Veil of Lies

“That is the agreement.”

“When do I get paid?”

“When you turn over the cloth.”

“Before I do, I’d like to know something about Nicholas Walcote.”

The shadow shrugged. “The man you know as Nicholas Walcote was paid to make a copy of the Mandyllon.”

“Yes, I’ve been told as much.”

“So? By whom?”

“Your Abid Assad Mahmoud.”

He shook his head. “Not mine.”

“He’s not working for you?”

“At one time, si. I understand he still represents himself as such. We will put a stop to that.”

Though the menace was bereft from the man’s voice, it sent a chill down Crispin’s spine. “You never met the real Walcote?”

“No, we had nothing to do with him nor he with us.”

“How did he die?”

“I think”—he tapped his finger against his shadowed lips—“we mistook the true Master Walcote for our thief. Careless of us. I was told they looked remarkably alike. It created quite an opportunity for this thief, no?”

“All this trouble merely for a holy relic when there are so many to be had. One wonders if there could not be more to an Italian presence in England.”

Silence. Then, “Do you accept the offer?”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

Crispin turned at the steps of the men beside him. Apparently the interview was over. “Just one thing more. Is your master Bernabo Visconti? Professional curiosity.”

The man in the darkness glared at Crispin. At least Crispin thought he did. “We will pay you for the Mandyllon and your silence. It isn’t too healthy to meddle in these things,” said the man. “Stick your nose in too far, il mio amico, and you might awaken in an alley with the rats gnawing on your flesh.”

“I see. How vivid.” Crispin looked behind at the henchmen closing in. “Well, I thank you for meeting with me.” He turned his back to leave, then pivoted. “By the way. Your Saracen operative Mahmoud does not seem to be playing your game. My thought is that he had a master other than yours. Perhaps he has another buyer for the Mandyllon.”

The shadowed man said nothing. His silence was perhaps the most fearsome thing about him.

“If I were you,” Crispin offered, “I would investigate.” Let Mahmoud worry about his own skin for a change.

The henchmen surrounded Crispin and forced him to leave. They escorted him almost all the way to where they first encountered him before they fell back, turned without a word, and left him in the street.

Crispin heaved a sigh between relief and exhaustion. An interesting interview. And unusual. No one was taking any chances. This Italian head of English operations did not want to be recognized, which meant he might already be known in places—like at court. Crispin wondered how long he could stall them. He wanted it to take long enough to discover the players and what exactly they were up to. But the longer it went on, the more danger Philippa was in.

Philippa. Why was he such a fool to let her into his heart? Didn’t he have enough problems? Jack was a handful. Just making the rent was a weekly challenge. A woman only complicated things.

Oh, but in such ways!

He closed his eyes and exorcised Philippa Walcote from his thoughts. There were other pressing matters. A killer still on the loose. He opened his eyes and took a moment to reckon his location. He remembered what he planned to do before the syndicate’s men waylaid him. “Adam Becton.” Now more than ever he was convinced that the syndicate bore little responsibility for the imposter Walcote’s death.

Crispin straightened his coat. The action helped to ground him in the here and now. He looked in the direction of the Walcote estates and headed there.

Crispin waited for the door to open and was greeted by a servant. There was comfort in the familiar, and strangely, the Walcote manor felt a little like home. Crispin stepped inside. “Where is Adam Becton?”

The servant eyed Crispin and shook his head. “He is at his duties, good master. Who do you come to see, master or mistress?”

“Neither. I want to talk to the steward.”

The short man squinted at Crispin. “He is unavailable, sir.”

“Then make him available.”

Crispin pushed past him and made his way unaccompanied to the parlor. He stepped across the threshold before he discovered too late that Maude Walcote was there. Just as he decided to back out unobserved she looked up. And scowled. “Why are you here?”

His crooked grin returned and he strolled in. “Why does everyone in this house greet me thus? I am a congenial fellow. Truly I am.”

“You are a nuisance,” she said. “And I fear you are also a menace.”

“You clearly do not know me, Madam.”

“Don’t I? I know your character. There’s something velvety about you, but your nap runs the wrong way.”

He chuckled at the imagery. “Perhaps it does.”

She stood and flicked out the creases in her gown—they dared not wrinkle. “And you are insolent. Who invited you in here?”

“I told you. I am investigating a murder. I want to talk to Adam Becton.”

“He is busy.”

“And I don’t care. I’ll talk to him anyway.” Crispin strode to a chair and sat.

Maude seethed. “Lionel!” She tossed her sewing aside and marched from the parlor.

Crispin sunk down with relief. God’s Blood! These Walcotes were nothing but arrogant children, but he couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge that he saw a bit of himself.

Gazing at the fire, he brooded. If Adam killed Nicholas for love and status, all of his plans have gone for nought. Philippa was cast from the house and disinherited, and her love belonged to another.

Crispin’s smile faded.

He shot from the chair and paced.

The squinting servant returned and sloppily bowed to Crispin. “My lord, I cannot find him.”

“What do you mean you can’t find him? Is he here or is he not?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

“I am not a lord,” he grumbled and pushed the man out of the way.

“Adam Becton!” called Crispin. He walked out of the parlor and looked across the checkered floor of the hall. He strode through the empty hall to the door to the kitchens and opened it. “Becton!” he called into the passage. A rosy-cheeked boy little older than Jack poked his head from the kitchen doorway and ducked back inside. No one else approached.

Crispin grunted. He reversed his steps and stood in the hall again, glancing up to the gallery above and to the solar, the site of so much mayhem. The servant came up beside him, sputtering in an attempt to confine his untamable guest, but Crispin slid past him and headed for the stairs.

He grabbed the ornately carved banister and climbed the steps two at a time, the servant following vainly behind. Crispin searched behind curtained alcoves, finding one occupied by a sleepy maidservant, catching a nap on a straw-stuffed cushion.

A few paces down the gallery, the solar’s door, repaired and as sturdy as before, hung ajar, and Crispin turned to the befuddled servant who arrived breathlessly behind him. “Has Walcote been buried yet?”

“Aye, my—I mean Master. They buried him in the churchyard just as quick as a wink. It weren’t right, that.