Crispin pulled the door open and peered inside. Empty. Perhaps a storeroom.
He shut the door and looked back at Jack. He looked at the door. With wide strides he counted the paces past the storeroom, past the window alcove, and back to the solar. He stared through the open doorway past Walcote’s body to the window and paced the steps again back to the storeroom.
He stopped and smiled, rebuttoning his coat.
“Jack,” he said, returning to the solar.
“Aye, Master.”
“Let’s go home. We’ve done all we can here whilst this body awaits burial.”
“Thank you, Master.” Jack made a sling with his cloak and slipped the bulky books in under his arm.
Crispin smiled, pleased with himself. They followed the lonely gallery from shadow to light. Crispin decided to skirt Adam and exit by the kitchen outbuildings.
When they entered the kitchens, he cast about until he found the tall figure he sought. “Master Hoode.”
John Hoode looked up and smiled on seeing Crispin. He hurried to his side. “Crispin. How did it go?”
“Not badly. I will be here often as I continue my investigations.” He wasn’t certain if Hoode was up to the challenge, but he needed someone to do a little spying for him when he wasn’t about. “Can you favor me with an errand?” He pulled Hoode aside, and glanced about for any others. “You are new to this household. So it may not necessarily be strange for you to be found in the corridor. You were lost, after all. Yes?”
Hoode studied Crispin’s eyes. It took him a few moments but he caught up. “Oh, aye! I get you. Keep me eyes open.”
“That’s right.”
Hoode giggled. “That’s all a bit of fun, ain’t it? Me spying on the likes of the Walcotes. What a grand jest that is.”
Crispin kept his smile in place, though Hoode’s fey manner caused a ripple of discomfort sporting up his spine. “Just don’t be obvious.”
“Oh, no! Course not! Bless my soul. I’ll be like a mouse.”
“Indeed. I bid you farewell.”
He felt Hoode’s gaze on him while he tromped through the kitchen courtyard and out the back gate. Crossing the lane, he looked back at the house and its many chimneys and outbuildings. The manor seemed cold to him. Was it merely because of the death within, or was there something inherent in the stones? A house reflected those within its walls. And the Walcote house was not a happy one.
He and Jack wound down arched alleyways and through narrow lanes. They traveled north up Old Cheap, skirting a cluster of noble women riding by on their white and dappled palfreys. He bowed to them as they passed but did not raise his eyes lest he recognize any of them. Or worse, that they recognize him.
Once the horses passed, a goose girl trotted beside Crispin and Jack, moving swiftly ahead of them. She gave them a cursory glance from under her tattered cloak and used a stick to move her charges along. Their gray necks stretched heavenward and they honked the whole way down the road. No doubt they were not happy with their appointment at the poulterer’s.
Crispin scarce remembered that Jack was beside him until he spoke suddenly, startling Crispin from his reverie.
“I don’t understand.”
They turned east at the corner of the Shambles where East Cheap, Paternoster Row, and St. Martin’s crossed and had to wait until a cart laden with stacked barrels pulled through the narrow lane. The Shambles, in all its bustle, came into view under a froth of mist rumbling up from the distant Thames.
Crispin glanced down at Jack. “What don’t you understand?”
The cart lumbered slowly past them, the wooden wheels straining under the weight of the barrels. The ox pulling the cart lowed and shifted its head in their direction. The long lashes on those dark, liquid eyes blinked at them.
“You’re supposed to be this Tracker,” said Jack, watching the beast amble away. The cart’s wheels splayed the mud beneath it, leaving two long ruts trailing behind. “But all you track are bodies.”
Crispin sniffed the desolate air. A chill fell with the twilight. Braziers came to life down the street; vague glowing points amid a rising mist that smelled of seaweed and salt. Shadowy figures huddled near the shopkeeper’s glowing fires like lethargic moths. London’s underclass. Homeless men. Men and boys much like Jack had been before he insinuated himself into Crispin’s life. “If you’ve no stomach for it you are free to go. I have no hold over you.”
“Well—” Jack swiveled his head to take in the cold street with its damp cobblestones, the murky channel down the center of the crooked lane meandering upstream, and lonely men grasping for warmth about the few braziers. “Where would I go?” he answered softly.
“I see. You stay with me out of necessity. Well, I cannot dispute your reasoning.”
“It ain’t like that.” His face grayed from the dimming light. “I like serving you, Master Crispin. I never been treated this good before. You talk to me and ask me things. It’s like I was your squire!”
A sigh huffed up from Crispin’s chest and settled his mouth into a scowl. Why did the boy have to use that word? “Jack.” It came out more of a growl than a name.
“You’re right good to me,” he pressed on, oblivious to Crispin’s darkening mood. “That’s miraculous!”
“My humiliation is your good fortune. I’m happy for you.”
Jack’s mouth dropped open. “No, no! Why is everything I say vexing to you?”
“Maybe you talk too much!” He fumbled, removing the key from his scrip, and noticed Jack wore the look of a punished child, chin down, mouth taut. Crispin felt a twinge in his heart that nudged the sourness aside. “I apologize for that,” he said soberly. “The truth of it is, I am pleased to have you here. But because I am not a knight, you cannot be a squire. Though were I a knight again—”
Jack’s face broke into a broad smile. “Ah now. That’s a fine thing you said. Even if you don’t mean half of it.”
The lane curved and they spied the tinker shop, now washed in closing shadows. Smoke curled from his landlord’s chimney and candlelight shone from the seams of their shutters.
But there was a man stamping the ground before the tinker’s door. No. Not before the door. Before Crispin’s stair. Instinctively, Crispin pushed Jack behind him and rested his hand on his dagger.
The man looked up at their approach, but by then Crispin was close enough to recognize his livery. Crispin’s weary shoulders sagged.
“I know, I know,” said Crispin. “The sheriff wishes to see me.”
5
Crispin and Jack made their way under the arch of Newgate prison. The tall stone gate scowled over the Shambles, its two towers like the gateposts of Hell. A portcullis hung over the open maw of the dark archway; fangs waiting to snap. To the south lay the Bailey and Ludgate. To the north Aldersgate and then Cripplegate, guarding the byways in and out of London. But it was in Newgate that men suffered the fates of their masters. Thieves, whores, and traitors all found habitation in the most inhospitable of places. Some paid their debts and were released. These debts could be coin, but more often than not for the simple thief, it was to leave behind a hand or an ear, whatever form the Lord Sheriff thought was mete. Still others made the long journey to Smithfield to meet their Maker.