Well done, Crispin Guest. But not correct. Keep looking.
He froze. Looking over his shoulder, Crispin felt a chill. It had been personal for Flamel from the very beginning. The abduction of his wife, the killing of his apprentice, and all for the Philosopher’s Stone. But now, the man knew Crispin was involved. Said so by name. This was far more troubling.
Of course, that knave at the alchemist’s shop knew Crispin now, whatever the bastard’s true name was. Likely it was the same man who stole Perenelle. The same man leaving these clues. But if he was leaving them using Crispin’s name, then he wasn’t far ahead of them.
He crushed the parchment in his hand before he let it fall to the mud.
Jack came tearing around the corner. “Master! Master Crispin! I found it! I found it!”
He skidded to a stop before Crispin and saw the crumpled parchment hit the muddy path. “What’s that?”
“The wrong direction. But this time, Jack, he mentioned me by name.”
“What?” He dived for the parchment and unfurled it. His eyes scanned the smudged words and he let it fall again. “Blind me. He’s watching us. Too closely.”
“So it would seem. What have you found?”
“Oh. Er … back there. Another one of them symbols. It’s on a high eave. Passed by it the first time.”
“Then lead the way.”
Jack fell silent as he walked beside Crispin. This whole episode was getting under his skin. He didn’t like his enemies getting the upper hand. And spying on him was certainly not acceptable.
“Master, might Master Flamel be right? Could this all be a trap?”
Crispin locked eyes with the anxious boy. “I know it is a trap.”
Jack lurched to a halt and grabbed Crispin’s arm. “Then, sir! Why are you walking blindly into it?”
“First, I am not walking blindly. And second, we gain nothing by sitting on our arses. We must let him think that we are walking into it unmindful. There is little choice, at any rate, if we want to recover Madam Flamel.”
“Is she still alive, do you think?”
“Yes. He sent us a lock of her hair to prove it.”
“Do you think it is that man that Flamel thinks is dead-Perenelle’s old suitor?”
“He said he died in a fire along with his son. But someone else could have been mistaken for him. One charred body looks much like another. Though why he should wait so long for his revenge is more to the question.”
“Motivation and opportunity, that’s what you are always telling me,” said Jack, moving forward again. Crispin followed beside him. “Motivation? Well, Flamel said she spurned him in favor of Flamel. But from what I gather, that was a long time ago.”
“Only a heartbeat to the mad.”
“That’s true enough. And opportunity? That’s a tougher one, isn’t it? If they all knew one another in France, why’d they come here to do it?”
“And how does he know all of London’s landmarks? Perhaps I made a hasty assumption.”
“It’s the only one we’ve got. The only one that makes any sense.”
They came at last to a halt. “It’s here, Master.” A grand structure, or at least it had been. Some sort of ancient hall in disrepair. It did not look as if it had been used in the last fifty years. The shutters were boarded up and a bird’s nest sat on the porch by the door, the skeletal remains of a bird still residing there.
“It’s just here, Master Crispin,” said Jack. He had climbed the stair and up onto one of the pillars upholding the pediment. He stretched the long length of him to nearly touch the sigil.
“Can you reach it, Jack? Can you see if there is a pocket for the clue?”
“Aye, sir. I think I can.” Like a squirrel, the boy shimmied up the pillar, grabbed hold of the overhanging pediment, and swung himself up to the rickety roof.
“Be careful,” Crispin murmured, and then chastised himself for the old woman he was becoming.
Jack leaned over the side of the roof and, nearly upside down, reached underneath and plucked the parchment from its hiding place. He looked up with a wide grin and waved it about. But then he jerked forward and slipped off.
Crispin gasped, helpless to do anything as the boy plummeted over the side, heading for the stony road below.
Arse over heels, Jack somersaulted and at the last moment threw a hand out and barely caught the edge of the eave. Ink-stained fingers gripped the icy tiles. He hung by one hand, legs swinging carelessly, until he let go and landed on his feet in a crouch before he straightened and heaved a satisfied breath. “Nearly broke me neck,” he said almost proudly, before shuffling down the stairs and handing Crispin the parchment.
“Nearly,” muttered Crispin. “See that you don’t. I’m too old to train a new apprentice.”
Jack sidled up to him and Crispin unfolded the parchment.
You are a clever man, Crispin Guest. You have reached your goal.
“Our goal?” echoed Jack. “What? Here?”
Crispin climbed the steps and tried the door. Barred. He leaned over toward a shuttered window and peeked through the cracks. An empty space, with dried leaves on the checkered floor and dust on every surface. The walls were punctuated with niches that seemed to have once held something, like statues, but what statues remained stood on the floor in no particular semblance of order. The candles that were in the sconces had long ago burned down to nubs, and all that remained were cascades of wax hanging from them.
He could see no doors, nothing leading to any other room. It was only a barren hall.
He trotted down the stairs and studied the foundation. There did not look to be enough of it to offer a cellar or mews below. Whatever he had meant by this clue, this was not where Perenelle Flamel was being kept.
“It don’t look inhabited, sir.”
“It doesn’t look inhabited,” he corrected. “And it isn’t.”
“Then he’s lying.”
“No, that is not part of the game. That wouldn’t be playing fair, Jack, and so far he has not lied to us.”
“How can you defend him? He’s killed, and stolen that woman!”
“I am not defending him, Jack. I am merely trying to understand him. He has set the parameters of this game and he means to keep to them. He does not like it that we step out of line, and tells us when we are wrong. And now that he is mentioning me by name, he obviously enjoys the novelty of adding me to the game. You see, Jack, to defeat your enemy you must learn how he thinks. The game is fair. It is up to us to figure out the rules.”
“How? If this is our ‘goal,’ then where is Madam Flamel?”
Crispin handed him the parchment. “Read it again.”
“‘You are a clever man, Crispin Guest,’” he read aloud. “‘You have reached your goal.’ I don’t understand, sir.”
“What is my goal, Jack?”
“Finding Madam Flamel.”
“Is it? Not according to him. By his reckoning, I must have another goal.”
“Finding … him?”
He smiled. “And so. This building must mean something to him that I can use to find him.”
“He is mad. It’s nothing but an abandoned building. There are many such in London.”
“But he led me to not just any abandoned building, but to this particular one. What is it, I wonder?”
“Guildhall of some kind.”
“What do your reasoning skills say about the building, Jack?”
Jack dug his teeth into his bottom lip, thinking. “Well, sir, it’s abandoned. It’s a guildhall. And … and … Blind me. I see, Master Crispin. All guilds are proud of who they are and what they represent, and proudly display their ornaments or arms. But this one…”
“This one doesn’t. Not one thing to indicate who the guild members are or of their vocation. And what does that suggest to you?”
“I … I don’t know, sir. That they didn’t want nobody knowing which guild it was?”
“Ah!”
He climbed down the steps, with Jack following. Something caught his attention off to the left. Had that shadow moved? His hand found his dagger.