Traitor's Codex Page 7

  ‘Master Bookseller! Are you here?’

  Books and scrolls were all taken from their shelves and flung across the floor, the table, any surface. Crispin’s indignation rose as a fury in his chest. So much so that he almost missed the shoe under the table. When he bent to look, there was a foot inside the shoe, and a leg, and the bookseller’s body, lying beneath the table, covered in books and scrolls.

  Crispin knelt and touched two fingers to the man’s throat but couldn’t find a pulse.

  SIX

  Crispin waited outside the shop for the sheriffs. Sir Richard Whittington arrived first and he even smiled upon seeing Crispin. He dismounted and handed off his reins to his attendants. He had a pleasant demeanor with light brown hair and beard.

  ‘Master Guest,’ he said politely. Crispin knew he was a wealthy mercer who also lent money to the king. He could afford his magnanimity. No, that wasn’t fair. The man also spent his own money on a hospital and drains in Cripplegate. As far as Crispin was concerned, the man was owed his exalted place.

  Crispin bowed low as he used to at court. ‘My lord.’

  ‘What has transpired here, Master Guest?’

  ‘Alas. A murder of a bookseller.’

  ‘And you were the First Finder?’

  ‘I had the misfortune to be so.’

  He went to the window and looked over the sill, studying the room and the feet of the merchant under the table. He rubbed his beard. ‘Now that’s a pity. Did you know the man well?’

  ‘I did not. In fact, I do not know his name, but have since been told when I called the hue and cry. His name is John Suthfield. I purchased a book from him once.’

  ‘Indeed. What book?’

  ‘A book of Aristotle.’

  ‘Ah yes. I have been told of your love of the philosophers. How does it go? Honors and rewards fall to those who show their good qualities in action. A very Christian thought from a pagan, is it not?’

  ‘True. I suppose a wise man is wise no matter the age, even before Christ was born.’

  ‘An interesting thought. You’re just the man for such a conversation. But I gather you’d rather not go to Newgate for a friendly discussion. You could come to my shop.’

  Crispin hedged. Whittington noticed and cleared his throat. ‘There’s no need, Master Guest. I get your meaning. Ah, here comes my associate.’

  Where Whittington was congenial, Sheriff Drewe Barentyne was not. It wasn’t that he was outwardly antagonistic toward Crispin. He was simply gruff to everyone, solemn and quiet. That kind of man was hard to read, for he might wear a gruff exterior but remain introspective inside his thoughts.

  ‘What’s ado, Sir Richard?’ he said, staying on his horse.

  ‘A dead merchant. Murdered, so Guest says.’

  ‘Murdered? How?’

  Crispin stepped forward and bowed, not quite as courteously as he had for Whittington. ‘Cudgeled, my Lord Sheriff. And his shop ransacked.’

  ‘Ransacked? Looking for what? His gold?’

  Barentyne was a goldsmith, so perhaps he could be forgiven for thinking in those terms. But Crispin had no intention of divulging the true reason: that the culprit or culprits were looking for the book that was in Crispin’s possession. He said nothing, and to Barentyne it was enough.

  ‘Little for us to do, then, until the coroner arrives, eh, Sir Richard?’

  ‘You go on, then. I’ll stay a while.’

  Barentyne, a man of slightly darker hair than Whittington, with a more pronounced nose, looked Crispin over. He’d seen him many a time, dealt with him, but still harbored his suspicions of Crispin, likely those suspicions that had been passed on by the former sheriffs, and their predecessors … and theirs. Crispin bowed so as to shoo the man away that much quicker, which Barentyne did by turning his horse and cantering up the lane back toward London.

  Whittington sighed. ‘Barentyne likes that he was elected sheriff but isn’t interested in the office itself. I, on the other hand, find it fascinating. I suppose that is why you have set yourself up as this Tracker. Will you investigate?’

  ‘I feel compelled.’ And guilty for bringing death to the man’s threshold.

  ‘And yet you will go uncompensated. I tell you what, Master Guest. I shall pay you your fee, for I consider it a benefit to the citizenry of London that you do this service.’ He reached for his pouch and pulled out some coins. ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Lord Sheriff, it is too much. I earn sixpence a day …’

  ‘It is no matter. You are good for it. And if you find the culprit within days, then keep the sum and I shall call upon you for more service. Is that fair?’

  ‘More than fair, my lord.’ He bowed again and took the coins.

  As they waited for the coroner, Crispin began to worry. If these men – whoever they were – suspected that Crispin had the book, then they well knew where he lived, and that made Jack and his family vulnerable. His tapped his finger on his dagger hilt in agitation.

  The deputy coroner soon arrived, took Crispin’s statement, and with the assurance of the sheriff, Crispin was finally allowed to go.

  Once he turned the corner he ran. The more he had been detained, the more concerned he became about Jack’s safety. Maybe he could have counted on Whittington’s help. Or maybe not. After all, he had not told him what the culprits were looking for, and once he had, well … If the abbot’s attitude was anything to go by, the sheriff might think he deserved his fate.

  He made it to the Shambles and, despite his lungs burning, he continued to run, pushing passers-by aside to get to his lodgings. When it was in sight, nothing seemed amiss, but he would not be satisfied until he could get inside.

  He made it to the granite step, grabbed the door handle, and flung it wide.

  Isabel startled at her seat. Helen suckled at her breast while Jack was feeding Little Crispin with a spoon.

  Jack set the child down from his knee and rose. ‘Master? What’s the matter?’

  ‘I want you to pack up your family and send them to the Boar’s Tusk.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your prediction has come true. The bookseller is dead. Murdered.’

  Isabel released a harsh gasp and hugged tight to her child.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, addressing her but looking aside as she pulled the girl from her breast and righted her chemise. ‘There is danger for you here. Until we find the men responsible, you cannot stay.’

  Jack gave his wife a searing look. ‘You heard him. Bundle what you can and get yourself away to Gilbert and Eleanor’s keeping.’

  ‘Will you not accompany them?’ asked Crispin.

  ‘They will be fine on their own away from here. I’d rather stay and help you, sir.’

  Isabel hadn’t waited. She busily wrapped the baby and hurried upstairs to bundle their few necessary possessions.

  When she reached the door, Jack kissed her farewell, kissed the top of the baby’s head, and ruffled Little Crispin’s ginger hair. ‘You watch out for your mum, me lad.’

  ‘Da!’ he cried. And then the boy turned to Crispin with arms up, wanting a lift. Crispin was unable to resist and lifted the boy in his arms.

  ‘You heard what your father said, boy. Take care of your mother and sister. We’ll see you soon.’ Without thinking about it, he kissed the boy and lowered him to the ground. The child immediately took his mother’s hand.

  ‘We’ll get a message to you,’ said Jack in the doorway. He watched her go down the street and then surveyed the lane up one side and down the other. He seemed satisfied when he drew back in, closing and locking the door.

  ‘That was stupid of me,’ muttered Crispin. ‘I never should have allowed all this. I forgot that there are others depending on me to keep them safe.’

  ‘It’s just our vocation, sir. We do get ourselves into trouble.’

  ‘But your family. I would never see harm come to them! I would die first.’

  ‘And me, too, master. They’ll be safe with Gilbert and Elean
or.’

  Crispin huffed and took in the small room. All that he owned. At least, before the quarterly rent was due. ‘Where is it hiding, Tucker?’

  ‘In my chamber, sir. Under the bed. In the floor.’

  ‘Let’s leave it there for now. You’ll sleep in my room. I’d not have your throat slit in the mid of the night.’

  Jack touched his throat. ‘Much obliged for that, sir.’

  ‘It is most imperative that we discover who gave me that wretched book and who wants it.’

  ‘Maybe I should go to the Boar’s Tusk, ask around. See if anyone recognized the man.’

  Crispin nodded. ‘Yes. Do that. Do not be distracted by your family.’

  ‘Never, sir. Not while I’m on duty, so to speak.’

  ‘Then get you there. I will do my own asking to see if I can discover the man behind the henchmen.’

  ‘What henchmen?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I encountered some men in an alley. They didn’t want to take “no” for an answer.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t know if it has to do with that damned book or some other thing.’

  Jack frowned. They both had enemies because of the work they did. But his frown soon changed to a determined demeanor. ‘Have a care, master. I will hasten back as I may.’

  Once Jack left, Crispin brooded. Someone had plainly seen Crispin at the bookseller’s. They had reported that he had showed the man a book. He raised his head. That meant, if they had followed Crispin … other lives were in danger.

  He took his cloak and hurried out the door, locking it behind him. He ran toward Wood Street, looking for the tiny barber’s shop. The door was closed and Crispin tried the door. Locked. He pounded on it. ‘Master Pardeu! Open up. It’s Crispin Guest!’

  No answer.

  He went to the window and pried open the shutters. They weren’t barred. He had only to throw them open to stand on the sill when he stopped. The man lay on the floor, his room ransacked.

  He had just enough time to call the hue and cry, told the first man he encountered his name and that he would return, before he set off to Westminster at as fast a trot as he could.

  He reached the street of the goldsmith, found the shop, and burst in. Matthew Middleton was slumped over his table, a knife in his back. The room was in shambles, but no gold was taken. None that he could see.

  Crispin sat on a stool, staring at the man. This was his fault. Three men were dead and it was his fault. He hadn’t been careful. He hadn’t been discerning. Was he getting too old for this tracking?

  He crossed himself and clasped his hands together in frustration. Or was it a prayer? Why, Lord? Why punish these for my shortcomings? It wasn’t their fault. It was mine. He was glad to get to the Tuckers in time. He’d never forgive himself if …

  He dared not think it. But think he must. Who had ordered such cold-blooded killing? Someone with wealth who could hire men for such a task. Someone with influence to get away with it. Someone with an interest in that book. But why? Why would they be so hungry to get it? It had no power like a relic had. Yes, he admitted it at last. Some of the relics he had come across did seem to have some kind of power. Hadn’t he experienced it just a few years ago when Little Crispin was born? That relic of a saint that would not seem to leave him alone? But this book had not that kind of power. Its only power was to create chaos, to make a man think as Crispin had done. And who would despise that …

  ‘The Church,’ he said aloud. Someone in the Church. And perhaps … someone he had met before. And looking at Matthew Middleton brought all those memories back, memories he and Jack had tried hard to forget.

  Crispin rose. Yes, he’d have to give the hue and cry again, but like the last time, he could not waste his time waiting for the sheriff or the deputy coroner. Again, he told the first man he saw of the circumstances, he told him his name and that he should notify the sheriffs, and then he left. He had to get word to Lancaster, get his help. But God help him, the man was in Sheen with the king. And there was no way Crispin could possibly go. Could he send someone? It would take too long. He’d have to figure this out on his own. But how?

  ‘Think, Crispin.’

  But there was nothing. Grumbling to himself at his helplessness, he pushed on but raised his head when he heard a commotion. He trotted forward and encountered a crowd.

  ‘It’s that Tracker,’ someone said, and Crispin got in close to eavesdrop.

  ‘He’s a heroic one,’ said his companion. ‘Stopped a thief in his tracks only yesterday, I heard.’

  ‘Better than the king’s men when it comes to keeping the peace.’

  ‘Aye. He used to be a knight. Committed treason, though.’

  ‘And he still lived? That’s a miracle.’

  ‘Aye, the good Lord was saving him for a higher purpose, I’ve heard tell.’

  ‘Imagine. And him a knight and all.’

  Red-faced, Crispin pushed his way through and saw a man very like himself handing over a pouch to a grateful shopkeeper. When the shopkeeper offered a few coins in return, Crispin’s double bowed to him, waved to the cheering crowd, and set out down the road. The crowd dispersed and Crispin elbowed his way forward. He wasn’t about to lose the man this time.

  Crispin threaded his way between stray dogs and shedding work horses tethered to carts. The man turned a corner but, before Crispin could reach him, a broken cart blocked his way. With a muttered curse, he climbed over it, hopped down to the corner, and looked up the street. The man was nowhere to be found.

  ‘Damn.’

  Someone tapped his shoulder and began jabbering before Crispin turned.

  ‘It’s all well and good that you catch these cutpurses in the street, my good sir, but I still need you to find the gold my nephew stole from me.’

  Crispin stared at the round-bellied man in the merchant clothes of long gown and draping hat. ‘Are you speaking to me?’

  ‘Yes, by the Devil, I am! You promised to do the job a sennight ago and I have heard precious little from you ever since.’

  ‘Sir, I beg your mercy,’ he replied with a brief bow, ‘but we made no such agreement. In fact, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and I’ve never set eyes on you before.’

  The man stared with mouth ajar for a moment before he burst into laughter. ‘So I see. You will have your jest. But …’ He sobered quickly. ‘I must have my gold. You promised to, er … procure it.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘God’s teeth, man. Are you soft in the head? Of course you.’

  ‘The Tracker? Crispin Guest?’

  ‘Who else stands before me?’

  Who else indeed. Crispin scowled and jerked his head over his shoulder, seeking but not finding the miscreant he had been after. ‘I … apologize, good master. I’ve had a lot on my mind of late. You must see my man at my lodgings on the Shambles …’

  ‘Oh no. I told you before that I could not be seen.’ He glanced around cautiously. ‘That you would … take care of this business forthwith.’ He whispered the last with a grimacing wink. ‘You only needed to make certain my nephew was out of his premises for the day.’

  Crispin leaned in. ‘Do you mean burgle him?’

  The man made placating gestures, shushing all the while.

  Crispin drew himself up, fitting his thumbs in his belt. ‘I am not a burglar.’

  ‘Hush, sir. I beg of you …’

  Crispin walked forward, forcing the man to walk backward. ‘And further, if I ever intimated that I was, then I must have been out of my head. If you’d pay for my lawful services, I suggest you go to the Shambles to the old poulterer’s. Now. Begone!’

  The man sputtered and blinked. ‘But … I already paid …’ he said feebly.

  Crispin had already turned his back on him and walked away. Of all the damned nerve! He would have to stop this knave once and for all, and quick, before he soiled what was left of Crispin’s reputation.

  He stomped back
down the street until he pulled up short. Someone was standing in his way. Reaching for his dagger was a gut reaction.

  The man stepped out of the shadows, the same man who had delivered that damned book to him.

  SEVEN

  Crispin finished the movement of drawing his knife. ‘You!’

  The man took a step back and raised his empty hands. ‘Please, Master Guest. Be at peace.’

  ‘Be at peace? When three men are dead because of you?’

  ‘Master Guest. Please. We must talk.’

  He looked down at his blade. He wanted more than anything to thrust it deep into the man’s gut. But with a heavy sigh he sheathed it with a snap and scowled. ‘What have you to say to me?’

  His hood still shadowed his face but Crispin could see the blond hair, the beard. ‘Only this. That I knew you would protect the book, because it surely needs protection.’

  ‘It’s blasphemous.’

  ‘It may well be. But it is also another facet of our Lord.’

  ‘Who trusted Judas.’

  ‘He trusted them all. And Saint Peter denied ever having known him.’

  ‘Make your point.’

  The man, fair of face with blond hair that curled under his ears, was dressed in another blue houppelande. He glanced around. ‘Master Guest,’ he said quietly, ‘may we go somewhere to talk? To your lodgings, perhaps?’

  ‘If we must.’ Without another word he stalked ahead and only flicked a glance over his shoulder to see if the man was following him.

  They made it to the Shambles and Crispin quickly unlocked his door. ‘Get in.’

  He had forgotten how hastily Isabel had left. A pot of something congealed near the fire. The baby’s cradle lay disturbingly empty. And there were cups on the table and a bowl of cold porridge where Jack had been feeding his son. The sight of it made Crispin angry again, that his … his family could have been caught up in this, could have been hurt or worse.

  He spun on the man. ‘Explain yourself.’