His voice was hoarse when he finally said, “My lord, what were you doing at this particular statue … at this particular time of day?”
Henry’s expression had been placid, but as Crispin observed, it slowly darkened. His eyes shuttered, became unreadable. “My time is my own, Crispin. I need not detail my itinerary to anyone. Even you.”
“It is just that … just that … God’s blood, Henry. I know why you are here. You must tell me the truth!”
“I must?” His voice took on the quality of his father’s. With a simple lowering of a brow and the stern pronouncement of one word, he could make it plain that he was the son of a duke and Crispin was far lower. “Master Guest, I do not think that I must do anything of the kind.”
“M-my lord,” he tried again. Instinct made him lower his eyes, but his own pride made him raise them again and his chin as well. “My lord, a man was brutally murdered and another man’s innocent wife is in the hands of a foul abductor, awaiting a ransom left here at the foot of this statue. What can you tell me of these monstrous events?”
Henry’s expression never wavered. “Indeed? Interesting tidings, Crispin. What makes you think I would have any knowledge of such doings?”
“Because you are here!” he hissed, losing patience, heart aching at the same time. “And you knew where the ransom was kept.”
“Did I?”
“Yes! Why are you toying with me? I caught you in the act of seizing it. For the love of all the saints, Henry, tell me.”
“I do not know your meaning, Master Guest.” The formality drew thick around him, like a cloak of ermine. It reminded Crispin that Henry was no longer the boy he had known, with flushed cheeks and ready hugs for his household companion. He was a man of duty now, a man with great responsibilities and the power to back it up.
“And know this,” he went on in a cool, emotionless tone. “Remember to whom you are speaking.” He stepped closer, his face so close to Crispin’s that Crispin could count the freckles on his nose. He spoke with a steady whisper. “Do not get in my way or you shall regret it.” He dealt one last look of finality, turned on his heel, and stalked away.
Crispin let out his breath in one long cloud. With his heart breaking, he watched Henry retreat. Surely not. Surely Henry was not involved in murder and abduction. But Henry was a powerful lord. He was the head of these commissioners, above even that of his own uncle, the duke of Gloucester. Did it have to do with this commission? What if he should need an army of his own, as the sheriffs hinted at? He would need money for such a venture. And to extort such funds from a French citizen seemed rich indeed. Yes, soldiers were not above taking noblemen for ransom, even killing their retainers to do it. But to abduct Madam Flamel seemed outrageous. Yet Henry must have known of the stone broach, else why choose this secretive man, this alchemist? The stone came from King Charles of France. Was it because of the broach’s provenance?
Feeling sick in his gut and in his heart, Crispin turned to leave but stopped and noticed with some small relief that the velvet bag was still there. For all Henry’s posturing, he had not bothered to take it. Had he been embarrassed to do so in front of Crispin? Crispin took it and placed it into his scrip.
He trudged through the dirty snow back to Fleet Ditch, looking at no one, mind a whirl. The alchemist’s shop came into view and he knocked hesitantly on the door. It flung open and Avelyn was there. She grabbed his arm and dragged him in.
The room had been straightened, debris removed and furniture put back to what it once was. Flamel sat at his worktable, but it didn’t look as if he was working. He raised his head, an anxious expression parting his dry lips.
Crispin bowed his head. “He … failed to arrive.” From inside his pouch, he brought up the velvet bag and laid it gently on the table. Flamel stared at it. “But we must not give up, Master Flamel. There is more to learn. I will discover her whereabouts and return her unharmed to you. That, I vow.”
Flamel shot to his feet. “Mon Dieu! Vierge Marie, what shall I do? Ma chère Perenelle! Maître Guest! I fear greatly for her life. What must I do? Help me, please!”
“Master Flamel, you must gird yourself, sir. All is not lost.” He hoped. He did not yet know Henry’s game, but he would soon learn it. And he hadn’t forgotten the preacher’s words. That man knew something, too. Were they working together? It seemed an absurd notion, but Crispin had encountered far stranger things in the past. He’d find out more when next he spoke to Jack Tucker.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Avelyn take the discarded velvet bag and slip the stone from it, but it was not the sapphire broach Crispin had seen before. Like a flash of lightning, his hand shot out and closed over her wrist. He squeezed tight, forcing her hand open, and a plain piece of river stone lay there. “Master Flamel!” He snatched the stone from her hand and held it up to him. “What is this deception?”
The alchemist’s eyes widened like bezants. “Oh. I … I hoped to buy us time.”
“Buy you time? By giving your extortionist a false ransom?”
He looked toward Avelyn as if she could help him. She answered by kicking Crispin in the shin.
“Ow! You bitch!” He grabbed her before she could escape and slapped her across the face. She was momentarily off balance but soon righted herself and turned her face obstinately back at him … before stomping on his foot.
He stumbled backward. “Dammit! Stop that!”
Wrestling her arm free of him, she glared. His handprint on her cheek changed from pink to red.
“Call off your mastiff,” he growled.
Flamel moved like a much older man around the table and rested his hands on her shoulders. His mere touch seemed to calm her, and her tensed shoulders dropped back to their normal posture. But she still glared at Crispin.
“She seems to know what we are saying,” he said, watching her warily. His foot and shin both throbbed.
Flamel sighed. “She reads the movement of our lips. She can understand both French and English, possibly other languages as well, though she cannot hear them. Very accomplished is my Avelyn. I do not know how or when she learned it.”
“But you speak to her with your hands.”
“Yes. It was she who taught me that.”
He looked at her anew and she offered a smug smile. It seemed she did know what they were saying. He gave her a sneer in return.
“Be that as it may,” said Crispin, moving out of range of Avelyn’s feet, “I do not understand why you would risk the life of your wife with a false ransom. How did you hope to buy time with a simple stone instead of the valuable jewel he wanted? This might have angered him, forced his hand.”
“You don’t understand, Maître Guest.”
“No, I don’t. And I like all this even less. You are keeping information from me, and that might cost Madam Flamel her life. If you do not wish to aid me, then there is little I can do for you.”
The alchemist wrung his hands. “If only I could explain it all, Maître. But I cannot. There are ancient secrets that must be kept. Alchemists swear oaths to keep these secrets sacred. Even for the life of my dear Perenelle, I may not divulge all. She would surely understand that. If only you could believe me. And trust me. Please. You must help me.”
Crispin raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how to help you if you will not tell me the truth.” Though he, too, was keeping secrets from Flamel. For could Henry of Bolingbroke be both a murderer and an abductor?
No. He refused to believe it. Though he had often allowed the people he trusted to deceive him, he was also a good judge of character, and this did not fit in with Henry’s character at all. He was as wealthy as they came. He wouldn’t need to extort an expensive broach from some unknown alchemist. Even if that broach did come from the King of France. Henry was in charge of an army. And even if he needed an additional one, one for himself for selfish purposes, he still wouldn’t need another man’s money to do it. No, something else was afoot here. Something more. If Flamel would not tell him, he would find it out for himself.