Jacob made a snorting sound and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Interesting. But . . . I have nothing to do with them, if these tidings are true. And my son is also innocent of congress with them.” Jacob’s face was lit from the hearth, half in light while the other surrendered to shadow. The stark line of light served to emphasize the deep creases and wrinkles carving the man’s features. “Maître Guest, it is late. You have had strange encounters today. And these murders are vexing and horrifying. I have not heard these details before. I only knew of the murders. I did not know of these . . . other matters.” He appeared worried, but he did not look at his son. “I will offer a prayer, for it is all I can do.” He gave Crispin a steady look. “And I offer assurances about my son. He is a man of science with a superb mind. But he is not a murderer. Nor is he any of the other things you would ascribe to him. Come back on the morrow, and we will talk of it. Perhaps he can tell you of the other men in the corridor.”
“No. I do not know who they were,” the boy retorted. Crispin wanted to strangle him. But then he realized the context of his thoughts and felt slightly ashamed. There had been far too much strangling of late.
He raised his eyes instead to Jacob. He wanted to offer an apology, an explanation, but it withered on his tongue. Holy saints, but he was tired. Bone weary and melancholy at all these events. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not been thinking as clearly as he could have done. He was hungry and in need of wine. It was too late to patronize the Boar’s Tusk, but perhaps not too late to call upon Gilbert and Eleanor.
12
Crispin escaped the palace without incident, vowing to return in the morning to further question Julian. When he had looked at the boy to make this avowal, the knave had the nerve to sneer at him.
The fog was no better at this late hour, but it served to hide him from the Watch and he was grateful for that relief at least. Back to London, Crispin was grounded in the familiar as he made his way down Newgate Market until it became the Shambles. He cast an eye to his window above the tinker shop and frowned at the absence of a candle glow piercing the shutters. Perhaps Jack had gone to bed, tiring of waiting for Crispin to return.
He traveled down Cheap and turned the corner at Gutter Lane, and because of the dense fog, he had to travel by rote to the shuttered Boar’s Tusk. He was no stranger to this trek, drunk or sober.
The Boar’s Tusk was a blocky edifice with a stone foundation and lime-washed walls slashed by dark timbering. Some of its roof slates hung precariously over the street, but Crispin viewed all its flaws as a besotted lover disregards the wrinkles of his paramour. The place was as poor as he was and perhaps just as flawed. He felt a kinship with that old building as much as he felt a warm stirring of friendship for those within.
The door was shut and no doubt barred. The entry was a large expanse of old oak, fastened with heavy iron hinges. He pounded upon it and waited a beat before his fist offered a few more.
A voice from within called through it, “Peace, friend. The tavern is shut for the night. Come back on the morrow.”
“But I would have my wine now,” said Crispin as loudly as he dared.
A pause. “Crispin?”
“The same. Open up, Gilbert. I’m cold.”
A heavy beam clunked as it lifted from the door and the way was suddenly opened, revealing Gilbert’s smile and a shadow of a beard on his round face. “Crispin, do you know the hour?” he chided, even as he ushered him in. He closed the door again and replaced the beam to bar it.
“My apologies,” he said with a cursory bow. “But I was hungry. And I need my wine. It has been . . . a day.”
“And perhaps you wanted your friends to offer a comforting ear?” He rested his hand on Crispin’s shoulder and steered him toward the hearth.
The place seemed more solemn without the usual raucous crowd. Forlorn. The shadows hung in the corners like cobwebs. Even the hearth, still glowing from a few good-sized logs, seemed dispirited. But it was warm. He sat, easing a sigh from his lips as Gilbert leaned over him. “I will bring wine and a bit of cold fish. Will that do?”
“Gilbert, you are a saint.”
Gilbert guffawed and rubbed the back of his reddened neck. “That I am not.” He trudged back toward the kitchens, and Crispin heard him call to his servant Ned for some fish.
Crispin leaned back and kneaded the ache in his shoulder, not realizing until he sat down how taut and gnarled his muscle was. Sitting before the fire, he thawed, glad of this small pleasure.
A few moments passed and Gilbert returned. He had a tray with two stacked bowls, a jug of wine, and a trencher with several fish and a wedge of cheese.
Crispin reached for his money pouch but Gilbert waved him off. “No, Crispin. Tonight you are my guest. It is a rare thing indeed when you come to us as friends.”
Crispin ducked his head as Gilbert set the table. He could feel his cheeks warm from more than the fire. It was true. He had neglected this friendship, using the Boar’s Tusk as a convenient tavern and selfishly taking advantage of the kindness of his hosts. They had befriended him when few would. He owed them far more than an overdue tavern bill.
He mumbled his thanks, too embarrassed to say more.
“So Crispin,” said Gilbert, settling into his chair. He stretched his thick legs, wiggling his pointed-toed shoes toward the fire. His own wine was half gone as he settled the bowl on his ample belly. “Tell me about this terrible day that has you creeping about into taverns well past curfew.”
How much to tell? He eyed Gilbert, knowing the man was oath-bound by friendship never to reveal something Crispin told him in confidence.
“There have been foul murders in the city, Gilbert. Perhaps you have heard—”
“Oh aye,” he said. He suddenly snapped forward, catching his wine bowl in time. His earnest face searched Crispin’s own. “The boy. I heard of it. You are searching for his killer?”
Crispin nodded and drank down the rest. Gilbert quickly refilled it from a round jug. He licked his wine-slickened lips. “God be praised. I know that since you are on it, you will not give up. That child shall find justice.”
Crispin slurped another gulp of wine. He wiped the rest with his hand and took up a fish. It was cold but it didn’t matter. He pulled the meat from the bones and chewed. “Four children,” he said quietly.
“Four?” Gilbert muttered a prayer and crossed himself. He did not move or speak for some time. Crispin finished two fish and two more bowls of wine. He was feeling warm and soft.
Gilbert finally looked up at him. His brown eyes flickered to gold in the hearthglow. “And today. What happened today?”
Crispin sighed around the bread in his mouth. He tore off another hunk, dipped it in his wine, and sucked up the soggy dough. “A man who might have told me the culprit was himself murdered.”
“Oh!” Gilbert jerked in his chair. He shook his head in disbelief. “Crispin, this is unbelievable. Unheard of in all of London’s history! How can such a thing be?”
“You do not know the half of it, Gilbert. But I am too much of a friend to fully share the horrors with you.”
Gilbert shuddered. The Langtons had no children. Perhaps this was why they so took to Crispin, forlorn and very like a child in his naïveté when he had first lost everything. Though Gilbert and Eleanor were a scant few years older than he, they still often treated him like their own. For the most part, he ignored it. But today, for the first time, he felt like the parent, protecting his charge from the evils of the world. No, he would not tell Gilbert the gruesome details.