Crispin never failed to shiver as he crossed beneath the portcullis, ever mindful of his time within these walls as its guest. He, too, thought he was to make the journey to Smithfield. But Fate is an inconstant jester. He never dreamed eight years ago that he would walk free of the prison alive.
As he approached the sheriff’s hall, Crispin evened his breathing. The business of crime-solving made strange bedfellows. Crispin’s encounters with Wynchecombe had become no easier even after an uncomfortable acquaintance for the last year. Perhaps Simon Wynchecombe resented a sheriff’s responsibilities. Perhaps he envied Crispin’s education and former status.
Perhaps he’s just a vengeful bastard. Crispin smirked. That one suited best.
Wynchecombe looked up from a parchment and frowned upon seeing the former cutpurse. “What’s he doing here?”
Crispin stepped in and moved easily toward Wynchecombe’s table. “Jack is my servant, remember?”
The sheriff sat back and laughed. “That’s right. You have a thief for a servant. It’s fitting.”
Crispin stood and endured the sheriff’s laughter until Wynchecombe finally invited him to sit. Often, he made Crispin stand throughout the interview just to tweak Crispin’s humor. But today, the sheriff seemed to be in a magnanimous mood. Crispin sat while Jack made himself scarce in the shadows. “We haven’t seen much of each other lately, have we, Guest? Until yesterday morning, that is.”
Crispin said nothing. He rested his hands in his lap in an outward gesture of relaxed calm.
Wynchecombe leaned forward over his desk and smiled. The white teeth seemed whiter under the dark mustache—something like the white scales on the underbelly of a snake. “I haven’t any suspects. Have you?”
Crispin looked away. “No, my lord. The case is still fresh.”
“But Walcote isn’t getting any fresher, is he? And his guild is quite impatient and full of equally rich merchants. I was met by a delegation today demanding—demanding, mind you—that I do something about the murder. You know I do not like to be dictated to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Wynchecombe studied Crispin’s blank expression and scowled. “Nor do I like being patronized.”
“If I had pertinent information I would tell you, Lord Sheriff.”
“Nonsense! We both know the opposite to be true. Why do you fight me, Guest? You know I will win.”
Crispin smiled. “There is always the possibility that you won’t.”
Wynchecombe slammed the table with his hand. The candle wobbled and its flame sputtered. “I want to know why Walcote hired you, and I want to know now!”
Crispin plucked an imaginary piece of fluff from his coat and flicked it away. Wynchecombe followed each meticulous motion until his eyes narrowed to furious slits.
“The matter is still private, my lord. Were it not—”
Wynchecombe scrambled around the table. Crispin knew it was coming, but before he could steel himself, the sheriff grabbed his coat and hauled him to his feet.
He wondered how the sheriff would start. He didn’t wonder long.
Wynchecombe backhanded him hard. And just to make certain Crispin knew it was no mere token, the sheriff did it again to the other cheek.
Crispin’s head jerked with each blow, and stars exploded in the back of his eyes. He felt Wynchecombe’s ring tear his cheek, felt the warm blood run in a tickling dribble down his face, felt his eye take the brunt of it.
Jack made a small noise from his place in the shadows, like a trapped mouse.
Taking a deep breath, Crispin slowly turned his head to face the sheriff. He ran his tongue in his mouth and tasted the bitter flavor of his own blood.
“I said I want an answer,” said Wynchecombe. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“And I told you I can’t give you one.”
Wynchecombe’s fist sank into Crispin’s belly and he would have dropped to the floor on his knees had the sheriff not been holding him up. Crispin gasped but no sound came from his lips.
“Tell me.”
Without voice, Crispin shut his eyes and shook his head.
Wynchecombe dropped Crispin and he tumbled to the floor holding his sore belly. He rolled into a hedgehoglike ball.
The sheriff rubbed his tender knuckles into his palm and walked a slow circuit around Crispin. Wynchecombe leaned down and grabbed his hair, jerking Crispin’s head back.
There was no time to feel humiliation at being on his hands and knees. The raw pain of his belly and eye was still too fresh.
“Is it worth taking a beating?”
His eye swelled and shut. Crispin managed a defiant smile. “But you enjoy it so much.”
Wynchecombe drew his arm back, and Crispin tensed for the blow. But the sheriff’s attention was diverted by a movement in the shadows. He dropped Crispin’s hair and stood above him with his legs apart. “It’s true. I could easily, and happily, beat you for the rest of the afternoon. But I think I would rather thrash…him.”
Crispin painfully turned his head in the direction the sheriff stared with such glee, and the rebellious smile fell from his bloody lips.
Jack cowered behind the door when the sheriff neared him.
Crispin lurched forward. “No! Wait!”
Wynchecombe closed his enormous hand over Jack’s tunic and pulled him from the floor. Walcote’s ledgers fell out of his cloak one by one. The sheriff’s other hand closed into a red fist and bobbed close to Jack’s face.
“Oh please,” Wynchecombe oozed, smiling over his shoulder at Crispin. “Just one?”
Crispin’s face burned, and his belly felt as if it were folded together and nailed closed. “Release him and I will tell you everything.”
“I was just getting started.”
“Simon!”
He curled his fist around Jack’s tunic even tighter. Jack blanched. His eyes gaped to terrified holes. “It’s Lord Sheriff to you, remember?”
“My lord…please…”
Wynchecombe held Jack suspended above the floor for what seemed an interminable time before he grimaced a chuckle and dropped him. Jack scrambled back to his corner like a mouse in search of a hole. He collected the books and scooped them into the safety of his cloak. “Weakness for a servant?” The sheriff tutted. “I am surprised at you, Crispin. It’s not a very admirable trait.”
Crispin raised his head but could only do so at an odd angle. He squinted with his one good eye. “‘You become just by performing just actions.’”
“Not your damned Aristotle again. You seem to hold great store by what that pagan said.”
Crispin dragged himself across the floor to the chair but only to lean against it. His head felt close to bursting and his eye felt as if a knife had jabbed it. He put his hand to his head. His hand didn’t help the pain, but it reassured him that his head was still in one piece. “There is much wisdom in the writings of antiquity.” He said the words mechanically. Perhaps he’d said the same words to Wynchecombe before. Difficult to remember when his head was hammering.
The sheriff moved with deliberate posturing back to his chair and sat, gloating over his beard. “You were about to tell me why Walcote hired you.”
Crispin ignored him for the moment and peered as best he could into the dim corner. “Are you well, Jack?”
Mute, Jack nodded vigorously and clasped his cloak up to his chin.
Crispin heaved a sigh, but it sputtered unsuccessfully when a bruised rib twinged his side. “Nicholas Walcote hired me to spy on his wife. He feared she was unfaithful.”