She departed through the other door, and he was uncertain as to whether this was a good sign or not. Presently a man emerged. His tunic was covered in bits of varied-colored threads cast off during his time at the loom. “My daughter said you were that Tracker man we hear tell about. Is this true?”
He bowed. “It is, good Master. Can you tell me about your son’s illness?”
“Are you investigating that? Don’t waste your time. It was a sickness that took my boy. If it were anything but God’s will, I’d have called in the sheriffs.”
“It is merely my own fancy that leads me here. And the priest Father Edmund. And so. Can you tell me of his illness?”
The man shook his head and becrossed himself. “It was sudden-like. Over before it began. He felt unwell, too sick to work. A bad stomach. He was a good lad, God preserve him, not like to shirk, even though he had always been a slight lad. He got worse, over a span of two days. And then it was done.”
“Did anyone else feel unwell?”
“Well, Mary, here,” he said, motioning toward his daughter. “Headache and bellyache. But she felt better after the cure. But no one else.”
“Cure?”
“Mother said it would settle my belly,” she said. “Drank raw eggs and chewed garlic.”
Crispin winced. “I see. A good cure, then.” He touched her chin to look at her face. She still looked listless but did not seem worse for wear. He let her go. “I am heartily sorry for your loss. I pray that all will be well.”
“God’s blessings on you, sir.”
He left a coin with them for their loss, looking back at the humble shop as they closed the door. Nothing unusual about it. And as he visited three more homes, he heard much the same. The elderly had died, grandfathers and grandmothers. The youngest ones were also afflicted, especially the weakest. Yet the babes in swaddling or toddlers went unaffected. Nor did anyone else in the household feel ill or aggrieved, except by their great loss.
Something was tapping at the back of his mind, and the notion emerged once again that it sounded to him like a poisoning. But why on earth target those humble people? None of them were important, they did not know one another, and they did no harm. They had nothing in common except as hardworking citizens. What good would it do to kill the children of a weaver, a corn merchant, or a chandler? Or any number of these others on his list that he had not yet talked to?
He walked slowly through the streets, ignoring those around him to immerse himself in his thoughts, or, as he had told Jack, to walk through the facts.
The youngsters or elderly. As long as they were the weakest. But by far, most were children.
He sat on a stone step that led to the cistern near Cornhill. Christ, but he was tired. He ran his hand through his hair under his hood and leaned back against a post. Absently, he watched a boy trying to lift his coneys away from the yapping of a dog at his heels. Two nuns walked side by side, the wet hems of their brown habits rippling over patchy snow. Water carriers hurried up and down the steps, giving Crispin a sneer as they skirted past him, for Crispin sat in their way. Heavy yokes burdened their shoulders, each with a heavy water skin hanging from either end. Boys like these were paid to quickly fill their buckets from the cisterns throughout the city, for the water of the Thames was not fit to drink, with its privies and butchering stalls along its banks.
An old man was moving a hog through the streets and he beat it as the pig stopped near a turnip seller’s cart and began rooting through it. An argument ensued between the pig man and the turnip dealer, and Crispin watched dispassionately, wondering idly if it would come to blows.
He had rested enough and was ready to depart until he saw a cluster of small children running up to the cistern. Each took a drink from the ladle that was there and then let it fall again into the font. One of the children, the smallest, wasn’t running as fast as the others and had to stop to catch his breath before he hurried to keep up. He did not look well.
A notion struck Crispin. A foul, diabolical notion. He looked back at the water carriers trudging to their duties. Others, maids and housewives, also moved under the burden of heavy buckets or skins swollen with chilled water from the cistern.
No.
Crispin leapt to his feet and ran back the way he had come, knocked on the doors of the grieving houses he had only just visited to ask one question: Which cistern did they use to get their water?
Each section of London had its own cistern. There was the Standard down Cheap, where Crispin got his water, and the Mercery near the hospital of St. Thomas of Acon, and the Tun up Cornhill way, and numerous other smaller cisterns and conduits. Some of the wealthier patrons even had running water through pipes, a rare innovation stolen from the ancient Romans, as Crispin had seen in his younger days in Bath and in Lancaster’s castles.
But the three families afflicted used the water from the Tun. Crispin looked down at the parchment in his hand. Unmindful of the stares, he raced down the lane in search of the others.
* * *
HIS SUSPICIONS WERE CONFIRMED. All the families with losses had partaken of the cistern at the Tun. And only those who most frequently drank of the water—the youngsters and a few elderly—took sick and died. Babes in swaddling and toddlers did not, for they suckled at their mother’s breasts. And the rest of the family consumed ale.
As diabolical as it seemed, someone had poisoned the cistern.
14
CRISPIN STOOD IN THE lane, a sense of helplessness dragging at his limbs. How could he stop such a horrific scheme? To whom could he go?
He thought of Henry but did not know how to find him. The sheriffs, then. His only hope in the matter.
He trotted toward Newgate, weaving in and out among the people along the busy avenue and up and around alleyways. When he arrived at last to the stone gate, he straightened his clothes and dusted the snow from his shoulders. His feet were wet and cold, but there was nothing to be done. He approached the two guards and nodded to them. “Are the sheriffs in?”
One of the serjeants, Tom Merton, cocked back his kettle helm. He looked Crispin insolently up and down. He well knew that the majority of the sheriffs that passed through these doors did not favor Crispin’s presence.
“Why do you want to know, Guest?”
“Because I have important information to impart to them. Why else would I ever have cause to be here?”
“Well, you never know,” he said, picking his teeth with his dagger. “You are known to be a man to cause mischief.”
Crispin let the matter slide. He knew better than to engage the sheriffs’ henchmen. They were more brawn than brain.
“Are they in?” he tried again.
“To you? Not likely.” He sheathed his dagger and spit on the ground before Crispin’s boots. Stubbornly, he leaned on his pike and blocked the entrance. The other, Wendell Smythe, just as blunt-faced as his companion and standing by the brazier, laughed behind Crispin’s back.
“Masters, may I please pass? It is urgent that I speak with them.”
“Urgent, he says, like we are supposed to wait on him,” said Tom to the other.
“I am not asking you to wait on me or even announce me. I merely ask for permission to pass.”
Wendell joined Tom at the entrance. “But it is our duty to guard the way,” he said, elbowing Tom. “We can’t let just any knave through, scumming up the place.”
Crispin eyed the both of them with a sneer. “Too late.”
As soon as he said it, he knew it had been a bad idea. Tom growled and swung his fist. Crispin ducked but jabbed upward into the man’s belly. Tom doubled over, but his companion tried to grab Crispin and managed to shove him up against the wall. Wendell tried for a gut punch, but Crispin rolled out of the way in time for the serjeant to deliver his blow to the stone wall. He yowled and spun away, clutching his injured hand.
By then, Tom had recovered and remembered he had a weapon. He grabbed the pike and aimed the point at Crispin’s midsectio
n, drawing it back to strike. The spear point jabbed and Crispin jumped out of the way at the last moment. The iron point clanged against a stone column instead. Recovering, he stabbed toward Crispin again, but Crispin sidestepped nimbly out of the way.
Crispin grabbed the pike’s staff and swung it wide, while Tom, still clutching it, slammed against the wall. Tom tried to wrestle it from Crispin’s grasp … and kept getting smashed into the wall for his trouble.
“By all the saints, what is going on here?”
Tom froze, with Crispin holding tight to the pointed end of the pike. “Crispin Guest,” Tom snarled in explanation, as if that were all the reason anyone needed for violence.
Sheriff William Venour made a sound of disgust. “Guest. I should have known. God’s wounds! Why do you vex us? What sin have we committed to be so abused by you?”
“Call off your serjeant, my lord. I merely come for your help. It is your duty.”
The sheriff did not look as if he would comply, but after a moment that went on far too long, he finally motioned for Tom to put away his weapon. Crispin released his hold of it. Venour glared at the other serjeant, who was still nursing his hand. “What happened to you?”
Wendell motioned with a jerk of his head toward Crispin.
“Fools and incompetents. I am surrounded by fools and incompetents. Come, Guest.” The sheriff turned up the stairs and didn’t look back.
Crispin kept a careful eye on Tom, who had lowered his spear but did not relinquish it. He followed the sheriff upward to the parlor, past a wizened clerk scratching on a parchment by lantern light, and into the warm room.
Sheriff William took a seat behind a large table, with bulky round legs carved and scrolled with leaves and vines. Sheriff Hugh was nowhere in sight.
He did not offer Crispin a chair as he folded his hands over his pouched belly and looked down his long nose, ginger mustache twitching. “Well?”
Crispin took a breath. “My Lord Sheriff, I have discovered a plot that has left twenty-five of London’s citizens dead.”
He jolted to his feet. “What?”
“Twenty-five at last count, my lord. I do not know how many more there might have been or might be in the future if you do not act.”
“Me? What can I do?”
“You must close the cistern at the Tun. It is poisoned.”
“Poisoned? What utter nonsense is this, Guest?” He passed a hand over his face and sat again. “God’s toes, you had me worried for a moment. Poisoned indeed! Is this another ploy to extort a fee from this office? I have heard of your tricks. This is foul, even for you.”
Hands on the table, Crispin leaned in toward the man, much closer than he would have liked. “I am not lying. The cistern is poisoned and children have died. More will die unless you shut the cistern.”
“Your imagination astounds me. What next, I wonder? French spies creeping into our houses to slit our throats? I suppose it’s the French poisoning the wells, then, correct? I receive reports all the time from hysterical fishwives, thinking a Frenchman is hiding in their cellars. They blame the French now for souring their milk or when their horse goes lame. The French are the new boggart. Begone, Guest. I’m sick of you.”
“Lord Sheriff, I entreat you. Do not dismiss me. More people will die. I don’t know whether it is a French plot or not, but it is there nonetheless.”
“Where’s your proof, Guest?”
“I have spoken to Father Edmund of St. Aelred’s parish, and he had ministered to the families of these children. They died suddenly and hideously. No one else in the house was affected. Don’t you see? Only children who regularly drank water were affected. Not babes that suckled, and not older ones who drank ale.”
“Children, you say? What of it? Children die with great frequency in London. No one has bothered about it before.”
“They have not been murdered and in these numbers before.”
He shook his head. “Look at you. You believe your own tales, Guest. A murderer behind every shadow. I haven’t time for you. Begone, I say!”
He stood fast, fisting his hands. “If I bring you proof, Lord Sheriff, will you close the cistern?”
The sheriff rubbed his eyes wearily. “Oh, for the love of the Holy Ghost. You are a thorn in my side, do you know that? Yes, damn you. Bring me proof and I will consider it. Only consider it, mind.”
Tight-lipped, Crispin bowed and turned on his heel. Proof, eh? What could he do to bring the man proof? He’d have to think of something.
Down the steps he went. He paused near the bottom, looking out for Tom and Wendell. He saw them by the brazier. Wendell was still nursing his hand. He probably broke it. Crispin smiled. He trotted the rest of the way down and passed them by through the arch. They jeered at him but did not approach.
Proof, he thought, striding down Newgate Market. Perhaps the waters could be tested. Perhaps Nicholas Flamel, with all his alchemical craft, could detect a poison if it was present. It would help the man take his mind off his troubles. As for Crispin, Perenelle was no nearer to being saved. But if the key to her freedom lay with those symbols, he would have to get to work on deciphering those with all haste.
* * *
CRISPIN ARRIVED AT THE Tun early in the afternoon and surveyed the round stone structure. Looking like the lower portion of a castle’s tower, it captured sweet rainwater and quenched a thirsty city. But now it looked to be a tower of disaster, dealing death to the weakest within its shadow. Who was doing it? Had the sheriff stumbled upon the truth in his flippant remarks? Was it French spies? He suddenly thought of the shadow men who had followed him earlier. If these miscreants could get to the water, what else could they poison? Grain? Livestock? While Lancaster and the chivalry of England were off to Spain, was an insidious plot being concocted by England’s enemies in France?
He watched with growing anxiety as maids and young children came to the cistern, filled their buckets and bougets, and trotted away, bringing the befouled water into their homes.
He stopped a boy with a bucket. “Boy, I will give you two pence for your bucket.”
The boy’s openmouthed shock muted him until he came to his senses and tentatively asked, “For the whole bucket?”
Crispin smiled kindly. “Yes, the whole bucket. Along with its water.”
“Aye, sir. As you will.”
Crispin handed over the coins and the boy presented him with the full bucket. But then his small face furrowed with worry. “Shall I carry it for you, sir? Where are you bound?”
“For another farthing, lad, we’re headed to Fleet Ditch.”
“I can do that!” said the boy, brightening. He took the bucket back from Crispin and walked, swaying from side to side with the weight of it, sloshing the water onto the snow.
Enough water remained in the bucket when they finally arrived to Flamel’s shop. Crispin thanked the boy, gave him a farthing, and, before the boy left, stopped him with the lifting of his hand. “And boy, promise me you will not get water from the Tun for some days.”
“Eh? Not the Tun? But it is the closest cistern.”
“I know that. But promise me you will not.” He handed over yet another coin to seal the bargain, kicking himself for the mawkish fool that he was. He couldn’t very well pay all the urchins in London not to take water from the Tun.
The boy whooped as he sprinted away, surely to relate to his family how a strange and foolish man had paid an exorbitant price for their leaky old bucket.
He knocked on the alchemist’s door and Avelyn opened it. She looked as fresh as if she had gotten a full night’s sleep, but he seemed to expect no less from her. She looked puzzled at the bucket he carried inside but didn’t question it when Crispin set it on a table still chalked with sigils.
Flamel, heavy dark bags under his eyes, was slowly climbing down the ladder from his upper loft. He seemed to pay no heed to the whirling planets mere inches from him. “What have you brought, Maître. More clues?”
“Someth
ing else, sir. Perhaps it will distract you from your troubles while doing this good deed for others.”
“Eh? What good deed?” He eyed the bucket. He looked smaller dressed as he was in his long shift with a loose unbuttoned gown thrown over it.
“I have reason to believe that this water has been poisoned.”
“Poisoned? But why?”
Crispin shook his head. Avelyn was suddenly there, offering him a chair. A good thing. He was exhausted and fell into it. “I know not why, Master Flamel. But I only hope that you can discover the poison from this sample and tell me what it is and how to counteract it. If poisoned it is.”
“But how do you know it is poisoned?”
“Because many have died from consuming it. I have surmised that much.”
“Died, have they?” It had indeed served as a distraction, for Flamel was hitching up his sleeves and scooping up some of the water into a beaker. He poured it into a retort and set the glass object over a trivet in his fire.
“Yes,” Crispin said wearily. “Young children, mostly. Some old people as well.”
“Weaklings?”
“I suppose.”
“Ah,” he said, and set quietly to work.
Crispin watched him grab different canisters from his shelves, peer inside them, and either use a wooden spoon to remove some of the powdered contents or put the canister back untouched on his shelf, muttering all the while.
After a time, Crispin rose. He could see no sense in spending the day there. He told the man he was leaving, though he doubted he heard. Avelyn’s eyes tracked him as he strode out the door, and she followed. He stopped on the step outside and turned to her.
She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down toward her. Face very close to his, he felt her breath on his lips. It was tempting. She licked her lips, knowing he was looking at them.
“You are a seductress, do you know that?” He reached up to his neck and disengaged her arms, holding them a long time. “I have work to do,” he said.
She made the sign for “kiss,” but he shook his head. She pouted and made the sign again. “No,” he said firmly, and turned away, striding down the lane. But when he looked back, she was stalking right behind him.
Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir Page 14