28
Lights still burned in the Walcote manor. The harried Matthew in rumpled clothes answered Crispin’s knock. The servant thrust the candle forward, casting its yellow glow on Crispin’s face. The man admitted him without a word and led him to the parlor, but Crispin headed toward the stairs. “Tell Master Lionel to meet me in the solar. I can make my way alone.”
The servant’s mouth compressed to an agitated line, but he ducked his head and hurried into the shadows to comply.
Crispin took his time ascending the dark stairs. He strolled to the solar and shivered in its darkness. Embers still glowed red in the hearth, and he stirred them with an iron and tossed more sticks on it. When they flared to life, he took a straw and lit the candles, one on the desk and another two in tall floor sconces. Vaguely he wondered where Philippa might be and warmed his hands at the flames, watching the fire lick up at the hearth’s blackened walls until he heard footsteps on the landing. He turned and crossed his arms over his chest before the twinge in his shoulder stopped him. He grasped his left arm instead.
Lionel, red-faced and brusque, crossed the threshold. He was dressed hastily in a gown, the material bunched inelegantly over his sword belt. A few loose threads trailed from the gown’s hem. His pilgrim’s badges clung haphazardly to his sleeve. Crispin smiled at them.
Lionel pushed Crispin out of the way and shook his shivering shoulders in front of the fire. “What is this? Do you think I keep baker’s hours? This had better be worth my time.”
“Oh, I assure you it is.” He strolled to the other side of Lionel and continued to warm his hands. “I am concluding my investigation of the murder.”
“Are you now? Very well, then. There’s been far too much death in this house. I think it is cursed.” He turned from the fire and reached for the wine jug on the sideboard. “Have you found your man?”
“I believe I have.” Crispin waited until Lionel poured his wine and took a swig. He did not offer Crispin any. Lionel stared into his cup, but when Crispin said nothing more, he turned and scowled.
“Well then?” Lionel finally took in Crispin’s appearance, the blood on his shoulder, the scrapes on his face.
“In a moment,” said Crispin. “First, I’d like to show you something.” Crispin unbuttoned the last few buttons on his coat, pulled the cloth free, and shook it out. He handled it tenderly but in such a way that the light glowed from behind its faint image. “Do you know what this is?”
Lionel shook his head and took another drink. “Of course not.”
“It is called the Mandyllon. A very valuable relic. You see here? It is the face of Jesus Christ.”
Lionel set the wine aside. He took a step forward, his hand stretching out to touch it. Crispin pulled it back and shook his head as if to a naughty child. “No, no. Mustn’t touch. It’s very valuable and very delicate.”
“Is it for sale?” breathed Lionel.
Crispin scowled. “You would think of that, wouldn’t you? No, it’s not for sale. You cannot put a price on such a thing. So many have wanted this. So many have died trying to get it. Our false Walcote for one. He transported it from Rome. Kept it in this very room.”
“You don’t say. Kept it here?”
“Indeed.” Crispin raised it and looked it over before glancing at Lionel. “Relics have special properties.” He nodded to Lionel’s many badges. “But you know that already.”
Lionel touched the monstrance hanging from a gold chain around his neck. It looked to Crispin as if the hairs of a saint were pressed against its crystal case. “Yes, they protect us poor souls.”
“Yes. Some do. Some heal. Some have other properties. The Mandyllon, for instance. Do you know why it is so valuable?”
“Why, it has the face of Christ!” He took a step forward. Crispin countered by stepping back toward the wall.
“Of course that’s only one reason. But it is valued for its power. Valued by kings and princes because a man is incapable of telling a lie in its presence. Curious, isn’t it?”
Sweat broke out on Lionel’s face. His nose shined with it. “Can’t tell a lie, eh? Ha!” A slight hesitation. “That’s very interesting.”
“Indeed. For instance. If I were to ask you—”
Lionel held up his slick palm. “Now, wait a moment! That’s not quite fair, is it? What if I test it on you first, eh? What if I were to ask about you?”
Crispin drew up as straight as he could with a wounded shoulder and narrowed his gaze down his sharp nose. “Then ask.”
Lionel edged forward and raised his double chin. “I’ve done a bit of investigating about you. You are not quite who you seem. You’re supposed to be a knight, I heard tell. That right?”
Crispin squinted. “Yes,” he said slowly.
“Is it true you committed treason?”
Crispin pulled his knife.
Lionel shrank back and held up his empty hands. Crispin stopped himself and gritted his teeth. Lionel’s face filled with fear and that alone gave Crispin enough satisfaction, though a blade in the man’s gut would have gone further to cheer his mood. He looked the man up and down and made a disgusted huff before he slammed the knife back in its sheath.
“Well?” asked Lionel, recovering. He panted. “I asked a question. If that cloth is authentic, you have no choice but to speak the truth. And I can see that you’d rather not.”
“It—There was—” He pressed his lips tight before saying, “It’s true.”
“Lord love me!” Lionel wiped off the perspiration above his upper lip.
“And now I’ve a question.” Crispin raised the cloth, holding it between them. “Did you kill the imposter Nicholas?”
For a moment, Crispin thought Lionel might run. His hands fisted, and his knees bent in an attitude of flight. Crispin’s body blocked the doorway. He knew he could outrun the corpulent merchant, but it was late, he was tired and wounded, and no one had offered him wine. He almost wanted Lionel to run, wanted to strike him. Looking at Lionel’s sweaty face and piggy eyes, remembering the cold-blooded murder, he decided that a little more violence may not be so bad.
Lionel unwound his fists and straightened. “Ha!” he said halfheartedly. He seemed to take courage from the sound of his own voice. “What does it matter if I say so to the likes of you? Even if that damned cloth makes me say it, who’d listen to a traitor? Not the sheriff. I saw how he talked to you. Doesn’t trust you either.”
“Did you?” Crispin asked again.
Lionel threw out his chest like a cockerel and thrust his hands into his belt. “Yes,” he said at last. “I did.” He gestured toward the cloth clutched in Crispin’s hand. “That cloth, eh? Confession is good for the soul.” He walked slowly toward Crispin. “I thought the man was Nick, of course. Haven’t seen him in a score of years. When I saw it wasn’t, well. I thought his death would complicate things. Until I realized it made it easier.”
“Did you do it for the money?”
“Oh, yes. My business is no more. And Nick always had the best of everything. The best house, the best cloth, the best clients. And he was a true bastard about it. Well, no more. I reckoned he was already dead somewhere or this imposter couldn’t have taken his place. So good riddance to him. To the both of them. And I inherit all.”
“Not quite all. There is Clarence. Or do you plan to kill him, too?” Crispin raised the cloth.
“To tell the truth,” he said, eyeing the cloth, “I haven’t thought about it. But there is that possibility.”
“You are a right bastard, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am. But I’m a rich one. And now.” He pulled his sword before Crispin could react. “I’ll take your knife and that cloth.”