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
“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?”
