The Demon’s Parchment

before he grunted to his feet. “It’s past curfew,” he muttered.

“I know,” said Crispin. He waited while the man seemed to sample almost every key on his ring before opening the small door. “Mind the Watch,” cautioned the porter and gestured into the black hole.

Crispin looked and saw no one along the dark avenue. No lantern that would indicate the Watch, no footsteps, and definitely no hulking figures.

Jack poked his head out and looked, too, likely wondering the same thing.

Crispin motioned him to follow and they hurried through the battered snow down Newgate Market to the Shambles.

Once home, Jack stoked the fire until they were warmed through, then he banked it and they settled down for the night, but a disturbed sleep followed. When morning finally crept into the small room with gray light, Crispin rubbed the exhaustion from his crusty eyes. A quick glance into the straw-piled corner told him that Jack was not there. Where did that boy go? he wondered. A kettle hanging over the fire bubbled with something smelling like food and he threw his legs over the side of the bed and curled the blanket over his shoulders to lean toward the hearth and peer into the pot.

Turnip porridge. He cursed and rose, reaching for the spoon and the wooden bowl that was waiting for him by the hearth. He tipped the damnable porridge into it, blew on it, letting the steam warm his face, before he took a tentative sip. Awful. He downed it quickly.

Crispin heated some water for his shave and quickly finished his toilet, thinking all the while how he was to approach asking his questions at court.

With these murders somehow tied to those missing parchments, they seemed to be beyond his ability to solve. He knew from past experience that without reliable witnesses, murders often passed without justice. A murder in a parish happened when two angry individuals fought. Or one party tried to cheat the other, or some other misfortune that was well known to all the inhabitants. It was easy for someone to point the finger on well- known circumstances.

But the secret murder of children . . . This had gone unremarked for months! If witnesses there were, they were silent on it. Perhaps they lived in fear of retribution. Or had to protect someone.

This theft, on the other hand. Now this was something else, something Crispin could possibly sink his teeth into. A man invariably boasted about the thing he stole, giving himself away. But even if the thief did not boast, someone surely noted that another party was in possession of such a thing. A servant, perhaps? Yes, he would have to find servants and speak with them. And if indeed this theft was tied to murder then he would nab the miscreant himself.

Crispin waited impatiently for either Jack’s arrival or the servant from Lancaster. But when neither made an appearance by late morning, he grabbed his cloak and headed out. He could still talk to someone who might have seen something down by the river, someone he had missed before.

He trod quickly down the narrow stair and walked out onto the muddy street, heading toward Westminster.

He pulled his cloak closer. Damn but it was cold! Saint Nicholas’ Feast was close and that meant that another Christmas would come and go. Another solitary Christmas. Gilbert and Eleanor had asked him on more than one occasion to celebrate a humble Christmas dinner with them at the Boar’s Tusk. He had always declined. The memories were too dear of warm feasts in the company of his fellow barons and lords. The Yule log would burn bright and hot in those impossibly large braziers set all about the Great Hall in Westminster. The warmth and camaraderie would keep the winter at bay. Roasted boar’s heads would be served to one and all, along with cheese pies, pasties dripping with gravy, loaves of warm, white bread. Bittern and quail swimming in rich broth. And puddings with Spanish raisins along with honeyed cakes.

He was certain the fare that Gilbert and Eleanor served would be delicious. But it would be small portions of goose and cheese and perhaps coarse bread and a crumb pudding along with their sharp tavern wine, never tasting quite as good as he recalled from casks he had enjoyed from Gasconne.

No. He could not bring himself to go.

It began to snow. Not gentle, lacy flakes, but melting blobs of ice, smacking his cheek like a challenge from an opponent. He almost missed the carriage as it lumbered along the road in the opposite direction. A fine draft horse, a driver, the flaps secured tight on the windows to the barrel-shaped conveyance. Just another rich lord or lady taking a shortcut down Newgate Market.

The carriage slowed and then stopped. Crispin passed it without a second glance until out of the corner of his eye, a window flap rose.

“You there!”

Crispin kept walking, ducking into his hood so that the leather would take the brunt of the slushy flakes.

“You there!” said the voice more sternly.

A shadowy figure through the window beckoned to him. Crispin looked over his shoulder just to check that it was, indeed, himself the man wanted, and then he stopped. He stepped forward but kept a decent distance. “You called me?”

“Are you . . . Crispin Guest?”

Like a cloak, a sense of caution enveloped him. “Who asks?”

A chuckle, deep and melodious. “May I offer you a ride?”

Crispin eyed the driver, who stared straight ahead, never looking down at him. He wore no livery, gave no clue as to the inhabitant of the carriage below him.

The doorway of the carriage lay open, a dark rectangle offering nothing. Were there more men within? An ambush, perhaps?

He studied what he could see of the shadowy face in the window. “You are not going in my direction,” Crispin offered.

The chuckle again. “We can circle about. Whither do you go?”

“To Westminster.”

“Mmm. Get in.”

Crispin stood his ground, the snow piling around his feet. “Who are you?”

“I would never have guessed that the great Tracker was so cautious.”

“Nor so foolhardy.” The man was baiting him. Was it worth it?

The gloved fingers on the sill tapped a drumbeat before gripping the side. “Get in,” he said again, sternly but still somewhat friendly.

Swearing under his breath, Crispin edged toward the doorway, hesitated one moment more, and then climbed in.

As soon as he sat, the carriage jerked and started again. He saw no one but the man. There was no attendant. No guard, save the driver.

The carriage’s shadows covered most of him, but as Crispin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he detected more of the stranger. A man perhaps younger than Crispin, bundled in a black, fur-trimmed gown. A high collar came up under his clean-shaven chin. Blue eyes considered him under lazy lids. A felt cap covered his fair hair. He seemed small in his clothing, as if he were made of sticks, not flesh. He said nothing as Crispin studied him. The carriage pitched and rolled over the rutted street. It wasn’t a comfortable ride by any means, but it was better than walking. Just barely.

Crispin clutched the seat and sighed. “Well then? I am here. As you bid.”

The man leaned back and regarded Crispin leisurely. He smiled. Even as the carriage bounced and he along with it, he didn’t look ruffled. “You’re a strange man, Guest.”

Crispin shifted on his seat, looking for a comfortable spot on the scant cushion. He couldn’t find one. “As you say.”

He chuckled again. “And you don’t even bother to deny it. You don’t think that strange?”

“What is strange is this conversation. You have not yet introduced yourself, sir. Or is it ‘my lord’?”

A gloved finger traced down his chin. The ring on it bore no signet.

Crispin waited. He glanced out the doorway and saw that they were now headed for Westminster. He sat back. “Clearly there is something you want of me.”

“Clearly.”