The dagger tip dimpled the flesh so deeply it produced a pearl of blood. Rupert’s lips worked but no sound issued forth.
Crispin pressed harder. “After all, it is not I that killed you, but this blade. There will be no blood on my hands. Is that not correct?”
“I sell such all the time!”
“Digitalis purpurea?”
The man’s eyes widened. “I sold only a dram!” he squealed.
“To whom?”
“I do not know the name-”
The apothecary screwed up his face, arching away from the pressure of the knife. But when Rupert stretched to reach behind, Crispin spied the dagger imbedded in his back. The apothecary gurgled and lurched forward, falling with his full weight into Crispin’s arms. Crispin pushed the man away and the apothecary crumpled to the floor.
Tossing the tapestry aside, Crispin scanned the dark storeroom. Something caught the candlelight. Crispin took a step but instinct made him pause.
A shelf tilted forward. Crispin barely had time to lurch out of the way before jars and canisters exploded on the floor. They blocked Crispin’s path but he caught sight of a dark, hooded figure opening the rear door before escaping into the alley.
He pushed back through the curtain, tripped over the apothecary’s body, ran into Jack running in, and staggered over broken pottery littering the threshold. He looked out to the deserted street and swore.
The sheriff paced across the apothecary shop, stepping over the body on the floor. “He gave no name, no description?”
“No,” said Crispin. “He was killed before he could say.” He looked up the street for Tucker who hid in the shadows as far away from the sheriff as he could get.
Wynchecombe frowned at the bloodstain oozing under the corpse. Its irregular shape took on the appearance of a skull. “How do we know this is the only seller of such a poison? There could be others.”
“Why else was he killed?” They both stared at the body. “But if you doubt it, send your bailiff to question the others.”
“I shall.”
Crispin sighed. The sun had only just set, and weariness etched the marrow in his bones. He wanted to sleep for a long time but knew he had too much to do.
Wynchecombe’s shadow fell across Crispin’s chest. “And you say you saw the murderer?”
Crispin shook his head. “Not exactly, my lord. Only a shadowy glimpse.”
“Anyone you recognized?”
He frowned. “No.”
“So you say.”
“My lord, I would tell you if I knew anything.”
Wynchecombe scowled. “If you are lying to me…”
“No, my lord. What cause would I have to lie?”
“The more I know you the less I believe I can trust you.”
“The curse of being an enigma. May I go now, Lord Sheriff? I must continue pursuing Sir Stephen.”
Wynchecombe knelt and grabbed the corpse’s hair and raised his head. “What of this? You said he was stabbed in the back. What about this on his throat?”
“That?” Crispin brushed a bit of straw from his coat. “He fell against my dagger.”
“An accident, eh?”
“Yes. I am certain you have similar accidents when you question a man.”
Wynchecombe smiled. “Yes. Accidents do occur.” The sheriff waved him off. “Go on, then.”
Crispin looked back. The shop with its swarm of sheriff’s men receded behind him. It was just as well. Let the sheriff deal with the body and let Crispin deal with the murderer. Someone plainly did not want there to be witnesses. A dagger was something Stephen would be more familiar with, not this business of poisons. And speaking of poisons…
He checked the street for Jack Tucker, but the boy was nowhere to be found.
Crispin trudged wearily up the stairs to his lodgings. When he looked up, he saw the young cutpurse crouched by the door on the landing. Jack raised his head.
“I suppose I should not be surprised to find you here. Why did you run?”
“I was afraid the sheriff would question me again.”
“I see. And why sit in the dark?”
“I can better see who approaches without their seeing me, Master.”
Crispin nodded. “You know this business well.”
Jack frowned. “Not as well as you.” He stayed in his huddled position and hugged himself tighter. “Is this what you do with your time? Get yourself involved in murders?”
Crispin chuckled gravely and pulled the key from his pouch. “It does seem to consume my days and nights. Why? Does it trouble you?”
“God’s teeth,” said Jack, shaking his head. “That’s no work for a gentleman.”
“In case you have not noticed, Jack, I am no longer a gentleman. A fact I weary of repeating. But what is it to you? This is my business not yours.”
Jack sighed through his blunted nose but said no more. He shivered and pulled his meager cloak tight over his chest.
Crispin held the key near the lock. “Is this where you intend to sleep?”
The boy shrugged. “It isn’t bad. It’s dry.”
“Where do you usually sleep?”
“Anywhere I can. But, being your servant now, I’d thought I’d be hard by.”
Crispin tapped his finger on the key. He called himself three kinds of fools before he spoke quietly into the wood of the door. “It is warmer inside.”
“Oh no, Master,” he said shaking his head, all the while rising and drawing near the door. “What, me? Sleep by a fire?” Jack’s face brightened with hope.
Crispin smiled. He turned the key and pushed open the door. “Go on in, you fool. And you are not my servant!”
Jack moved forward but stopped abruptly halfway over the threshold.
Beyond him, a feminine shape sauntered forward. The glow from the hearth embers painted only a golden line down the curves of one side of her silhouette. Until she reached the doorway and stepped out of the shadows.
Crispin staggered back as if struck by an arrow. His chest contracted with an old and unpleasant twinge. His voice was rough when he could speak at last. “My God. Rosamunde.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She was the very image of the Holy Virgin: genteel, enigmatic, and distant. Her light green gown, modest at the neck, draped in generous folds to the floor, revealing only the long tips of her shoes. A fur-trimmed cloak covered her shoulders clasped by an agrafe with the ivory image of a crane. Full lips opened, prepared to speak or breathe, to admonish as much as to bless. Her face, shaped like a heart with its wide, pale forehead and small chin, emphasized round eyes, green as England’s pastures. Green as Crispin remembered them. Nothing about her seemed to have changed-except for the gold band on her left ring finger.
Gone were all thoughts of dead Templars, apothecaries, and poison. He cleared his throat but did not step inside. Jack’s body blocked the threshold.
“Rosamunde…I mean…Lady Rothwell.” His mouth twisted on the last.
She breathed and formed one word: “Crispin.”
Crispin looked away yet the gesture failed to stop the stabbing pains in his chest. “Madam. I am more than surprised to see you here. And after all these years. In fact…” He glanced into the landing. Jack tried to make himself as small as possible. Crispin leaned further. Her manservant Jenkyn was sure to be somewhere nearby. “You should not be here at all.”
“Crispin.” She said it sadly. With regret? Perhaps it was with the more unromantic sound of pity.
Her gaze hovered on his face but slipped to his stained coat and threadbare cloak. “It has been a long time.”
“Seven years,” he said tight-lipped.
Neither spoke for several heartbeats. Crispin vaguely wondered if he were dreaming, especially with the familiar fragrant cloud of roses about her.
“Shall I tell her to leave, Master Crispin?”