Jumping back down to the gravel path, he stared at the window and the one beside it some four feet away. A third window stood only three feet from the solar window. He looked from one to the other and back again.
Jack patted his arms and stamped the ground to keep warm. He blinked away the raindrops though one dangled from the tip of his blunt, reddened nose and seemed to freeze there. “Master, are we done here?”
Crispin studied first the wall and then the windows again without moving.
“Master, we’re getting wet. And it’s cold.”
When he turned at last to Jack, the boy’s pleas finally registered. “Of course. Let us go to the house.”
Crispin climbed up the wall again. Straddling it, he leaned down, grabbed Jack’s arm, and hoisted him over. Together they walked in the drizzle to the front entrance.
Jack’s earlier revelry fell subdued under the specter of the enormous entry. “Shouldn’t we be going round to the kitchen door?” He peered anxiously at the dark windows.
“No, Jack. We are front-door guests today.” Though when he heard the bolt thrown back, Crispin belatedly realized how muddy his foray into the garden made him. He brushed off as much as he could before Adam opened the door.
“I would talk to you, Adam,” said Crispin, pushing forward.
Adam tried to close the door on him, but Crispin used his weight to wedge himself forward. He slammed Adam against the wall. “We could do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is it?”
Adam’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?” he said between clenched teeth.
Crispin released him and brushed off the man’s coat. “Now that’s not a very civil attitude. I merely come to seek answers to why your master was killed. Don’t you wish to help in this matter?”
Adam pushed Crispin’s hands aside. “Aye. I would see justice served.”
Crispin measured his brooding countenance. “You told me you served in this household five years. What happened to the previous steward?”
Adam looked once at Jack and then dismissed him. “I don’t know. I think he was transferred to my master’s estates in the north.”
“Is that where you are from?”
“Aye. Though not from his household. I received a missive that I was to be his new steward in London, so I journeyed here and presented the steward with documents from my master stating that I should replace him. And shortly thereafter, I replaced all the servants.”
“Replaced all the servants? Why?”
“Because my master wished it. Who knows why the rich do what they do.”
“You appear rather insubordinate to me, Becton. You speak of your betters this way?”
“It is no secret about the wealthy. They are all of the same ilk. Doesn’t matter where they come from. They all end up the same.”
“You did not love your master?”
Adam looked down. “It isn’t proper to speak ill of the dead.”
“But confidentially, you could do so to me.”
Adam snapped up his chin. “And why should I care to do that? You aren’t the sheriff.”
“Sheriff Wynchecombe and I often work in concert. You would do well to speak to me. His interrogations usually involve white hot irons.”
Adam’s eyes rounded and his jaw slackened. “I do not need to be questioned by the sheriff,” he said in a rush. “I’ve done nought.”
“But there may be much you know. Why is it you disliked your master?”
“I didn’t hold nought against him, Master Crispin. It’s just—” Adam wrung his hands and moved haltingly into the shadows of the vestibule. He glared once at Jack. “He shouldn’t have married her, that’s all,” he whispered.
“I thought you had nothing but admiration for your mistress.”
“I do! I mean, I—”
The man’s in love with her. Crispin frowned. “It’s no good, Becton. She is your better. You must not gaze so high.”
Adam broke into an unpleasant laugh. “‘Gaze so high’? A jest! I need not gaze high at all.”
Crispin took a step closer, hand poised near his dagger. “You’d best watch your tongue, Becton.”
“I need watch nought,” he said, teeth bared. “Philippa Walcote was the chambermaid for my master before he married her three years ago. She’s no better than you or me.”
4
All the questions on Crispin’s tongue slipped away.
Adam laughed. “Don’t have a snappy reply for that, eh?”
Before he could stop himself, Crispin swung. His knuckles met the flesh of Adam’s cheek and the man buckled against the wall. He slid down halfway, but shook his head and unsteadily righted himself.
Adam rubbed his face and grumbled. Crispin couldn’t think of anything more to ask. His mind felt numb and he didn’t know why; didn’t want to know.
He said nothing more and quickly left, massaging his sore knuckles.
Jack chased after, his shorter legs moving twice as fast to keep pace. “That was a right good clout, Master! Set him in his place, I’ll warrant.” He did his best imitation of Crispin’s swing several times. “Master? Master? Did you find out what you needed to?”
Crispin scowled and said nothing. His memory echoed Adam’s words: Philippa Walcote was a chambermaid.
He wandered down the gray streets toward the Fleet to Gutter Lane without noticing his surroundings or that Jack walked beside him. Even when he pushed through the doors of the Boar’s Tusk and sat heavily in his customary corner, he never fully roused himself. He simply sat on the bench and stared at the knife-scarred wood and flinched when Eleanor slapped a bowl of wine in front of him.
“Crispin.” She glanced at Jack who smiled in hopeful anticipation of a bowl of wine, and ignored him as usual.
Eleanor set down the leather jug and sat across the table. A white kerchief, neatly draped on her head and expertly tucked about her face, revealed nothing but her hazel eyes, light brows, and stern nose and cheeks, both slightly red from the cold. “What vexes you? You were miles away.”
“Was I?” He drew up the bowl in his hands and drank nearly the whole thing.
Eleanor and her husband, Gilbert, were always ready to lend a kind ear. Yet what to say? Why did Adam’s news affect him? How could this Walcote woman, this woman he barely knew, mean anything at all to him? He knew little of her, which forfeited any serious consideration.
And yet.
Crispin ran his hand over his forehead and up his scalp, raking his thick hair between his fingers. He glanced once at Jack. “There is nothing to speak of,” said Crispin.
“Oh! I’ll wager it’s a woman!” cried Eleanor.
“Why do you always think it involves a woman?”
“Because nothing can bring out that melancholy look about you but a woman.”
Crispin slouched and cradled the bowl in the curve of his arm. “Think what you like.”
“Crispin,” she said in her best conciliatory tone. “When have I ever left you alone to brood? Come now, out with it. You know it will make you feel better.”
“It never makes me feel better. It only makes you feel better.”
She leaned forward and rested her arms on the table, buttressing her ample bosom. “We worry so over you, Crispin. Thank God for Jack Tucker here,” and she patted Jack’s hand. He smiled grimly and pulled it out from under her attention. “At least someone is looking after you, but I’d rather it were a wife.”