The Demon’s Parchment

Turning the boy over, he gasped at the bruises on his buttocks and hips. His suspicions provoked, he examined more carefully, ignoring the outraged cries of the sheriff.

“Sodomized,” he said quietly. He vowed silently in that moment to find this murderer, this slayer of the innocent, and utterly destroy him.

“God in heaven!” cried Exton. The lamplight grew even shakier until Jack could stand it no more.

“Let us leave this place, Master Crispin! Please!”

He took the light from the boy and replaced it in its sconce. Standing silently in thought, he finally raised his face to Exton. “He was strangled with something. Not with hands. There are no finger bruises to his throat. I believe the cut to his belly was done after death, else the stroke would not have been so clean. It is too precise. As for the absence of the entrails . . .” He shrugged. “I am at a loss. If he were dead, what would be the use of it? His hands show hard work. Hence he was a servant or a child of the streets. A shopkeeper’s child might not have such old calluses. And lastly, his being sodomized. We are therefore looking for a man.”

“No,” said Exton. He stood against the stone wall. The malicious play of torchlight hid his eyes in shadow.

“No?” asked Crispin, perplexed. “We are not looking for a man?”

“These things you have said. I do not believe them. I do not believe the boy was . . . was . . . sodomized. Nor that his bowels were removed. These can all be explained. The river. A jagged root or a piece of wreckage could have torn him and fish did the rest.”

“Lord Sheriff!”

“Perhaps he was caught in a net while fishing and strangled.”

“Naked? In winter?” He strode up to the man and tried to catch his eye. “Master Nicholas. You know what I am saying is the truth.”

“I have heard of all your tales from Sheriffs John More and Simon Wynchecombe, Guest. You fabricate these wild stories to make yourself important in the eyes of your fellows. I don’t begrudge you that. But I will not have it in my parish! Maybe Wynchecombe bore it but not I—”

“Nor I!” said Froshe weakly from the back of the room.

Exton nodded toward him. “I declare that this boy died in some sort of accident—”

“God’s blood!” Crispin swore. “What ails you? You can plainly see the evidence for yourselves!”

“Leave it be, Master Guest! This was a beggar at best. What does it matter?”

“What does it matter?” He could not help a darting glance at Jack, who cowered in the shadows. He drew his shoulders back. “A citizen of London was raped and murdered, my lord. That is reason enough to concern you.”

Exton hissed a curse and spun away, shuffling toward a dim corner before pivoting and returning to the spot he started. “You show an appalling lack of respect for this office, Master Guest.” He sighed and Crispin heard the tremble in it. Finally, Exton approached Froshe who looked at him with pleading eyes. He bent his head toward him and they whispered furtively for a moment. By the expressions on their faces it did not look as if they had come to an agreement, but Exton turned to him anyway, despite Froshe’s vigorous head-shaking. One of Exton’s eyes twitched. “This . . . is not the first,” he said.

Crispin felt his stomach flip. “God’s blood,” he whispered.

Exton looked ill. The bulbous knot on his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I rue the day I was elected to this post. I thought”—he shook his head—“I never dreamed we’d . . .” He glanced at Froshe who was all but cowering in the corner and licked his lips. “What a pair of fools are we, eh, John?” Froshe did not raise his eyes. His fat cheeks were colored a ruddy blush. The shadows seemed to want to swallow him, but there was too much of him to do so. Crispin said nothing. He merely watched as Exton’s face wrestled with something he would not voice. Finally, after an interval, he said, “Let us to the sheriff’s chamber where we may talk. There is wine,” he added. As if he needed to.

Crispin and Jack followed the men out of the mews and up the familiar winding staircase to the sheriff’s chamber. The clerk, who usually sat outside at his desk and who often eyed Crispin with disdain, was absent.

A servant arose from an alcove and scurried to stir the coals in the hearth and added wood until it burned well. Exton slowly lowered into the chair behind the desk and Froshe wandered toward the shuttered window. Crispin stood by the chair opposite the desk and waited. The servant finished his chore and hurried out, closing the door. When Exton looked up and saw Crispin standing before him, he seemed surprised. He waved him into the chair as Jack took his place behind him.

“Your servant may pour wine,” he said with a grand gesture.

Jack did not need Crispin’s urging. He rushed to the sideboard and poured two goblets, bringing the first two to each sheriff with a sloppy bow. He returned to the sideboard and poured another for his master.

Crispin lifted the goblet to his lips in relief, knowing that soon the wine would take the sharp edge from the proceedings.

Exton drank as if he had not drunk in ages. He stared into the fire and hugged his empty goblet to his chest. “Unholy business, this.”

For the first time, Crispin felt a splinter of empathy for these men. “You say there were others. How many?”

“Three more. All boys.”

“The same manner?”

“Yes. To almost every detail.”

“Since when?”

“Since Michaelmas. Just as we had taken office.” He said the last bitterly, as if it had been the fault of those electing them. As if they had all colluded with one another.

Two months. Crispin took in a long breath. “Have you any clues? Any suspects?”

The sheriff slowly shook his head. “I have never”—he inhaled a trembling breath—“I fear it is the Tempter himself in our midst.” He crossed himself. His voice cracked. “Such desecration. Such insidious acts. Master Guest”—he shook his head—“I cannot stomach it. It is sin that rends this place. Such dreadful sin. We’ve not enough priests to purge the city of it.”

“Purge the city,” echoed Froshe, cradling his goblet. He had not drunk any of it.

“Sin it is. Grave sin,” agreed Crispin. “But a man did this.”

“Enough. What can one man do against this? These are strange times. I fear another plague is coming. And rightly so.”

Crispin never thought he would think it, but the sheriff’s defeated tone disturbed him. It was plain these men preferred the status quo and these murders did not fit well into the carefully delineated view these merchants held of the world within London’s walls.

“Hire me,” said Crispin.

Exton raised his eyes and glared. “What?”

“Hire me. I will catch this murderer.”

A harsh bark of a laugh erupted from the sheriff’s lips. “We were warned of you and your tricks, were we not, John? Look how Master Guest would manipulate us. Wynchecombe warned us—”

“Oh be still, Nicholas!” Froshe spread his hand over his face and rubbed, rubbing the sin away. “What choice have we got?”

Exton shot to his feet. “Fool! Can’t you keep your mouth shut? Or at least your cowardice to yourself.”

But color had returned to Froshe’s face and he tossed his goblet aside and reached for his sword, though he did not draw it. “Churl! Do you dare call me a coward!”

“My lords.” Crispin rose slowly to his feet. If this was the way of it, then he might well manipulate these two jackals. “Please, do not fight amongst yourselves. I have offered you my solution.” He leaned on the table and looked Exton in the eye. “Hire me.”

“The devil take you.”

“He may very well. But not before I have brought this particular devil to justice.”

The man hedged. He slid a sly gaze toward Froshe who glared daggers at him. “Suppose,” he muttered, slowly. “Suppose we were to hire you. No one must know, of course.”

“It will be more difficult making inquiries.”

“I see. And so you back away.”