Veil of Lies (23 page)

22

Crispin waited impatiently for the servant to return with Lionel and Clarence Walcote. He had already checked the window—still barred. But the murderer could have come through the secret door, from the kitchens, or from the front door for all he knew. There was little struggle. He was captured from behind, much like Nicholas Walcote.

There were muffled voices and hard footsteps coming from the stairs. Crispin waited by the body as the brothers entered and gasped at the sight at Crispin’s feet.

“He’s been garroted,” said Crispin.

Clarence’s face shone bone white in the torchlight. He eyed Lionel, who tapped his keys on his front teeth.

The servant who had tried to rein in Crispin stood in the doorway, grasping tightly to the doorpost. He looked as if he would faint. “You there,” said Clarence.

“Matthew, sir.”

“Matthew. Go and fetch the sheriff. Make haste!”

The servant turned and instantly obeyed. They all listened to his feet hit each step and then slap across the hall.

Lionel glared at his brother, probably for such impertinence as to supersede his authority.

Crispin knelt by the body. He pulled away the rope from Adam’s neck, tossing the instrument aside. He straightened and glanced about the room. Adam faced away from the secret passage, but judging from the new footprints in the dust, he’d plainly been inside it. One of his shoes had fallen off in his struggle and lay near the empty box.

Crispin retrieved the shoe and stepped back into the passage. He found a clean footprint with dried drops of blood and placed the shoe atop it.

Didn’t fit.

He let the shoe drop and examined Adam’s body. He found long, fair hairs clutched between his fingers. In his last act to try to save himself, he must have reached behind, grabbed the assailant’s head, and plucked them out. But of course, it had done him no good.

“What is all this?” Lionel bellowed.

Crispin walked across the room twice, looking over the body, the box, the open portal, and finally the two men who stared at him. “As near as I can make it, Adam found something here he never expected to find: this portal.”

Crispin stepped over the box and reached the passage. He turned toward the brothers. “But you two knew it was there. Didn’t you?”

“I remember it now,” said Clarence. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Lionel?”

“Yes,” he said. “But what of this box?”

“It contained something else Adam also knew nothing about. Something that our friend, the false Nicholas hid in it.”

Lionel edged closer, nudging the overturned box with his foot. “Is that why he was murdered?”

“That’s what I thought at first. But not now.”

“Oh? Then what’s on your mind, Guest? Spill it.”

Crispin eyed the two. “I don’t think I’m ready to say just yet.”

Lionel advanced on him but Crispin was spared further explanation when the sheriff arrived.

“Damn this family!” cried Wynchecombe. He swept in without ceremony and planted his feet in the room, his back to the doorway and to Crispin. “What have you done now, by God?”

Crispin took the opportunity to slip from the room and into the gallery. Wynchecombe’s muffled voice boomed in the background, becoming a low rumble the further away he got.

Crispin made it downstairs to the hall. A small boy stepped out onto the hall’s painted floor, but when he saw Crispin, he ducked back in the shadows. Crispin swooped and nabbed him by his shoulder cape.

“Jesus mercy! Help! I’m being killed!” The boy struggled and squealed like a captured piglet.

“Stop that noise, boy. I’m doing nothing of the kind.” He set the boy down and crouched low to look him in the eye. He jerked his thumb behind him. “I’m not part of that crowd upstairs.”

The boy hesitated. He ran his grimy finger under his moist nose. “Are you the sheriff’s man?”

“No, I’m my own man. I am the Tracker.”

As if a taper lit behind his eyes, the boy beamed with pleasure. “You’re Crispin Guest, ain’t you? I heard of you.”

Crispin repressed a blush by nodding his head. “Yes, I am Crispin Guest. Now can you help me? I need to find the servants of Lionel and Clarence Walcote. Can you tell me where they are now?”

“What you want them for?”

“I merely want to talk to them.”

The boy seemed small in the harsh light of the nearby torch. His smudged pug nose sat between close-set brown eyes. The wrinkling of his nose indicated that this was perhaps one of the most important questions he had ever been asked.

“Well, if you only want to talk with them. They’re in the kitchens. Everyone’s there now, talking about Master Adam’s murder.”

“Much thanks,” he said, and patted the boy’s shoulder.

Crispin followed the boy to the kitchen close and clambered through the narrow passage, making sure he ducked for the low beam.

When he emerged into the kitchen the buzz of conversation stopped and all turned to him.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Crispin Guest. I am not with the sheriff, but I am investigating these murders. If you will, I would speak with the valets of Lionel and Clarence Walcote.”

No one moved or spoke. Crispin wondered if they trusted him as much as the boy did. When his gaze roved over the closed faces, every eye seemed to avert from him. Who was Crispin, after all? As far from their like as could be, he supposed.

After a long, strained silence, a man moved out of the crowd. He was thin with a stick neck and long hands and fingers. He looked over his shoulder and motioned to someone. “Come on, Harry. It won’t do any harm to see what the gentleman wants.”

Harry sidled out of the crowd. He was of average height and girth, with an equally nondescript nose, and small beads of eyes. His mouth was petite and rosy. “Why’d you go and roust me out, Michael?”

“Hush, now,” said Michael. “This here is Crispin Guest. Haven’t you heard of him?”

“No. You go and put importance on people that don’t deserve it.”

“He’s that Tracker they talk about.”

“I don’t often come to London,” said Harry. “Not like you.”

“Gentlemen,” Crispin interrupted. “Please.” Those in the crowded hall did not move and many in the back strained forward to hear. “Let us go to a private location and discuss this.”

Michael motioned with his hand and Crispin and Harry followed him to a door. A pantry; a stone edifice of arches and mews. Harry lit a candle but it did little to light their conversation.

“Now Michael,” said Crispin. He and the other two leaned toward the candle, a coven of faces in flickering gold light. “You say you and your master come often to London?”

“Oh aye. Every two or three months it seems.”

“Were you here when the man known as Nicholas Walcote was killed?”

“No, sir. We did not yet come.”

“Was your master here before you?”

Michael’s face elongated. “Well now! How did you know that, sir?”

Crispin’s grin gleamed in the candlelight. “A good guess.” He turned to Harry, whose features were all angles and planes in the small light. “Was your master at home?”

“Aye, sir. I remember when the messenger came from London to tell us.”

“A
messenger
from London?” Crispin rubbed his jaw and realized he hadn’t shaved. He turned to the other. “Michael, when you valeted for your master after the death of Nicholas Walcote, was there a stain on one of his leggings?”

“Aye, sir. On his knee. It took a devil of a time to clean it proper. That were a stubborn stain.”

“I will wager, Michael, that your master is Lionel Walcote.”

“Right, sir. How did you know?”

He smiled but did not answer. “How long was he in London?”

“He left ’bout a sennight ago.”

“When he came to London, did he ever visit his brother?”

“Oh no, sir. He and Master Nicholas never did get on well.”

“He
never
visited his brother?”

Michael nodded. “Master Nicholas always refused to admit him. It’s a sad thing when grown men cannot put their past hates aside.”

“Did he hate Master Nicholas?”

Michael glanced at Harry. “Well now, hate is a strong word. I don’t know if I meant that—”

“Never mind,” said Crispin. “How is Master Lionel’s business? Is that why he came often to London?”

“Funny you should say. I probably shouldn’t speak of it,” said Michael, looking behind him, “but it is rumored that he is all but ruined. And it must be so, for there have been no feasts in the household for nigh on two years now. And he sold off much of the household goods.”

“Indeed. And how fares Master Clarence?”

“Well and good, sir, as far as I can tell,” said Harry.

“Did he know of Master Lionel’s plight?”

Harry looked at Michael and chuckled. “I doubt it. They never have nought to do with one another.”

“Then how do you know each other?”

The two men exchanged glances and smiled. “We’re brothers,” said Harry. “We don’t carry on like them Walcotes, though we was raised in the Walcote household. We’ve seen much, I dare say.”

Crispin nodded. “I dare say you have.” He felt at his purse for the customary gratuity, but realized he had nothing to give. He cleared his throat and reddened while he bowed instead. “I thank you both.”

They returned to the kitchen where the men immersed again with their brethren. Crispin scanned the crowd, missing what he was looking for, and climbed the stairs, ducking the low beam. With money scarce, Lionel no doubt thought it was time to get rid of the rich brother. Even though he would share the inheritance with Clarence, it was bound to be an enormous sum. Crispin’s steps slowed as he considered. Perhaps Lionel stalked him for some time, but since Nicholas never left the house, Lionel would never know it wasn’t Nicholas. Lionel knew about the passage, though, and could make his way to the solar without detection. A perfect murder. Even with a wife, there was bound to be something in the will for the brothers, or they could contest the will and seize all from the wife.

Crispin reached the bottom of the stairs of the main house. He looked up the staircase and still heard Wynchecombe bellowing.

But discovering that Nicholas was an imposter was even better. There would be no difficulty at all now in inheriting his estates. Philippa would have no claim.

Crispin slowly climbed the stairs. Lionel imagined himself free and clear. So why kill Adam Becton? It made no sense, especially as the Mandyllon apparently played no role in the imposter Nicholas Walcote’s death. But it might have played a role in Adam’s murder, else why was the box strewn on the floor?

He waited for the answer to click in his head. Still a missing piece. He was close, though. As soon as he found that piece, he knew all would make sense.

Crispin peered into the solar. Adam’s body was removed and the sheriff was bearing down on a servant with all the malice in his being—until he glanced up and saw Crispin. As if tossing aside a well-gnawed bone, Wynchecombe abandoned the servant and made for Crispin.

“You!” The sheriff pointed a gloved finger at him.

Crispin steeled himself.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I am at your serv—” But Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him along down the stairs before Crispin could fully reply.

Still clutching Crispin’s arm, the sheriff rumbled across the courtyard to several horses held by a page. William, the sheriff’s man, held his own tether loosely and grinned when he beheld Crispin being dragged across the gravel.

“We will talk on the way to Newgate,” said Wynchecombe. He jabbed his boot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up.

Crispin frowned. “Must I trot alongside you like a dog?”

The sheriff’s scowl drooped his beard and mustache. “William. Give him your horse.”

William’s grin fell away. “
My
horse? Lord Sheriff—”

“Give it to him!”

William glared daggers before he threw the tether at Crispin.