“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I might need your help.”
Crispin’s brows rose. “For what purpose?”
“There is more here than you know,” she whispered and jumped when a distant step in the gallery echoed. Her rounded eyes searched the shadows. “Not here. Where can I come to speak with you?”
“My lodgings. On the Shambles above a tinker shop. Anyone can tell you which it is.”
“An hour’s time, then.”
She stepped away but he stopped her with a light touch to her sleeve. “It was Master Walcote who hired me. I do not think—”
Her mouth hardened. “Loyal, are you? Good. I can use a loyal man. One I can trust.”
“Very well. My fee is—”
“I don’t care what your fee is.” She glared at him one last time before she wheeled and hurried into the shadows of shuddering tapestries and flickering rushlights.
He watched her shapely form depart and recalled the sight of her breasts from the previous night. A wash of heat warmed his face. Jesu, Crispin. Is quim all you can think about when her husband lies dead in the next room?
He walked slowly back into the solar and approached a thoughtful Wynchecombe.
“This is a puzzle,” said the sheriff. “The solar was locked from the inside.”
“Yes. And the casement is also untouched.”
“Then how the hell did the murderer get in or out?”
“Perhaps he was invited in.”
“But how did he get out?”
“That is the puzzle,” Crispin agreed. He walked to the cold hearth and stepped into the gray ashes. Bracing his hands against the inside of the flue, he looked up the chimney.
The sheriff snorted. “Do you think he took to the air?”
“A rope would do. But it looks too narrow for a man. Give me a boost.”
“What did you say?”
Crispin sighed. Distraction made him forget he was no longer Wynchecombe’s better. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” He made only a slight bow.
Wynchecombe smirked. “William. Help him.”
William smiled and sauntered toward Crispin who took a cautionary step back into the hearth. “What troubles you?” said William, opening and closing his large hands. “Don’t you want my help?” William crouched and made a stirrup with his interlaced hands. “Go on,” he urged with a chuckle. The big man’s fat fingers made a solid step. “Give us your foot. Or do you fear me?”
Crispin had been on the wrong side of William before, and he recalled very well how solid those hands could be. He took a deep breath and placed his foot on William’s palms and pushed himself up, balancing his legs across the chimney’s opening. He reached for a handhold but found little he could easily grip. The stones radiated warmth, and his nose filled with the stench of smoke. Creosote crumbled and broke off under his groping fingers. He found he could not stand up straight. At his shoulders the chimney narrowed with barely room for his head. He looked up and saw sky but no room for a man to shimmy up the passage.
When he jumped back down into the room, William laughed.
“What’s so damned funny?”
“You,” said William. “You look like a Moor.”
He looked down at his hands covered in black soot and imagined his face looked little better.
“You there!” said the sheriff to Adam. “Get him a basin and water.”
Adam moved to comply. Crispin swore at the state of his clothes.
“Never mind that,” said Wynchecombe. “What about this body? Stabbed five, six times.”
“Not just the back,” said Crispin. “He was stabbed on the chest as well. Look here.”
The sheriff bent over. A small jagged tear of the cloth at the collar, and a thin strand of blood were all that indicated a wound. “That?” Wynchecombe delicately pulled the cloth aside to examine the small puncture. “This did no damage.”
Adam returned and set the basin and jug on the sideboard. Crispin tried to push up his sleeves with his forearms and hoped the servant would help him, but Adam refused to look in his direction. With a muttered curse, Crispin managed, and cleaned his hands and face with the water, soap cake, and towel. He brushed at his clothes with the towel and finally tossed the cloth aside.
He crouched beside the body. “Walcote was stabbed in the back first.” He turned the corpse slightly, lifting him from the floor. “See. Most of the blood is here. Probably breathing his last when he hit the floor. Now look at his arms.” He lifted the closest one and showed the palms and sleeves.
“Nothing,” said the sheriff.
“Precisely. Nothing. If he struggled, his sleeves and palms would most assuredly be slashed and bloodied. He was in no fit state when the attacker came at him from the front.”
“Then why this piss-poor stab to his chest?”
Crispin shook his head. “I don’t know. The attacker saw no more use in continuing, perhaps. Or maybe he heard a sound.” His finger hovered over an almost perfectly round patch of red on the floor beside the body. “See this spot?”
“Only more blood.”
“This is a knee mark. The attacker kneeled here to deliver the last blow that never came.”
Wynchecombe grunted. From appreciation or confusion Crispin could not tell.
“Well, Crispin. With so much evidence, do you suspect anyone?”
Crispin chuckled. “My Lord Sheriff, I did not come here with the intention of investigating a murder.”
“Indeed,” said the sheriff with renewed interest. “Why did you come here? And no more of your smart-arse remarks.”
“That is private.”
“Not when the Lord Sheriff asks.”
“Especially when the Lord Sheriff asks.”
The sheriff’s gloved hand slammed Crispin’s chest and drew him up. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me clearly. I asked you why you were here.”
Crispin leveled his gaze with Wynchecombe’s. “I cannot tell you.”
The sheriff released him and stepped back but his elbow jabbed Crispin’s belly, bending him in two. Wynchecombe aimed a finger at him and between clenched teeth said, “The next time I ask you a question, I expect an answer.”
Crispin waited for his breath to return. It seemed to take a long time. Once it did, he straightened and rubbed his stomach. William chuckled from his place by the door.
“My principles do not permit me to say,” he rasped, “even though my client is now dead. It concerned a deeply personal matter.”
Wynchecombe adjusted his gloves and glanced sidelong at Crispin. “Principles? When did you acquire those?” He smiled at Crispin’s sneer. “Might any of your client’s secrets have to do with this murder?”
Crispin took a deep breath and stared at the cold body of his client. “It might have. And I promise to alert you if it should take such a turn.”
“You’re going to investigate?”
“Do you have any objections?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Crispin grinned but said nothing.
“Then I give my permission.” Wynchecombe swung his gaze one last time across the room, toward the locked window and the body getting colder on the floor, before he sauntered toward the doorway. But instead of departing, the sheriff whirled and slammed Crispin hard against the wall, fists curled around the breast of Crispin’s coat. With his shoulder blade jammed uncomfortably into the plaster, Crispin winced up into the sheriff’s hardened eyes.
“I’ll give you a day to fully inform me of your role in these matters, Guest. I think a full day is more consideration than you deserve.” His gaze made the circuit of Crispin’s face before he released him with a snort. Crispin sagged, pulling the hem of his cotehardie in a fruitless attempt to smooth the wrinkles. Without another glance, Wynchecombe passed through the doorway with William at his heels. The sheriff’s man cast a long, mocking sneer in Crispin’s direction before succumbing to the corridor’s shadows.