‘He was found, Robert.’

  Robert froze and blinked. It was then he took in the rest in the parlor, Crispin and Jack and Christopher. He grew quiet. ‘What does this mean, Master Nigellus?’ he said in a less blustery tone.

  ‘We have found his remains in the house, Robert. He didn’t run off with the relic after all. He was murdered.’

  ‘Oh, lord!’ His face was open and wide with shock. Such a thing would have been easy to create a false face, thought Crispin, but this man did not look as if he were mumming a part.

  ‘So is it possible, Robert, that you remember something from that time, even some little thing, some bit of information that you might have thought trivial? Anything could now be of great import.’

  ‘If I may?’ said Crispin, stepping forward.

  ‘Robert, this is Crispin Guest. He is the Tracker of London and, as you may well know, he discovers such secrets that lead to the king’s justice, finding the culprits of heinous crimes.’

  Robert’s mouth was formed into an ‘O’ of surprise as he stared long and hard at Crispin.

  ‘And so, Master Robert,’ said Crispin, settling himself with feet apart, thumbs tucked into his belt. ‘As your master suggests, any little thing you can recall could be of utmost importance. Perhaps some theory discussed amongst the other servants …’

  ‘There was some speculation. I was five and twenty or so at the time and full of ambition. But two of the maids wondered if he hadn’t run off with the third maid. She went missing too.’

  Nigellus lost his mask of the barrister and leaned toward Robert. ‘A maid missing? I don’t recall that.’

  ‘It was not long after poor Wilfrid’s wife died. Poor Margaret Roke. Such a sad thing. Maybe the ado didn’t reach your sire’s ear. But no doubt the steward knew of it. I think you were gone to the lawyer’s school by then, sir.’

  Crispin turned to Nigellus. ‘And the steward of that time?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Dead. Died eight years ago. We have the house records, but he wouldn’t know unless there was a notation taken.’

  ‘House records?’ asked Crispin, his eyes brightening.

  ‘House records,’ muttered Nigellus. ‘By the Rood! Where is Philip? Robert, fetch Philip Able. But also think hard on anything else you might have heard of during that time.’

  Robert bowed to everyone, and was about to scurry off to find the steward when Crispin stopped him.

  ‘Robert, what was the name of the missing maid?’

  ‘Her name was Ardath.’ He rushed out after that.

  ‘Our former steward was meticulous in his records of our household,’ said Nigellus excitedly. ‘I was always following the poor man around, and I learned at his knee how to keep records, which came in very handy indeed when I went into the law. Ah, how I miss Justin. He died of the sweating sickness. He was a very valuable man. Very valuable.’

  Rykener patted his shoulder in sympathy and Nigellus unconsciously clutched at that hand with affection.

  Crispin glanced back at Christopher, wide-eyed and intrigued with each new discovery. Was it merely the novelty? Or was it something in him, in his blood, that made him so captivated, as Crispin had been, by investigating crimes? It reminded him that he had his family ring to leave behind. Would it be foolish to leave it to Christopher and risk discovery of who he really was? This he would need to discuss with Nigellus if he were to prepare a will for him.

  It wasn’t long till the steward entered. Philip Able was a reedy man, with long arms and long fingers, a sallow complexion, with a thin nose and equally thin lips. Crispin thought he could do with a beard to fill out his face, but the man instead sported a deep shadow of a beard instead. His gown was long and was of wool in a dark russet color. He wore the cap of a clerk. A set of keys on a ring and a pen case hung from his belt, displaying his importance in the household.

  He bowed to Nigellus, and gave a polite tilt of the head to the rest of Crispin’s company.

  ‘Philip,’ said Nigellus all in a rush, ‘we must see the household records from twenty years ago, when Wilfrid Roke disappeared with my father’s relic. I’m certain you recall it. Can you bring them?’

  His eyes scanned judiciously over Crispin, Jack, and Christopher. ‘My lord, it would be simpler to bring you to my offices. The scrolls are many.’

  Nigellus nodded. ‘Oh, indeed. Of course. Let’s do that.’ As they followed Philip from the parlor, Nigellus motioned back toward Crispin. ‘This is Crispin Guest, the Tracker of London, and this is his man, Jack Tucker. And, er, Christopher Walcote, a mercer.’

  Philip’s brow ticked at that last pronouncement but his face never changed. They followed him down a corridor and around a corner under the stairs. Philip took his key ring and deftly found the proper key, turning it with a small sound of scraping in the lock. He opened the heavy door held together with iron hinges arrayed in curls and florets and a grid of square nails peppering the wood. He allowed Nigellus and his guests in first, and they arranged themselves around a clerk’s high, slanted table. Philip entered and went straight to a set of shelves piled high with scrolls, their long leather tags hanging over each shelf like locks of hair, they were so numerous. A small, murky fire in the hearth made the room dim with a veiling layer of smoke and there was only one small window for light to try to break through the dimness. A candle on the desk valiantly burned its small flame, but the smokiness was nearly too much for it.

  Christopher coughed and then tried to cover it by clearing his throat.

  ‘Now let me see,’ said Philip, using a finger to scan his shelves of scrolls and leather-clad volumes. ‘As I recall, Master Cobmartin, this all occurred in April of 1378, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, April. It took ever so long a time to get the household back into some sort of semblance of order. My father looked grayer than he ever had been before that terrible year.’

  ‘Generally, the scrolls from one year are sewn together,’ said Philip, dithering at the shelf, pulling one scroll out and looking at it before putting it back, and repeating the process. ‘But Master Justin took so many notes that it became unwieldy, and so they were divided into three, or thereabouts, depending on the information.’ He studied the shelf back and forth and muttered, ‘Hmm. Curious.’ He ran his hand over the length of scrolls on one shelf and went to the next, looking at the leather tags and tutting all the while.

  ‘This is very curious,’ he said again.

  ‘What is it, man?’ asked Nigellus. ‘Can’t you find the scrolls?’

  ‘Well … that’s just the thing.’ He turned to his master apologetically. ‘I … it’s never happened before. But I cannot seem to find any scroll from that year. Here is 1377 and these are all from 1379. But that particular year … seems to be missing.’

  ‘But that’s absurd!’ cried Nigellus, and he cast himself forward and rummaged through the scrolls himself, much to the quiet consternation of his steward.

  As they searched, Crispin turned his attention to the hearth. The fire was unduly smoky and as he crouched and looked, he could see why. He drew his knife and teased a burning parchment scroll from the flames and dumped it upon the tiled floor. ‘Look here.’

  Philip’s eyes enlarged and he fell upon the burning scroll. He patted out the flames but it only scattered into blackened cinders. ‘But … what …’

  Crispin stirred the ashes and found what remained of charred leather tags. ‘Are these the scrolls you sought?’

  ‘But …’ The man’s long fingers were blackened from soot as he sifted through the ashes on the floor. ‘Why would someone burn these? They were household records. They should never be touched by anyone but the steward.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Crispin, rising and sheathing his dagger. ‘Your master seemed to think that these were more than mere household accountings.’

  ‘Why yes. My predecessor kept the records more or less as also a journal of events and happenings in the house. They were most interesting and detailed. I tried to follow in his footsteps, observing and recording all that transpires, not merely the income and outlay of daily expenses. But this! What a waste. A tragic waste. Who could have done it?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ said Crispin. ‘Who has a key to this door?’

  ‘No one,’ he said primly. ‘Only me and Master or Madam Cobmartin.’ He held up his own key as proof, even though he had only just now opened the door under their eyes.

  Crispin turned toward Nigellus with an eye toward John. ‘Do either of you still have your keys?’

  John looked down at the key ring at his belt, like any proper chatelaine, and Nigellus did the same to his key ring. ‘All accounted for,’ said Nigellus, puzzled. ‘And you … Eleanor?’

  Rykener shook his head, his veil swaying with each movement. ‘They’re all here.’

  ‘These scrolls were burned just now,’ said Crispin. ‘And that can mean only one thing. Whoever had knowledge of this murder is still in this house.’

  FOUR

  ‘But master,’ said Jack, looking from the fireplace to the door. ‘That’s a crime from twenty years ago. Who would still be here and worried they’d be found out after all this time?’

  ‘Don’t you know, Jack?’ said Crispin. ‘Why, the murderer, of course.’

  ‘No. No, that is absurd,’ said Nigellus. ‘So many of those who were here twenty years ago are dead or gone from the household.’

  Crispin thumbed the pommel of his dagger, rubbing it unconsciously. ‘Well, it may not be the murderer himself, but someone here with knowledge, trying to protect them.’ He happened to glance toward Christopher who was doing his best to conceal his smile.

  When he caught Crispin’s eye, he didn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. ‘This is very exciting,’ he said, though after he’d said it, he composed his face to bland regard again.

  Crispin couldn’t help but wink at the lad and then straightened his face as well. ‘Discovering the dead man’s remains has begun a sequence of events. Someone here assumed no one would find the body, but now that we have … I advise caution, Nigellus.’ He gestured toward the burned scrolls. ‘Someone has seen to it that we find out as little as possible.’

  ‘We’ll have to question everyone in the house,’ said Jack. ‘Every blessed one of them.’

  ‘Jack’s right,’ said Crispin.

  But there was a commotion at the door and shouting. They rushed from the steward’s office and headed toward the front entry.

  Both sheriffs stood in the foyer, looking around. ‘Where is the master of this house?’ shouted Sheriff William Askham. ‘Or the sarding steward?’ His round voice carried to the back walls and even to the rafters, for workmen appeared over the top of the gallery and looked down. Crispin knew he was a fishmonger and likely used to calling out his wares on the bustling streets of London. He was a big man, more like a smith with his broad shoulders, solid head that seemed to miss a neck entirely and simply blend into those shoulders. The man liked his furs and velvets and long necklaces of gold worn over all.

  Sheriff John Woodcock stood off to the side, a slight man with delicate features, sandy, wiry hair and dead blue eyes, with an air of indifference about him whenever he fulfilled his charge; scrolled nose in the air, lower lip protruding, eyes squinting. Perhaps, pondered Crispin, Sheriff Askham had the odor of fish about him and close proximity wore on Sheriff Woodcock.

  Askham’s eyes fell on Crispin and his face blotched suddenly with red. ‘I might have known,’ he rumbled. ‘Guest! Stand before me and explain.’

  Crispin straightened his crimson cote-hardie and approached both sheriffs, bowing gracefully. ‘My lords, there has been a murder in this house.’

  ‘That much we knew, Guest,’ said Askham impatiently. ‘Well? Where is it?’

  ‘Up yon staircase.’

  ‘Then I suppose we should examine the body.’ He made a reluctant move toward the stairs.

  ‘There isn’t much of a body, my lords,’ said Crispin, stopping him.

  Sheriff Askham scowled and glanced toward his companion. ‘It’s Guest up to his old tricks again, I’ll wager. Very well. I’ll play your little game and much grief you’ll get from me and my serjeants about it. Just why isn’t there “much of a body”?’

  ‘Because it is merely a skeleton. Stuffed into a cavity in the wall, some twenty years ago.’

  ‘Twenty years? Then what the hell are we doing here? The murderer is long gone. Dead, for all we know.’

  ‘That could very well be true, my lords.’

  Askham ruffled. ‘“Could very well be true, my lords”,’ he imitated in a sour tone. ‘Harken, Woodcock,’ he said, elbowing toward his companion, who shied away from Askham’s brusque movements. ‘This is where Guest offers his services, stealing coin from the king’s purse.’

  These men meant nothing to Crispin, and he well knew he shouldn’t be affronted at their rudeness, but it still riled him. He straightened; his chin raised. ‘I wouldn’t think of charging the office of the sheriff,’ he said, turning slightly away. ‘It’s nothing to me. But Nigellus Cobmartin is an acquaintance of mine and I wouldn’t dream of leaving him alone with it.’

  ‘Who is Cobmartin?’ asked Askham, swinging his head about like a snorting bull.

  Nigellus timidly raised a hand and cleared his throat. ‘My Lord Sheriff. I am Nigellus Cobmartin, barrister. And Master Guest here was kind enough to attend me when I sought out his advice.’

  ‘Was he now?’ Askham aimed his bulk at Crispin for only a moment before deferring to his companion. ‘What do you think of this, Woodcock? Some sort of conspiracy?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he snorted, glancing longingly toward the door. ‘It seems more for the coroner than for us. Mere bones. What can be made of that?’

  Askham cast a reluctant glance up the long staircase, and Crispin could imagine the man struggling to drag his bulk up those many steps.

  ‘Be at ease, my lords. The coroner has been called and will be here anon. If you don’t wish to trouble yourself with such an old history of a homicide, then there is no need.’

  ‘You’re certain it is murder? You are always looking to make coin off the gullible citizens of London.’

  ‘I am certain, my lords. He could hardly have coshed himself in the head, tied up his hands and feet, gagged himself, and proceeded to plaster himself within the wall. Unless you’d like to take a look yourself …’ He gestured toward the stairs.

  ‘No need to be overdramatic, Guest. No, I think it best we leave it for the coroner. There’s little for us to do here. We’ll leave the serjeants to await him and do his bidding. Oh. I suppose, Guest, it’s too much to ask if you know who the unfortunate is?’

  ‘Of course, my lords. His name is Wilfrid Roke. He was a varlet here for Master Cobmartin’s father, deceased.’

  ‘So, you have all the answers, eh, Guest? Very well. You may attend the coroner, then.’ He took another last look around. ‘I’ll be glad for the end of this month. I’ll wager you will too, Woodcock. For some other unfortunates to be appointed sheriffs in our stead.’

  Woodcock said nothing either way. He glanced wearily toward the door.

  Askham swept his cloak about him with a flourish and spun on his heel. Sheriff Woodcock was not as garish in his departure. He merely turned away from everyone without taking leave and stomped after Askham.

  ‘That’s us told,’ said Jack once they’d gone, a lopsided smile tilting his mouth.

  ‘I need not tell you, Nigellus,’ said Crispin, ‘that it is a great boon that the sheriffs will not interfere. For more often than not, they are a hindrance in getting to the meat of the matter.’

  ‘How well I know it,’ said Nigellus, seeming to relax from the encounter. ‘Do neither of these appointed sheriffs ever take their charge seriously?’

  ‘Very few, in my experience. But then again, they are mere keepers of the peace, with other vocations to look after. It would be better should the sheriffs actually be appointed to do the task I am paid to do.’

  ‘Yes, wouldn’t it.’ Nigellus had a flicker in his eyes. ‘An interesting notion. I wonder if you could petition the king—’

  Crispin couldn’t help an explosive snort of laughter. ‘That would go very well, wouldn’t it? Me, petitioning the king?’

  ‘Oh, but King Richard is much more at ease these days, now that he has a new queen.’

  ‘A child of nine that he does not see, away in her palace as she is. It will take some years before Queen Isabella comes to court.’

  ‘I merely suggest that he is in a better mood these days.’ But when he looked at Crispin’s expression his brows rose in question. ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘Not if the rumors I have heard are true. Do you recall the lords who forced Richard to adhere to his kingly duties and keep his hands off the purse strings some years ago? Chief among them were the king’s cousin, Henry Bolingbroke and Richard’s uncle Gloucester. Richard successfully sent them all away, but he recently imprisoned his uncle in Calais for treason … where he mysteriously died. Do you not remember the outcry amongst the populace that engendered? It was assumed Richard’s agents were sent to do the deed. No, Nigellus, it’s best we all keep a low profile where King Richard is concerned.’

  ‘Dear, dear. I suppose it completely slipped my mind, what with my brother and this house. Will you be all right?’

  ‘Thank God and his mercy that Richard never thinks of me. But I do worry over Henry. I mean … His Grace, the Duke of Hereford. For he was also chief of the counselor lords and I fear Richard will go after him as well.’

  ‘His own cousin,’ said Nigellus.

  ‘He had his own uncle murdered.’

  ‘Jesu mercy.’ Nigellus crossed himself. ‘What a cross to bear it is to be the King of England.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Crispin, looking for any spies in the corridor or up the stairs. ‘It is only a rumor.’

  ‘That’s … horrendous,’ said Christopher. ‘And you knew all those people, didn’t you, Master Crispin?’

 

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