The Demon's Parchment (22 page)

Crispin escaped the palace without incident, vowing to return in the morning to further question Julian. When he had looked at the boy to make this avowal, the knave had the nerve to sneer at him.

The fog was no better at this late hour, but it served to hide him from the Watch and he was grateful for that relief at least. Back to London, Crispin was grounded in the familiar as he made his way down Newgate Market until it became the Shambles. He cast an eye to his window above the tinker shop and frowned at the absence of a candle glow piercing the shutters. Perhaps Jack had gone to bed, tiring of waiting for Crispin to return.

He traveled down Cheap and turned the corner at Gutter Lane, and because of the dense fog, he had to travel by rote to the shuttered Boar’s Tusk. He was no stranger to this trek, drunk or sober.

The Boar’s Tusk was a blocky edifice with a stone foundation and lime-washed walls slashed by dark timbering. Some of its roof slates hung precariously over the street, but Crispin viewed all its flaws as a besotted lover disregards the wrinkles of his paramour. The place was as poor as he was and perhaps just as flawed. He felt a kinship with that old building as much as he felt a warm stirring of friendship for those within.

The door was shut and no doubt barred. The entry was a large expanse of old oak, fastened with heavy iron hinges. He pounded upon it and waited a beat before his fist offered a few more.

A voice from within called through it, “Peace, friend. The tavern is shut for the night. Come back on the morrow.”

“But I would have my wine now,” said Crispin as loudly as he dared.

A pause. “Crispin?”

“The same. Open up, Gilbert. I’m cold.”

A heavy beam clunked as it lifted from the door and the way was suddenly opened, revealing Gilbert’s smile and a shadow of a beard on his round face. “Crispin, do you know the hour?” he chided, even as he ushered him in. He closed the door again and replaced the beam to bar it.

“My apologies,” he said with a cursory bow. “But I was hungry. And I need my wine. It has been . . . a day.”

“And perhaps you wanted your friends to offer a comforting ear?” He rested his hand on Crispin’s shoulder and steered him toward the hearth.

The place seemed more solemn without the usual raucous crowd. Forlorn. The shadows hung in the corners like cobwebs. Even the hearth, still glowing from a few good-sized logs, seemed dispirited. But it was warm. He sat, easing a sigh from his lips as Gilbert leaned over him. “I will bring wine and a bit of cold fish. Will that do?”

“Gilbert, you are a saint.”

Gilbert guffawed and rubbed the back of his reddened neck. “That I am not.” He trudged back toward the kitchens, and Crispin heard him call to his servant Ned for some fish.

Crispin leaned back and kneaded the ache in his shoulder, not realizing until he sat down how taut and gnarled his muscle was. Sitting before the fire, he thawed, glad of this small pleasure.

A few moments passed and Gilbert returned. He had a tray
with two stacked bowls, a jug of wine, and a trencher with several fish and a wedge of cheese.

Crispin reached for his money pouch but Gilbert waved him off. “No, Crispin. Tonight you are my guest. It is a rare thing indeed when you come to us as friends.”

Crispin ducked his head as Gilbert set the table. He could feel his cheeks warm from more than the fire. It was true. He had neglected this friendship, using the Boar’s Tusk as a convenient tavern and selfishly taking advantage of the kindness of his hosts. They had befriended him when few would. He owed them far more than an overdue tavern bill.

He mumbled his thanks, too embarrassed to say more.

“So Crispin,” said Gilbert, settling into his chair. He stretched his thick legs, wiggling his pointed-toed shoes toward the fire. His own wine was half gone as he settled the bowl on his ample belly. “Tell me about this terrible day that has you creeping about into taverns well past curfew.”

How much to tell? He eyed Gilbert, knowing the man was oath-bound by friendship never to reveal something Crispin told him in confidence.

“There have been foul murders in the city, Gilbert. Perhaps you have heard—”

“Oh aye,” he said. He suddenly snapped forward, catching his wine bowl in time. His earnest face searched Crispin’s own. “The boy. I heard of it. You are searching for his killer?”

Crispin nodded and drank down the rest. Gilbert quickly refilled it from a round jug. He licked his wine-slickened lips. “God be praised. I know that since you are on it, you will not give up. That child shall find justice.”

Crispin slurped another gulp of wine. He wiped the rest with his hand and took up a fish. It was cold but it didn’t matter. He pulled the meat from the bones and chewed. “
Four
children,” he said quietly.

“Four?” Gilbert muttered a prayer and crossed himself. He did not move or speak for some time. Crispin finished two fish and two more bowls of wine. He was feeling warm and soft.

Gilbert finally looked up at him. His brown eyes flickered to gold in the hearthglow. “And today. What happened today?”

Crispin sighed around the bread in his mouth. He tore off another hunk, dipped it in his wine, and sucked up the soggy dough. “A man who might have told me the culprit was himself murdered.”

“Oh!” Gilbert jerked in his chair. He shook his head in disbelief. “Crispin, this is unbelievable. Unheard of in all of London’s history! How can such a thing be?”

“You do not know the half of it, Gilbert. But I am too much of a friend to fully share the horrors with you.”

Gilbert shuddered. The Langtons had no children. Perhaps this was why they so took to Crispin, forlorn and very like a child in his naïveté when he had first lost everything. Though Gilbert and Eleanor were a scant few years older than he, they still often treated him like their own. For the most part, he ignored it. But today, for the first time,
he
felt like the parent, protecting his charge from the evils of the world. No, he would not tell Gilbert the gruesome details.

“I do not know what London is coming to,” said Gilbert, his voice slurring. The both of them finished the jug in no time. Fortunately, Ned had poked his head out earlier, and now approached with what looked like another full jug.

“Ned, my boy,” said Gilbert. “Bless you. You know us too well.”

“As does Mistress Eleanor,” said Ned. He wore a patched cap and a stained apron. “She warned me she’d box me ears if I didn’t send Master Crispin home soon.”

Crispin eyed the jug critically. “I think much can be accomplished in that time, Ned.”

It was Gilbert who took up the jug, saluted to the retreating Ned, and poured more into each of their bowls.

“Now, I’ve always said. . . .” said Gilbert, leaning precariously toward Crispin as he poured. The jug’s spout barely teetered over the bowl. Crispin pulled his leg out of the way to avoid a drenching. Gilbert laughed. “Whoops. Perhaps this shall be my last bowl.”

“Perhaps it should be,” said Crispin, though his own words weren’t as crisp as when they’d started.

Gilbert thumbed the rim of his bowl. “What was I saying?” He stared at Crispin with a lopsided expression. “Oh yes!” His eyes suddenly brightened and he sloshed his wine when he sat up. “I’ve always said what a clever man you are. You will not let this murderer go free.”

“I thought I had found him tonight. But it might be that I . . . I was wrong.” Even the drink did not take the sting out of it. He drank but it did not numb the irritation he felt for Julian. But it was more than irritation. His emotions seemed all over the map. He could not reconcile his feelings in this instance. He wanted to throttle the young man, to be sure, but there was something else about him.

He laughed at himself and drank. Too much of this had softened his well-earned frustration with the youth. He had not wanted relief from that but from the other strange tidings today: of the secret Jews and the murdered servant, plainly killed by the same monster that slew those boys.

Monster. Was there not a monster on the loose? That strange being that was more demon than man? Had he not seen him with his own eyes? And Jack. He had seen it, too. Dare he call it a Golem?

He raised his head. It felt muzzier than it had before. With a serious tone that came out a bit more slurred than he would have liked, Crispin said, “Gilbert, be warned. Do not let your own out after dark.”

Gilbert blinked at him. “After dark? As a matter of course, we have no cause. Except to the kitchens.”

“Even to go outside to the privy. Stay within.”

“What? But why?”

“Demons are afoot, Gilbert. And I do not say this lightly. I do not know what prowls London’s streets these nights, but I fear for its citizens. Do not go out after dark.”

Gilbert stared at him, his jaw hanging. It took a moment, but he slowly closed it and nodded, fear shining though the wine glaze in his eyes.

Crispin leaned in. “There is no reason to tell Eleanor. I would not cause her undue anxiety.”

“Anxiety about what?” asked Eleanor.

Crispin jumped three feet at least. He pressed a hand to his racing heart. “God’s blood, woman! Must you creep up on a man?”

She smiled and folded her arms over her generous bosom. “Sometimes it is the best way.” She eyed the wine jugs sitting before them. “The hour is late, Gilbert. I think the two of you had best bid your farewells.”

“Can’t a man gossip with his friend, Eleanor?” He swung his arm over Crispin’s shoulder, an overfriendly gesture he would never have attempted when sober.

“Now I am certain you are in your cups. Come now. Up, husband. Let Master Crispin to his bed.”

“I’m not sleepy, Nell,” said Crispin and then stifled a yawn.

“Indeed not.” She pulled the large tavern keeper to his feet. “And neither is this fellow. Which is why his lids droop and his step slackens. The two of you! Adolescents. Go home, Crispin.”

“Home,” he muttered and stood. As soon as he did his vision slanted.
Ah. Just right
.

Ned arrived and Eleanor surrendered Gilbert to him. She took Crispin’s arm and escorted him to the door. “Mayhap you will come to Christmas dinner this year. Do we have to serve it in such an ungodly hour for you to accept our invitation?”

“Christmas.” Crispin was not so drunk that he would capitulate so easily. “I will think on it,” he said with no intention of doing so.

“Aye. I’ll wager you will.” Eleanor was not fooled. Damnable woman.

She propped him against the wall as she lifted the beam that barred the door. She made to open it but the door slipped out of her hands. She gave a little shriek just as Jack Tucker poked his head in. He stuck dirty fingertips into his ears. “Hold, woman! You’ll make me deaf!”

“Jack,” said Crispin, relieved. He needed someone to lean on for the journey home.

Jack looked Crispin over and smirked at Eleanor. “Right drunk, ain’t he?”

She nodded. “As a pickled crabapple.”

Crispin’s foggy brain tried to feel affronted. All he could summon was, “What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Looking for you.”

“I would have come home anon.”

“I ain’t been home.”

Crispin struggled out of the boy’s grasp. Eleanor placed a hand on her hip. She seemed to be wrestling with the notion of pushing them out or hustling them back in.

“Jack! I sent you home hours ago!”

Jack smiled. It was the most insincere thing about him. “I didn’t go. I got a notion. About that Golem, sir.”

Eleanor frowned at them but Jack’s words seemed to decide it. She closed the door and replaced the beam, then shooed them toward the fire. “Well, you might as well sit down if you are to have a discussion. And what, pray, is a ‘Golem’?”

Jack sat but then shifted forward on his seat. “Oh Mistress! It is a foul monster!”

“Jack,” warned Crispin.

“A fiend who stalks the night. We seen him. Master Crispin and me.”

“Jack. . . .”

“He was huge and awful. Murdering boys and such with his bare hands—”

“JACK!”

Jack turned mildly toward Crispin. “Aye? What is it?”

The worst had been done. It couldn’t now be unsaid. Crispin sat back. “Never mind.”

“Well then.” Jack licked his lips, staring anxiously at the discarded wine bowls. Eleanor pushed the jug decidedly away toward the other end of the table. With a sigh, Jack gripped the table’s edge. “There is this Jew physician at the palace—oh!” He turned a sheepish expression toward Crispin. “Was I supposed to keep that part a secret?”

Crispin waved his hand and settled back, resting his chin on his chest. “I have no secrets, apparently.”

Jack blinked. “Well.” He looked at Eleanor who urged him on with a gesture. “And so, there is this Jew and he lost some parchments. But they were magical parchments because some whoreson—beggin’ your pardon, Mistress—used them to summon this demon.”

She gasped. “Oh Crispin! Is this true?”

With eyes closed, he waved his head as vaguely as he could. Eleanor took this as an affirmative and Jack as a cue to continue. “They’re made out of clay, these Golems, and the demon somehow goes into the clay body, see. And then it tromps all over London at night, killing what he wills.”

Crispin snorted, barely awake at this point. “Jack, you’re getting it quite wrong.”

“No, I ain’t. It’s killing boys is what it is. And
worse
!”

Eleanor planted her chin on her hand. “What do you mean by ‘worse’?”

“Eleanor!” said Crispin. “For Christ sake.”

“Very well,” she said, waving him off. “Did
you
encounter it? How did you get away?”

“It was a fair pace from us. We tried to follow the beast but it was a slick piece of work. Got clean away every time Master Crispin chased it.”

Her eyes flicked to Crispin. “You gave chase?”

“He did,” answered Jack proudly. “He don’t fear nought, does Master Crispin.”

“Only your loose tongue,” he grumbled.

“And so, this night, when Master Crispin sent me home—”

“Where you should have gone!”

“I got m’self an idea. This Golem is made of clay, ain’t it? And me and Master Crispin saw the bits of clay for ourselves, didn’t we? So I thought to m’self, ‘Where can a body get that much clay?’ ”