“And yet, at one time I thought that you might—”
“No. It was only a fleeting thought. But he is dead. Long dead.”
Crispin nodded, looking back at Jack waiting patiently in the doorway. “Very well. We will discover him, have no fear. Let’s go, Jack.”
* * *
“WERE THESE SIGNS A waste of time, then, Master Crispin?” asked Jack as they went carefully into the night. “Were they just a ruse, do you think, to send us out of the way?”
“I’m not so certain of that, Jack. A man could have used any number of ways to get Flamel out of his shop and get himself in there. Or he could have done great harm to him or even to Avelyn. But he chose not to. Chose to steal the man’s wife and bargain with his most valuable asset. That speaks of something very personal.”
Jack shook his head, keeping a sharp eye on the dark lane ahead. “I wouldn’t want anybody to hate me that much.”
“Nor would I.”
“Where are we off to, Master Crispin? To find that last clue?” said Jack after a time. He shivered and looked up at the cloudy sky, at the shuttered windows above them, before he turned his pale, freckled face to Crispin.
“We are on our way to the Cockerel’s Tail Inn at Billingsgate. Now is as good a time as any to talk to this preacher. If he has anything to do with this, I would know it now.”
“He might be abed.”
“Then we’ll wake him up.”
* * *
THE COCKEREL’S TAIL INN wasn’t the best inn, but neither was it the worst. The innkeeper was a sly man of loose reliability, and though the watered pottage and watered ale made for a quick stay for most of his tenants, it was mostly clean and mostly safe.
Crispin knocked on the oak door and waited. It was well past the hour a patron would arrive, so Crispin remained patient, knowing the innkeeper might be abed.
In time, a shuffling sounded beyond the door and someone called from the other side of it, “Oi, who is there? It’s past curfew.”
“I know that, good innkeeper, but I seek one of your patrons.”
“It is well past the hour,” he said behind the wood. “Go away and come back on the morrow.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
There was a pause before he asked tentatively, “Is this … Crispin Guest?”
“Guilty, Master.”
Another pause. “Christ Jesus.” With more swearing, the bolt scraped back and the door opened a crack. “So? What poor bastard would you be needing to show your fists to this night, Master Guest?”
“Nothing as violent as all that, I hope. A patron by the name of Robert Pickthorn.”
“Oh, him,” said the innkeeper with a sneer. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he? Can’t keep his mouth shut even around the evening fire when men would rather talk of their accomplishments and greed. And here he is, mucking up their pleasure with talk of damnation. I’m losing patrons because of him. I tell you, Master Guest, I wouldn’t mind a little violence put his way to even the score.”
Crispin smirked. “Then may I enter?”
“Aye. I can’t see my way to barring you, as you would find a way in at any rate. And there’s young Jack Tucker with you, I see. Come in, gentlemen. It’s a good night for it.”
The hearth was banked, but it was still warmer in the room than outside it. Crispin waited for the man to bar the door again. The innkeeper scratched his backside and with a grunt pointed up the stairs. “Second door. Try not to make too much of a mess.”
Up the stairs Crispin went. His hand was on his dagger hilt, but he did not draw it. With Jack behind him, he arrived at the second door. He listened. The inn was quiet except for the creak of the wind in the rafters and the muffled sound of people talking and laughing down the gallery behind their own barred doors. He knocked and leaned in close to the door. “Master Pickthorn!”
They both heard a shuffling within. Through the door a roughened voice asked, “Who is it?”
“You don’t know me, sir. But I would speak with you.”
“In the morning. It is too late tonight.”
“It is most urgent.”
“It can wait.”
“I’m very much afraid it cannot. I beg you to open the door … before I break it down.”
Silence.
And then the sound of a window shutter opening. Crispin stepped back and rammed his shoulder into the door. It rattled on its hinges. He shoved again. A crack. Another hard shove, and it fell open. The window lay wide open and the cold air of the November night rolled into the room.
Crispin leaned over the sill and looked down. He heard no steps, no running, and saw no one. “Damn!”
Turning back to the room, he looked around in the dimness. Papers lay on the table. He picked through them. They were sermons in French and Latin. Clothing lay on a coffer—a long gown, an out-of-fashion foreign houppelande with patched elbows. At the hearth he spotted something and knelt. He picked up the stiff strands of black hair, merely the trimmings from what appeared to be a recent hair cutting. Dropping them, he turned toward Jack to comment when he noticed that the boy was not there. He stepped out onto the gallery and searched for him down below.
Other doors along the gallery opened slowly and cautiously, and faces peered at him from the cracks. He glared in their direction, a challenge to any of them. Widened eyes assessed him and quickly slammed their doors. Sounds of locks turning and chairs pushed against them trailed down the length of the gallery.
Crispin turned at the sound of Jack stumping back up the stairs, face damp with sweat.
“When I heard the window I run down, trying to catch him coming out,” said Jack. “But the sarding innkeeper had locked his door good and I had a devil of a time just getting out of it. And by the time I came around to the window, the man was gone. Have you learned anything from the room?”
“Just some clothes, some sermons. Clippings from a haircut. But the clippings were of black hair. Does not our preacher have auburn hair?”
“Aye, sir. Perhaps he does have a confederate.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He glanced at the window again. “Not a confrontational sort of man, is he?”
“A stranger knocks on his door in the mid of night and threatens to cleave the door in? I’d be out the window, too.”
“You have a point. Will he be back, I wonder?”
“His things are here.”
“But maybe not tonight.”
Jack stepped through the room and closed the shutters, shivering from the chill wind passing through. “Should I keep watch, sir?”
“If you would. Perhaps downstairs by the fire.”
“Yes, Master.”
They passed the innkeeper on the stair. “Master Tucker will remain the night.” Crispin reached into his pouch, his hand closing on the golden nail before his fingers moved nimbly and grabbed a coin instead. “For your trouble and for his night’s lodgings.”
The man gestured with his thumb up the stairs. “What of yon patron? And my door?”
Crispin pulled out another coin. “For the door. And I believe your patron will be back. His things are here, at any rate. And if he does not return, you have that to sell, at least.”
“Cold comfort.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Told you not to make a mess.”
“I apologized for the door. That coin should make good on it.”
He and Jack hurried down the stairs. Jack nestled himself by the fire, trying to stay in the shadows and still keep warm. Crispin nodded to him and to the innkeeper, still watching him from the stairs as he left.
Outside, he breathed deeply of the hard, cold air. He had failed in all ways this night. He had failed to protect the Stone—whether he believed it was real or not—and he had failed to capture the man who had abducted Perenelle Flamel. And something about this chase, this hunt for riddles, was troubling him. He did not think it was merely a ruse to keep Flamel away from his shop. He thought it was a very clever gam
e that someone was playing. Someone who knew Flamel and who hated him.
How could Crispin ever find her? Was he doomed to follow those insane clues to their bitter conclusion? The abductor wanted them to chase all over London, to solve the clues, and to find her or … or what? If they stopped, what would he do? Maybe it was time to find out. They needed another message from the man. It might draw him out, but it might also force his hand. No, Crispin was certain that the man wanted to play this game, to prove how clever he was and also to wipe their noses in the fact that he was now in possession of the Philosopher’s Stone. Would he know how to use it? He was at his so-called Great Work, that of divining the Stone, but what if he still did not know how to use it? He’d still need Flamel and his expertise. It was not over. Not yet.
Crispin stepped into the street and paused. Something wasn’t right. A tingle at the back of his neck made him turn, but it was too late.
Shadows rose up and hands clapped over his arms and one over his mouth. He tried to fight them, to cry out, but ropes twisted around his wrists, binding them together. The glare of a torch in his face blinded him and he stumbled forward, unable to resist being dragged forth into the snow-wet street.
21
IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE he realized he was heading toward Newgate Market and then up the steps to the prison itself.
He was yanked around until he saw the sheriffs’ serjeants in the firelight of their brazier.
“Why, look who’s here, Wendell,” said Tom. “It’s Crispin Guest. The man with the impertinent mouth. Just so there won’t be any backtalk…” He swung. Crispin’s head snapped back and his mouth was suddenly flooded with the steely taste of blood. He spat it out on Tom’s boot.
Tom glared, but the serjeants holding on to Crispin whipped him around. “There’ll be plenty of time to settle this later,” one guard said gruffly before pushing Crispin up the stairs.
Crispin stumbled and tried to save his chin from barking on the stone step by throwing his tied hands forward. He managed to barely avoid it before they grabbed his arm hard and yanked him upward.
One shoulder scraped along the wall as they ascended the spiral stair and he was marched past the empty alcove where the clerk usually sat and into the warm sheriffs’ parlor … where they shoved him hard and he fell, knees first, onto the floor before the crackling hearth.
Both sheriffs stood on either side of the fireplace and looked down at him, each encased in their cloaks. The light shifted on their faces, but they wore unmistakable twin scowls.
“Guest, you are a nuisance and a traitor, and I wish to God I had nothing more to do with you,” said Sheriff Venour.
Sheriff Fastolf lifted his booted foot and shoved Crispin in the shoulder, pushing his face to the floor despite Crispin’s trying to prevent it with his bound hands. “What were you supposed to do, eh, Guest?” Fastolf ground out. “What did we tell you to do at the outset? You were supposed to find out who killed that apprentice! Nothing more, nothing less. And now it’s poisoned cisterns and sneaking abroad at night where you clearly do not belong!”
“I oft go abroad at night, my lords. How else am I to track a murderer?” His mouth was still bloody and he spat again, this time away from the sheriff’s boots.
“And you expect us to believe that?” He crouched down and looked Crispin in the face. “I want you off this task, Guest. I want you to forget it. Leave this for the coroner’s jury to solve.” He jabbed a finger into Crispin’s face. “And I especially want you to stay away from the cisterns. It’s none of your concern. You’re meddling again. We want you to stop.”
“But my lord, the coroner’s jury will not be able to—”
Fastolf raised his head and nodded to the serjeant. A boot to Crispin’s gut silenced his protest. He gasped and rolled to the floor, trying to breathe.
“What was that, Guest? Were you trying to infer that you know better than we do?” He put a hand to his ear. “I don’t believe I heard you aright.”
Crispin took in a shaky breath and pushed himself onto his knees. He licked his bloody lips and glowered up at the sheriff. “Why now, Lord Sheriff? For days I tracked this murderer. You told me to do so. And now you bring me here to tell me to stop my work? You know how my curiosity is piqued when I am told to back away.”
The sheriff stole a glance at Venour, who had a wild look in his eye. It was he who nodded sharply to the serjeant this time. Crispin girded himself, and when the boot came again, he grabbed it with his bound hands and twisted as he shoved. The guard gave a cry and flew backward. Before he landed, the other serjeant grabbed Crispin by his hood and slammed his head into the fat table leg.
Crispin saw stars burst behind his lids and hunched forward, hanging his head below his shoulders. Dizzy, he blinked several times and shook his head. “That would be a ‘no’ to answering my query.”
“Guest,” said Venour, exasperated, “you must truly have a death wish. As the king’s emissaries to keep the peace, I am ordering you to cease this investigation. His Majesty’s courtiers keep a sharp eye on our doings and have expressed their displeasure at your meddling.”
I noticed. But who expressed it … and for what, exactly? They looked frightened, the both of them. Was it someone the sheriffs were protecting? They emphasized that there were courtiers watching their doings. Did this go that high? Higher? They were the king’s emissaries, after all. Certainly the scope of the riddles all over town would seem to suggest it, for how could one man have accomplished it all?
But then it begged the question Why? Why in the world would King Richard need the Philosopher’s Stone? If he believed all that was said of it, he might certainly want the gold. But he was a very devout man, and alchemy smacked of sorcery. Would he pursue such a thing? And if it were he, why abduct Perenelle? Would it not be more expeditious to steal the alchemist himself and force him to explain whatever the Stone was supposed to do?
He licked his swollen lips again. No. He couldn’t imagine it. Not Richard. But his ministers, on the other hand … They had meddled before. It was Suffolk who wanted the relic Crispin had encountered only last year, but Crispin had been unable to prove Suffolk’s complicity. Crispin would like it to be him. He’d like to corner Suffolk in some alleyway and show him how precisely he had injured Crispin and those he cared about.
But what of the poisoning of the cistern? The sheriffs had reluctantly obliged in protecting the water sources for London, but they seemed disinclined to continue it. Were they being told to back away? And again, by whom? Capturing the Philosopher’s Stone was one thing, but poisoning London’s water supply was quite another. One had nothing to do with the other. Except that the sheriffs couldn’t help but speak of the two in one breath, and that was troubling.
A madman, perhaps, would poison the water, but it seemed more likely it was a French plot that they so recently mocked.
Who at the English court would protect a French plot?
“He is silenced at last. Perhaps that last stroke addled his brain.” Sheriff Venour bent over to look at Crispin. “Will you behave, Guest? Or will my serjeants need to further convince you?”
“No, my lords. I am thoroughly convinced. There is just one thing.”
Venour straightened and threw his head back impatiently. “Yes?”
“What concerns you dearest? The dead apprentice … or the poisoned water?”
Venour took a step back and gave a rushed look of terror at his companion. “Get him out of here,” he said to the guards. “And see that you finish the lesson before releasing him.”
* * *
EVEN THOUGH HIS LODGINGS were just down the street, it took a long time for Crispin to reach them. With the dark, it was twice as hard to navigate even a few yards. And he had to stop periodically and lean against a wall. Dizzy. Headache. And … was that double vision? “Perfect,” he muttered.
Tom and Wendell had been invited to join in tutoring Crispin into behaving. Crispin clutched his sore ribs as he slowly cli
mbed his stairs. When the door moved open by his mere touch, he was glad it wasn’t an unwelcome visitor. He didn’t think he had the strength to fight off anyone.
Avelyn made a cry of distress upon seeing him and rushed across the room. She ducked a shoulder under his arm and helped him to the bed.
He eased down, relieved to be on his bed at last. She knelt at his feet to remove his boots. “I don’t know why you are here—you should be with your master—but I can’t say I am not glad of it.”
She lifted his feet onto the mattress and then cradled him so he leaned back until his head rested on the pillow. He knew his face must look like raw meat—felt like it—and one of his eyelids had swollen shut.
He closed the other eye and just breathed, thankful that he still could. Ribs weren’t broken. That was a mercy. He didn’t know how he’d avoided it, but he had.
Lying on his bed, he simply breathed for a time, relishing the warmth from the hearth. He startled upward when an ice-cold cloth slid against his face. Avelyn’s fingers on his arm soothed him back down. She carefully bathed his sore cheeks and chin, leaving the cold cloth on the most swollen parts: his nose, cheek, and eye. It felt good.
Fingers started unbuttoning his coat and he gently closed his hand over them. “Leave it. My ribs hurt from the pounding they took.” But she persisted and he found himself sitting up enough for her to pull off his hood, cloak, and coat. Fingers slipped up under his shirt and probed, testing the tender flesh and pressing gently on the ribs. When she was satisfied, she tucked a blanket over him and went to the fire to jam a poker in to urge it higher. He did not immediately notice when she left.
He must have dozed, for when she returned she was pressing something to his lips. A cup. He opened his mouth obligingly and drank. It tasted of herbs and earthy tones and was not particularly pleasant. But it did not take long for his limbs to feel warm and weightless, and it took the edge off the pain in his face. “You are a miracle worker.”
Shadow of the Alchemist: A Medieval Noir Page 19