you was once a knight and know all sorts of matters.”
He waved his hand and scowled, but that, too, hurt his head. “Never mind that. Past history. It is your difficulty that intrigues me now. You have a problem and I am happy to solve it for you. But . . . I am paid for such a service.”
“I couldn’t find Livith, so I came to you. Not the sheriffs. They scare me. I heard you was smart like her. Like Livith. You could reckon things out.”
“Yes, that is true. But I do so for a fee. Do you understand?”
“Livith won’t let me have money.”
No surprise there. “Where is the dead man now?”
“In our room. At the King’s Head Inn. We’re scullions there. He’s got an arrow in him, doesn’t he?”
“No. Never saw him before. But he’s dead now.”
“Never fear. I will do my best to find the man who killed him.”
She cocked her head and blinked. “But I already know who killed him.”
Crispin made a surprised sound, but before he could respond with a question, the door flung wide. Crispin shot to his feet and blocked the woman from the unknown intruder.
A ginger-haired boy dashed into the room, slammed and bolted the door, and rested against it, panting. He looked up at Crispin through a mane of curled locks. Riotous freckles showed darker against his bone pale skin.
“Jack!” Crispin put a hand to his throbbing head. “What by God’s toes are you doing?”
“Master,” said the boy. His gaze darted between the girl peering around Crispin’s back and then up to Crispin again. “Nought. Nought much.”
Crispin glared at his charge. Jack Tucker was more trouble than any servant had a right to be. Certainly more so than had served him in the past. A pitiful servant, was Tucker. Seldom present when needed, almost always an annoyance, and just another mouth to feed. He had not wanted a servant! Not anymore. Not when he didn’t deserve one.
Ah, if only seven years ago Crispin had not plotted treason. If only he had not been caught by the king’s guards. If only they hadn’t stripped him of his knighthood and his lands. If only . . . if only. Then he wouldn’t be living on the stinking streets of the Shambles above a tinker’s shop with a thief as a servant and a simpleton girl as a client.
Jack was eyeing the wine jug and Crispin was about to berate him for interrupting when the tinker’s door below shook with muffled pounding. Crispin crossed to the opposing wall and threw open the shutters to the small window overlooking the street. The stench of butchering and offal rose to his second-story room. A boy lugging chickens in a stick cage hurried next door to the poulterer followed by a man carrying several dead coneys by their feet. He tramped through the mud, the rabbits’ long ears dragging with each stride.
Crispin leaned out over the sill. Two men stood at the tinker shop door right below him and beat on it with their fists.
He turned back to the room. “For God’s sake, Jack. What have you done?”
Jack shrugged, still looking at the girl. “Begging your pardon, sir, for interrupting.”
“Why are those men after you?”
“It’s a little disagreement over property, you might say.”
“You stole from them.”
Jack opened his mouth. His brows widened. “Now why is that the first thing you think about me?” He thrust his fist into his hip. “I get into a little bit of trouble and you think I’ve gone and cut a purse.”
“Well? Did you?”
“Ain’t that beside the point?”
Beneath Crispin’s window, the men grumbled as they waited, and Crispin peered out again, observing them. Martin Kemp, Crispin’s landlord, opened his shop door a crack. The meek tinker made his polite inquiries. And then the men answered. Crispin couldn’t hear the words exactly, but their voices rose in volume as each side argued their case. The shrill voice that joined the others could only be Martin’s wife, Alice. Crispin winced at the sound filtering up through the timbers. Her appearance only made things worse and, against Martin’s protest, the men finally pushed past him. All of them rumbled up Crispin’s stairs, still arguing.
Jack sprinted toward the other window facing the back courtyard. “Sorry, Master. Must go. We’ll talk later.” He quickly pushed opened the shutter and looked back apologetically toward Crispin. Scrambling out the window, Jack leaped down to the next building and minced across the rooftops.
Crispin closed both windows and made a contrite smile to the girl who didn’t seem to understand or care what was happening.
His door suddenly shuddered under pounding fists. Steeling himself, he unbolted and yanked open the door, filling the threshold with indignation. “What is the meaning of this?”
The gathering pulled up short. Clearly they did not expect Crispin or his refined accent. Two strangers—one thin and golden-haired and the other short and robust with dark, bushy brows—stood on the landing beside the tinker Martin Kemp and his wife. “We beg your pardon, good sir,” said the blond-haired man, making a curt bow, “but we were chasing a thief and have good reason to believe he came this way.”
Crispin kicked the door wider so they could see into the sparse room. “Does it look like he’s here?”
They stared at the girl—eyes wide, mouth gaping—and then at Crispin. “No sir,” said the man with the bushy brows. He scanned the room again, and gave a resigned nod.
The tinker’s wife, Alice, pushed forward. “He’s here. Mark me.”
The bushy-browed man frowned at Alice and then at Crispin. “Sir,” he said, “if that boy is here we demand you surrender him to us. He’s a thief and we’re here to see he gets his just punishment.”
“Nonsense. This is my entire lodgings. Do you suggest he is hiding in the walls?”
As one, they all leaned down to look under the pallet bed—the only likely place left.
A solitary chamber pot sat in the shadows.
The bushy-browed man huffed with disappointment and they all straightened again.
Alice postured. “He’ll hang from the highest gibbet, if I have my way.”
“Hush, dear,” said the tinker out of the side of his mouth. His leather cap, snug against his head, trembled with agitation.
The men muttered together until the bushy-browed man finally said, “We’ll trouble you no more, sir. Our apologies. God keep you.” They bowed to him and the girl, gave Alice a scathing look, and slowly retreated down the stairs.
Martin and Alice remained on the landing.
Crispin glanced back at the girl. Clients were few and far between and the rent—as always—was late. If this girl could name the killer like she said, it could mean a reward from the sheriff. He studied her simpleton’s face and clenched his teeth.
If there
He tried to close the door, but Alice Kemp put out a large hand and stopped it. “That is the third time this week that boy has been in trouble,” she said, voice rising like a banshee. “I should call the sheriff on him.”
“Now my dear,” said Martin. His slim frame did not seem a match for Alice’s plumpness. Crispin knew the tinker could swing a hammer with all grace and skill, but could not seem to manage his wife. “There’s no need for that. Crispin can take care of any difficulty, can’t you, Crispin?”
The last was a plea and Crispin nodded. “Yes, Mistress Kemp. I will do my best.”
“Your best! Ha! Your best is piss poor.” She eyed the girl. “And this had better be a client, Crispin Guest, for I’ll have none of your whoring under my roof.”
“Madam!” He sputtered and drew up, glaring down his sharp nose at her. “This young woman
Martin paled and yanked his wife back out of the threshold. Crispin slammed the door and threw the bolt. He breathed through his nostrils at the wood, and listened as their steps disappeared downward. He counted to ten, turned back to the room, and tried to grin, but the throbbing in his head would not allow it. “I apologize,” he said