With a grunt, he wrapped himself tightly in his cloak. Those were treasured days. He did not realize how much he had relied on the old man for advice and counsel. He wished the old abbot were here now to talk to. He supposed, in a way, the abbot had been a substitute for Lancaster, whom he had started speaking to again only a few years ago.
And now Lancaster’s son. He closed his eyes. His mind drifted along, snapping up memories of those long-ago days, when Crispin was a household knight and had been given the privilege of training young Henry, just as Lancaster had trained Crispin. He had taken the lad hawking and riding, had trained him in archery. They had discussed warfare and strategy and, yes, had played many games of chess and tables together. But gone were those carefree days. So much had changed. Richard was a man now and so was Henry. The old abbot was dead, and Lancaster was far away in Spain. And Crispin was left with a dead apprentice, a missing wife, poisoned water, and … what? Strange clues etched on the streets and alleys of London? Shadowy men following him for some unknown reason? It seemed absurd, beyond the realm of reality. And yet over the years, he had encountered far stranger things.
Still, this abduction seemed particularly insidious. Someone was playing games, relishing the confusion it elicited. But did it have to do with Perenelle Flamel or something else? Something worse? Something … like a poisoned cistern?
Crispin turned his head, staring at his own bucket in the corner by the door. Such a simple thing. Water. One needed it for one’s stews and pottage. To clean. To drink, when there was no ale or wine about. A necessity of life. It was worse than poisoning bread. What foul demon would do such a thing? To what end?
And what had Henry to do with it? For he could not put out of his head the possibility that Henry was somehow involved. The man had ambition. Impatience. No wonder Lancaster had left him at home. Of course, the public excuse was that he needed him to watch the estates, but if Henry was anything like Crispin at that age, it was because of his impetuosity. If Henry believed he needed this Stone or believed in its power, then he would have no qualms about taking it.…
Wait.
Crispin felt like the biggest fool. It couldn’t be Henry. Derby would never stoop to this waiting game, not that impatient youth. He would simply go to Flamel himself and force him to give over the Stone. He wouldn’t have time to play these games.
That meant Henry was innocent.
Crispin sat back, feeling relieved. He had not wanted his young lord to be the cause of this crime or of any other. Henry might be a dupe, but he was not an instigator.
Which did beg the question as to why he was there in the cathedral. Had he been sent? And if so, by whom? If he could couch it in this way, Henry might be persuaded to answer. Henry was involved in some way whether Crispin liked it or not.
He pushed it all aside. It didn’t matter. As long as Crispin stopped the plot, prevented more deaths, that was what mattered.
He glanced out the window. The sun had moved and the bells had recently rung for None. He picked up the parchment fragment again. You shall never see her return unless you play fairly. You had best begin at the beginning.
Play fairly. Begin at the beginning. There was something he was missing, but his mind wouldn’t work on it. For now, he had to know how Flamel fared with testing the water. He had to go back and see what the man had discovered.
15
“Arsenic,” declared the alchemist.
In the back of his mind, Crispin had not wanted to believe it, but to hear confirmation sent a deep shiver down his spine. “How … how bad is it?”
“A very weak concentration. Little wonder only those very feeble succumbed. But already I see that the solution is being diluted. More rain and snow and the problem will resolve itself.”
“But how long will that take?”
“It all depends on how much rain and snow is added. Days. Weeks. Hard to say.” They both looked toward the window and to the sun shining through.
“Should the cistern be closed?”
“I would advise it. And have a guard set on the others.”
“Will you come with me to the sheriffs to explain it? They won’t listen to me without proof.”
He wrung his hands and cast glances about his shop. “But who will await a message? How shall we ‘begin at the beginning’? My Perenelle. What has become of her?”
“When my apprentice returns we will know more. Have patience, Master Flamel. Please. You must come with me.”
“Patience is all I have. Very well.” He took the cloak offered by Avelyn and shrugged it on. “Quickly, now. We must hurry back.”
Crispin grabbed the bucket and Flamel’s arm and pushed him out the door. They traveled through the busy streets with all haste, stepping aside for a small contingent of armed soldiers marching down the lane. Crispin did not recognize their captain, but they wore the arms of the king and their presence was enough to remind all and sundry that Richard was still England’s ruler.
Crispin and Flamel moved on, the bucket knocking against Crispin’s leg as they hurried.
They arrived at Newgate and both serjeants were there. Wendell had a bandage wound tight around his hand and they both stood to attention when Crispin neared them.
“You have your nerve showing your face here again, Guest,” said Tom with a deep scowl.
“It is the only face I have, I’m afraid.”
Wendell clenched and unclenched his good hand over his spear shaft. “You broke my hand, you churl.”
“You broke it yourself. Have a care, Master, or your other will suffer the same fate.”
Tom jabbed his spear forward. “Get out, Guest.”
“The sheriffs are expecting me.” It was a little lie. “How would it go for you if they expected me and you would not allow us to pass? Not well, I should think. Losing one’s position in these troubled times? You wouldn’t want your families to starve, now, would you?”
Tom’s silent scowl said it all. He gestured with a jerk of the pike up the stairs, and Crispin wasted no time. He hauled Flamel after him, taking the steps two at once.
They emerged into the lantern light of the outer alcove. The clerk looked up and squinted at Crispin’s face. “Eh? Master Guest? Back so soon?”
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the archway into the sheriffs’ parlor.
“You might as well.” He turned away and wriggled back into his seat, positioning his quills before him.
Crispin entered and bowed to both sheriffs. Venour sat at the heavy table, while Fastolf stood by the arched window, looking down into the street below. They both turned at Crispin’s step. “My lords,” he said.
“Guest,” spat William Venour. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you-”
“You wanted proof, my lord. I brought you proof.”
He set the bucket down but pushed Flamel forward.
“Isn’t that the alchemist with the dead apprentice?” said Hugh Fastolf.
Flamel bowed. “Oui, mes seigneurs. But I come to you now by request of Maître Guest. I tested the poisoned water myself.”
Fastolf frowned. “What is this? Poisoned water? What’s he talking about?”
Venour propped his head on his hand. “Guest came in earlier spouting something about a poisoned cistern. Plainly it is rubbish, as are all his complaints, but now he would bring this Frenchman in on it.” Something seemed to fall into place in the sheriff’s mind, for his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Frenchman?”