Veil of Lies

Crispin’s mind lighted on the accounting ledgers and especially the customs book back in his lodgings. It also made him think of the man in livery following him. Was it a guild’s livery?

Wynchecombe screwed up his lips but said nothing. “Mark me,” he said at last. “Bad things can happen to disobedient servants. So why don’t you be an obedient fellow and forget about the murder and simply take these coins!”

“To hell with your coins!”

“Don’t pursue this. You will regret it if you do.”

Almost the same words Mahmoud used. Crispin studied the sheriff’s tightened face, and though its expression appeared strained, it revealed nothing more.

“Just do as I bid, Crispin. For your own good, stay out of this.”

The wet wood on the fire hissed its steam, and a rat scurried somewhere along the wall; a counterpoint to the silence and to Crispin’s undigested thoughts.

“I see. May I go, Lord Sheriff?”

Wynchecombe sighed. “Are you going to leave it alone?”

He blinked slowly. “May I go?”

The sheriff rolled back in his thronelike chair and curled his fingers around the carved arms. He raised one hand to gnaw at a knuckle. An oval stone on his ring reflected the disinterested light. He stroked his mustache with the ring until he dropped his hand to his lap. “Go, then. But if you do not heed me, no one but God can help you.”

Crispin bowed low, the way he used to at court, and swept quickly from the chamber.

He walked brusquely toward the Boar’s Tusk wondering what had just transpired. Obviously Wynchecombe was hiding something. He’d never told Crispin to stay away from an investigation before. If anything, the opposite was true. Was the mercer’s guild pressuring the sheriff? And if so, what did they hold over Wynchecombe that they could twist him to their will?

Crispin turned his head, glancing up Newgate’s high walls before they disappeared beyond the roof peaks and spires of London’s clustered streets. The only thing that made him feel better at all was the prospect of wine at the Boar’s Tusk and of seeing Philippa, though not necessarily in that order.

He crossed the lane and only glanced to the side to make certain no carts would run him down when he noticed two men a stone’s throw away. They wouldn’t have been particularly noticeable had the one not had extremely broad shoulders and a head of black, curly hair. His well-shaped but large nose overshadowed dark, thick lips. The other man was small-boned and stood shorter, only making it as far as the larger one’s shoulder. His face, sharp and pointed, was more like a rat’s. They wore decent clothes but not English garb. And they were staring at him.

Crispin walked a long time, but he couldn’t be certain they weren’t following him until he ducked down an alley and out into another avenue. A surreptitious glance back told him he had company.

He wove through alleys that were little more than a tight gap, and stepped quickly down familiar streets. Stay with me, gentlemen. It’s only a little farther.

He found the dead-end alley he wanted and climbed some barrels to the roof. He laid himself flat on the rain-slick tiles, loosened two slates—one for each hand—and waited.

11

The thud of the men’s footsteps approached, and Crispin heard them enter the dead-end alley and stop. Crispin resisted the urge to look over the edge of the eave, knowing they would probably be looking up.

“Joseph Santo!” swore one of them. “Porcoddio!”

“Siamo nella merda!” said the other one.

By their voices he knew their exact location. He hurled the slates over the roof. They landed with a pop on each head.

Crispin heard the men swear and go down. He slipped over the edge to look. The smaller one raised his hand to his head and Crispin noticed he was missing two fingers down to the first knuckles.

Crispin leaped down and blocked the alley’s mouth. He drew his dagger. “Who are you?”

The smaller one glared at Crispin and drew his own long, thin dagger. “Devil take you, bastardo!”

“Wait,” said the other, holding the smaller one back. The wide-shouldered one straightened, still grimacing at the ache in his head. “We’re only here to talk to this stronzo, remember?”

The small one made a disgusted snort and slammed his dagger in its sheath.

“I ask again,” said Crispin. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sclavo,” said the large man. “And this,” he motioned to his companion, “is Two-Fingers.”

“Interesting. Here in England we only give our animals such appellations.”

Two-Fingers lunged, but Sclavo held him back again. “I may not stop him next time, Signore Guest. After all, he’s the one who tied your hands and feet good and tight, did he not?”

“Si. You do not forget your midnight swim, eh?” asked Two-Fingers.

Crispin frowned. “No, I recall it very well.”

Sclavo chuckled. “Not many have escaped us. You embarrassed us in front of our master.”

“Indeed. Forgive me for surviving. Such bad manners.”

“No matter,” said Sclavo. “We have much to discuss. Shall we go elsewhere? This alley is damp.”

Not the Boar’s Tusk. Philippa was there. “Yes, after you, gentlemen.” He motioned with the dagger and stepped aside out of their reach.

With the two walking in front of him, Crispin directed them to the Dog and Bone, a tavern south of his lodgings and situated on Carter Lane, huddled in the shadow of St. Paul’s. They entered first and sat at a table close to the entrance. Should they turn on him, he’d need a quick escape, so he broke his usual custom and kept his back to the door.

The Dog and Bone was smaller than the Boar’s Tusk and much grimier. The great room always smelled as if something had died in one of its corners.

“Our master wishes to make negotiation with you,” said Sclavo. He rested his arm on the sticky table and hunched his massive shoulders. “He knows who you are.”

“I’m enchanted. But I have nothing more to say to Mahmoud.”

Sclavo looked at Two-Fingers and laughed. “Mahmoud? He is not our master. We merely do occasional tasks for him. On orders from our master.”

“Then who is your master?”

Sclavo chuckled. Two-Fingers made a sound like a laugh, but it was a noise more like a cat coughing up a hairball. “We do not speak his name,” said Sclavo.

“I won’t negotiate with men I don’t know.”

“Don’t refuse so quickly, Signore Guest. If you do not like our offer, you can go on your way.”

“Am I expected to believe that?”

Sclavo shrugged. “We have no orders to kill you. If we had…” He shrugged again. Two-Fingers giggled. “We would not be having this conversation.”

Crispin smiled. “Like the last time, eh?”

Two-Fingers stopped. He reached for his dagger, but Sclavo shook his head. “You are so hot- headed, il mio amico.”

Two-Fingers gestured with the two fingers of his other hand and spat at Crispin.

Sclavo smiled. “What would you say to bags of coins?”

Crispin lowered his brows. “Italian?”