His anger rising, Crispin longed to sweep it from the table and send it crashing to the floor. What was that physician doing with such a dreadful thing? He looked at the notes in a leather-bound journal lying open on the table beside it and paled. In French, Crispin read the details of experiments with entrails and offal. These were from young creatures but the nature of the creatures was not mentioned.
He lifted the journal and tilted it toward the candlelight, squinting at the tight, careful script. After a bit of reading, he realized that the journal did not belong to the physician, but to the boy Julian, and his anger threw his pulse into a vigorous thrumming.
Flipping pages back, he read the earlier entries, trying to discern what the youth had been up to and liking it not at all. Experiments involving poking the internal organs while they were exposed to the air, the abdomen being sliced open, the poor creature bound and helpless to resist. It explained how long it took the creature to expire and all the abominable note-taking in a dispassionate tone.
He slammed the book closed and panted. Murderers he had known, but this!
He searched the rest of the room, looking for other evidence, other horrific things he did not wish to find. More books and scrolls, some in the physician’s hand and some in the youth’s. There was a wooden pail by the bed and when Crispin inspected it, he saw a twisted mass of discarded rags smeared with dried blood. They could have been used for the physician’s art, but when he looked back at the table and its gruesome contents, he could imagine only the one thing.
A door fell shut and he swiftly pinched out the candle flame. His dagger was in his hand, ready.
A key turned in the bedchamber lock. Its pins fell and the latch lifted. With a hushed whine, the door swung open. A figure, haloed by the firelight from the outer chamber, passed the threshold and reached for a candle.
Crispin’s knife met the small of his back. Julian stiffened with a gasp.
“Master Julian,” growled Crispin close to the young man’s ear. “I would not move if I were you.”
“Y-you!” he whispered. He began to tremble. His voice was choked with anger. He tried to turn around but Crispin could see him struggle not to. “You . . . you vile, hideous man! What do you think you are doing here? This is our private chamber!”
“Light the candle.”
“What? I—”
“Light the damned candle!”
The lad swore an oath in French and reached for a straw. He echoed Crispin’s movements of only moments ago and lit the same candle that Crispin had moved to the trestle table. Slowly, Crispin stepped back, his knife still visible. He motioned toward the journal with it. “What is this abomination?”
Eyes darted, narrowed, then looked up at him with hatred. “You could not possibly understand.”
“Try me,” he said.
“How can I explain to a man unfamiliar with the medicinal arts? It would be like explaining the nature of the Almighty to a simpleton.”
Crispin reached back without looking and tapped the glass jar with his knife blade. “What is that?” he demanded.
“That?” Julian frowned at him, his brows contracting to an unpleasant “v.” “It is a spleen. It is one of the organs—”
“Who is it from, whelp?”
“Who? You must be jesting. It is from a goat.”
“Prove it.”
Julian tore away from the nimbus of candlelight. His face fell into darkness. “I can’t. I won’t. These are important experiments. They might save lives someday. But what would you care with your brutish ways and clumsy oafishness? You break in here without a by your leave and expect answers from me at knifepoint. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of anyone!”
Crispin’s anger bubbled. He had met murderers aplenty. It seemed in London they came a penny a dozen. But the young corpse that he had seen with his own eyes was beyond murder. He dismissed the idea of a Golem. That was a distraction, a cheap conjurer’s trick to fool the eye. Whatever that thing was, if it existed at all, did not perpetrate these atrocities. The body was handled in too calculated a way, too clinical, too careful. The crime was committed by a man, to be sure. And he was beginning to be certain that the culprit stood before him.
“You should be afraid of me. And afraid of the hangman’s noose. You are a murderer of a most foul nature. To do the things you have done—it disgusts me to even think of it.”
“How dare you! I am no such thing! I save lives. It is against the code of the physician. It is against the code of my faith.”
Crispin proffered his knife again. “You will tell me exactly what you have been doing here. And I will examine the evidence for myself.”
Julian stepped into the candlelight. His face was contorted with frustration. His hands, those long-fingered hands, gestured at him. “I murdered no one. What do you accuse me of?”
“Very well. If you must play this game. Four boys were discovered murdered. They were found naked with evidence that their limbs were bound. Their bowels were skillfully ripped from their bodies. And they were sodomized.”
If actor he was, Julian showed superb skill. His pupils dilated until the irises were a mere pale green ring against the whites. At last his lips trembled and a hand came up to press upon their whitening pallor. “No,” he whispered. “Almighty Lord, no.” His hand groped for a stool and he found one behind him. Sinking down, his taut body fell limp. From the hearth light and the candle, Crispin noticed the sash around the boy’s waist. Such a thing could easily be used to strangle.
“You accuse me of this,” he said with a husky voice. And then, any amount of sympathy the youth might have engendered was lost as he raised his head and snarled an ugly laugh. His eyes gradually cleared and he gritted his teeth. “Get out.”
No more of this. Crispin grabbed his shoulder and yanked hard. The youth stumbled to his feet. “Explain it to the sheriff.”
“What? No! Unhand me!” The boy wrestled, wriggling like an eel until he slipped from Crispin’s grip and ducked away from him, melting against the wall. “I am not a murderer! What will it take to convince you?”
“Do you conspire with those other Jews? Is this an elaborate plot to kill Christian boys?”
Julian stared at him. “Other Jews? You are mad. What are you talking about?”
“Do not play the fool with me, boy. I know of the secret Jews in London. And I also know of the plots to kill Christian boys. Is this part of a larger scheme?” Crispin’s hand hurt. He realized he’d been gripping the knife hilt tighter and tighter.
Julian’s green eyes darted to both of Crispin’s. “You make no sense. There are no Jews in England. Your own king saw to that.”
That was enough. Crispin lunged and grabbed the boy by his gown, pulled him forward, and shook him. “Do not play with me! So help me, I will flay you alive—” The blade speared toward the young man’s face and those green eyes contracted, staring down its tip.
“Maître Guest!”
Crispin’s attention slid for only a moment toward Jacob staring horrified in the open doorway. But it was enough for the slippery youth to escape again. This time Julian’s blade was free and in his hand. His chest heaved as he inched toward the door.