The Demon’s Parchment cg-3 Page 3

  “Heinous. Blasphemy.” He staggered toward the lamps in their niches, away from the little corpse.

  “Yes.” Crispin continued scouring the boy, down his legs to his feet. His ankles had been bound. The marks of ropes were still there. He lifted a pale hand and examined the nails. Bitten and broken down to the quick. The cuticles were torn and there was dirt still embedded under the nails. Calluses were clearly evident on the pads of his fingers and palms. The boy himself seemed scrawny, underfed, with the evidence of protruding ribs under stretched skin. Crispin pushed the yielding lips open and saw teeth chipped and uneven.

  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.”

  “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 m
y 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.”

  The man rose and bowed. “If something does, I shall so do, Master Guest.”

  Crispin nodded and with a tilt of his head at Jack, they departed.

  Looking out to the broad street he sighed a cloud of cold into the day. The smell of the Thames was strong here, but at least they were upwind of the privies. “Jack, I fear that questioning these shopkeepers will not yield anything of substance.”

  “Are we to ask anyway?”

  “Of course.”

  But as Crispin suspected, the others they questioned did not know the boy nor had they heard anything untoward in the evening. The murder did not happen on the street, but in a private place where screams would not be heard.

  Jack had not spoken all day unless addressed directly, and even then his replies were grunted and sullen. Crispin understood. He had never asked Jack how he had managed to survive for his many years on the streets as an orphan. He had not felt it his place to ask. He knew Jack was a clever thief, but cleverness could only take a boy so far.

  “Jack,” he said kindly. “When you were . . . before we met . . . you must have known many such boys on the streets.”

  Jack raised his head, squinting from the cold. Those amber eyes looked Crispin over. So clever, those eyes.

  The boy pushed his palm over his reddened nose and sniffed. “Aye, Master,” he said slowly. “You know well what I was. A beggar and a thief.” He crossed himself. “I am not proud of that,” he said mulishly, as if by rote. “But it kept me alive for four years since me mum died. A sister run off, a father I never knew. What did you expect?” The last was harsher than Crispin anticipated, and it seemed more than Jack wanted to convey. He gusted a sigh through his freckled nose and stood, feet planted, waiting for Crispin’s backlash.