“Pardon me, good sir,” said Crispin with a hasty bow. “But I beg you to stay out of it. This is none of your affair.”
He drew back to slam the door again when the staff landed hard on his shoulder. Crispin whipped toward the man, his hand on his sheathed dagger. “If you value your life,” Crispin growled, “you will not do that again!”
“Go for the sheriffs,” said the man to his young servant. The boy, mouth agape and eyes like mazers, dropped the lead, ready to run.
“Hold!” Crispin grabbed the boy’s arm, and the lad shrank from him, dropping to the ground with a shriek. Crispin let him go. “I’m not going to hurt you … or your master.” He gestured toward the door. “My grievance is with the alchemist within, Bartholomew of Oxford, and him alone.”
The man blustered, “Well then. What do you want?”
“Are you mad or deaf? I have business with the man who owns this shop.”
“And that would be me,” said the man.
Crispin dropped his face in his hand. “No, good sir. Not with the owner of the building, but the man who runs this shop.”
“Yes!” he said more sternly. “I am Bartholomew of Oxford, you demented churl!”
“No, you’re not. I-” He stared at the man, at the boy, at the mule packed high with luggage, and then at the man again. “You … are the alchemist whose shop this is? But I have been dealing with the alchemist here for the last few days.”
“What? Impossible. I have been out of town for a month. I have been traveling, and buying ingredients. This shop has lain empty.”
Crispin lowered his head. “I apologize, Master Bartholomew, but I regret to say that it has not lain empty.”
It was the alchemist’s turn to lay his face in his hands. The boy ran to fetch ale from the nearest alehouse, and Crispin lit candles and sat the man down in his shop by the hearth, explaining as much of it as he dared, leaving out about Flamel and the Stone. But he did speak of the arsenic and the poisonings. As he spoke, he moved about the shop surreptitiously, seeing if any clues as to the man’s identity and whereabouts were indicated. He parted the curtain and found only a small bed and personal items.
The athanor was still warm. The ashes had been hastily stirred and extinguished. Eating bowls were left dirty and unattended. Pots and kettles were disturbed and lay crusted with whatever the impostor had devised.
Crispin had described the man, but the true Bartholomew of Oxford did not recognize him.
“The gall of the man,” said the alchemist. “What utter gall to use my good name so.”
Crispin pulled at the collar of his coat. He felt a bit warm and his stomach churned. No doubt because he had eaten very little today. “Might I inquire if you have ever heard the name Nicholas Flamel?”
“Nicholas Flamel? What alchemist has not heard of him? He is famed far and wide for his reported creation of the Philosopher’s Stone. What has Flamel to do with this business?”
“Perhaps nothing,” he said, rubbing his stomach. He thought it best to keep his client’s identity safe … but he had to know if he had been duped in the matter of Flamel’s fame as well. Clearly not. “But his name came up,” he offered.
“This is abominable. My clientele! Oh, I dearly hope he has not soured those who have kept their trust in me. We must call in the sheriff!”
“Forgive me, Master Bartholomew, but there is very little the sheriffs can and will do. But I assure you that I will do my best. There is a greater deception being perpetrated. A very dangerous one.” Crispin glanced toward the cracked door. “I apologize for any damage I have done to your door, Master.” He reached for his scrip, but the man stayed him with a wave of his hand.
“No, Master Guest. I quite understand. I only hope that you will find this culprit. Should we fear his return?”
“No, Master, I do not think he will return here. He has done most of what he set out to do. Now it is up to me to do the rest.”
And as far as Crispin could reckon, that meant that the hunt all over London for those clues must continue and the “game” had to go on.
Fatigued and with an aching belly, he returned to Flamel’s shop. When he entered, Jack sprang to his feet and met him at the door. “You weren’t gone very long, Master.”
“No. A great many deceptions are overtaking us. The alchemist whom we thought was Bartholomew of Oxford was instead an impostor. I fear he may very well have been the abductor.” His eyes flicked to Avelyn, who must have read his lips, for she suddenly paled. “Why did you lead me to that particular place, Avelyn?”
Flamel twisted round to look at her. Her sorrowful eyes were locked on Crispin’s, and without looking at Flamel, she signed to him.
The alchemist scrubbed his eyes. “She says he was the first other alchemist she could find. She prays that you-that we-forgive her, for putting us in the madman’s path.” He gave her an avuncular smile. “You foolish girl. Of course I do. What would I do without you?”
She fell into his arms, and he held her as a father holds a child. But when she lifted her face, there were no tears there. Slowly, she pulled free of him and walked toward Crispin. She looked up at him, trying to gauge his expression.
“I, too, forgive you. How can I do any less when your master-who has known you far longer-has done the same?” She reached up and kissed his cheek.
A wave of nausea made him dizzy, and he held her hand to steady himself. He dismissed her look of concern. “I have not eaten much today. Perhaps a little wine and bread before we rejoin the hunt.”
She hurried to comply and ran into Jack, trying to do the very same thing. They argued over who poured the wine and had a tug-of-war on a loaf of bread.
By the time they both placed the spilled beaker of wine and torn hunk of bread in front of him, his roiling belly couldn’t stomach the idea of eating or drinking. He sipped the wine anyway and decided to forgo the bread.
“I’m not as hungry as I thought. Jack, let us go.”
He moved toward the door, but not before he noticed Jack make a face at the girl.
“Tucker! Must you?”
“She started it!” At Crispin’s glower, the boy looked only slightly chastened. Jack stood at his side on the threshold as they surveyed the street. Jack buttoned his cloak. “Do you know what is going on, sir?”
“No. But I have my suspicions. Let us follow the latest clue.”
“What did it say again?”
He took out the parchment from his scrip. “‘Eyes bold, skin cold, silver-armored, breath hold. Multiplying, fortifying, never thirsting, shore shying.’”
Jack thought for a moment. “Sounds like a dead man. A dead knight. But what does ‘multiplying’ and ‘fortifying’ have to do with it?”
“Think, Jack. What was multiplied while at the same time fortifying?”
“Multiplying, eh?” His face opened in surprise. “Loaves and … fishes! A fish has wide eyes, cold skin, and ‘armor.’ Clever, that.”
“Correct. My supposition is Old Fish Street. Shall we?”
Fish street was like any other lane in London, crammed with houses and shops shouldering one another and creating a narrow canyon, dimming the street with lonesome shadows and smoke. Citizens passed them by on their way to do business. Chatelaines inspected the silvery bodies of fish laid out on folding displays; cockles in baskets; live eels in tubs of water. Wives haggled with the fishmongers, and cats roamed for fallen scraps. The mud of Fish Street sparkled from discarded scales and smelled like fish guts and the stench of death.
Crispin and Jack spread out, searching for the next clue. Crispin hoped this would all soon be at an end. The fourth day of Perenelle’s abduction was coming to a close and there was no sign of her yet.
He spotted a scratched-out sigil on a post and ran for it. He ignored the stares of the shopkeeper and pulled a parchment from a tiny niche.