Veil of Lies (13 page)

“
You,
threatening
me
? You, who have my boot marks upon your face?”

“It is a small price to pay. And my associates are many. My employers have long arms.”

Crispin chuffed a laugh. “Italian syndicate indeed! What nonsense. A mob of Venetian merchants!”

“Lombardy.”

“Lombardy, is it?”

Mahmoud’s smile dimmed. “Perhaps.” He shrugged, a little nervously, Crispin thought. Had he given away too much? “If you don’t believe me, well then. You must certainly kill me.”

Crispin’s lip curled. He approached Mahmoud with steady steps. His naked hand curled into a fist.

“Yet I see in your eyes that kernel of doubt,” said Mahmoud quickly. “Do I speak the truth? If she died it would be your fault. And you are the kind of man who possesses the luxury of guilt. Whereas I am not.”

Crispin did not stop his advance. He grabbed the man’s hair, yanked, and pulled his dagger, close to sliding its sharp edge over his throat. Mahmoud never took his gaze from Crispin’s.

The blade poised at Mahmoud’s throat a long time. Crispin watched the play of firelight undulate on the knife’s shiny face.

But as much as he desired to spill the Saracen’s blood, to let it run hot and fast across the floor, he worried Mahmoud might have spoken the truth. He could not let harm come to Philippa. The thought curdled his blood.

He withdrew his blade and backed away. “You will have no more congress with her.”

“Perhaps.”

Crispin decided to play his hand. “Is it the cloth you want?”

Mahmoud blinked slowly but betrayed nothing, neither recognition of the cloth nor puzzlement.

“Did you hear me?”

“Quite well, Lord Crispin. I simply have no reply.”

Mahmoud’s loosened tongue had fallen silent and there was nothing more Crispin could do. But there was one thing he could make certain of. “Nevertheless, you will have nothing more to do with Philippa Walcote.”

Mahmoud smiled.

“There is worse I can do to you than kill.” To emphasize the point, Crispin crouched beside Mahmoud, picked up a cucumber from the floor, and beheaded the tip with the sharp knife.

Mahmoud’s smile faded.

“We have an understanding,” said Crispin through his teeth. He tossed the cucumber aside and rose to his full height. Crispin wiped the knife, sheathed it, and strode with deliberate indolence to the exit, slamming the door behind him.

His only thought was to get to Philippa as quickly as possible, but the rain was rasping harder, making the heavily trodden street a slurry.

Crispin finally arrived at the Walcote manor and made his way to the kitchen entrance. He felt relief at seeing a friendly face.

“John Hoode!” he called and the man stopped.

“Crispin! Tut! Your face will never heal if you keep getting into fights.”

Crispin touched his swollen cheek. In his confrontation with Mahmoud, he’d forgotten it. He took Hoode aside and spoke in low tones. “Never mind that. I know you are here in the kitchens, but I want you to do your best to keep an eye on your mistress.”

Hoode’s tone dropped to match Crispin’s. “Whatever for?”

“Her life may be in danger. Since you are here in this house when I am not, I ask that you be vigilant.”

“Bless me!” he whispered in an irritatingly high tenor. “I won’t have to fight anyone, will I? I don’t mind saying that I’m not made for that.”

Crispin eyed his long hands and tapered fingers. “I hope it will not come to that. Just make certain to send a message to me if any foreigners come to call.”

“What sort of foreigners?”

“Saracens. Or Italians. Both are dangerous.”

“Can you tell me what this is about? I’ll feel a bit of a fool jumping at the merest shadow, thinking the worst.”

He eyed Hoode and forced his lips into a tight line. “Perhaps it is best not to speak of it. Only inform me if these strangers intrude.”

“I don’t know how I’m to do that, unless you let your man stay.”

“Is Jack here now?”

“Oh aye. I thought you knew.”

“Where?”

Hoode led Crispin into a storeroom. Jack sat on a firkin, his face bulging with food and a half-eaten pasty in his hand.

“Master!” he sputtered. Food dribbled down his shirt when he shot to his feet. He swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth with his hand. He looked down at the pasty and stuffed it in his scrip. “I thought I’d find you here anon. I’ve been looking for you. I’ve got something from the sheriff.”

Crispin watched Jack wipe his hands down his tunic. It did not bode well that the sheriff was sending him written messages.

With relatively clean hands, Jack pulled the missive free from his belt and handed the folded paper to Crispin. Crispin raised a brow at the wax seal and turned the parcel in his hands. The thick parchment was rough under his fingers and it made a soft crackling sound as he turned it again.

He bent the parchment at the seal and snapped it, pushing the rest open with a fingernail and cursing when some of the wax embedded under the nail. Carefully, he unfolded the missive and flattened it against his thigh. He lifted it to the light and read.

“He sealed it and everything,” said Jack excitedly. “What’s it mean?”

Crispin lowered the parchment again, the formal words on the missive running through his mind. “It is a summons, a formal command to attend him.”

Jack scratched his chin. “He’s called you before with messengers. Why so proper this time?”

“Indeed. That’s what worries me.” The note was plain enough; the language uninspired and vague. He folded it again and put it in his purse. “Did you give your message to Mistress Walcote?”

“Aye. But she pretended she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Damn the woman!” His hand slapped the scabbard, trying to find comfort in the hard solidity of the weapon. He had no time for her now. “I must answer this summons. Stay here. Tell Mistress Walcote that you will escort her to the Boar’s Tusk in an hour’s time. Do not take ‘no’ for an answer. Hoode here will explain. He’ll send you to me if it is necessary.”

10

When Crispin reached Wynchecombe’s hall he stood in the doorway a long time before the sheriff acknowledged him. With a curt nod, Wynchecombe motioned for Crispin to enter and he walked cautiously forward under the arch. Piled with writs, Wynchecombe’s table stood beside the roaring hearth. Crispin stood as close as he could to the fire, though it was hard to feel real warmth in such a place.

The sheriff took a swig of his wine without looking up and signed a document before reaching for another. He read it, his head tracking from side to side.

Crispin had known Simon Wynchecombe long enough to realize he was being played with. The man delayed the inevitable—whatever that was and for whatever reason. Was it the seriousness of the summons that gave Wynchecombe pause? The thought certainly pitched the butterflies in Crispin’s stomach into a blizzard.

The fire cast a bright and deceptively comforting glow into the room, and a fat candle on his desk did its best to illumine the papers. The oiled animal skin stretched taut in the window frame allowed the sunlight, such as it was, to filter through its golden aura. A rushlight torch in a sconce brightened a corner, but this, too, could only do so much for the gloom that frowned across the tower room. Crispin wasn’t certain whether Wynchecombe preferred it dark or didn’t know any better.

The sheriff poised his quill over the document and lingered. The tip dripped a blob of black ink onto the page but it didn’t distract the sheriff. Finally, he tossed the paper aside unsigned with an exhaled, “Bah!”

Raising his head at last, he glared at Crispin through his black brows. His mouth turned down in a gargoyle’s exaggerated grimace when he looked him over. “By the mass! What happened to you?”

Crispin did not touch his face this time. The dull throb of leftover bruises reminded him enough of what his face looked like. His neck still felt the marks of the henchman’s fingers. “Some of it is your work and some the work of others.”

“You continue to be popular,” the sheriff said with a smirk.

“As always, my Lord Sheriff.” Crispin thought it mete to add a bow, but it appeared more patronizing than appeasing. “Prior to this you sent messengers and ‘escorts.’” He pulled the missive from his scrip and held it up before letting it glide to the table. “Why this time a summons?”

“A summons is official. It is a record that you were called to this place at this time.” Wynchecombe picked up the document and called for his clerk in the outer room. The burly man entered, took the parchment from Wynchecombe’s hand, and left the room, raising his head only once to glare at Crispin. “Sometimes,” said the sheriff, “it’s important to have a record.”

“I ask again. Why?”

Wynchecombe glared at him, paused for some sort of emphasis—that he was among the elect and Crispin was not. But it did no good. “Dammit Crispin. Must you be privy to everything?” He lifted his papers halfheartedly and let them fall again. “We have an informal relationship, you and I. Perhaps too informal.”

“Is that
your
complaint? Or the complaint of others?”

“I will not discuss this with you. I called you here and it is enough that I did so. This is the office of the Lord Sheriff. That explanation should be satisfactory enough for you. Now I want to know if you have discovered the murderer yet?”

“No. Have you?”

Wynchecombe made a disgusted snort and sat back, allowing informality to creep back into their parley. “You have no idea the trouble this work is. Sheriffing. I tried to refuse it when the ‘honor’ came my way, but the king’s laws make certain one’s obedience.”

“Heavy fines?”

“‘Heavy’ is not the word. I have my own business to run, you know. But when the king commands…”

“Yes, I know well.”

Wynchecombe seemed to forget his own troubles for a moment and smiled at Crispin’s. “So you do.”

“Simon, my patience is sorely tried. Did you bring me here to tell me new evidence or to acquire some from me?”

“Do you have new evidence?”

Crispin’s crooked smile returned. “No.”

“Liar.” Wynchecombe rose and leaned over his desk. “And don’t call me Simon.”

“Of course, my lord.” He raised a hand to his aching head. He wished Wynchecombe would let him sit before he fell over.

Wynchecombe lowered back into his chair and waved Crispin to one as well. Crispin eased down.

The sheriff gnarled his hands into frustrated fists. His features darkened in the dim light of his chamber.

“This business of Nicholas Walcote,” said the sheriff. “I think you best leave it to the authorities.”

“Oh? Why?”

The sheriff slammed his fist against the table. He gritted his teeth. “Because I said so!”

“Oh well then. That is settled.”

“Don’t be flippant, Guest. I do not think you would fare well if I decided to take my fists to you again.”

“I’ve had enough of fists for the moment,” he admitted and rubbed his jaw.

“I heard some strange tidings about you. Something about getting tossed into the Thames?”

Crispin chuckled. “There’s nothing to tell. As you say. I am still popular.”

“If you will not say, then there is nothing I can do. Content yourself and forget about Walcote.”

“And why should I care to do that? The man owes me money.”

“The man is dead.”

“Yes. And I admit that makes it harder to collect.”

“What did he owe you?” Wynchecombe reached for his scrip and brought out some coins from a pouch.

Crispin rose. His lips parted with disbelief. “What…what are you doing?”

“I’m paying the debt so that you can put this aside.”

“What goes on here? You? Paying my fee?”

“Crispin, just take these coins and content you.”

None of it made sense. A syndicate. Saracens. Italians. A dead merchant and a holy relic. And now Wynchecombe paying his fee? “Who told you to warn me off this case? You said the guild was pressuring you to make a conclusion. Did they force you to write this summons? What do they have to do with the king’s justice?” Crispin’s mind lighted on the accounting ledgers and especially the customs book back in his lodgings. It also made him think of the man in livery following him. Was it a guild’s livery?

Wynchecombe screwed up his lips but said nothing. “Mark me,” he said at last. “Bad things can happen to disobedient servants. So why don’t you be an obedient fellow and forget about the murder and simply take these coins!”

“To hell with your coins!”

“Don’t pursue this. You will regret it if you do.”

Almost the same words Mahmoud used. Crispin studied the sheriff’s tightened face, and though its expression appeared strained, it revealed nothing more.

“Just do as I bid, Crispin. For your own good, stay out of this.”

The wet wood on the fire hissed its steam, and a rat scurried somewhere along the wall; a counterpoint to the silence and to Crispin’s undigested thoughts.

“I see. May I go, Lord Sheriff?”

Wynchecombe sighed. “Are you going to leave it alone?”

He blinked slowly. “May I go?”

The sheriff rolled back in his thronelike chair and curled his fingers around the carved arms. He raised one hand to gnaw at a knuckle. An oval stone on his ring reflected the disinterested light. He stroked his mustache with the ring until he dropped his hand to his lap. “Go, then. But if you do not heed me, no one but God can help you.”

Crispin bowed low, the way he used to at court, and swept quickly from the chamber.

He walked brusquely toward the Boar’s Tusk wondering what had just transpired. Obviously Wynchecombe was hiding something. He’d never told Crispin to stay away from an investigation before. If anything, the opposite was true.
Was
the mercer’s guild pressuring the sheriff? And if so, what did they hold over Wynchecombe that they could twist him to their will?

Crispin turned his head, glancing up Newgate’s high walls before they disappeared beyond the roof peaks and spires of London’s clustered streets. The only thing that made him feel better at all was the prospect of wine at the Boar’s Tusk and of seeing Philippa, though not necessarily in that order.

He crossed the lane and only glanced to the side to make certain no carts would run him down when he noticed two men a stone’s throw away. They wouldn’t have been particularly noticeable had the one not had extremely broad shoulders and a head of black, curly hair. His well-shaped but large nose overshadowed dark, thick lips. The other man was small-boned and stood shorter, only making it as far as the larger one’s shoulder. His face, sharp and pointed, was more like a rat’s. They wore decent clothes but not English garb. And they were staring at him.

Crispin walked a long time, but he couldn’t be certain they weren’t following him until he ducked down an alley and out into another avenue. A surreptitious glance back told him he had company.

He wove through alleys that were little more than a tight gap, and stepped quickly down familiar streets.
Stay with me, gentlemen. It’s only a little farther.

He found the dead-end alley he wanted and climbed some barrels to the roof. He laid himself flat on the rain-slick tiles, loosened two slates—one for each hand—and waited.