“You!” The sheriff pointed a gloved finger at him.
Crispin steeled himself.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I am at your serv—” But Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him along down the stairs before Crispin could fully reply.
Still clutching Crispin’s arm, the sheriff rumbled across the courtyard to several horses held by a page. William, the sheriff’s man, held his own tether loosely and grinned when he beheld Crispin being dragged across the gravel.
“We will talk on the way to Newgate,” said Wynchecombe. He jabbed his boot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up.
Crispin frowned. “Must I trot alongside you like a dog?”
The sheriff’s scowl drooped his beard and mustache. “William. Give him your horse.”
William’s grin fell away. “My horse? Lord Sheriff—”
“Give it to him!”
William glared daggers before he threw the tether at Crispin.
Crispin’s amusement was overshadowed by the sheriff’s severe expression, and he mounted silently.
It was good to feel a horse under him again. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in a saddle. The feel of the reins in his hand, the saddle beneath him. Wasn’t this where he belonged? Looking down upon the populace from a high seat?
He barely listened to the sheriff, and pulled himself back from the deep memories. Crispin kept the corner of his eye on Wynchecombe’s stiff form. They rode knee to knee.
Without looking toward him, the sheriff asked, “Discover the murderer yet?”
He adjusted his seat on the saddle. “For Adam Becton? Not yet. As for Nicholas Walcote, yes. I know who it is.”
“Oh? Who?”
“I believe it is Lionel Walcote. He was here in London at the time.”
“What was his reason?”
“His business was failing and he had no love for his brother. He knew about the secret passage—”
“As did you, I see. A fact you did not share with me.”
Crispin shrugged. “I have been busy.”
“So, he knew of the passage.”
“Yes, he waited therein to surprise his victim. After Lionel stabbed him, he saw it was not his brother.”
“Hence the halfhearted stab to his shoulder.”
Crispin nodded.
“So why Becton?”
“He did not kill Becton. A garrote? That is not common fare for a merchant, even a devious one. A garrote shows planning of another sort.”
“I agree.” The sheriff fell silent and hurried the horse. Crispin jabbed his heels into the side of his own mount to keep pace.
“I shan’t arrest him yet.”
Crispin stared at Wynchecombe. “Why not, Lord Sheriff?”
“Not by your word alone. Especially when you are so dewy-eyed for the woman. His guild would have me drawn and quartered.”
Crispin slumped and fisted the reins. The fool. Can’t he put his faith in me yet?
They rode under Newgate’s gatehouse arch and clattered into the courtyard. Two men rushed forward, each to take a horse as they dismounted. They eyed Crispin but he ignored their stares and followed the sheriff into the building, up the stairs, and into his chamber.
Wynchecombe stripped off his gloves and dropped them on the table. He unfastened his agrafe and tossed the cloak aside. He sat with a dissatisfied huff and glared. “Much thanks for helping with this murder.”
“It is my duty, my lord.”
Wynchecombe sat back and folded his hands on his belly.
Crispin watched him as a cat watches a mouse hole. He hadn’t long to wait for the rodent to emerge.
“Tell me what was in that box.”
Crispin changed his weight from one foot to the other. Wynchecombe hadn’t offered him a chair and it didn’t seem likely he would. “What box?”
“The box on the floor in the solar.”
“I don’t know. What was supposed to be in it?”
“Crispin, Crispin.” Wynchecombe shook his head and rose from his seat. He sauntered around the table and leaned against it. “You are a very poor liar.”
“My lord—”
Wynchecombe backhanded his face. Crispin was unprepared and cocked his own fist in retaliation before he remembered where he was.
Wynchecombe growled a chuckle. “Any intentions you may have had better be put to bed.”
Crispin cleared his face of all expression. His hand shook while he unwound his fingers and lowered his arm.
“I’ll ask you again—and you’d best think carefully about your reply. What was in the box?”
Crispin clenched his teeth. “I don’t know.”
Wynchecombe shook his head and bellowed for his scribe. “Bring in two of my guards.”
Crispin refused to rub his inflamed cheek.
“I think you know there was a cloth in that box,” said the sheriff. “And I think you know where it is now.”
Two men shouldered into the room. Both were tall and burly; each possessed big hands curled into fists, their knuckles crosshatched with scrapes and scabs.
Crispin debated with himself how much to conceal.
“It’s a special cloth,” Wynchecombe continued. “But you know that already, don’t you? You know that a man cannot lie in its presence.”
“I do not know your meaning.”
Wynchecombe moved to his sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. He drank for a moment, savoring the liquor, before he nodded to the men.
This time Crispin was ready. He may not be able to defend himself against the sheriff, but he was damned if he was going to let the sheriff’s lackeys make sausage of him without resistance.
He blocked the first blow with his forearm and landed his own punch into the man’s gut. The guard tumbled back and slammed against the wall.
The second didn’t waste any time. His fist swung upward and caught Crispin on the side of his head. Crispin’s sight exploded in stars and he lost his balance, but only momentarily.
By then the first man recovered. He nabbed Crispin’s arms and in a struggle that left the man’s shins bruised, managed to pin Crispin’s arms behind his back. The second man snapped his fist at Crispin’s chin and the stars fluttered about him again. Crispin hit the floor like a sack of turnips.
He did not see Wynchecombe signal, but the men eased back. Crispin clutched his head and crawled toward the wall, leaning against it.
“I want it, Crispin. More important, the king wants it.”
Crispin raised his head and squinted. “The king?” he managed to say. “So that is who is behind your summons.”
“Yes, and you will obey or I will be forced to place you under arrest.”
Crispin laughed, though it was a chalky sound of sputters and wheezes. “The king wants it, does he? Well he can go begging for it, can’t he?”
“What does it matter who has it? You told me before you do not believe in the power of such relics. Then what harm would it do to turn it over to his Majesty?”
“I won’t give him the satisfaction.” And if there was the least possibility that the Mandyllon did have the ability to compel the truth from those near it, Crispin didn’t dare take the chance that Richard might possess that much power.
“You were once condemned for lese-majesté,” said Wynchecombe. “Do not force the king to look your way again. For all he knows, you may be dead.”
“He knows I am not dead.”
“Not yet, but soon, maybe.” Wynchecombe smiled without humor. “Crispin, I have done my best to keep this situation from occurring, but you have been stubborn in the extreme and refused to listen to my good counsel.”
“Were you counseling me?” Crispin rubbed his chin. “Just now, for instance?”
“Damn you, Crispin! Are you going to tell me where that cloth is or not?”
Crispin licked his dry lips. “I can’t help you, Wynchecombe.”