Veil of Lies

sounds of servants, and he smelled vague odors. The kitchens?

Other than the ethereal resonances behind the thick timbers and daub, Crispin’s footsteps were his only company save for the secret noises of a rat close by gnawing on its dinner.

Crispin continued until his echoing steps changed to flat splashes. He lowered the candle’s light toward the floor and it reflected back at him.

Water. And rising. It smelled stagnant of mildew. By the echoing sound of his steps, he sensed a wall blocking his progress. When he neared, the candle’s light confirmed it. Ahead he saw the faint outline of a door.

He set the candle down in the ankle-deep water and used both hands to feel along the wall’s edges. He pushed and pried but nothing budged. “Open, dammit!” and he slammed the corner with his fist. The stone groaned and opened. Cold, wet air whooshed in, snuffing the candle.

The soft outside light more than filled the small space—until the door jammed, open only a cubit wide.

Crispin looked at the candle with its wisp of evaporating smoke and then back up the blackened passage. He sighed. He did not savor feeling his way blindly back to the solar. He turned to the opening and decided to go that way. Wherever that led. He only hoped he could fit through the crack.

He shoved his shoulder in, closed his eyes, and tried to relax. Easing forward, he scraped both sides of his body squeezing through. Now I know what wheat feels like ground between millstones. He winced. His dagger hilt screeched along the rock. The door never budged, and he breathed evenly, trying not to think about getting stuck. And just as the thought lifted into the ether, he could move no further.

Damn. His head aimed toward the opening. No chance to look behind him for any kind of assistance. He tried to ease back. No good. Just as stuck that way, too.

His predicament was much like this investigation. Caught between two opposing forces, he moved blindly. Either way could stop him in his tracks.

He pulled in his gut and pushed as hard as he could, grunting with the effort, but he was stuck fast. Philippa knew where he was, but it might be some time before she sent someone to look for him. He pushed again with a great exhaled groan and his body suddenly slipped. He could move again!

Inching forward, he felt cold ahead. His hand touched something wet but he dared not yank the hand back. The shoulder freed and he popped his head out. Green and brown stippled light cascaded around him, and then he realized he stood along a wall of dead ivy. He pulled himself out the rest of the way and stood on the gravel path, feeling a bit as if he were birthed from the wall.

The garden. The hidden passage meandered around and down again toward the back courtyard garden. He looked up at the solar’s window some fifteen feet up and then at the false one beside it. Looking down at his coat, he straightened his belt that was wrenched halfway around him and then wiped away the granite dust from his chest. He walked to the part of the garden wall he had scaled before with Jack, and climbed.

He lighted on the other side and strode around the wall to the front entrance. Adam Becton answered his knock and opened the door. The steward looked surprised but said nothing, and stepped aside to let Crispin through. Crispin took the stairs two at a time, crossed the solar’s threshold, and stood noiselessly behind Philippa whose head and shoulders were lost within the passage’s gloom.

“Lose something?”

It was worth it to see her jump. She spun so quickly she nearly lost her balance.

“What are you doing there!”

“The passage lets out in the garden. Since my candle went out, I thought it safer to come round.”

She tried to retrieve her tattered dignity by lifting her chin. “What about the Mandyllon?”

“I quite lost track of that,” he mumbled sheepishly and stepped back into the passage. “Candle.” He held out his hand again.

“It’s the only one left.” She slapped it into his palm.

Before the footprints and blood had distracted him, he remembered seeing an alcove near the passage’s doorway cut into the inner wall with a lancet arch and carved pillars on either side. There, on a shelf, sat a carved wooden box as long and as wide as the length of a man’s arm. Chip-carved geometric designs with a center rosette decorated the lid. The box had no dust on it.

Crispin motioned Philippa forward. She hesitated before plunging into the passage. He handed her the candle and lifted the box. He carried it out of the passage and set it on Walcote’s desk. She followed him, her hand at her throat.

Crispin felt a tingle of excitement trill through his gut. It was a bit like finding a fairy’s legendary cache of gold. Perhaps it would all disappear with the daylight.

He ran his hands over the carved designs. “Moorish,” he announced.

His thumbs pressed the front of the lid and raised it.

The gray light from the window flowed over the shadows within the box and revealed a folded yellowed cloth. Crispin dipped his fingers in the box and lifted the material into the light. He laid it on the table and unfolded it. At first, it merely looked like a discolored and very old piece of linen, about the size of a baby’s swaddling. He ran the fabric between his fingers, feeling its smoothness, its tight weave. He lifted it and turned it toward the window, bathing the cloth in the last rays of the dreary day.

Then he saw it.

Faint, as if rubbed and touched by countless fingers for centuries, the dim, brown image of a face.

“Blessed Jesu.” The skeptic in Crispin fled to the corner and cowered. The face on the cloth was that of a man with a beard, someone about Crispin’s age or older. An ordinary face, as if the maker smeared his skin with some sort of pigment and carefully transferred his features to the cloth. Except that the eyes were open and the brown stains did not appear to be pigment. The image almost looked…burned on.

Crispin tried to breathe and when he successfully inhaled once, he chided himself. Don’t be a fool, Crispin. You know such things do not exist.

The cloth felt very light in weight and smelled slightly musty with a wisp of the scent of balsam. His fingers tingled where he touched it, or was it merely his imagination?

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Philippa’s voice constricted to a gasp.

Crispin folded the cloth. “Yes, it looks like it. Would you like to get a better look?”

She shook her head vigorously. “Just take it away.”

Instead of replacing it into the box, Crispin unbuttoned his coat and stuffed it in. He closed the box and carried it back to the alcove. He scanned the hidden passage one last time and stepped back over its threshold. With both hands, he pushed on the door, which obliged by moving back into place and clicking closed. The innocuous seam disappeared into the shadows and out of detection. He pulled the folds of drapery from the floor and replaced them artfully on their pegs.

When he turned, Philippa held out a pouch with the full length of her arm. She shook the little bag, and he heard the jangle of coins. “Take it. You’ve earned it.”

Should he hold out his hand like a beggar? It was especially galling from the likes of Philippa, but just then, his confused emotions could not sort out exactly why this simple transaction disturbed him. He swallowed his pride and snatched the pouch, dispatching it in his purse.

“There is no doubt,” he said, buttoning his coat, “that the murderer left this room through that portal. Possibly he even entered by it.”

“Why didn’t he take the cloth then?”

“Perhaps he was frightened off by a servant and thought to come back later. Or he had no time to search for it.”

“Very well,” she said, her tone clipped. “You have found your killer’s secret and that cloth. And you’ve been paid. Now, please, take it away.”

He bowed. “Yes, Madam.”

Crispin moved toward the threshold. He didn’t yet know what he would do with the cloth, or what he would tell the sheriff. Or who killed Walcote, for that matter. Or what to do about the foreigners.

When Philippa spoke, her words stopped his thoughts altogether. “Is this the last I see of you?”

He turned and saw the sinuous undulation of woman lit by the glittering flattery of candlelight. His senses warmed.

Crispin took strange delight in saying, “There is still a murder to investigate. I believe you will see me