The Demon's Parchment (20 page)

He could not see the corpse without a torch, and though he was reluctant to do it, he had to call the hue and cry and rally a messenger to retrieve the sheriffs.

When Exton and Froshe arrived, he saw by their expressions that they were learning the extent of their relationship with Crispin. Their faces were pinched and white. And the fact that they had, no doubt, been called away from their suppers, pleased them even less.

“Why is it, Master Guest,” said Froshe in a sharp, low tone as he dismounted his horse with a great grunt, “that when you are set to a task to solve one murder, you garner more?”

“It is my poor luck showing itself, Lord Sheriff.”

“No,
your
luck appears to be good. It is the luck of the poor souls around you that plagues us all.”

Crispin said nothing as the sheriff motioned to his man William to bring a torch.

William was a wall of a man with a flat face like brickwork. He was a servant of Newgate and had served gladly under the brutal Simon Wynchecombe, but he looked a little warily at his two new superiors.

Nevertheless, William pointed a sneer in Crispin’s direction as he lumbered forward, tilting the cresset and its sputtering flame
over the body. The erratic patch of wavering light confirmed that this was the servant whom he had planned to meet, who was going to implicate someone. And now the man was dead and his information with it. Even if anyone else in the palace knew something, this would certainly silence them.

Grimly, the three leaned over the corpse. It was Crispin who knelt first and when the sheriffs followed suit, William lowered the cresset at last.

The golden light passed over the dead man’s face. His eyes bulged like a frog’s, mouth slack and tongue lolling. But there was no froth at his lips, no indication that he had been poisoned. Crispin took a breath and reached forward. He thought Exton or Froshe would stop him, but the sheriffs said nothing. Better Crispin soil his hands than the sheriffs, he assumed.

His fingers curled at the neck of the man’s tunic and pulled open the laces. “Lower the torch,” he said, and was surprised that for once the combative William complied. The light revealed a dark welt ringing the man’s neck. But not merely a welt. It was an indentation so deep that the skin had welled red around it. Something had pulled so tautly about his neck and throat that it might have severed his head were it sharper. His neck looked the same as the strangled boy from the Thames.

Crispin cocked his head toward Exton and silent confirmation was written clearly in his eyes. Yes, Exton had recognized it, too. He joined Froshe in an unspoken exchange.

Crispin looked his fill and was leaning away when his eye caught on something at the shadowed edge of the groove in the skin. Closer. He plucked a thread from the folds of skin and lifted it out. A thread that did not match the man’s garments.

“What have you there, Master Guest?” The Fishmonger was so close his breath huffed against Crispin’s hair.

“It is the murder weapon, Lord Sheriff.”

“What?
That?
”

“Or should I say that it is
from
the murder weapon. He was strangled with a length of cloth.”

“A length of cloth?” said Froshe, pushing his way forward. “What do you mean?”

“A strap, a drawstring, apron ties. Some sort of cloth. Then a stick or a knife might be used to twist it tight. A garrote. You see the severity of the strangulation. A garrote would be the thing.” He tried to distinguish the reddish color in the flickering light. He’d have to wait till morning to get a good look at it. He pushed his tabard out of the way and tied the thread carefully around the straps holding his money pouch to his belt.

“Who was he, Master Crispin?”

Crispin stared again at the face. “A servant in his Majesty’s court. He had information for me relating to this case.”

Exton straightened and stared down at the corpse. “Alas.”

Their silent commiseration continued only for a few moments more before Exton motioned to William and Froshe. It was clear to Crispin who was the dominant man in this office.

“Get the cart,” said Exton. He swept away the audience of bedraggled folk, dwellers on the skirts of Charing Cross who had been summoned from their beds by the hue and cry. No one had seen or heard anything. Crispin searched beyond their shivering shoulders outside the halo of torches and candles, but the fog still hung too thick about them.

Exton mounted and Froshe soon followed. Crispin watched him and wondered if he should mention the secret enclave of Jews. But measuring Exton’s irritated features and the inevitable explosion to follow such an unexpected pronouncement, he kept silent.

Besides,
he thought with a bit of malice,
he had given his word.

The sheriff leaned down toward Crispin. “Except for the strangulation, this death is not like the others.”

“No indeed,” concurred Froshe.

Crispin cast his eyes toward the body William was hefting into
the back of the cart like a carcass of beef. “No. This murder was hasty. Needful. The other deaths seemed to take some time.”

“This death brings you no closer to finding the murderer, Master Guest.”

“On the contrary, Lord Sheriff. Someone is frightened enough at how close I am. They knew why I wanted to speak with this servant and what’s more. . . .” Crispin paused, his thoughts landing where they suited best. “They saw me make my appointment.”

“Eh?” Exton leaned so far forward he looked as if he might fall. “You know who it is?” He carried the expression of a man about to receive a prized gift.

Crispin rubbed his chin, feeling the first raised bits of beard. “I might.”

“Tell us, then.”

Both sheriffs bristled on the edge of their saddles, clutching the reins tightly in gloved fists. “I will catch him, my lords. Never fear. But you must be patient. There is more to discover.”

“What?” Exton’s voice cracked the brittle silence. He whipped his head around and then scowled. In a harsh whisper he said, “You will bring this culprit in immediately, do you hear me?”

“I cannot, Lord Sheriff. I ask your indulgence.”

“My indul—Master Guest! You are treading on very thin ice.”

“As always, Lord Sheriff.” Crispin gave them both a courtly bow before sweeping hurriedly away, listening to their stifled rants behind him. He chuckled to himself. It wasn’t often he could get the better of a sheriff and he knew he would likely pay for it later with the fists of their sergeant William, but he had to return swiftly to court to see if he could catch Julian, the only one who could have overheard him with the servant.

Crispin waited. The guards at the Great Gate were relieved by new men, and while greetings were exchanged and feet
crunched over the icy gravel, Crispin slipped into the shadows near the wall. Months ago, Lancaster told him of a passage into the palace. He steeled himself and moved.

The night fell silent like a corpse dropping to the snow. No one stirred. The bells had long ago fallen silent and would not stir again until dawn. The cold fog still lingered like an unpleasant stench in the courtyard and beyond its walls, and so even Crispin’s breath was not detected as he made his stealthy way in the darkness.

He wrestled his way over an icy garden wall, slid across the sharp stone pinnacle, and dropped down noiselessly to the other side. Ahead lay the large blocky shape of the palace. He touched a buttress, running his hand along its cold surface. Using it as his compass in the shrouding gloom, he found St. Stephen’s chapel. The right direction.

More garden walls, more climbing. The repetition served to warm his stiffening limbs, but not the fear of capture. He counted the gardens. He knew where each chamber lay, knew which window he needed. Of course, if it was barred, he’d have to break in. The thought made him chuckle. Breaking into the king’s palace? Richard’s expression would be priceless . . . before the guards bore down on him, of course.

There ahead. The Jews’ apartment. He reached up to the window and wedged his booted foot on a stone plinth, pushing upward. He grabbed hold of the decorative stone and peered within. The heavy drapes had not been entirely closed and so a slim strip of the room was visible. All dark. A red glow from the hearth changed the shadows in the room and he saw the outline of a four-poster bed. The bed curtains remained open. The Jews were not yet abed. Good.

Crispin inched his hand up the casement window, and found the seam. It was latched, but there was enough room to slip his blade through the thin opening. Hoisting his dagger out with a
grunt, he gripped tighter to the decorative stone surrounding the window. The blade skittered off the glass. He paused, listening.

No footsteps.

Holding his breath, he wriggled the steel through, found the latch, and lifted.

The metal latch flipped with a whisper and the casement creaked open. Crispin grabbed it, pulling it wider.

Just then, a window several rooms down opened, spilling candlelight onto the snow-whitened courtyard. A man leaned out and turned.

Crispin froze, hoping against hope that the darkness and fog hid his burglary. But eyes met eyes and Crispin was shocked to see Lancaster staring back at him. And here was Crispin, with one leg already hoisted onto a window ledge that was not his own.

Lancaster’s eyes widened for a moment. When his lips parted it was not to shout, but to swear an oath that Crispin could not hear. The man shook his head slowly, his expression stunned. Finally, he looked pointedly in another direction—perhaps thinking it was better to feign he had seen nothing—and slowly withdrew back inside.

Crispin waited, eyes darting, ears pricked. No sound. No alarm. Just the soft spitting of the fire in the grate and a distant splash of the Thames kissing the shore.

“God’s blood,” he whispered, blinking hard. He gathered himself and slipped inside, lighting on the floor in a crouch. Swiftly, he turned and closed the window again, sheathing his knife. The shock of warmth unsteadied him for a moment, but he quickly recovered and stepped nimbly to the wall nearest the door. At last, he was in the inner chamber! He leaned over and pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement without. Nothing. The physician and his son must be attending the queen, even at this late hour.

Crispin felt safe enough to take a straw from the small canister
near the hearth, enflame the tip, and light a nearby candle. Taking up the candle he raised it and looked about the Spartan room. It was not merely a bedchamber, but an extension of the physician’s workroom. A trestle table was set up in a niche on the other side of the bed. Glass jars with lids and parchments covered it. His eye immediately fell on the closest jar. Floating in some clear liquid was a grayish mass reminiscent of the offal sold by the butcher. Leaning close, he peered at it, a grimace growing. What
was
that? Its vague familiarity raised his gorge. Could it possibly be human?

His anger rising, Crispin longed to sweep it from the table and send it crashing to the floor. What was that physician doing with such a dreadful thing? He looked at the notes in a leather-bound journal lying open on the table beside it and paled. In French, Crispin read the details of experiments with entrails and offal. These were from young creatures but the nature of the creatures was not mentioned.

He lifted the journal and tilted it toward the candlelight, squinting at the tight, careful script. After a bit of reading, he realized that the journal did not belong to the physician, but to the boy Julian, and his anger threw his pulse into a vigorous thrumming.

Flipping pages back, he read the earlier entries, trying to discern what the youth had been up to and liking it not at all. Experiments involving poking the internal organs while they were exposed to the air, the abdomen being sliced open, the poor creature bound and helpless to resist. It explained how long it took the creature to expire and all the abominable note-taking in a dispassionate tone.

He slammed the book closed and panted. Murderers he had known, but
this
!

He searched the rest of the room, looking for other evidence, other horrific things he did not wish to find. More books and scrolls, some in the physician’s hand and some in the youth’s. There was a
wooden pail by the bed and when Crispin inspected it, he saw a twisted mass of discarded rags smeared with dried blood. They
could
have been used for the physician’s art, but when he looked back at the table and its gruesome contents, he could imagine only the one thing.

A door fell shut and he swiftly pinched out the candle flame. His dagger was in his hand, ready.

A key turned in the bedchamber lock. Its pins fell and the latch lifted. With a hushed whine, the door swung open. A figure, haloed by the firelight from the outer chamber, passed the threshold and reached for a candle.

Crispin’s knife met the small of his back. Julian stiffened with a gasp.

“Master Julian,” growled Crispin close to the young man’s ear. “I would not move if I were you.”

“Y-you!” he whispered. He began to tremble. His voice was choked with anger. He tried to turn around but Crispin could see him struggle not to. “You . . . you vile, hideous man! What do you think you are doing here? This is our private chamber!”

“Light the candle.”

“What? I—”

“Light the damned candle!”

The lad swore an oath in French and reached for a straw. He echoed Crispin’s movements of only moments ago and lit the same candle that Crispin had moved to the trestle table. Slowly, Crispin stepped back, his knife still visible. He motioned toward the journal with it. “What is this abomination?”

Eyes darted, narrowed, then looked up at him with hatred. “You could not possibly understand.”

“Try me,” he said.

“How can I explain to a man unfamiliar with the medicinal arts? It would be like explaining the nature of the Almighty to a simpleton.”

Crispin reached back without looking and tapped the glass jar with his knife blade. “What is
that
?” he demanded.

“That?” Julian frowned at him, his brows contracting to an unpleasant “v.” “It is a spleen. It is one of the organs—”