Crispin grabbed his dagger’s hilt in frustration. Did she need to shout her insults across the entire lane? He positioned himself before the door as if to block the sound from the client within, but of course it was far too late. Everyone on the Shambles surely heard her mocking voice. How could they not?
He looked down and realized his hand was still on his dagger hilt. How dearly he wanted to use it on Mistress Kemp! He took a deep breath and dropped his hand away, staring at the closed door. How much had Mistress Walcote heard? His dignity seemed to be a rare commodity these days. And what did it matter in the long run? His personal honor could be measured by the number of coins in his purse. With a weak laugh, he realized that purse was presently empty. He shook his head at the irony. The entire situation was disquieting. The one who hired him was now dead, half a day’s wage still wanting. And now the wife he was hired to follow wanted his services. For what? It did not feel right working for the wife under these circumstances. But coin was coin.
He opened the door.
3
Philippa turned when Crispin entered. Poor he may be, but at least he had a servant to keep his meager room as spotless as he could, even though young Jack Tucker often made himself too scarce to be useful. But today, the floor showed no signs of dirt, and the dust was wiped from the few surfaces of shelf and sill. Even the hearth was clean. A small peat fire threw a ripple of gold across the floor, the only gold that room would likely ever see.
The room itself was small, smaller than even the pavilion tents he used to occupy when he marched to war under the old king’s banner. One shuttered window overlooked the Shambles and a chipped jug with wine sat on the sill of another window on the opposite wall. It opened to reveal a view of the tinker’s courtyard and the many rooftops of London’s streets beyond.
The head of a small pallet bed was situated against the common wall he shared with his landlord Martin Kemp and his wife. On the other side of the hearth in a corner lay a pile of straw where Jack slept, presently unoccupied. A bucket of water sat by the wooden chest near the door. Above that was a shelf of meager foodstuffs—a half-eaten loaf of bread under a cloth, a wedge of cheese, two bowls, and a razor. Nailed to the exposed timber above that was a small brass mirror. A worn table with a wobbly leg took up the space in the middle of the room where a tallow candle on a disk of tin offered its weak light. A chair with arms and a back, and a stool tucked beneath the table, served as both his dining hall and place of business.
These meager sticks of furniture were rented along with the room. Crispin owned only the scant bits of clothing and writing tools lying in the plain wooden chest.
He peeled off his damp cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. Pushing back the hood off his head, he bowed slightly to her. “You made mention you wished to hire me. In what capacity?”
She pouted. Her lips were as red as her velvet gown, and his former sourness was forgotten amid lips and gown and sinewy woman. They reminded him that he still carried the miniature painting of her in his purse. He thought of mentioning it and handing it over, but that was as far as he got.
“How lost does something have to be for you to find it?”
The room’s dim light illuminated only a stripe across her face, revealing heavily draped lids. Her eyes hid beneath thick lashes, unwilling to reveal all. Slanted and sleepy seemed to be their natural posture.
He measured them through the ribboning black smoke of the candle on the table. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve found,” he said. “Perhaps even mortified.”
She exhaled through her nostrils, blowing the candle smoke toward him horizontally for a moment before the smoke spiraled upward again. “You’d be surprised at the things
He allowed himself a smile. “I know little about you or your husband—
“It should.” She strode to the table and leaned her thigh against it. “Kingdoms are bought and sold behind closed doors.”
“I own no kingdoms.”
“To be sure.” She perused the room with mild distaste. “If you are so successful at your profession, then why such poor lodgings? I’ve seen stables that are better furnished.”
His smile faded. “If you do not wish to hire me then don’t waste my time.”
She waved her left hand. The gold band gleamed insolently in the candlelight. “I merely asked because I do not trust easily.”
“Indeed. Then why are you here? Alone.”
She turned to look him in the eye. “I trust myself.”
He lowered his face. That was more than he could say for himself. He remembered how she looked with her impatient lover. His face grew hot with the memory. “You must trust someone if you are to get the help you say you need.” He moved away, putting the table between them. “I have no proof of my deeds except by the word of others. I am not a man to parade my triumphs about my person.”
She made a slow measure of him again. She did not smile, but her guarded posture eventually softened. Even weakened. She bit her bottom lip and turned from him. No longer did she wear the expression of the grand lady of the manor, but that of a frightened girl.
“There is something dangerous, something strange hidden in my house,” she said in her throaty voice. “I believe it is why my husband was killed. I want you to find it and dispose of it.”
He frowned. “Why have you not told the sheriff about this?”
She laughed without pleasure. “I reckon I’m a good judge of character, Master Crispin. And of cunning. Of the two, my choice was you.”
He was also a good judge of character, at least he liked to think so. And a good judge of intonation. He again noticed that her accent somehow did not match her status. Her cultivated speech seemed too careful. “There’s no need to be melodramatic,” he said and crossed the room, took up the iron poker, and jabbed it into the ashes and embers. No fire emerged. He broke some sticks and placed them on the radiant coals, blowing on them to catch a flame. When they did, he poked the small fire to give himself time to think.
She moved slowly toward the hearth, each sinuous step rustling the generous fabric of her gown. “You don’t know. You can’t imagine. They killed poor Nicholas. I wish it had never been brought into my house.” She hugged herself even though the fire now burned warmly.
He walked to the back window and closed the shutter. It did not close all the way, and the wind whistled through the open crack. He moved back toward the fire. “They? Who killed him? Your lover?”
“I have no lover.”
He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are we to play this game again? Very well. Then I will checkmate you. I saw the two of you together at the Thistle. In the room.” He raised his brows meaningfully. “I saw what transpired. Must I go on?”
Her expression did not change except to cool. “I have taken the time, Master Guest, to visit these…lodgings. And I have precious little time to give.”
“You would protect a murderer?”
She turned her face away and he stared instead at a soft cheek and a braid looped over a pink ear. “I protect no one but my husband. Now he is beyond my protection.” She whirled. “What good would it do anyone to kill Nicholas?”
“Why Madam, then your lover could have you for himself.”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. He don’t want—” She pressed her lips closed. This time one edge of her mouth turned up in a smile.
“Then I have another question,” he said, monitoring her reactions. “Did
The smile vanished. “No!”
