“That does not matter. I will pay whatever you ask. I beg of you … help me-” His voice broke on the last.
Crispin nodded. “What is your difficulty, then?”
But even as the man passed a quaking hand over his face, his sharp gaze darted about the room. “Not here. Is there a place we can talk?”
“Of course.” Crispin rose, braced himself on the table, and pushed away from it. Staggering a bit, he straightened, one vertebra at a time. Hazily, he knew he wasn’t presenting the best front to this client, but he also hadn’t seen any coin yet. He shouldered the door open and stepped out to the bitter cold of November. An icy wind with dots of wet flakes sobered him enough to walk without staggering down Gutter Lane, where he turned right at the Shambles. He glanced back, and the man, head down with his hands buried in his cloak, trudged after.
When he reached the tinker’s shop, Alice Kemp, the tinker’s wife, was dusting snow from their wares with a broom. She stopped long enough to glare at Crispin and he barely had the presence of mind not to sneer back. It didn’t do to show animosity to his landlord’s wife when she disliked him so strongly anyway. Instead, he gave her a cursory bow, which caused him to stumble. She snorted. “Drunk again,” she grumbled, but took it out on the broom and swept briskly, upturning the cooking pots she had carefully arranged on display.
He shoved a foot on the bottom stair and stopped, turning back to his client. “Mind the stairs. They’re icy.” He led the way, slipped once, but with his hand firmly on the rail he made it to the landing. He had managed to wrestle his key from his scrip, but the lock kept skirting his attempts to engage it.
The door swung open on its own, and he looked up into his apprentice’s amber eyes. “Jack,” he said, and cocked his head, indicating the man behind him. “Client.”
Jack took in Crispin’s state and the fact of a paying client in one glance. The boy grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him in. What does the knave think he’s doing? The table stopped Crispin’s further progress as he slammed against it. “Jack! What the devil-!”
“Sit, Master. Let me welcome your client.” He scowled at Jack, who had seemed to become a tall, lanky lad overnight. He was now somewhere in his fifteenth year, with wild curls of ginger hair falling over his eyes. Crispin sat on the stool and held on to the table as Jack bowed to the as yet unknown man and offered him the other chair. “May I fetch you wine, sir?” the lad asked politely.
Crispin raised his hand, but the boy said out of the side of his mouth, “Not you!”
“Insubordinate,” he grumbled. “A fine apprentice you are.”
The man looked from servant to master and then back to servant. “This is the home of the Tracker, no?”
“Yes, my lord. It is just that Master Crispin is sometimes under the weather … as he is now. But he is attentive, I assure you.” Crispin sagged and Jack elbowed him hard. He snapped upright again and blinked.
“Er … yes.” He ran a hand down his face, wiping away the melted snowflakes and feeling the rough grit of a day-old beard. He was just cognizant enough to realize he probably looked a mess. And here was a man willing to pay for his services. Snap to, Crispin. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward. “I do apologize, sir. I am … out of sorts, as my apprentice says.” He considered before gesturing toward Jack. “Er … this is Jack Tucker.” The man nodded to the boy. “How can we serve you?”
The man laid stained fingers gingerly to the wine bowl Jack set before him. “It is urgent business I have with you. I understand that you are a man who finds things and can be discreet.”
“Correct on both counts.”
“The matter is … personal.”
God’s blood. He hated personal matters. He sighed and sagged. Jack elbowed him again and he scowled up at the boy. Jack gave him an equally scowling glare in return. Outrageous, that knave’s audacity.
“Personal matter?” he said weakly.
“Yes. My wife…”
Crispin scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the fire. Dammit! He didn’t want these sorts of jobs! Nothing good ever came from them. Nothing but heartache for all concerned, including him. It was Philippa Walcote all over again, for had he not also met her because of “personal matters”? He leaned heavily over the hearth, feeling the heat scorch up his chest. “I cannot help you, sir,” he muttered. “I … do not deal in these troubles.”
“But Maître Guest!” He was instantly on his feet behind Crispin. “I fear she has run away with my apprentice. I must find her!”
“These are matters for your confessor, sir, not for me. I cannot help you.”
“Master Crispin is out of sorts, sir. We can and will accommodate you,” said the voice at Crispin’s shoulder. He whipped around to glare at Jack. Did the knave dare to gainsay him?
Jack sidled up to Crispin and, eye to eye, whispered harshly, “What’s gotten your humor so sour? We need the funds. Let’s hear him out, at least.”
Motioning for the man to sit again, Jack pushed the wine bowl toward him. “What is your name, good Master?”
The man fumbled sitting and stared at the table, shaking his head. “I am Nicholas Flamel. My wife and I came to London to get away from … from prying eyes. There was much work we needed to do, and in Paris there were too many … well. Spies.”
Crispin swiveled shakily. He spared Jack a sneer before he turned to the man. “Master Flamel. What do you mean by spies? You are French?”
The man looked up at that and his eyes widened. “Oh no! I did not mean that I was a spy. Bless me, no. I do not care for politics. I am no spy, sir.”
“One can’t be too careful in these grave days. So you and your wife came to London. And this apprentice of yours. Did he come with you as well?”
He shook his head and dropped his gaze again. “No. We hired him here, in London. He came highly recommended. He was ever loyal, always trustworthy. I cannot believe it of him.”
“And yet, such things are known to happen. Does your wife have money in her own right?”
“Yes. She was married before I met her. Widowed. And she knows much of my art.”
“Your art?”
“That of alchemy. In Paris I am well-known for the alchemical sciences. We were working on a most important venture. But my apprentice is young and fine-looking.” He dropped his head on his hand and fisted the stray strands of hair that escaped from his cap. “I never should have left them alone.”
Crispin slowly turned away from the hearth and Jack helped him into his seat. The boy was right, of course. He had to set his feelings aside. He couldn’t afford to let them get in the way of a fee. It was better to be immersed in another assignment, for the winter did not bring much to the table.
“Had you any indication of this before?”
“No, none.” His eyes were glossy and his hands moved restlessly from his hair to the table.
Crispin nodded. The spouse was always the last to know. And yet, what did the man expect Crispin to do? “Am I to find her and bring her back? Take you to her?”
Flamel slid from his chair and paced the small room. “I do not know,” he said wearily, rubbing his hands. “I am unfamiliar with the protocol. What must I do, Maître Guest?”
Forget her and live on. It was his only true advice, but men seldom wished to take it. It was a point of honor and a slap in the face for one’s wife to walk away, or so he imagined.
The conversation was sobering him by the moment. He glanced at the man’s untouched wine bowl with a bit of longing.
Jack leaned forward. “Should we not go looking for her first, Master Crispin?”
Crispin rested an elbow on the table, twisted his head, and glared at his impetuous assistant. Jack gazed mildly back at him, clenching his hands and holding his own at first. But as Crispin continued to meet his gaze, the youth seemed to back down and he soon looked quickly away.