“This is a matter for the sheriff, then.”
“But Maître Guest, you yourself said you were investigating these murders. Surely you could keep it quiet.”
“A monster on the loose? Should I not warn the populace?”
“Oh no! That would be disaster!”
“For whom? You?” He said the last nastily and meant it.
Jacob drew himself up. “I am not afraid of your Gentile mobs, sir. Lives are at stake. It is more important than the life of one Jewish physician.”
“Noble, I suppose.” Crispin scowled. “Why should I believe any of this? How do I know you are telling me the truth?”
Jacob lifted his arms in an exhausted shrug. “You have no good reason, Maître. I am merely a Jew. I only thought, that if anyone would, you would believe me.”
“Christ!” He thumbed the stubble on his chin and stared at the floor. “Who knew you had such papers here?”
Jacob thought a moment. “I do not know. But I do know that my rooms have been plundered before.”
“Oh? When?”
“Many times since I arrived. My privacy here has been . . . less than private. Understandable when I am so close to their Majesties.”
Crispin mulled this. “These parchments of yours. Are they written in Hebrew?”
“Yes.”
“Then this culprit must surely be a scholar of some sort to be able to read it.”
“Yes. That must be so.”
“Who in this court can read Hebrew?”
“This I do not know. But there are astrologers, alchemists, and the like at court. I could not guess at how many.”
“Do you lock your door, Master Jacob?”
“Of course. I bar it each night and lock it each time I go out.”
“And you, boy.” He turned to Julian, who rousted himself to glare anew. “What of you? Are you as assiduous at locking doors?”
“Of course I am! I do not trust these English Gentiles.”
“Many would have a key, though,” Crispin mused to himself.
“Master,” said Jack, looking desperately at the window. “That is the bell for Compline.” He had not noticed the distant deep clang until Jack mentioned it. “It will be curfew soon. And the gate to London must already be locked. How are we to get back home?”
“I have my ways, Jack, never fear.” But he did not relish traveling after curfew. He wondered bitterly if it was snowing again. He stared at the curtained window. “When did you arrive to these shores, Master Jacob?”
“Two months ago.”
“And the murders started then?”
“Much to my regret.”
“These are Christian children.” He pivoted and fastened his steely gaze on the physician. “The explanation could be far simpler than a supposed monster. ‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem.’ ”
Jacob’s eyes widened and for the first time, he did look frightened. “You . . . you accuse . . . me?”
“You whoreson!” growled Julian. “I should have slit your throat rather than stab your arm.”
Crispin spared him a cold glance. “I have not discounted your guilt in this, Master Julian.” He was satisfied to hear the boy’s gasp of outrage.
Jacob braced himself against the table behind him. “I . . . I can well see how your Christian sensibilities could accuse me of such deeds, Maître Guest. But I assure you—I swear on my physician’s oath—that I cannot kill. And to kill a child . . . Never! Never.”
A disquieting sensation crept over Crispin as Jacob pled his case. No. The physician seemed far too sincere, too compassionate.
Julian, on the other hand . . .
“I must think on all this, Master Jacob. These tidings are disturbing.”
“But—”
“I will inform you when I come to any conclusions.” He swept Julian with a spiteful look before he signaled to Jack.
Now, how the hell were they to get out of the palace unseen?
He opened the door cautiously and stuck out his head, staring into the gloom of the corridor. This chamber was near the king’s. God’s sense of humor failed to tickle.
Crispin flipped his hood up and tugged it low over his forehead. Taking a deep breath he plunged into the corridor with Jack close behind.
“Master, what—”
“Be still, Jack,” he whispered. He cocked his head to listen. It was late. Most of court would be abed or perhaps playing a late game of chess or tables.
He stepped into the all-too-familiar corridor, hearing the soft click of the door shutting behind him. That was that. They were certainly on their own now.
Crispin walked carefully, keeping along the walls and listening before he proceeded. He cast a thought back toward Jacob and his parchments. This was damnable. If that Jew was responsible for those deaths, Crispin certainly did not want to appear to be helping him. He recalled the stories he had heard of Jews murdering children. But this had been more than a murder. It had been rape and mutilation, which sounded to him like some sort of sorcery. The man admitted to the use of magic with those damnable texts. But Jacob’s appalled expression did not appear to have been faked. Was he being entirely sincere?
He turned a corner. The wooden floor groaned under his step and he stopped, measuring the empty corridor. When the small noise failed to raise an alarm he continued his steps and his musings.
What of Julian? A sour lad. There was something secretive in his eyes, something Crispin did not trust. Was that boy capable? His distaste for Crispin’s country was palpable. When Crispin shoved him against the wall the boy felt pathetic beneath his crushing grip. Such a slight youth might wish to prove himself stronger over smaller, weaker boys. Was he monster enough to have raped and killed? Maybe his father had no stomach for blasphemous experiments, but what of his son?
And Crispin had neglected to search the bedchamber. Foolish! He had been so concerned with getting out of there that he failed to do the most rudimentary of investigations. A child’s mistake. He would not make that mistake again.
And yet. How was he to investigate at all? It would certainly involve those of the court. He would have to return and make inquiries, but how was he to do that when the king’s mandate still stood? After Crispin had foolishly refused to beg for his lands and title Richard had screamed it to the court that Crispin was not to return. He had even refused the king’s gold. That had been foolish indeed.
He noticed Jack was not as skittish and had graciously accepted Jacob’s pouch of silver when the physician had pressed it on him in the chamber. At least one of them had a head on their shoulders.
But for how much longer?
Crispin was about to inquire of Jack what their next move should be when the door beside him opened. Before Crispin had a chance to react, a hand reached out, grabbed him by his hood, and dragged him inside.
6
Crispin scrambled for his dagger, but his arms were trapped in his twisted cloak. It had all happened so fast. The door, the man. Jack somehow followed, almost crying out but stifling himself.
When Crispin wrestled away he turned an angry expression on . . . the duke of Lancaster! “Damn you, Crispin!” shouted his former mentor. “What, by the mass, are you doing here?”
Crispin clamped his open jaw shut and straightened his disheveled coat. He smoothed back the hood from his face and stood bareheaded before his lord. Former lord, he reminded himself.