“I said nothing of the kind, Lord Sheriff. It is only more of a challenge. And there is one thing you must learn about me, my lords. I have never balked at a challenge.”
Exton twisted the stem of his goblet in his thin fingers. He chewed in his thick lips and looked toward Froshe. “Well?”
“I fear we are signing a pact with the devil.” But in the end Froshe reluctantly bobbed his head.
“It is as you wish, Lord Sheriff. May I be privy to the Coroner rolls?”
Exton nodded and finally set his goblet aside. “We shall send copies to you at your lodgings on the morrow.”
The silence pressed between them again and Crispin, too, set his empty goblet down. “I will take my leave, my lords. Unless you have more to tell me.”
“If there were more, I would tell you, Guest,” said Exton with a sneer. He did not look at Crispin but into the hearth flames. “Report back to us as soon as you discover something. The king has not yet heard tidings of these deaths. But when he does, even though they be beggars, he shall make our lives miserable. And if our lives are made miserable—”
“So, too, is mine made.” Crispin bowed. He swept out of the room with Jack scurrying behind him.
The night was cold, but it kept its cold to itself without the winds from earlier. They trudged quietly in the dirty and hoof-trodden snow back down Newgate Market to the Shambles. Once they entered their lodgings, Jack quickly laid a fire from the smoldering ashes and lit the candle on the table as well. Crispin understood the sentiment. As much light as possible to chase away the nightmares.
Crispin dropped his weary body onto his chair and Jack knelt, pulled off Crispin’s boots, and laid them beside the hearth to dry. “Master,” he said softly. “We have forgotten to meet with that Jew.”
“Yes.” It seemed so unimportant now, yet he did have the man’s silver in his pocket. “It makes little matter.”
“Begging your pardon, sir. But the rent is due and the sheriff didn’t give you aught—”
“Damn.” Yes, he would still have to meet this Jew if he were to pay his rent, for to ask the sheriffs for funds now would earn him little but aggravation. They seemed no more generous with the king’s coffer as was Wynchecombe.
“I will think about it on the morrow, Jack. For now, have we any food?”
Jack did his best to cobble a meal from their meager pantry and once they had cleaned away the leavings and settled into bed, Crispin on his pallet and Jack in his straw in the corner, Crispin fell into a fitful sleep.
When morning came, it brought not only the sun’s brightness through the stagnant cloud cover, but a renewal of his strength to face whatever lay ahead. Fortified with gruel and small beer, Crispin and Jack set out again toward Westminster and reached it by mid-morning.
Leading the way, Crispin edged down the embankment and studied the shore that had been so difficult to see last night. He saw nothing helpful. Only the thought that the body, if newly killed, had not sunk to the bottom of the river as might be expected. He could have been pushed along the shore by the current, or the lithe boy could very well have been dumped nearby. What could be nigh that would lend itself to secret doings with young boys?
He raised his eyes from the rocky shoreline, up past the dark-timbered houses and shops. King Richard’s palace rose above him, its spires and high walls the very testament to secrets. But was this the origin of such heinous crimes?
“What are we looking for, Master?” asked Jack, shivering in his cloak.
“I don’t know.” And the damnable thing of it was, he didn’t. The boy himself was the greatest clue, and three others like him. Not just a death, but something more. Raped, yes. But the slice to his belly intrigued and horrified him the most. What was the meaning behind this evisceration?
“Do you recall, Jack, which houses the Coroner visited?”
“I . . . I think so, Master.”
“Then we will ask our own questions. I do not wish to wait to read the Coroner’s notes.” Crispin allowed Jack to lead the way and the boy pointed to the first shop, a goldsmith. He peered through the open shutter, through the diamond panes of a glass window, and saw a man bent over a table close to his sputtering candle. Crispin knocked upon the door and the man looked up. He watched him approach through the wavy panes and the door was pulled opened.
Squinting, the man pulled his gold-embroidered gown close over his chest. “Good master,” he said to Crispin with a bow. Crispin returned the courtesy.
“I have come to inquire about the boy yesterday. The one pulled from the Thames.”
The man’s brows rose. “The Coroner already inquired of me and I gave my testimony.”
“Yes. But I am here to dig deeper.”
As expected, the man looked Crispin up and down, no doubt noting the frayed hem of his cotehardie and the patches on his breast. Crispin endured it with a clenched jaw.
“And who are you?”
“I am Crispin Guest—”
“God in heaven!” the man gasped. He grabbed the door and tried to shut it but Crispin was quicker and blocked it with his hands.
“Clearly my infamy precedes me,” he said with a sneer. He shoved the door hard and the man fell back.
“Please!” cried the goldsmith, stumbling to his feet. He searched wildly in his shop for a means of escape. “I run an honest business. I wish no congress with you, Guest.”
“We’re not posting banns, man. This is a murder inquiry. Get a hold of yourself.”
“You . . . here . . . near the palace . . . ?”
“Yes, the palace. I am here on the king’s business. Surely you have heard of the Tracker? I am he.”
“The Tracker?” He blinked and Crispin could see his mind whirring behind his fluttering lids. Crispin gestured to the chair. Gingerly, the man sat. “I . . . have heard of the Tracker.”
“Then you know what deeds I have done. I am here to ask about the dead boy.”
He looked from Crispin to Jack. “Yes. Yes. But I already told the Coroner—”
“Did you know the boy?”
“No. He did not sound familiar.”
“Did you hear anything, see anything?”
“Nothing. Only the hue and cry last night.”
“Have you heard a rumor regarding this boy or . . . others?”
“Others?”
Crispin looked quickly at Jack. “Other . . . mayhem,” he corrected.
The man shook his head. “No. As I said. But there are many alleys, many shadowed lanes, even near the palace. Such things might occur there.”
“Indeed.” Crispin rocked on his heels, studying the shop. “You are a goldsmith?”
“Yes, sir. My name is Matthew Middleton. I have been a goldsmith on these premises for nigh on twenty years.”
“Then you have seen much. Have you ever seen such a murder?”
“The death of a child?” He toyed with his beard. “Alas. Too many, I fear.” He glanced at Jack. “A city is a harsh place, at times. Death takes his own by way of sickness and poverty. Surely you have seen with your own eyes the plenteous beggar boys in the streets. There is not enough charity to protect them all. They do not last long. The Thames has claimed its share, I’ll be bound.”
Crispin felt Jack’s presence most keenly. “And lately?”
“I have heard of none of late. But I do my duty and give to the queen’s charities. I give my share in the alms basket.”
“I do not impugn your generosity, Master Middleton. I merely inquire.” He walked slowly around the shop. Neat. Good order. Rich, of course. A trader in gold did not starve nor would his children or servants. He looked last at the man himself. “Have you perchance heard of an errant apprentice or servant? Someone who has gone missing?”
“No. Nothing.”
“If something should occur to you, I can be found on the Shambles in London.”
