Sundays and feast days.’ ” He looked at Jack as if to confirm such a well-known fact. “That was decreed by the king’s grandfather King Edward of Windsor. But it isn’t Sunday or a feast day.”
“This decree”—Wynchecombe glanced at the document—“says that all men must practice
Crispin sat up. “Does the king expect an invasion?”
“It’s a possibility. Unless that Crown is returned forthwith.”
Crispin sat back and tipped his bowl, breathing in the vapors. He stretched out his legs and crossed one ankle over the other. “Do you wish to hire me to find it?”
Wynchecombe laughed. “You are the damnedest man I have ever met, Guest. Is there no opportunity you won’t exploit?”
“I merely assumed—”
Wynchecombe stopped laughing. “I didn’t summon you. Why did you come?”
Crispin offered a lopsided grin. “I came here to report a dead man. At the King’s Head.”
Wynchecombe shot to his feet. “I knew it!” He jabbed a long finger at Crispin. “I
Crispin stared at the bottom of the empty wine bowl with a frown and set the cup aside. “Do I need to say it?”
“You are in quite a kettle!” crowed the sheriff. He laughed and slapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Now then. Tell me all you know.”
Crispin’s gaze rose languidly. “There’s not much to tell. The women found the dead man in their room and came to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I find things, remember? Murderers, lost items. I am paid for many feats of intellect, my Lord Sheriff. I know you wouldn’t understand such.”
Crispin expected it, braced for it, and wasn’t disappointed when the sheriff grabbed his shoulder cape and hauled him to his feet. Nose to nose, the sheriff glared into Crispin’s face, blowing hot breath on him. “I’ve had about enough of you and your mockery, Guest. You are
Crispin resettled to a sitting position and straightened his clothes.
The sheriff yanked his dagger free and slapped it on the table. “I ask a question. For each wrong answer— you lose something.”
Crispin eyed the blade, the brass crosspiece, and the jeweled pommel. “ ‘Something’?”
“An ear, a finger.” His lips peeled back. “
Crispin looked back at Jack. “You’re not making this conversation very appealing.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“And here I came to you in good faith telling you of a body—”
“That I already knew about. Come, come, Guest. I await your answer.”
“What was the question?”
Wynchecombe snatched the knife and held the side of the blade to Crispin’s throat. “Dammit, Guest! Do you mock me?”
The metal felt cool against his neck. “They say ‘wit is educated insolence.’ ”
The sheriff held the blade to Crispin’s skin a moment more before withdrawing it. “Your Aristotle again?”
“Yes, my lord.” Crispin eased back, but not altogether relaxed. He rubbed his neck. “I commend him to you. He has an aphorism for all occasions.”
“Why read him”—Wynchecombe did not sheath the blade, but toyed with the sharp tip instead—“when you are too fond of quoting him to me?”
Crispin closed his eyes and nodded. “Just so.”
“But you delay the inevitable.” Wynchecombe tapped the flat of the blade into his palm. “Tell me about the women and what you found in that room. And be careful of your answer.”
Casually, Crispin wiped sweat from his upper lip. He spared Jack a glance. The boy cringed in the corner. It looked like a good idea. “The women feared they would be blamed for the man’s death, so they hired me to discover the murderer.”
The blade tapped dully on Wynchecombe’s naked palm. Crispin watched it. “So? Where are the women now?” Crispin opened his mouth and took a breath, but Wynchecombe interrupted. He waggled the blade at Crispin’s face. “Be careful how you answer.”
“As careful as I can be, my lord. They are . . . secured. Somewhere safe.”
Wynchecombe leaned forward, the knife pointed at Crispin’s nose. “Where?”
Crispin stared at the knife’s tip and blew out a sigh, wondering how he’d look without a nose. He swallowed. “That I cannot tell you, my lord. They hired me also for protection.”
Wynchecombe rose and sauntered behind Crispin’s chair. Crispin felt his presence like a spider crawling up his leg, ready to bite. He dared not move.
“That is not an answer.”
“I know, my lord. But what would you have me do? Betray a confidence?”
Wynchecombe’s low chuckle raised the hairs on Crispin’s neck. “Never that, Master Guest.”
The sound of steel sliding back into its leather sheath hissed at his ear. Crispin blew out a sigh.
“Let us go to the place of the crime,” said Wynchecombe, “and we can discuss it there.”
5
CRISPIN STOOD AGAIN IN the room at the King’s Head that the sisters shared, and noted what had changed and what had not. Jack mumbled his complaints about dead bodies and asked Crispin if he could wait outside with the sheriff’s men-at-arms. Crispin nodded to him vaguely and Jack looked at the room with a little grimace on his lips before departing like a shadow.
The dead man had been laid out on a straw-covered pallet. Two Frenchmen wearing the same livery as the dead man—a quartered houppelande with the French fleur-de-lis—stood over him.
Crispin eyed their slightly pink complexions and their severely coifed hair.
“The French ambassador ordered them to court,” Wynchecombe whispered to Crispin, “but no one here speaks French with any facilty.” He looked at his clerk standing beside him, but the man shook his head.
The man with dark hair combed long over his forehead turned.
“You three traveled together?” continued Crispin in French. The men nodded. “Did you see what happened?”
The dark-haired man shrugged. “We were . . . occupied.”
“I see. And he did not favor such ‘occupation’?”
“We know not. I think he spied his own conquest. Perhaps he followed her here.”
“I understand the French ambassador wishes for you to appear at the English court.”
The man spit on the floor. “He wants to imprison us for our carelessness. We have no desire to play into his hands.”
“If you came to England for the purpose of going to Westminster Palace, then why did you dally here, in this
