Crispin turned down the first alley he came to, barely the width of two men walking abreast. He ducked under a line of wash hanging low across his path and hurried through, taking another quick turn down a dark close seldom used by anyone except cutthroats clever enough to trick their victims down the secluded corridor.
Crispin lurched to a dead stop.
Three menacing figures blocked his path. They stood as black silhouettes against the sunlight of the street beyond.
His pulse raced. Their broad shoulders and wary stance did not signal to him that they were merely passing through. He looked behind, wondering if it wasn’t too late to retreat, when one of them spoke.
“Master Crispin?”
Crispin glanced swiftly around the narrow alley for weapons. Nothing looked in the least useful.
“Yes,” he said, his hand making its stealthy way toward his dagger. “You found me. What of it?”
“We want a word with you.” The man’s tongue twisted over the unfamiliar English. Crispin got the impression Italian was easier.
“Very well, then. Come see me at my lodgings—”
“We will see you now. You will come with us.”
“My apologies, but I’m on my way elsewhere. Later, perhaps.”
The unmistakable sound of a sword sliding out of its scabbard echoed within the tight passage. “Now, I think.”
Crispin felt the shadows closing in. With reluctance, he shrugged. “I think you are right.”
21
Crispin didn’t bother asking. The three men didn’t appear very talkative and he wasn’t interested in deciphering their grunts.
They followed every dim alley snaking through London and finally came to a row of abandoned stables. They urged him forward and Crispin listened to his steps echo along the narrow cobbled lane. Rickety structures stood on either side, their tiles drooping like a whore’s hair in the morning. One of the men motioned Crispin toward an open doorway.
Crispin’s heart pounded and his blood coursed hotly through him. If only his dagger would do him any good. His hand itched to grab it, to spin with it and see how many chests he could slash or how many ears he could slice off. But there were three of them and they had swords as well as daggers. He only hoped he wasn’t to expect another midnight swim in the Thames, because this time he didn’t think they’d make the same mistake twice.
Dark ahead and dark behind. Though long abandoned, the stable still smelled of manure and moldy hay. Crispin’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. A cloaked figure appeared in the gloom. Only a smattering of daylight filtered through the broken roof, and he could not clearly see the man’s face.
A hand on Crispin’s shoulder told him to stop.
“That is close enough, Signore Guest.” A voice harsh and raspy, sounding as if he’d screamed himself hoarse, with an Italian lilt to the precise intonation.
“I suppose it would be foolish to ask who you are,” said Crispin.
The man chuckled, a surprisingly soft sound. “Would I go to such elaborate lengths if I intended to introduce myself?”
“I’m interested to know—”
“I know what you want. But first I must apologize for my men. The two who tried to kill you. You see, we thought you killed Nicholas Walcote.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“We assumed you crossed us for the Mandyllon. Those who cross us do not live.”
“But now you’re convinced I didn’t kill him?”
“That is so. We aren’t interested in the details. Only in the Mandyllon. My men made an offer. Do you accept?”
“And if I don’t?”
The man laughed outright. He shook his head, which moved the hood from side to side. “You have an excellent sense of humor.”
Crispin forced a laugh. “Yes, so I do. Well then, eight hundred pounds for turning over the Mandyllon.”
“That is the agreement.”
“When do I get paid?”
“When you turn over the cloth.”
“Before I do, I’d like to know something about Nicholas Walcote.”
The shadow shrugged. “The man you know as Nicholas Walcote was paid to make a copy of the Mandyllon.”
“Yes, I’ve been told as much.”
“So? By whom?”
“Your Abid Assad Mahmoud.”
He shook his head. “Not mine.”
“He’s not working for you?”
“At one time, si. I understand he still represents himself as such. We will put a stop to that.”
Though the menace was bereft from the man’s voice, it sent a chill down Crispin’s spine. “You never met the real Walcote?”
“No, we had nothing to do with him nor he with us.”
“How did he die?”
“I think”—he tapped his finger against his shadowed lips—“we mistook the true Master Walcote for our thief. Careless of us. I was told they looked remarkably alike. It created quite an opportunity for this thief, no?”
“All this trouble merely for a holy relic when there are so many to be had. One wonders if there could not be more to an Italian presence in England.”
Silence. Then, “Do you accept the offer?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
Crispin turned at the steps of the men beside him. Apparently the interview was over. “Just one thing more. Is your master Bernabò Visconti? Professional curiosity.”
The man in the darkness glared at Crispin. At least Crispin thought he did. “We will pay you for the Mandyllon and your silence. It isn’t too healthy to meddle in these things,” said the man. “Stick your nose in too far, il mio amico, and you might awaken in an alley with the rats gnawing on your flesh.”
“I see. How vivid.” Crispin looked behind at the henchmen closing in. “Well, I thank you for meeting with me.” He turned his back to leave, then pivoted. “By the way. Your Saracen operative Mahmoud does not seem to be playing your game. My thought is that he had a master other than yours. Perhaps he has another buyer for the Mandyllon.”
The shadowed man said nothing. His silence was perhaps the most fearsome thing about him.
“If I were you,” Crispin offered, “I would investigate.” Let Mahmoud worry about his own skin for a change.
The henchmen surrounded Crispin and forced him to leave. They escorted him almost all the way to where they first encountered him before they fell back, turned without a word, and left him in the street.
Crispin heaved a sigh between relief and exhaustion. An interesting interview. And unusual. No one was taking any chances. This Italian head of English operations did not want to be recognized, which meant he might already be known in places—like at court. Crispin wondered how long he could stall them. He wanted it to take long enough to discover the players and what exactly they were up to. But the longer it went on, the more danger Philippa was in.
Philippa. Why was he such a fool to let her into his heart? Didn’t he have enough problems? Jack was a handful. Just making the rent was a weekly challenge. A woman only complicated things.
Oh, but in such ways!
He closed his eyes and exorcised Philippa Walcote from his thoughts. There were other pressing matters. A killer still on the loose. He opened his eyes and took a moment to reckon his location. He remembered what he planned to do before the syndicate’s men waylaid him. “Adam Becton.” Now more than ever he was convinced that the syndicate bore little responsibility for the imposter Walcote’s death.