“Cold comfort.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Told you not to make a mess.”
“I apologized for the door. That coin should make good on it.”
He and Jack hurried down the stairs. Jack nestled himself by the fire, trying to stay in the shadows and still keep warm. Crispin nodded to him and to the innkeeper, still watching him from the stairs as he left.
Outside, he breathed deeply of the hard, cold air. He had failed in all ways this night. He had failed to protect the Stone-whether he believed it was real or not-and he had failed to capture the man who had abducted Perenelle Flamel. And something about this chase, this hunt for riddles, was troubling him. He did not think it was merely a ruse to keep Flamel away from his shop. He thought it was a very clever game that someone was playing. Someone who knew Flamel and who hated him.
How could Crispin ever find her? Was he doomed to follow those insane clues to their bitter conclusion? The abductor wanted them to chase all over London, to solve the clues, and to find her or … or what? If they stopped, what would he do? Maybe it was time to find out. They needed another message from the man. It might draw him out, but it might also force his hand. No, Crispin was certain that the man wanted to play this game, to prove how clever he was and also to wipe their noses in the fact that he was now in possession of the Philosopher’s Stone. Would he know how to use it? He was at his so-called Great Work, that of divining the Stone, but what if he still did not know how to use it? He’d still need Flamel and his expertise. It was not over. Not yet.
Crispin stepped into the street and paused. Something wasn’t right. A tingle at the back of his neck made him turn, but it was too late.
Shadows rose up and hands clapped over his arms and one over his mouth. He tried to fight them, to cry out, but ropes twisted around his wrists, binding them together. The glare of a torch in his face blinded him and he stumbled forward, unable to resist being dragged forth into the snow-wet street.
21
It wasn’t long before he realized he was heading toward Newgate Market and then up the steps to the prison itself.
He was yanked around until he saw the sheriffs’ serjeants in the firelight of their brazier.
“Why, look who’s here, Wendell,” said Tom. “It’s Crispin Guest. The man with the impertinent mouth. Just so there won’t be any backtalk…” He swung. Crispin’s head snapped back and his mouth was suddenly flooded with the steely taste of blood. He spat it out on Tom’s boot.
Tom glared, but the serjeants holding on to Crispin whipped him around. “There’ll be plenty of time to settle this later,” one guard said gruffly before pushing Crispin up the stairs.
Crispin stumbled and tried to save his chin from barking on the stone step by throwing his tied hands forward. He managed to barely avoid it before they grabbed his arm hard and yanked him upward.
One shoulder scraped along the wall as they ascended the spiral stair and he was marched past the empty alcove where the clerk usually sat and into the warm sheriffs’ parlor … where they shoved him hard and he fell, knees first, onto the floor before the crackling hearth.
Both sheriffs stood on either side of the fireplace and looked down at him, each encased in their cloaks. The light shifted on their faces, but they wore unmistakable twin scowls.
“Guest, you are a nuisance and a traitor, and I wish to God I had nothing more to do with you,” said Sheriff Venour.
Sheriff Fastolf lifted his booted foot and shoved Crispin in the shoulder, pushing his face to the floor despite Crispin’s trying to prevent it with his bound hands. “What were you supposed to do, eh, Guest?” Fastolf ground out. “What did we tell you to do at the outset? You were supposed to find out who killed that apprentice! Nothing more, nothing less. And now it’s poisoned cisterns and sneaking abroad at night where you clearly do not belong!”
“I oft go abroad at night, my lords. How else am I to track a murderer?” His mouth was still bloody and he spat again, this time away from the sheriff’s boots.
“And you expect us to believe that?” He crouched down and looked Crispin in the face. “I want you off this task, Guest. I want you to forget it. Leave this for the coroner’s jury to solve.” He jabbed a finger into Crispin’s face. “And I especially want you to stay away from the cisterns. It’s none of your concern. You’re meddling again. We want you to stop.”
“But my lord, the coroner’s jury will not be able to-”
Fastolf raised his head and nodded to the serjeant. A boot to Crispin’s gut silenced his protest. He gasped and rolled to the floor, trying to breathe.
“What was that, Guest? Were you trying to infer that you know better than we do?” He put a hand to his ear. “I don’t believe I heard you aright.”
Crispin took in a shaky breath and pushed himself onto his knees. He licked his bloody lips and glowered up at the sheriff. “Why now, Lord Sheriff? For days I tracked this murderer. You told me to do so. And now you bring me here to tell me to stop my work? You know how my curiosity is piqued when I am told to back away.”
The sheriff stole a glance at Venour, who had a wild look in his eye. It was he who nodded sharply to the serjeant this time. Crispin girded himself, and when the boot came again, he grabbed it with his bound hands and twisted as he shoved. The guard gave a cry and flew backward. Before he landed, the other serjeant grabbed Crispin by his hood and slammed his head into the fat table leg.
Crispin saw stars burst behind his lids and hunched forward, hanging his head below his shoulders. Dizzy, he blinked several times and shook his head. “That would be a ‘no’ to answering my query.”
“Guest,” said Venour, exasperated, “you must truly have a death wish. As the king’s emissaries to keep the peace, I am ordering you to cease this investigation. His Majesty’s courtiers keep a sharp eye on our doings and have expressed their displeasure at your meddling.”
I noticed. But who expressed it … and for what, exactly? They looked frightened, the both of them. Was it someone the sheriffs were protecting? They emphasized that there were courtiers watching their doings. Did this go that high? Higher? They were the king’s emissaries, after all. Certainly the scope of the riddles all over town would seem to suggest it, for how could one man have accomplished it all?
But then it begged the question Why? Why in the world would King Richard need the Philosopher’s Stone? If he believed all that was said of it, he might certainly want the gold. But he was a very devout man, and alchemy smacked of sorcery. Would he pursue such a thing? And if it were he, why abduct Perenelle? Would it not be more expeditious to steal the alchemist himself and force him to explain whatever the Stone was supposed to do?
He licked his swollen lips again. No. He couldn’t imagine it. Not Richard. But his ministers, on the other hand … They had meddled before. It was Suffolk who wanted the relic Crispin had encountered only last year, but Crispin had been unable to prove Suffolk’s complicity. Crispin would like it to be him. He’d like to corner Suffolk in some alleyway and show him how precisely he had injured Crispin and those he cared about.
But what of the poisoning of the cistern? The sheriffs had reluctantly obliged in protecting the water sources for London, but they seemed disinclined to continue it. Were they being told to back away? And again, by whom? Capturing the Philosopher’s Stone was one thing, but poisoning London’s water supply was quite another. One had nothing to do with the other. Except that the sheriffs couldn’t help but speak of the two in one breath, and that was troubling.
A madman, perhaps, would poison the water, but it seemed more likely it was a French plot that they so recently mocked.
Who at the English court would protect a French plot?