strange swinging dead man. Fastolf gripped the hilt of his dagger and crossed himself, twice. “Holy Virgin!” he said. His bald pate was covered with a chaperon hat with a dagged coxcomb trailing down over his right shoulder.

  Sheriff William nervously stroked his ginger beard. “God’s teeth, Hugh. What do you make of that?”

  Eyes wide, Fastolf walked a turn completely around the hanging man, his gloved hand firmly over his mouth as if he might be sick. “For the love of the Rood, can we not cut him down?”

  Jack scrambled in just as the sheriffs’ serjeants entered, drawing their knives. One held the man while the other sawed through the rope.

  Crispin was about to offer the sheriffs the note and the dagger, but Flamel stayed his hand and gently took the things from him, laying them aside. Keeping silent on it, Crispin observed the scene before him instead, examining the discarded frayed end of the rope until Sheriff Venour snatched it out of his hand.

  “And what are you doing here, Guest?”

  He bowed. “As always, Lord Sheriff, I am only nigh when called.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at Jack, standing anxiously behind Crispin. “And how came you so quickly? You sent your boy in all haste. But this corpse is still warm. How is it you were hired before there was a body?”

  Crispin dared not look at Flamel, but the man stepped forward and bowed formally. “Mes seigneurs,” said Flamel, “I hired Maître Crispin a day ago to … to … find something dear to me. We could not have known that this would be the result!”

  Fastolf tried for an air of indifference as the body was lowered to the floor by his underlings. He pushed his long-toed shoe forw
ard and rested a fist at his waist. “The result of what? Just what is it you were sent to look for, Guest?”

  Again, Crispin deferred to Flamel. The man reached into his pouch and pulled out a golden arrowhead. “This, Shérif de Seigneur. As you can see, it is quite valuable and it was lost. Stolen. By … by this man. He was my apprentice.”

  “Eh?” said Venour. “Your apprentice? And who did this to him?”

  Flamel shrugged. “I do not know. The shop was empty all this morning. Someone perhaps played a poor jest that went terribly wrong.”

  “And how did he die?” Fastolf nodded toward the dead man now lying on the floor. One of the serjeants had knelt beside him and untied his crooked leg from his other, then tossed the rope aside.

  Both serjeants looked up, thinking perhaps that they were being addressed. Crispin moved forward, and the serjeants seemed only too happy to get out of his way.

  “Here, Guest!” cried Fastolf. “What are you doing?”

  But just as quickly as Fastolf moved forward to stop him, Venour stepped in and took his companion by the arm. He slowly shook his head. Of course, thought Crispin. Don’t do any of the work yourselves.

  He knelt by the body and examined it. He looked at the tear in the fabric on the breast where the dagger had stabbed. There was very little blood. So the dramatic placement of the parchment note was done postmortem. He pushed the high collar aside and saw the bruising around his throat. “Strangled,” he said aloud. A bruise on his chin seemed to indicate he had not come quietly. He picked up the limp arms, pushing back the sleeves. Red weals about the wrists. He was tied up.

  “Well?” asked the strained voice of Sheriff Hugh. “What else?”

  Crispin turned back toward them. “My lords, did you wish to hire me to investigate the matter for you?”

  Hugh rapped him sharply against the side of his head. “Insolent dog! Do you think you are the only man in this city with a brain?”

  Prevented from answering truthfully when Sheriff William shoved him out of the way, he slowly rose.