Wait, wait. That would imply that such a creature as a Golem existed.
“There is no Golem!” he barked. A man trudging down the lane and carrying a heavy sack over his shoulder stopped and stared at him. Crispin glared back, his hand lying on his dagger hilt in warning. The man’s gaze flicked to the gesture and he moved on without a word, shambling through the gray snow.
Crispin watched him disappear in the gloom. But what if the man in the carriage was not a bishop, he thought. The honorific “Excellency” was freely wielded, might even refer to one of those astrologers Jacob spoke of. It was not uncommon for physicians to consult star charts. Divination played just as important a role as the use of purges and potions. Yet some astrologers were only in it for the money. Those could be found in wealthy households, making good coin from their signs and scratches and burning twigs, like some Greek priest in an ancient temple. Crispin had even known a few generals who would not set foot to stirrup until their astrologers had told them it was wise to do so.
He did not recall these generals being particularly successful.
There were indeed astrologers at court. It was rumored the queen favored one. But a woman desperate to produce an heir to the throne might be inclined to all measures at her disposal. Including hiring a Jewish physician.
Missing Hebrew parchments, he mused. If an astrologer didn’t read Hebrew, might he know where to go to get someone who did? Perhaps through abduction of a Jewish child?
Crispin shook his head. He couldn’t go round and round like this. Something had to make sense. And a Golem did not.
“I’m weary.” His voice sounded strange and alone on the deserted street. What hour was it? And just as he thought it, the slow tolling of bells from Westminster chimed Compline. All to rest. The end of the day where silence reigned.
But to Crispin, it meant finally meeting with that servant and avoiding the Watch. Curfew was now in force.
It was time to leave these meandering thoughts for a brief while and concentrate on his rendezvous at Charing Cross. He reluctantly pushed away from the glowing brazier, and moved by feel toward Westminster through the thickening fog. It was a long way made longer by the shrouding night and mist. He looped through dark, narrow lanes to Temple Bar and veered right along the wide avenue of the Strand, guided by the warm threads of light ringing the shuttered windows.
The road curved, following the bend of the Thames, and by this he knew he was drawing closer. Hidden by the fog he hoped the servant would find him before the Watch.
The stone cross of Charing Cross suddenly rose out of the darkness. It did not offer a traveler’s comfort but instead stood more like a disapproving nun, blocking his path.
Of course he did not spy the servant. That would have been far too easy. No, instead, he was to stand out in the cold and await him. He patted his arms and stomped a bit in the slush. Well, the man served at the pleasure of others. He couldn’t begrudge him too much for his delay.
He cast his eyes toward Westminster Palace but could not see beyond the dark rooftops before him. He began to speculate what the man would tell him, which lord he might implicate, for if he were hired or coerced into stealing those parchments, then he was hired or coerced by someone, and that someone might well be guilty of murder. Could it be as simple as this? No mysterious Golems? No sinister lords with dark carriages?
A cynical laugh tried to climb up his throat.
Crispin expelled a warm breath into the cold air. This seemed to be taking a long time, or did the cold just make it seem so? He marched in place for a bit before he decided to pace around the cross itself, warming his muscles by constant movement.
His stomach growled. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten. Was there any food at home? He hoped Jack was cooking something. Something other than turnips. “God’s blood, but I hate turnips.”
He circled the cross a few times, stomping at a marshaling pace. “Where is that damnable servant?” He scowled in the direction of the palace as if by its nature his scowl could roust out the man from wherever it was he was hiding.
Impatiently, he climbed the cross’s steps to get a better vantage and peer farther down the lane, even if it were possible to see through the fog. He didn’t rise but a few steps when his foot jammed into something soft.
He glanced down. At first it looked to be a pile of clothing. Strange, his mind said, but his strident heart seemed to know better, and he reached down on instinct and encountered the form of a person huddled on the steps.
“This is no place to sleep,” said Crispin to the curled figure. But even as he reached, he knew. He knew.
11
He could not see the corpse without a torch, and though he was reluctant to do it, he had to call the hue and cry and rally a messenger to retrieve the sheriffs.
When Exton and Froshe arrived, he saw by their expressions that they were learning the extent of their relationship with Crispin. Their faces were pinched and white. And the fact that they had, no doubt, been called away from their suppers, pleased them even less.
“Why is it, Master Guest,” said Froshe in a sharp, low tone as he dismounted his horse with a great grunt, “that when you are set to a task to solve one murder, you garner more?”
“It is my poor luck showing itself, Lord Sheriff.”
“No, your luck appears to be good. It is the luck of the poor souls around you that plagues us all.”
Crispin said nothing as the sheriff motioned to his man William to bring a torch.
William was a wall of a man with a flat face like brickwork. He was a servant of Newgate and had served gladly under the brutal Simon Wynchecombe, but he looked a little warily at his two new superiors.
Nevertheless, William pointed a sneer in Crispin’s direction as he lumbered forward, tilting the cresset and its sputtering flame over the body. The erratic patch of wavering light confirmed that this was the servant whom he had planned to meet, who was going to implicate someone. And now the man was dead and his information with it. Even if anyone else in the palace knew something, this would certainly silence them.
Grimly, the three leaned over the corpse. It was Crispin who knelt first and when the sheriffs followed suit, William lowered the cresset at last.
The golden light passed over the dead man’s face. His eyes bulged like a frog’s, mouth slack and tongue lolling. But there was no froth at his lips, no indication that he had been poisoned. Crispin took a breath and reached forward. He thought Exton or Froshe would stop him, but the sheriffs said nothing. Better Crispin soil his hands than the sheriffs, he assumed.
His fingers curled at the neck of the man’s tunic and pulled open the laces. “Lower the torch,” he said, and was surprised that for once the combative William complied. The light revealed a dark welt ringing the man’s neck. But not merely a welt. It was an indentation so deep that the skin had welled red around it. Something had pulled so tautly about his neck and throat that it might have severed his head were it sharper. His neck looked the same as the strangled boy from the Thames.
Crispin cocked his head toward Exton and silent confirmation was written clearly in his eyes. Yes, Exton had recognized it, too. He joined Froshe in an unspoken exchange.
Crispin looked his fill and was leaning away when his eye caught on something at the shadowed edge of the groove in the skin. Closer. He plucked a thread from the folds of skin and lifted it out. A thread that did not match the man’s garments.