Two months. Crispin took in a long breath. “Have you any clues? Any suspects?”
The sheriff slowly shook his head. “I have never”-he inhaled a trembling breath-“I fear it is the Tempter himself in our midst.” He crossed himself. His voice cracked. “Such desecration. Such insidious acts. Master Guest”-he shook his head-“I cannot stomach it. It is sin that rends this place. Such dreadful sin. We’ve not enough priests to purge the city of it.”
“Purge the city,” echoed Froshe, cradling his goblet. He had not drunk any of it.
“Sin it is. Grave sin,” agreed Crispin. “But a man did this.”
“Enough. What can one man do against this? These are strange times. I fear another plague is coming. And rightly so.”
Crispin never thought he would think it, but the sheriff’s defeated tone disturbed him. It was plain these men preferred the status quo and these murders did not fit well into the carefully delineated view these merchants held of the world within London’s walls.
“Hire me,” said Crispin.
Exton raised his eyes and glared. “What?”
“Hire me. I will catch this murderer.”
A harsh bark of a laugh erupted from the sheriff’s lips. “We were warned of you and your tricks, were we not, John? Look how Master Guest would manipulate us. Wynchecombe warned us-”
“Oh be still, Nicholas!” Froshe spread his hand over his face and rubbed, rubbing the sin away. “What choice have we got?”
Exton shot to his feet. “Fool! Can’t you keep your mouth shut? Or at least your cowardice to yourself.”
But color had returned to Froshe’s face and he tossed his goblet aside and reached for his sword, though he did not draw it. “Churl! Do you dare call me a coward!”
“My lords.” Crispin rose slowly to his feet. If this was the way of it, then he might well manipulate these two jackals. “Please, do not fight amongst yourselves. I have offered you my solution.” He leaned on the table and looked Exton in the eye. “Hire me.”
“The devil take you.”
“He may very well. But not before I have brought this particular devil to justice.”
The man hedged. He slid a sly gaze toward Froshe who glared daggers at him. “Suppose,” he muttered, slowly. “Suppose we were to hire you. No one must know, of course.”
“It will be more difficult making inquiries.”
“I see. And so you back away.”
“I said nothing of the kind, Lord Sheriff. It is only more of a challenge. And there is one thing you must learn about me, my lords. I have never balked at a challenge.”
Exton twisted the stem of his goblet in his thin fingers. He chewed in his thick lips and looked toward Froshe. “Well?”
“I fear we are signing a pact with the devil.” But in the end Froshe reluctantly bobbed his head.
“It is as you wish, Lord Sheriff. May I be privy to the Coroner rolls?”
Exton nodded and finally set his goblet aside. “We shall send copies to you at your lodgings on the morrow.”
The silence pressed between them again and Crispin, too, set his empty goblet down. “I will take my leave, my lords. Unless you have more to tell me.”
“If there were more, I would tell you, Guest,” said Exton with a sneer. He did not look at Crispin but into the hearth flames. “Report back to us as soon as you discover something. The king has not yet heard tidings of these deaths. But when he does, even though they be beggars, he shall make our lives miserable. And if our lives are made miserable-”
“So, too, is mine made.” Crispin bowed. He swept out of the room with Jack scurrying behind him.
The night was cold, but it kept its cold to itself without the winds from earlier. They trudged quietly in the dirty and hoof-trodden snow back down Newgate Market to the Shambles. Once they entered their lodgings, Jack quickly laid a fire from the smoldering ashes and lit the candle on the table as well. Crispin understood the sentiment. As much light as possible to chase away the nightmares.
Crispin dropped his weary body onto his chair and Jack knelt, pulled off Crispin’s boots, and laid them beside the hearth to dry. “Master,” he said softly. “We have forgotten to meet with that Jew.”
“Yes.” It seemed so unimportant now, yet he did have the man’s silver in his pocket. “It makes little matter.”
“Begging your pardon, sir. But the rent is due and the sheriff didn’t give you aught-”
“Damn.” Yes, he would still have to meet this Jew if he were to pay his rent, for to ask the sheriffs for funds now would earn him little but aggravation. They seemed no more generous with the king’s coffer as was Wynchecombe.
“I will think about it on the morrow, Jack. For now, have we any food?”
Jack did his best to cobble a meal from their meager pantry and once they had cleaned away the leavings and settled into bed, Crispin on his pallet and Jack in his straw in the corner, Crispin fell into a fitful sleep.
When morning came, it brought not only the sun’s brightness through the stagnant cloud cover, but a renewal of his strength to face whatever lay ahead. Fortified with gruel and small beer, Crispin and Jack set out again toward Westminster and reached it by mid-morning.
Leading the way, Crispin edged down the embankment and studied the shore that had been so difficult to see last night. He saw nothing helpful. Only the thought that the body, if newly killed, had not sunk to the bottom of the river as might be expected. He could have been pushed along the shore by the current, or the lithe boy could very well have been dumped nearby. What could be nigh that would lend itself to secret doings with young boys?
He raised his eyes from the rocky shoreline, up past the dark-timbered houses and shops. King Richard’s palace rose above him, its spires and high walls the very testament to secrets. But was this the origin of such heinous crimes?
“What are we looking for, Master?” asked Jack, shivering in his cloak.
“I don’t know.” And the damnable thing of it was, he didn’t. The boy himself was the greatest clue, and three others like him. Not just a death, but something more. Raped, yes. But the slice to his belly intrigued and horrified him the most. What was the meaning behind this evisceration?
“Do you recall, Jack, which houses the Coroner visited?”
“I. . I think so, Master.”
“Then we will ask our own questions. I do not wish to wait to read the Coroner’s notes.” Crispin allowed Jack to lead the way and the boy pointed to the first shop, a goldsmith. He peered through the open shutter, through the diamond panes of a glass window, and saw a man bent over a table close to his sputtering candle. Crispin knocked upon the door and the man looked up. He watched him approach through the wavy panes and the door was pulled opened.
Squinting, the man pulled his gold-embroidered gown close over his chest. “Good master,” he said to Crispin with a bow. Crispin returned the courtesy.
“I have come to inquire about the boy yesterday. The one pulled from the Thames.”
The man’s brows rose. “The Coroner already inquired of me and I gave my testimony.”
“Yes. But I am here to dig deeper.”
As expected, the man looked Crispin up and down, no doubt noting the frayed hem of his cotehardie and the patches on his breast. Crispin endured it with a clenched jaw.
“And who are you?”
“I am Crispin Guest-”
“God in heaven!” the man gasped. He grabbed the door and tried to shut it but Crispin was quicker and blocked it with his hands.
“Clearly my infamy precedes me,” he said with a sneer. He shoved the door hard and the man fell back.
“Please!” cried the goldsmith, stumbling to his feet. He searched wildly in his shop for a means of escape. “I run an honest business. I wish no congress with you, Guest.”
“We’re not posting banns, man. This is a murder inquiry. Get a hold of yourself.”
“You. . here. . near the palace. .?”
“Yes, the palace. I am here on the king’s business. Surely you have heard of the Tracker? I am he.”