He might as well have been Master Walcote. He were good to us.”
“No doubt,” Crispin said distractedly. He closed upon the solar and noticed one taper burning within. The room seemed strangely empty without the funeral bier, but then Crispin noticed it. The drapery on the wall was torn aside and the secret passage door stood open. The empty box that once contained the Mandyllon lay cast across the floor. But more than that, he saw the body of Adam Becton lying on the floor in the opened doorway of the hidden passage.
22
Crispin waited impatiently for the servant to return with Lionel and Clarence Walcote. He had already checked the window—still barred. But the murderer could have come through the secret door, from the kitchens, or from the front door for all he knew. There was little struggle. He was captured from behind, much like Nicholas Walcote.
There were muffled voices and hard footsteps coming from the stairs. Crispin waited by the body as the brothers entered and gasped at the sight at Crispin’s feet.
“He’s been garroted,” said Crispin.
Clarence’s face shone bone white in the torchlight. He eyed Lionel, who tapped his keys on his front teeth.
The servant who had tried to rein in Crispin stood in the doorway, grasping tightly to the doorpost. He looked as if he would faint. “You there,” said Clarence.
“Matthew, sir.”
“Matthew. Go and fetch the sheriff. Make haste!”
The servant turned and instantly obeyed. They all listened to his feet hit each step and then slap across the hall.
Lionel glared at his brother, probably for such impertinence as to supersede his authority.
Crispin knelt by the body. He pulled away the rope from Adam’s neck, tossing the instrument aside. He straightened and glanced about the room. Adam faced away from the secret passage, but judging from the new footprints in the dust, he’d plainly been inside it. One of his shoes had fallen off in his struggle and lay near the empty box.
Crispin retrieved the shoe and stepped back into the passage. He found a clean footprint with dried drops of blood and placed the shoe atop it.
Didn’t fit.
He let the shoe drop and examined Adam’s body. He found long, fair hairs clutched between his fingers. In his last act to try to save himself, he must have reached behind, grabbed the assailant’s head, and plucked them out. But of course, it had done him no good.
“What is all this?” Lionel bellowed.
Crispin walked across the room twice, looking over the body, the box, the open portal, and finally the two men who stared at him. “As near as I can make it, Adam found something here he never expected to find: this portal.”
Crispin stepped over the box and reached the passage. He turned toward the brothers. “But you two knew it was there. Didn’t you?”
“I remember it now,” said Clarence. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Lionel?”
“Yes,” he said. “But what of this box?”
“It contained something else Adam also knew nothing about. Something that our friend, the false Nicholas hid in it.”
Lionel edged closer, nudging the overturned box with his foot. “Is that why he was murdered?”
“That’s what I thought at first. But not now.”
“Oh? Then what’s on your mind, Guest? Spill it.”
Crispin eyed the two. “I don’t think I’m ready to say just yet.”
Lionel advanced on him but Crispin was spared further explanation when the sheriff arrived.
“Damn this family!” cried Wynchecombe. He swept in without ceremony and planted his feet in the room, his back to the doorway and to Crispin. “What have you done now, by God?”
Crispin took the opportunity to slip from the room and into the gallery. Wynchecombe’s muffled voice boomed in the background, becoming a low rumble the further away he got.
Crispin made it downstairs to the hall. A small boy stepped out onto the hall’s painted floor, but when he saw Crispin, he ducked back in the shadows. Crispin swooped and nabbed him by his shoulder cape.
“Jesus mercy! Help! I’m being killed!” The boy struggled and squealed like a captured piglet.
“Stop that noise, boy. I’m doing nothing of the kind.” He set the boy down and crouched low to look him in the eye. He jerked his thumb behind him. “I’m not part of that crowd upstairs.”
The boy hesitated. He ran his grimy finger under his moist nose. “Are you the sheriff’s man?”
“No, I’m my own man. I am the Tracker.”
As if a taper lit behind his eyes, the boy beamed with pleasure. “You’re Crispin Guest, ain’t you? I heard of you.”
Crispin repressed a blush by nodding his head. “Yes, I am Crispin Guest. Now can you help me? I need to find the servants of Lionel and Clarence Walcote. Can you tell me where they are now?”
“What you want them for?”
“I merely want to talk to them.”
The boy seemed small in the harsh light of the nearby torch. His smudged pug nose sat between close-set brown eyes. The wrinkling of his nose indicated that this was perhaps one of the most important questions he had ever been asked.
“Well, if you only want to talk with them. They’re in the kitchens. Everyone’s there now, talking about Master Adam’s murder.”
“Much thanks,” he said, and patted the boy’s shoulder.
Crispin followed the boy to the kitchen close and clambered through the narrow passage, making sure he ducked for the low beam.
When he emerged into the kitchen the buzz of conversation stopped and all turned to him.
“Greetings,” he said. “I am Crispin Guest. I am not with the sheriff, but I am investigating these murders. If you will, I would speak with the valets of Lionel and Clarence Walcote.”
No one moved or spoke. Crispin wondered if they trusted him as much as the boy did. When his gaze roved over the closed faces, every eye seemed to avert from him. Who was Crispin, after all? As far from their like as could be, he supposed.
After a long, strained silence, a man moved out of the crowd. He was thin with a stick neck and long hands and fingers. He looked over his shoulder and motioned to someone. “Come on, Harry. It won’t do any harm to see what the gentleman wants.”
Harry sidled out of the crowd. He was of average height and girth, with an equally nondescript nose, and small beads of eyes. His mouth was petite and rosy. “Why’d you go and roust me out, Michael?”
“Hush, now,” said Michael. “This here is Crispin Guest. Haven’t you heard of him?”
“No. You go and put importance on people that don’t deserve it.”
“He’s that Tracker they talk about.”
“I don’t often come to London,” said Harry. “Not like you.”
“Gentlemen,” Crispin interrupted. “Please.” Those in the crowded hall did not move and many in the back strained forward to hear. “Let us go to a private location and discuss this.”
Michael motioned with his hand and Crispin and Harry followed him to a door. A pantry; a stone edifice of arches and mews. Harry lit a candle but it did little to light their conversation.
