Spiteful bones, p.17
Spiteful Bones, page 17
Crispin sneered. ‘Susannah,’ he said to John Rykener’s personal maid. ‘How unsurprising.’
She spit at his feet. ‘You’ve got no right to manhandle me, Crispin Guest. Get your jackal off me!’
‘Jackal?’ said Jack. He smiled. ‘Ooo. I think I like that. Jack the Jackal!’
She began struggling, but even as Crispin stepped forward to grab her and shake some sense into her, someone swooped in and did the grabbing for him. A fist landed in her face and she dropped to the ground. But John Rykener bent and dragged her hazily to her feet again.
‘You bitch! And I offered you a job. A well-paying job! You whoring bitch.’
‘No more than you, Rykener,’ she said, wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand.
Jack grabbed for the woman and drew her away from John’s fists. ‘Now, now, Master … er … Madam Eleanor. Let us take this to a more private place.’ He looked up and marched the woman back to the potter’s. But as he thrust her through the door, the shopkeeper was there trying to bar his way.
‘I won’t have this in my shop,’ he cried.
‘Peace, Master Potter,’ said Crispin, holding a shiny coin up for the man. The man pressed his lips together and took the coin, backing up to the corner and trying to shield his wares from harm.
Jack shoved Susannah against the wall with one hand, and with the other pressed a hand to Rykener’s chest. ‘John, I’ll not tell you again,’ he said.
‘I hired her. I went to the trouble to hire her and give her a decent living.’
‘There is no honesty amongst thieves,’ said Nigellus. But when John gave him a filthy look, he stuttered. ‘Or … or s-some such.’
‘Where is our money?’ John demanded.
Jack yanked her pouch from her belt, and she let loose a string of blaspheming curses the like Crispin had scarce heard before, even among soldiers. Jack tossed it over his shoulder to Rykener, who caught it and dug around for their pouch. He handed it back to Nigellus and threw the rest to the floor.
Crispin gently nudged John aside to stand before the maid. ‘Susannah,’ he said in a dark voice, ‘do you know what happens to extortionists? Especially those who ply their crimes on their employers?’
She raised her chin, but her bloody lip began to tremble. She said nothing after swearing by every saint and all of God’s limbs.
Crispin got in close. ‘They get their hands hewn off by the sheriff.’
She took a deep breath. ‘That isn’t true. The sheriffs don’t care—’
‘Oh, but they do. They care especially that those who were wronged were wealthy citizens and likely to be aldermen. They care very much indeed, because you see, it is the aldermen who elect them to their high office … and subsequently to the highest office … of Lord Mayor. What do they care of you, a mere thief who would dishonor their own office and their household for greed?’
Now she began to panic, and Jack had to force her back into the plaster to keep her from sinking or perhaps fainting.
‘I didn’t mean no harm!’ she wailed.
‘Yes, you did,’ said Crispin, drawing close to her face. ‘Your employer raised you up from being a whore to a decent occupation, and this is how you repay them?’
‘But they have money.’
‘And they were giving you a fine wage for your work and wiping clean your reputation. You are ungrateful, and worse, dishonorable. So now. What should we do with the likes of you?’
She began to sob. Jack rolled his eyes, and adjusted his stance to keep her upright.
‘Send her back to Madam Bronderer,’ spat John. ‘There she’ll likely be made to clean the latrines. That’s where you belong, you ungrateful wretch.’
Susannah wailed again.
‘Jack,’ said Crispin, ‘see that she gets to Madam Bronderer’s at Bishopsgate.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Getting a good grip, Jack marched her back out of the shop, but they could still hear her wailing quite a distance down the lane.
Nigellus turned to Crispin. ‘You are a miracle, sir. You’ve done it again.’
‘Threats are easy to make to the wicked. They know they deserve the punishment.’
Nigellus hugged John and suddenly noticed the potter in the corner. ‘Dear me. We apologize most profusely for inconveniencing you, sir. Accept my sincerest contrition.’
‘And, erm …’ Crispin pointed to a small cooking pot. ‘I shall take that one.’
A few pence poorer, Crispin was satisfied with how it turned out, and that Isabel would get a new pot for cooking.
‘You say you suspected her all along?’ said Nigellus as they walked back toward Mercery.
‘At first I thought it might be a disgruntled worker … but the timespan didn’t match. She was the only one who truly knew John.’
‘But that’s absurd,’ huffed John. ‘I gave her an opportunity. Why would she piss on it?’
‘Some people cannot change, John. Er, Eleanor. They do not see the long road. Only the cut through the alley.’
‘But she mentioned Nigellus’s father.’
‘Yes, that was to put us off the scent. But I reckoned she could easily get something like that from the other servants.’
‘What do you suppose your Elizabeth Bronderer will do about her?’ asked Nigellus. ‘Is there a chance – perhaps a slim one? – that she put her up to it?’
John waved his concerns away with a gesture. ‘Good God, no. Elizabeth would not have hurt Susannah’s chances to better herself.’
‘But she was leaving her employ. Was she perhaps jealous of the girl’s good fortune and wished to have the girl ruin herself for revenge? You said she wasn’t happy to lose you.’
‘What tales you weave. It’s the lawyer in you.’
‘Yes,’ he muttered. Crispin knew the man had no love for the panderer whom John had worked for. He thought Nigellus might be closer to the truth than he thought, but he decided to say nothing.
‘Now I want the two of you to stay inside,’ he said as they reached the Walcote estate. ‘You’ll be safe in there.’
‘I thought for a moment the extortionist and the murderer were one,’ said Nigellus. ‘It would have been a unique way to draw us out.’
‘Yes,’ said Crispin. ‘I had worried about that … briefly. But then I suspected it was Susannah.’
‘You’ll have to get another ladies maid,’ said Nigellus forlornly.
‘Damn. Well, I can’t go back to Elizabeth. I’ll have to find someone else.’
‘I’ll try and think of someone who might suffice,’ said Crispin. ‘Perhaps … Madam Walcote can suggest someone.’
‘Oh, Crispin! That’s a marvelous idea. We’ve become such good friends in so short a time.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he muttered.
Before they went inside, he informed them of the funeral and Nigellus solemnly handed him a small pouch of coins to take care of the priest and the fees. ‘But I’m certain Steward Able has that in order,’ said Crispin.
‘I’m certain he must. But just in case.’
‘I will hold it dear.’
He said his farewells and watched as they entered the manor house. His thoughts lingered on Philippa, the easy way she and Rykener could find friendship. How he wished that he could fall out of love with her and simply be a friend. But his life would not be his life unless it were complicated, he decided.
But just once, he mused, it would be nice if it didn’t have to be.
He crossed himself, hoping for better, and made his way back to the Shambles to give Isabel her gift.
Crispin arrived at St Martin’s Church for the funeral and it wasn’t long till he was joined by Jack. ‘We shall have word from the sheriff’s page by day’s end, Master Crispin,’ he said. And then he fixed his face into solemn contemplation, as the body of William Roke – conveyed in a pine coffin – was brought to the lychgate of the church, followed by another coffin carrying the bones of Wilfrid Roke. The priest came out and offered his benediction with sprinkled holy water and prayers. An altar boy carried a censer, and its fragrant smoke wound round all the gathered mourners’ heads in rings of sanctification.
The pallbearers brought the coffins to two holes dug in the soft, wet earth and with ropes provided, lowered them in, one at a time.
‘And bless the soul of Wilfrid Roke,’ intoned the priest, ‘father to William, who untimely met his undeserved death but now to find solace in the comforting arms of our Lord Jesus Christ …’
Crispin watched the holy water shaken over Wilfrid’s resting place and wondered if he shouldn’t say something now. But … no. It didn’t matter to God, Who knew all anyway.
More prayers, more bowed heads, the household of the Cobmartins paid their respects, though there was a murmur as to why the Cobmartins themselves did not attend.
Crispin kept an eye on Philip Able and when he saw the man pay the priest, he relaxed. Once the priest walked away and the grave diggers set their shovels into the piles of dirt to cover the remains, he met Able and his wife back at the lychgate.
‘I was sad to see that my master was not here,’ said the steward.
‘You know why, Master Able.’
‘Yes. I tried to explain it to the others. Bless me. This whole affair has been so difficult.’ He looked to his wife, but she stood with bowed head too, and clutched at his arm. ‘Murders, theft,’ said Able. ‘What next, I wonder?’
‘Best not to wonder,’ said Crispin, eyes scanning the retreating mourners.
‘Are you any closer, Master Guest, at finding out who did this? I fear poor William’s soul will never rest until the murderer is found. I know I shall not rest.’
‘I am very close, Master Able. Do not fear it.’
‘Oh! Then … who?’
Crispin gave a bitter semblance of a smile. ‘I shall return to the manor later this evening.’ He offered nothing more as he moved away from him and motioned for Jack to follow as they slowly made their way back to the Shambles.
‘You know something, don’t you?’ said Jack. ‘That’s why you had the sheriff’s page send that missive.’
‘I think I do.’
‘Care to share it? I mean, I went to all the trouble and all. And I don’t like Newgate any more than you do.’
Crispin glanced back over his shoulder as the church receded into the distance. There was no one else of any consequence near enough to them to overhear their conversation. ‘Certainly, Jack. I am of the opinion that the dead man in the wall … was not Wilfrid Roke.’
EIGHTEEN
Jack stopped and Crispin took two more steps before he realized it. He halted and pivoted toward his apprentice.
‘And when did you discover this fine bit of news?’ said Jack, fists at his hips. ‘We just buried the man. And now you say it was the wrong one?’
‘Not long. It was only a day ago. That pendant you removed from the body, a cross with a dark stone. I saw another like it on someone else.’
‘Who then?’ They began walking again.
‘On the dead man’s father. I believe the bones were that of Thomas Courtney.’
‘What? But … how? I thought he was the murderer.’
‘Thomas Courtney was dallying with Wilfrid’s wife Margaret. For years, I imagine. And you will recall, not long before Wilfrid supposedly went missing, Margaret fell down the stairs and broke her neck. And by Courtney’s father, I discovered that Thomas had planned to run away with someone’s wife at the household where he had gained employment for the last six years.’
‘You think Wilfrid killed his own wife.’
‘I’m certain he did.’
‘And then killed Thomas Courtney.’
‘Yes.’
‘And stuffed him like a trussed-up rabbit into the wall.’
‘Yes.’
‘And plastered it over.’
‘I’ve been watching the workmen. I don’t think it a particularly difficult thing to do.’
‘If you were a plasterer.’
‘Or very clever yourself.’
Jack ran his hand through his curls. ‘Blind me. So Wilfrid Roke did run away.’
‘Yes, but where?’
‘But …’ Jack rubbed his beard. ‘But … if the murderer is Wilfrid … why did he kill his own son?’
Crispin rested his hand on his sword hilt. ‘Thomas Courtney had been dallying for years. For six years. William Roke said he was five years old when his mother died. I suspect – as did Wilfrid – that William Roke was not his son.’
‘And he waited twenty years to do something about it?’
Crispin stepped aside as a cart laden with lumber rambled down the lane. Its wheels were caked in mud, both fresh and dried. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t certain. But he returned to see William grow to manhood. He might have begun to look like Thomas.’
‘God’s blood,’ Jack swore. ‘That’s horrible. Him, stalking poor William all that time. Then William thinking his father was redeemed … only to be slain by him. Or … Damn. Now I’m all mixed up. It wasn’t his father what killed him. And his father was a criminal. All that praying for forgiveness for naught.’
‘It’s damnable.’
‘But wait a moment.’ He stopped again, and Crispin stopped with him, folding his arms over his chest. ‘If he ran away, then why is someone stalking the Cobmartins from within the house?’
‘Maybe they aren’t.’
‘Are you saying now that the murderer may not be in the household?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
Jack cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘You know, don’t you? Why aren’t you telling me?’
‘Because if I am wrong, I do not wish to look the fool.’
‘You’re never wrong.’
‘Ha!’ He roared a laugh and started walking again. ‘That’s because I kept my counsel until I was certain. You see? It works. Makes me appear cleverer than I am.’
‘I see. It’s a wise man who knows just when to open his mouth.’
‘Just so.’
Jack nodded. ‘There’s more to being a tracker than just figuring it out. And more to being Crispin Guest, eh?’
‘Now you have gained understanding, Jack.’
Crispin brooded. He had been lighthearted when talking with Jack, but there was still the problem of it all being true. And just who the killer was. There were no servants – save for the cook, Master Robert – who had been with the family since the time of the murder. And though Crispin had ruled him out, he’d never feel completely at ease until the true killer was unmasked.
The workmen were gone. Had he dismissed them too soon from his thoughts on the matter? And what of Philip Able? Did he know more than he was telling?
They were back at the old poulterer’s on the Shambles, and Jack was catching up with the day’s happenings, holding a sleeping Genevieve and listening tenderly to Isabel as she told him this and that while stirring pottage in the new pot Crispin had bought for her.
As usual, Crispin stayed out of their domestic conversations. Instead, he sat in the shadows as an outsider, listening but never participating. He decided a few years ago that this was now his place. He would provide for this family, the only one he would ever have. He would watch over them like some aging lion over his pride. It wasn’t a bad existence, he told himself. It could have been much worse.
He tilted his head, gazing at Isabel, strong lioness that she was. Her children slowly gathered round her from all the scattered places they had come from, and though they were occupied with other distractions – a wooden horse for Little Crispin, a spindle and yarn for Helen, and a ball for Gilbert – they were still attentive to the soothing sounds of her voice, telling their father of her day and theirs.
Crispin mused that he must have spent the same sort of hours at his own mother’s knee … but he couldn’t remember it.
Jack smiled at her recitation, offered a soft comment here and there, and reached out to ruffle the heads of his charges. They looked up at him with adoring eyes.
Crispin felt the sudden pang of envy, but it was soon gone. For they gazed as adoringly at Crispin when he told them stories of his knightly deeds. Who else was he to tell? And when he told those tales, he noticed Jack at the edges in the shadows, looking just as awed as his children.
Such tales Jack had never imagined, he was sure of it. They were all true. Mostly.
The sky was darkening and the messenger still had not come. Isabel had fed the children and brought them all to bed in their chamber. By then, Robert the cook had joined the adults by the fire, and they all watched it dance and leap, and throw strange shadows upon the wall.
Isabel returned and finally flopped into her chair, rubbing her swollen belly.
‘When are you due, if it isn’t too impertinent a question, Madam Tucker?’ Robert asked.
She smiled and reached out a hand to Jack in his chair beside her. ‘Well, September is almost over, so I make it near Saint Elizabeth’s day.’
‘And a splendid name that would be, if a girl.’
‘If it is a girl, I should name her for my aunt, who was good to me. Eleanor.’
‘Not another Eleanor,’ said Jack, and looked instantly sorry he’d said it.
‘And why not?’ she asked stiffly.
He leaned toward her with a mollifying expression. ‘Come, my dear. Don’t you think there are far too many Eleanors in our life right now. There’s Eleanor Langton and Eleanor … er, Cobmartin … Aren’t those enough?’
She frowned.
Crispin found himself speaking, though he hadn’t meant to. ‘My mother was Johanna. Perhaps that, if a girl.’
All eyes suddenly turned toward him, sitting in his large chair at the edge of the fire. He shrugged. ‘It is only a suggestion. Please don’t take it as a preference.’
‘Johanna,’ said Isabel, musing. ‘Perhaps so. I like the name.’
It made Crispin think of Christopher, suddenly so interested in tales of his grandmother, a woman he would never know, that Crispin barely remembered. And how family seemed to weave in and out of all he did, even when he tried to escape it.
