Crispin felt his stomach flip. “God’s blood,” he whispered.
Exton looked ill. The bulbous knot on his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I rue the day I was elected to this post. I thought”—he shook his head—“I never dreamed we’d . . .” He glanced at Froshe who was all but cowering in the corner and licked his lips. “What a pair of fools are we, eh, John?” Froshe did not raise his eyes. His fat cheeks were colored a ruddy blush. The shadows seemed to want to swallow him, but there was too much of him to do so. Crispin said nothing. He merely watched as Exton’s face wrestled with something he would not voice. Finally, after an interval, he said, “Let us to the sheriff’s chamber where we may talk. There is wine,” he added. As if he needed to.
Crispin and Jack followed the men out of the mews and up the familiar winding staircase to the sheriff’s chamber. The clerk, who usually sat outside at his desk and who often eyed Crispin with disdain, was absent.
A servant arose from an alcove and scurried to stir the coals in the hearth and added wood until it burned well. Exton slowly lowered into the chair behind the desk and Froshe wandered toward the shuttered window. Crispin stood by the chair opposite the desk and waited. The servant finished his chore and hurried out, closing the door. When Exton looked up and saw Crispin standing before him, he seemed surprised. He waved him into the chair as Jack took his place behind him.
“Your servant may pour wine,” he said with a grand gesture.
Jack did not need Crispin’s urging. He rushed to the sideboard and poured two goblets, bringing the first two to each sheriff with a sloppy bow. He returned to the sideboard and poured another for his master.
Crispin lifted the goblet to his lips in relief, knowing that soon the wine would take the sharp edge from the proceedings.
Exton drank as if he had not drunk in ages. He stared into the fire and hugged his empty goblet to his chest. “Unholy business, this.”
For the first time, Crispin felt a splinter of empathy for these men. “You say there were others. How many?”
“Three more. All boys.”
“The same manner?”
“Yes. To almost every detail.”
“Since when?”
“Since Michaelmas. Just as we had taken office.” He said the last bitterly, as if it had been the fault of those electing them. As if they had all colluded with one another.
Two months. Crispin took in a long breath. “Have you any clues? Any suspects?”
The sheriff slowly shook his head. “I have never”—he inhaled a trembling breath—“I fear it is the Tempter himself in our midst.” He crossed himself. His voice cracked. “Such desecration. Such insidious acts. Master Guest”—he shook his head—“I cannot stomach it. It is sin that rends this place. Such dreadful sin. We’ve not enough priests to purge the city of it.”
“Purge the city,” echoed Froshe, cradling his goblet. He had not drunk any of it.
“Sin it is. Grave sin,” agreed Crispin. “But a man did this.”
“Enough. What can one man do against this? These are strange times. I fear another plague is coming. And rightly so.”
Crispin never thought he would think it, but the sheriff’s defeated tone disturbed him. It was plain these men preferred the status quo and these murders did not fit well into the carefully delineated view these merchants held of the world within London’s walls.
“Hire me,” said Crispin.
Exton raised his eyes and glared. “What?”
“Hire me. I will catch this murderer.”
A harsh bark of a laugh erupted from the sheriff’s lips. “We were warned of you and your tricks, were we not, John? Look how Master Guest would manipulate us. Wynchecombe warned us—”
“Oh be still, Nicholas!” Froshe spread his hand over his face and rubbed, rubbing the sin away. “What choice have we got?”
Exton shot to his feet. “Fool! Can’t you keep your mouth shut? Or at least your cowardice to yourself.”
But color had returned to Froshe’s face and he tossed his goblet aside and reached for his sword, though he did not draw it. “Churl! Do you dare call me a coward!”
“My lords.” Crispin rose slowly to his feet. If this was the way of it, then he might well manipulate these two jackals. “Please, do not fight amongst yourselves. I have offered you my solution.” He leaned on the table and looked Exton in the eye. “Hire me.”
“The devil take you.”
“He may very well. But not before I have brought this particular devil to justice.”
The man hedged. He slid a sly gaze toward Froshe who glared daggers at him. “Suppose,” he muttered, slowly. “Suppose we were to hire you. No one must know, of course.”
“It will be more difficult making inquiries.”
“I see. And so you back away.”
“I said nothing of the kind, Lord Sheriff. It is only more of a challenge. And there is one thing you must learn about me, my lords. I have never balked at a challenge.”
Exton twisted the stem of his goblet in his thin fingers. He chewed in his thick lips and looked toward Froshe. “Well?”
“I fear we are signing a pact with the devil.” But in the end Froshe reluctantly bobbed his head.
“It is as you wish, Lord Sheriff. May I be privy to the Coroner rolls?”
Exton nodded and finally set his goblet aside. “We shall send copies to you at your lodgings on the morrow.”
The silence pressed between them again and Crispin, too, set his empty goblet down. “I will take my leave, my lords. Unless you have more to tell me.”
“If there were more, I would tell you, Guest,” said Exton with a sneer. He did not look at Crispin but into the hearth flames. “Report back to us as soon as you discover something. The king has not yet heard tidings of these deaths. But when he does, even though they be beggars, he shall make our lives miserable. And if our lives are made miserable—”
“So, too, is mine made.” Crispin bowed. He swept out of the room with Jack scurrying behind him.
The night was cold, but it kept its cold to itself without the winds from earlier. They trudged quietly in the dirty and hoof-trodden snow back down Newgate Market to the Shambles. Once they entered their lodgings, Jack quickly laid a fire from the smoldering ashes and lit the candle on the table as well. Crispin understood the sentiment. As much light as possible to chase away the nightmares.
Crispin dropped his weary body onto his chair and Jack knelt, pulled off Crispin’s boots, and laid them beside the hearth to dry. “Master,” he said softly. “We have forgotten to meet with that Jew.”
“Yes.” It seemed so unimportant now, yet he did have the man’s silver in his pocket. “It makes little matter.”
“Begging your pardon, sir. But the rent is due and the sheriff didn’t give you aught—”
“Damn.” Yes, he would still have to meet this Jew if he were to pay his rent, for to ask the sheriffs for funds now would earn him little but aggravation. They seemed no more generous with the king’s coffer as was Wynchecombe.
“I will think about it on the morrow, Jack. For now, have we any food?”
Jack did his best to cobble a meal from their meager pantry and once they had cleaned away the leavings and settled into bed, Crispin on his pallet and Jack in his straw in the corner, Crispin fell into a fitful sleep.