A Maiden Weeping Page 10

  ‘I know not. I neglected to get her name. I was in fear of me life and limb.’

  Nigellus rubbed his chin.

  Jack sipped his ale, hoping for inspiration. ‘That settles it. I’ve got to find this killer. He’s a danger to all good and wholesome women in this parish!’ He got halfway to his feet before Nigellus tugged him back down.

  ‘I think you are forgetting something, Jack. What of the man who hired your master to kill that le Porter woman?’

  Jack slumped. ‘Oh, aye. Blind me! That don’t make sense to the rest of it. Why hire Master Crispin if he could just do it himself?’ He leaned on his elbow and dug his fist into his chin. ‘He plainly did not want to be seen.’

  ‘Yes, one reason surely.’

  ‘They’d had a falling out. He could not get close to her again. Or … he was being hired by another to do the task, and to take all suspicion from him, he’d hire a third party.’

  ‘That is devious, Jack.’

  ‘Nigellus,’ he said, taking up his cup and taking a hearty quaff, ‘I can tell you, I have seen some strange things in London. Very strange. And this is getting to be just as strange.’ He took another drink. ‘As my master would say, “unpack the facts, for it is usually simpler than we thought.” And so, the facts are these.’ His fingers wrote them down on the sticky table. ‘Fact one: My master was hired by an unknown person to kill a woman. Fact two: That woman was supposedly hired to steal a relic. Fact three: The relic was not stolen. Fact four: Them that wanted it, the Noreys household, tried to kill my master to get it. And so, it seems to me, that I must first concentrate on these items and get to the strangulation deaths of the other women later. But oh! If we can prove to the sheriffs that those murders happened outside the possibility of my master’s having done it, he will be freed. What to do first? Dammit!’ He slammed his hand to the table and suddenly noticed a maiden standing at his elbow with a sweating jug of ale cradled in her hands.

  She was young, younger than Jack, with a sweep of auburn hair just barely contained in her linen kerchief. Her small mouth was hitched in a smirk, and her bright hazel eyes were softened by a spray of dark lashes. A small upturned nose was stippled with a mask of freckles over the bridge and across her cheeks on pale, smooth skin.

  Jack might have stared for longer than was polite. He wasn’t certain but he only snapped out of it when Gilbert blocked his view.

  ‘I see you’ve met my niece, Isabel. This is the lad I was telling you about, lass. Jack Tucker. He’s Crispin Guest’s apprentice.’

  Her smirk softened to a smile and she gave a curtsey. ‘Master Tucker.’

  ‘Demoiselle.’

  Isabel grinned. Her animated smile radiated brilliance and sunshine, two things lacking in the Boar’s Tusk’s dark interior.

  ‘So then,’ said Gilbert. ‘Where’s Ned?’

  Jack stared at him for a long moment before he remembered and slapped his forehead. ‘God blind me! I clean forgot! Er … Nigellus … I’ll, er, be back.’ He jumped up from the table and darted out of the dim tavern.

  Hitting the street at a run, he returned to Mercery Lane in no time. And there was Ned, standing at the head of the street, looking around for Jack. When Ned spied him, he came trotting over.

  ‘There you are. Well, I done my side of the street.’

  ‘And? Don’t keep me waiting, Ned.’

  ‘Nothing. No one’s heard of him. You’d think at least someone might.’

  Jack scratched his head. ‘I’m beginning to think this man does not live on Mercery.’

  ‘Or that’s not his name.’

  Jack stared at Ned.

  Shuffling his feet, Ned kicked at a stone. ‘Or so …’ he trailed off.

  ‘Ned!’ Jack grabbed him and the man stiffened, eyes round. ‘That’s exactly it! God blind me! I should have knowed it the first. He gave a false name, man! And, for all we know, a false address. There’s something about him. But what?’

  ‘How will you find him now?’ He rubbed his arm where Jack had grabbed him.

  ‘Ah me. That’s just it, isn’t it? How do I? Well, it makes no matter now. I have other tasks I must complete. I thank you, Ned. You can go back to the Boar’s Tusk now.’

  Ned shrugged and turned, waving his farewell.

  Jack took a step forward before he looked back. ‘Oi, Ned!’

  Ned jerked back, his messy hair flickering in the wind.

  ‘Erm … about that Isabel.’

  Ned offered a salacious grin. ‘She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, I wondered is all.’

  ‘Wondered what?’

  ‘What she’s doing there?’

  Ned sauntered back. ‘Well, it’s like this. The Langtons don’t have no children. And his brother just died. Hasn’t been a mother in years, as I hear tell it. So the girl come to live with Gilbert. She’s the heir, isn’t she?’ He hiked up his belt. ‘Might give her the nod if she’s inclined.’

  ‘The nod?’ Jack slapped his shoulder. ‘Here now! That’s the Langtons’ kin you’re talking about. They’re like family to me.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything sordid in it. It’s just that … if they don’t have no heirs and if she’s the heir, her husband stands to inherit an alehouse. And that could be me as much as any other man.’

  Jack frowned. ‘I reckon so,’ he muttered.

  ‘See you, Jack. Thanks for the farthing.’ He marched on, leaving Jack standing in the road and watching his friend leave.

  So she was now the Langtons’ heir. He had to admit, she was the fairest lass he had seen in a long time. So fresh and young. And a good disposition, even though the Fates had dealt with her harshly. God-fearing, she must be. Must have her own patron saint.

  A goose honked loudly and nipped at his calf. ‘Ow! Sarding bird.’ He leapt out of the way, and the goosegirl snickered at him. He took himself to the side of the road and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, protecting the coat from mud. Time to find these Noreyses.

  Another quick visit to Eckington and his notes and he found the Noreys household on Lombard. Jack slowed when he approached what was most certainly the house, with its front entry draped in black. Of course. There had been a death … at Master Crispin’s hands.

  Now think, Jack. You can’t go marching in announcing you’re the Tracker’s apprentice. They’ll know who the Tracker is … and I’d not be welcome.

  Why else would he have cause to be there, asking his questions? The only one who would need to ask would be, ‘The sheriff,’ he muttered aloud. ‘I’ll be just another clerk to the sheriff. That will do.’ But he had no quill, no parchment, or ink. Who did he know nearby that might have such things? He grimaced. ‘God blind me,’ he mumbled. He’d have to try it. He couldn’t go all the way back to their lodgings on the Shambles, wasting precious time. He’d have to gird himself and go.

  He stomped his way toward the London Stone and to the lodgings of one of Master Crispin’s more notorious friends, John Rykener. He found the place atop a wick maker, the highest attic room with a ladder leaning against the wall as its only access.

  Jack grabbed a rung at head-height and began to climb. When he reached the top he rapped on the shutter. ‘Master Rykener! Are you at home?’

  He heard a shuffling within and at length the shutter opened. A man of about Crispin’s age with shoulder-length brown hair and sleepy eyes peered out. He yawned wide and rubbed his sleep-blurred face. ‘Jack Tucker? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Master Rykener. I am in a bit of a hurry. Might I borrow from you a quill, parchment, and ink?’

  He stared for a moment before bursting into laughter. ‘What?’

  ‘Master Rykener, my need is dire. Do you have the items?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  He stepped back to allow Jack to climb in through his window. It was even more cramped than Cobmartin’s room at Gray’s Inn, but Jack stood in the center and tried not to look around too curiously. Though he could
n’t help but notice a coffer lying open with numerous women’s gowns spilling from it. Mercifully, John was attired as a man today, or at least a man in a shift. Jack supposed he must do his sleeping during the day as he mostly plied his trade in the evening as a whore. It would explain why he was still sleepy and shuffling about so late in the morning.

  John rummaged through another coffer and bundled the items in his arms. ‘I don’t suppose you will share with me what you are about, Master Tucker.’

  ‘It is on Master Crispin’s business, you can be assured of that.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t questioning the purity of your motives, Young Jack. Not at all.’

  He hadn’t meant to huff his repugnance aloud, but John slid his gaze toward him nonetheless and frowned.

  Rykener pressed his small mouth together and said nothing as he handed Jack a scroll, a worn goose quill, and a small pot of ink. Jack stuffed them in his scrip and turned to go.

  ‘I know you don’t like me.’

  Jack paused on the windowsill before turning back.

  John tossed his head and sighed. ‘You don’t approve. That I sleep with men. That I swive them.’ He looked Jack in the eye. ‘And I shall never ask for your approval, for I do not need it. But I am Crispin’s friend. I have been loyal. And I will always be there to help him if he needs it. And I hope you realize that the same goes for you. Whether you welcome it or not.’

  Master Crispin had needed it, only last year when Jack himself was imprisoned by the king. Rykener had stepped in and had taken Jack’s place, helping to solve the crime and ultimately freeing Jack. Master Crispin even later confirmed that it was Rykener who had purchased the bed Jack now enjoyed.

  It wasn’t as if he wasn’t grateful – though he couldn’t remember if he had actually thanked John – but that he had felt supplanted and by a man whose enterprise and manner he did not respect. Yet John was all the things he said he was. Yes, he was a whore servicing men and dressing as a woman, but he was also a trusted and loyal friend to his master and that made him the same to Jack. Perhaps he was a sinner, but the Church taught that so was the state of all men.

  Jack scuffed the floor with his boot, watching his toe kick up a bit of straw. ‘I … I thank you for that loyalty, Master Ry – John. My master needs it more than anything right now. He is in prison awaiting a trial for a murder he did not commit.’

  John gasped and touched his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Aye. It’s a sore thing and I am doing me best. But …’ He couldn’t finish that sentence. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and nodded. He hadn’t meant to speak. He meant to take his leave, hurry away to do his master’s bidding. But the words, some that had been buried deep in his heart and soul for long years, seemed to leave his mouth without his consent.

  ‘When I was a boy,’ said Jack, the words sticking to his tongue, ‘I … I was in one of the … stews.’

  John’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, Jack.’

  Lip trembling, Jack wiped at his eyes. ‘Aye. Well. I saw all manner of men. Rough men. Harsh. Some worse than any taskmaster could be. I learned things … I never wanted to know. I prayed for God’s forgiveness. I still do.’

  John lowered his hand from his mouth and sat on the edge of the bed. He gazed at Jack a long time before he spoke. ‘I knew boys in the stews. Strange I was never one of them.’ Steady, his voice was soft and seemed to match the sudden stillness of the room when it had been full of urgency and panic before. Jack was almost soothed by his tones. ‘But, Jack,’ he went on, ‘the coarse men that patronize those places, that act on their vile needs. Jack … I was never one of those men either. I never have been, never will be. Though it is true I favor … men – adult men, and God knows why – I wasn’t one of those who hurt you long ago.’

  Jack swallowed. He did not raise his eyes to Rykener but he did note his words, turned them over, worried at them like a rosary.

  After a long time when there were no sounds in the room but their breathing, he finally spoke, touching the bulge of items in his scrip. ‘Thanks for these things, John.’ His voice was tight and rasping. ‘And as a proper Christian and a proper friend, I will try to … to treat you with the respect that you’ve earned.’

  John cocked his head, studying him. ‘As I do you, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘But I meant what I said. You know I would do anything for Crispin or you. You need only ask.’

  ‘And if necessary, I shall. God’s blessings on you, John.’

  ‘And to you, Young Jack. For all your toil.’

  Jack bowed curtly but before he could leave, John spoke again. ‘You don’t need to ask God’s forgiveness, you know. You were not to blame.’

  Jack said nothing. He might have nodded or merely inclined his head. But he quickly hurried out the window and down the ladder, leaving Rykener’s place behind. Back he went to Lombard and the great house that belonged to the Noreys family, wiping his face, drawing slower breaths to calm himself.

  How could he not blame himself? He had chosen to enter the stews. Was starving to death more noble? Or stealing a purse? ‘That was so long ago, Jack,’ he whispered to himself, watching servants and masters mingle on the streets. Long ago but sometimes like yesterday. He never meant to speak of it to Rykener, but there was something about the man that invited honesty. He was likable, despite his profession. And more importantly, Master Crispin trusted and favored him. Could Jack not do the same?

  Before he reached the Noreys house, he shook himself free of his memories. There was only his investigation. There was only Master Crispin.

  He raised his chin, took on the officious manner of Hamo Eckington, and knocked upon the door. As soon as the door was opened, Jack pushed his way through and stood in the entry. The servant scuttled up to him with a sour look on his face. ‘Here now …’

  ‘I haven’t time to waste,’ said Jack with a clipped tone. ‘I am from the sheriffs of London, and I have questions to ask.’

  The servant was in his middle years, and there was the hint of gray amongst the brown locks that hung in waves just under his ears. A mushroom cap of a nose – round and big – sat pride of place in the middle of a clean-shaven face with its wide chin and small eyes. His cotehardie was worn but clean. ‘This is a house in mourning, master. Please. Have a care.’

  Jack’s better nature came through and he blinked at the servant, almost giving in. But he recovered and took on a haughty mantle once again. ‘Aye, I am aware. But the law does not wait. I must speak to the head of the house.’

  ‘Could it not wait a day, good master? My master suffers so and I would not see him suffer for the world.’

  As a loyal servant himself, Jack appreciated the man’s pleas, but his own master naturally took precedence and there was little time to waste. ‘You would have me return to the sheriffs empty-handed when they sent me themselves? That I cannot do.’

  The man sagged and nodded. ‘Then please, wait here.’ The servant hurried through a doorway, and Jack rocked on his heels watching him go. Good Christ. He didn’t believe it would work but here he was! Just as Master Crispin said. Look like you belong and everyone will curry to you.

  He looked around. The place had a shabbiness about it. The tapestry which should have been repaired some years ago, with its frayed edges and moth-eaten portions, hung as it was. A glass pane hadn’t been replaced with new glass but with a wooden shingle. Something was certainly amiss in this household.

  Presently the servant returned and, with great dignity, he bowed and asked Jack to follow him. They passed through an archway to a parlor. The room was fairly large but stark and full of echoes. Jack was certain there should have been more furniture. Yes, there were places on the wall that were lighter, rectangles free of years of smoky fires, that seemed to mark the presence of a sideboard that was no longer there. And a coffer. A missing tapestry, perhaps, on another wall. There were a few chairs with cushions, a small table. But that was all.

  A man in his middle years with a dark beard brushed
with a host of gray stood at the hearth. His dark gown was floor-length and he wore a simple cap.

  The servant announced, ‘Master William Noreys. And the sheriff’s envoy, a Master … Master …’ Stricken, the servant cast a worried glance toward Jack.

  Jack bowed to Noreys. ‘I am Jack Tucker … with the Lord Sheriff’s office.’ He looked around, wondering what next to do and, inspired by his lawyer friend, he decided to busy himself. Clerks were always looking busy, and no one paid them any mind as they generally worked in the background. No one watched a clerk as they would a mason or a blacksmith.

  He pulled out his parchment, inkpot, and quill and set them on the small table. Uncorking the ink, he dipped in the quill and touched the nib to the parchment’s surface, writing some Latin nonsense. ‘Now then. I must first beg your mercy at this unfortunate time, good master. On the, er, death of your son.’

  Stoically, the man sat. The servant hurried to bring him wine in a wooden goblet. Noreys clutched it to his chest but didn’t drink. The servant brought Jack a cup as well. Tempted, but reluctant to be diverted from his duty, Jack simply set it at the head of his parchment.

  ‘That man. That man they arrested,’ said Noreys tightly. ‘He killed my son.’

  ‘About that. It is the opinion of the sheriffs that Master Guest was defending his life.’

  ‘How can that be? Why would my sons attack a perfect stranger?’

  ‘Why indeed? Yet they were in his lodgings.’

  ‘That … can be explained, I’m certain.’

  ‘As I understand it, Master Noreys, your sons were there to extract an object from Master Guest that they believed he harbored. Might you know of this object?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, Master Tucker. Walter would not say, and now he is quite distraught.’

  Jack nodded. ‘It is said, Master Noreys, that your sons wished to obtain a holy relic. The Tears of the Virgin.’

  He turned slowly toward Jack and rose, legs straightening without his seeming to make them do so.

  ‘How did you know of that?’

  Momentarily stumped, Jack set his mouth in a firm line. ‘It is the Lord Sheriff’s office,’ he said simply, as if that should satisfy all enquiries.