“Why?”
“Because I find things, remember? Murderers, lost items. I am paid for many feats of intellect, my Lord Sheriff. I know you wouldn’t understand such.”
Crispin expected it, braced for it, and wasn’t disappointed when the sheriff grabbed his shoulder cape and hauled him to his feet. Nose to nose, the sheriff glared into Crispin’s face, blowing hot breath on him. “I’ve had about enough of you and your mockery, Guest. You are my servant. I am not yours. Remember that.” He shook him with each statement then threw him back down into his chair.
Crispin resettled to a sitting position and straightened his clothes.
The sheriff yanked his dagger free and slapped it on the table. “I ask a question. For each wrong answer—you lose something.”
Crispin eyed the blade, the brass crosspiece, and the jeweled pommel. “ ‘Something’?”
“An ear, a finger.” His lips peeled back. “Something.”
Crispin looked back at Jack. “You’re not making this conversation very appealing.”
“It’s not meant to be.”
“And here I came to you in good faith telling you of a body—”
“That I already knew about. Come, come, Guest. I await your answer.”
“What was the question?”
Wynchecombe snatched the knife and held the side of the blade to Crispin’s throat. “Dammit, Guest! Do you mock me?”
The metal felt cool against his neck. “They say ‘wit is educated insolence.’ ”
The sheriff held the blade to Crispin’s skin a moment more before withdrawing it. “Your Aristotle again?”
“Yes, my lord.” Crispin eased back, but not altogether relaxed. He rubbed his neck. “I commend him to you. He has an aphorism for all occasions.”
“Why read him”—Wynchecombe did not sheath the blade, but toyed with the sharp tip instead—“when you are too fond of quoting him to me?”
Crispin closed his eyes and nodded. “Just so.”
“But you delay the inevitable.” Wynchecombe tapped the flat of the blade into his palm. “Tell me about the women and what you found in that room. And be careful of your answer.”
Casually, Crispin wiped sweat from his upper lip. He spared Jack a glance. The boy cringed in the corner. It looked like a good idea. “The women feared they would be blamed for the man’s death, so they hired me to discover the murderer.”
The blade tapped dully on Wynchecombe’s naked palm. Crispin watched it. “So? Where are the women now?” Crispin opened his mouth and took a breath, but Wynchecombe interrupted. He waggled the blade at Crispin’s face. “Be careful how you answer.”
“As careful as I can be, my lord. They are . . . secured. Somewhere safe.”
Wynchecombe leaned forward, the knife pointed at Crispin’s nose. “Where?”
Crispin stared at the knife’s tip and blew out a sigh, wondering how he’d look without a nose. He swallowed. “That I cannot tell you, my lord. They hired me also for protection.”
Wynchecombe rose and sauntered behind Crispin’s chair. Crispin felt his presence like a spider crawling up his leg, ready to bite. He dared not move.
“That is not an answer.”
“I know, my lord. But what would you have me do? Betray a confidence?”
Wynchecombe’s low chuckle raised the hairs on Crispin’s neck. “Never that, Master Guest.”
The sound of steel sliding back into its leather sheath hissed at his ear. Crispin blew out a sigh.
“Let us go to the place of the crime,” said Wynchecombe, “and we can discuss it there.”
5
CRISPIN STOOD AGAIN IN the room at the King’s Head that the sisters shared, and noted what had changed and what had not. Jack mumbled his complaints about dead bodies and asked Crispin if he could wait outside with the sheriff’s men-at-arms. Crispin nodded to him vaguely and Jack looked at the room with a little grimace on his lips before departing like a shadow.
The dead man had been laid out on a straw-covered pallet. Two Frenchmen wearing the same livery as the dead man—a quartered houppelande with the French fleur-de-lis—stood over him.
Crispin eyed their slightly pink complexions and their severely coifed hair. Where were these two when the man was killed?
“The French ambassador ordered them to court,” Wynchecombe whispered to Crispin, “but no one here speaks French with any facilty.” He looked at his clerk standing beside him, but the man shook his head.
“Mes seigneurs, un mot avec vous,” said Crispin to the men.
The man with dark hair combed long over his forehead turned. “Oh oui. Enfin, un anglais qui vaut la peine.”
“You three traveled together?” continued Crispin in French. The men nodded. “Did you see what happened?”
The dark-haired man shrugged. “We were . . . occupied.”
“I see. And he did not favor such ‘occupation’?”
“We know not. I think he spied his own conquest. Perhaps he followed her here.”
“I understand the French ambassador wishes for you to appear at the English court.”
The man spit on the floor. “He wants to imprison us for our carelessness. We have no desire to play into his hands.”
“If you came to England for the purpose of going to Westminster Palace, then why did you dally here, in this low place?”
He exchanged looks with his fair-haired companion. “We . . . had business here. We were to . . . to prepare for the English court.”
“Here?” Crispin asked skeptically.
Wynchecombe elbowed him. “What did he say?”
Crispin held up a hand to the sheriff. “Am I to tell the Lord Sheriff this . . . story?”
The man sneered. “Tell him what you like. We have another companion looking for the relic. We don’t need your help.”
Crispin turned to an impatient Wynchecombe. “They refuse to go to court. They feel it is a trap.”
“Damn these French,” muttered Wynchecombe. “Ask them their names.”
Crispin turned back to them. “My Lord Sheriff wishes to know your names.”
The dark-haired man bowed. “Gautier Le Breton. And this”—he said gesturing to his companion—“is Laurent Lefèvre. Our friend here”—he crossed himself—“is . . . was . . . Michel Girard.”
Wynchecombe nodded to his clerk. “Did you get that?” The clerk nodded and busily scribbled on a wax slate with a quill. The sheriff clucked his tongue and turned his attention away from the clerk and the couriers and studied the dead man. The arrow still lay deeply imbedded in his chest. “How about this arrow?” he said to Crispin. “Does it tell you anything?”
Crispin bowed to the couriers and left them in the middle of the room to stand at Wynchecombe’s side. “A nobleman’s arrow. Hawk fletching is more expensive than the more common goose feather.”
“I agree. Where was he when he was shot?”
Crispin strode across the dirt floor and pointed to the spot. There was still a puddle of blood mixed with dirt and now scattered footprints around it. “Here, my lord.”
Wynchecombe joined him and stared at the spot. “No struggle?”
“His weapon was still sheathed.”
“How about that shot?” He looked up at the window. “It would be an easy effort to shoot from that window to down below.”
“Look at the angle of the arrow. The Frenchman would have to have been lying flat on his back to be shot from that window.”
“What?” Wynchecombe marched back to the dead man and leaned over him. He fingered the arrow and snorted. “So. The angle is not right.”