He looked up with his hands still cradling his face, mashing his cheeks together. His mustache wept over his fingers. “Well, I suppose that is in order.” He breathed raggedly. “You see, his grace the duke was worried about Becket’s relics. He knew there was a plot afoot to steal or destroy them, and so … so he sent me, well, to fetch them.”
“Fetch them? Indeed. His new lapdog would do so.”
“Don’t, Cris. I haven’t the wits to match barbs with you now.”
“So go on. You arrived a fortnight ago and stole the keys in order to make a copy.”
He froze. “How did you know?” Crispin rolled his eyes. “Never mind. You’re the Tracker. I concede it.”
“Why didn’t you steal the bones then and there?”
“No opportunity. And I needed to measure the circumstances. I thought it best to return and travel with another group of pilgrims to mask the deed.”
“Very well. You hid in the Corona tower until all were gone and you caught your gown in the door.”
“I’d forgotten that until I found you in my room. You are very good at what you do.”
“Save it for later, Chaucer. Explain what happened. Did you kill the Prioress?”
“No, damn you! Of course I didn’t. Nor did I kill poor little Wilfrid.”
“Poor little Wilfrid was frightened of you. Did you threaten him earlier?”
“No.”
“This isn’t much of a confession.”
“I’m getting to that. I had no intentions toward the Prioress. Are we clear on that?”
“So it is merely a coincidence that you knew each other under dubious circumstances.”
“Yes, only a coincidence. A horrible and possibly laughable coincidence. I came to steal Becket’s bones and only that.”
“Oh, well then. I suppose all can be forgiven!” Crispin was so stiff with restraint he was liable to snap. “So where are they, Geoffrey?”
“When I snuck out of my hiding place, I heard all sorts of noise. Screams, people running. I suppose that was when the Prioress was murdered. I did my best to stay out of sight. Whatever was happening, I thought it was a fine distraction to do what I needed to do. I did not know that you would return looking for me. Scared me out of my wits. So I’m afraid I … I hit you.”
“The first time you hit me in the jaw,” he said resentfully, rubbing his jaw again.
“Sorry, Cris. Couldn’t be helped. But I was free to get to the shrine, which I quickly did.”
Crispin stood over him. “So where are the goddamned bones?”
Chaucer wiped his lips with his hand and exhaled another ragged breath. “Once I had dispatched you, I managed to lift the canopy and push aside the casket lid … but the damned bones were already gone!”
15
“More lies, Geoffrey?” said Crispin wearily. “How many more do you have in that pouch of yours?”
“I’m not lying, Cris. The bones were gone.”
“And someone just happened to steal your dagger and kill Brother Wilfrid.”
“Yes, yes! I don’t know when. I don’t remember when I had it last.”
“How convenient.”
Chaucer glared. “This is very pretty. You haven’t seen me in eight years and you simply assume now that I am a murderer.”
“You’ve admitted to being a thief and a spy. Can murderer be far behind?”
Chaucer shook his head and rose. “I never would have believed it of you, Cris. That you would have become so hard and immovable. True, you were always a bit stiff but never so hard-hearted.”
“Live in my shoes for a day and you might understand.”
“Am I to hang for a murder for which I am entirely innocent?”
“Entirely? That is debatable.” Chaucer stiffened and curled his hands into fists. Crispin raised his bruised chin. “Are you going to hit me again, Geoffrey?”
“Why bother?” He sat, dropping his face in his hands. Crispin stared at him for a long time and finally spun away, glancing up into the high window, welcoming the watery sunshine on his face.
“Against my better judgment,” he said quietly, “I tend to believe in your innocence. At least where the murders are concerned. Doubtlessly, I will come to regret it.” He swiveled his head. Geoffrey’s face was still buried in his hands. “Exactly why would Lancaster wish to rescue such bones if he has Lollard leanings? I am unclear on this.”
Chaucer’s voice was muffled by his hands. “He said he admired such a man who stood up against a king for his principles. He said he admired all such men.”
Crispin stiffened and clutched his belt with both hands. “He said that?”
“Yes. I found the affair amusing, to tell the truth-”
“The truth?”
“Not now, Cris.” He heaved a trembling sigh. “I had no idea-how could I? That such events would encircle a simple theft.”
“Simple theft? Geoffrey! This is Saint Thomas the Martyr! The greatest saint in England. There is nothing simple about it!”
“Yes, well. I know that now, don’t I?”
Crispin paced until pacing seemed useless. He dropped heavily into the chair and stared at his old friend. “What am I to do with you, Geoffrey? What can I say?”
Chaucer raised his face. “You could help me escape.”
He frowned. “No.”
“No? You mean you would let me hang!”
He shook his head slowly. “No. But I cannot help you escape. We must do this logically, legally.”
“I haven’t a leg to stand on.”
“It certainly looks that way. But I am nowhere near done investigating.”
Chaucer perked. He threw back his shoulders. “Indeed. Then what-?”
“I can’t say right now. Rest assured I will see the real culprit caught and punished.”
“I have only one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Can you do so before they hang me?”
On the one hand, Crispin was angry that Geoffrey had gotten himself into this situation, and on the other he was scared. He felt in his bones that Chaucer was innocent of the murders, but he also knew he had been sorely wrong before. He desperately wanted his friend to be innocent, for if he was guilty, he wanted nothing to do with it. How could he possibly be responsible for getting his oldest friend hanged?
The sheriff met him again and walked back with him down the cloister and into the dim church. “Do you have any theories, if you do not wish to entertain that Master Chaucer is to blame?” asked Brokhull.
“I have known Master Chaucer for many years, Lord Sheriff. A man can change, but surely not that much. He could not have killed Brother Wilfrid and certainly not the Prioress.”
“Then may I ask what it is he confessed to you?”
“Do I have your confidence, my lord?”
The sheriff measured Crispin silently and then nodded. “I know you by your reputation, sir. I have never heard a sour word spoken as concerns London’s Tracker.”
“Very well. There was a matter of Saint Thomas the Martyr’s relics. Did the archbishop tell you…?” The sheriff wore a blank expression. “No. He did not. I feel you should be made aware, that the relics have been stolen.”
“Good Christ!” The sheriff glanced instinctively up the nave toward Saint Thomas’s chapel.
“Just so. Master Chaucer claimed that he was instructed to … to … retrieve … the bones himself, but that they were stolen before he got to them.”
“Do you believe him?”
Crispin paused. “I am not certain of that.”
“If you do not blame him for murder, then who do you blame?”
“There is a man at the inn whom I am certain is guilty. He had a grievance against the Prioress. A dire one. He is a man of loose temper and I do not gauge him above murder, though he is a wealthy landowner.”
“Indeed. Who?”
“His name is Sir Philip Bonefey.
“I see. Have you restrained him?”
“I have little authority to do so, but I have put him on notice. He may flee.”
“Do you want me to arrest him?” Brokhull looked uncertain.