Cup of Blood

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Crispin and Jack slipped into the apothecary’s doorway. Sour aromas issued from a pot hanging over a brazier. A board spanned two trestles and stood guard before a wall of shelves filled with glass jars and clay pots, all with wooden or ceramic lids. Crispin eyed some of them warily, thinking of sorcerers with their fanciful ingredients like frog’s toes and lizard tails. Nothing looked remotely like those things, though some dried leaves in a glass jar could easily be mistaken for something more alarming.

“Now Jack,” he said quietly, “keep silent while I talk, eh? Pay no mind to what I say.”

A curious Jack prodded a bag full of God-knows-what and then looked up at Crispin. Pale-faced, he nodded silently.

“Good Master,” said the man, startling Crispin with his abrupt arrival. The tapestry covering the doorway to the back of the shop swayed and settled. “What is your pleasure?”

The large man’s fleshy cheeks rested on a furred collar and his bright eyes studied Jack and Crispin under thin, black brows.

Crispin removed a coin from his pouch and laid it on the board. With index and middle fingers, he slid it toward the apothecary. “I seek something unusual.”

The man stared at the coin. “Something unusual for you, good Master? Of course. Tell me, then.”

“I have a kinsman with whom I have a special arrangement. Of necessity I must break this arrangement. Can you think of a convenient way in which this can be done?”

The man lifted his head with rounded eyes. “I do not understand your meaning, sir,” he whispered.

Crispin leaned forward, hands resting on the board. “I think you understand my meaning well. I need something quick, something easy. What say you, Master Apothecary?” He hefted his coin pouch. The few coins within sounded like many. “I can pay your price.”

“There is no price you can pay me, sir,” he answered breathlessly, “for surrendering my soul. I beg you. Leave my shop at once.”

“You are opposed to this, then?”

“Most assuredly. Now pray you, sir. Leave at once. I…I will say nothing of this to anyone…”

Crispin laughed and scooped the coin off the counter. “I am heartily glad to hear it, Master Apothecary.”

The man froze.

“Come, come, good fellow. I only jest with you. Two nights ago you helped this boy here who accidentally poisoned himself. Do you recall it?” He took Jack’s shoulders and pulled him forward. Jack stumbled and looked up at the apothecary from under an unruly fringe.

Warily, the man nodded toward Jack. “Of course. How fare you, lad?”

“God please you, I am well and happy your art saved me.”

“I did nothing. Had you swallowed such a dose there would be nothing I could do, save call in a priest. I suspect it was digitalis purpurea,” he said to Crispin, “based on the lad’s description. Even if the boy had taken only a few grains of such a dose he might have felt strange and ill, perhaps even swooned. But a lad in good health would quickly recover. The sheriff was most rude when he came to inquire about it.”

“Naturally. Did he ask if you sold such a poison?”

“Yes. It is not a poison when properly applied. It is for the heart, you see.” He tapped his chest. “It stimulates the heart’s humors. In an old man, it can revive those near death. But in high doses to a healthy individual, it makes the heart race to the point of bursting. I only sell it to physicians I know well. And I told the sheriff as much. I value my soul very highly indeed.”

“And you keep it well.”

Jack shook his head. “’Slud! That’s right nasty, isn’t it?” He looked from Crispin to the apothecary and back again. “You’d have to be a devil to use it on a man. I don’t like it at all.”

Crispin rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jack. I surmised your opinion.”

“What man would have cause to use-”

“Tucker! You’re interrupting me.” He tightened his grip and maneuvered Jack aside. “But surely, Master Apothecary, there are others in your guild that are not so mindful of the afterlife.”

The man nodded. “Perhaps. But I know of no one.”

Crispin leaned closer and in a harsh undertone said, “I need to know who sold this poison and to whom he sold it. A man has already died. I do not know how many more are at risk.”

The apothecary considered, forehead wrinkled. “The sheriff also asked me, but I assured him I could not say.”

“Did he offer coin for your memory?” asked Crispin, thumbing the silver piece.

The man pressed his lips tightly. “No, Master. It is just that…the sheriff. It is best to deal with him as little as possible.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask: who are you, good sir, if not the sheriff’s man?”

Jack edged forward, almost pushing Crispin aside. “This here is Crispin Guest. He’s the Tracker.”

“You are Crispin Guest?” The apothecary chortled and wiped his big hands down his stained apron. “A very great pleasure to meet you.”

Crispin bowed.

“I’ve heard up and down this ward how you’ve helped men find stolen goods and saved an innocent man or two from the gallows. And here you are in my shop.” The apothecary chuckled before his expression sobered. He lowered his voice. “Are you on the trail of this murderer?”

Crispin leaned in and with the same tone said, “Yes. It is my hope to find this villain before the sheriff does. As a matter of honor.”

“Oh! To be sure. Well then. There is a shop owned by a man named Rupert of Kent on Fenchurch Street. Be careful of him, good Master. He is an evil man. I am certain this is where the poison came from.”

“I shall be careful. And I thank you.” Crispin left the coin on the board and bowed before he departed.

It wasn’t long until they reached Fenchurch Street. Rupert’s shop was not as clean as the other. Crispin told Jack to wait outside, but Jack protested. “I want to come in and watch you talk to this knave! That story will be worth a farthing’s worth of ale in any tavern, I’ll warrant.”

“I did not bring you along to entertain you nor to fill you with drink. I am here for a purpose. Now wait outside.”

Jack kicked at the dirt and threw himself against the wall, digging his heel into the hard daub. His petulance almost made Crispin laugh but he didn’t want to encourage the boy. Instead, he schooled his features and laid his hand on his dagger when he entered, measuring the frail man at a writing desk. The apothecary looked up with tiny rodent eyes.

“You are Rupert of Kent?”

The man kept his seat. “Who wants to know?”

“Who I am does not matter. What matters are your wares. I think you are a seller of death.”

Crispin expected at least some look of astonishment but the man only smiled. He slid off his stool and postured against the heavy drapery that separated the shop from his private rooms. “Seller of death, am I? And who are you? An avenging angel? Bah! Off with you. I have work to do.”

“You sold a most lethal poison. No man of conscience would do so.”

“There is no blood on my hands. I only supply what is asked for. Whatever the use it is put to is strictly up to the buyer.”

“‘Things that cause sin will inevitably occur, but woe to the person through whom they occur.’”

The man’s smile faded. He made a dismissing gesture and turned away, but Crispin lunged and dragged him in, almost nose to nose. He flailed against the curtain until Crispin’s dagger pressed to his throat. “Who did you sell it to? I have a strong need to know. Almost as strong as the need to push this blade to the back of your throat.”

The dagger tip dimpled the flesh so deeply it produced a pearl of blood. Rupert’s lips worked but no sound issued forth.

Crispin pressed harder. “After all, it is not I that killed you, but this blade. There will be no blood on my hands. Is that not correct?”

“I sell such all the time!”

“Digitalis purpurea?”

The man’s eyes widened. “I sold only a dram!” he squealed.

“To whom?”

“I do not know the name-”

The apothecary screwed up his face, arching away from the pressure of the knife. But when Rupert stretched to reach behind, Crispin spied the dagger imbedded in his back. The apothecary gurgled and lurched forward, falling with his full weight into Crispin’s arms. Crispin pushed the man away and the apothecary crumpled to the floor.

Tossing the tapestry aside, Crispin scanned the dark storeroom. Something caught the candlelight. Crispin took a step but instinct made him pause.

A shelf tilted forward. Crispin barely had time to lurch out of the way before jars and canisters exploded on the floor. They blocked Crispin’s path but he caught sight of a dark, hooded figure opening the rear door before escaping into the alley.

He pushed back through the curtain, tripped over the apothecary’s body, ran into Jack running in, and staggered over broken pottery littering the threshold. He looked out to the deserted street and swore.

The sheriff paced across the apothecary shop, stepping over the body on the floor. “He gave no name, no description?”

“No,” said Crispin. “He was killed before he could say.” He looked up the street for Tucker who hid in the shadows as far away from the sheriff as he could get.

Wynchecombe frowned at the bloodstain oozing under the corpse. Its irregular shape took on the appearance of a skull. “How do we know this is the only seller of such a poison? There could be others.”

“Why else was he killed?” They both stared at the body. “But if you doubt it, send your bailiff to question the others.”

“I shall.”

Crispin sighed. The sun had only just set, and weariness etched the marrow in his bones. He wanted to sleep for a long time but knew he had too much to do.

Wynchecombe’s shadow fell across Crispin’s chest. “And you say you saw the murderer?”

Crispin shook his head. “Not exactly, my lord. Only a shadowy glimpse.”

“Anyone you recognized?”

He frowned. “No.”

“So you say.”

“My lord, I would tell you if I knew anything.”

Wynchecombe scowled. “If you are lying to me…”

“No, my lord. What cause would I have to lie?”

“The more I know you the less I believe I can trust you.”

“The curse of being an enigma. May I go now, Lord Sheriff? I must continue pursuing Sir Stephen.”

Wynchecombe knelt and grabbed the corpse’s hair and raised his head. “What of this? You said he was stabbed in the back. What about this on his throat?”

“That?” Crispin brushed a bit of straw from his coat. “He fell against my dagger.”

“An accident, eh?”

“Yes. I am certain you have similar accidents when you question a man.”

Wynchecombe smiled. “Yes. Accidents do occur.” The sheriff waved him off. “Go on, then.”

Crispin looked back. The shop with its swarm of sheriff’s men receded behind him. It was just as well. Let the sheriff deal with the body and let Crispin deal with the murderer. Someone plainly did not want there to be witnesses. A dagger was something Stephen would be more familiar with, not this business of poisons. And speaking of poisons…

He checked the street for Jack Tucker, but the boy was nowhere to be found.

Crispin trudged wearily up the stairs to his lodgings. When he looked up, he saw the young cutpurse crouched by the door on the landing. Jack raised his head.

“I suppose I should not be surprised to find you here. Why did you run?”

“I was afraid the sheriff would question me again.”

“I see. And why sit in the dark?”

“I can better see who approaches without their seeing me, Master.”

Crispin nodded. “You know this business well.”

Jack frowned. “Not as well as you.” He stayed in his huddled position and hugged himself tighter. “Is this what you do with your time? Get yourself involved in murders?”

Crispin chuckled gravely and pulled the key from his pouch. “It does seem to consume my days and nights. Why? Does it trouble you?”

“God’s teeth,” said Jack, shaking his head. “That’s no work for a gentleman.”

“In case you have not noticed, Jack, I am no longer a gentleman. A fact I weary of repeating. But what is it to you? This is my business not yours.”

Jack sighed through his blunted nose but said no more. He shivered and pulled his meager cloak tight over his chest.

Crispin held the key near the lock. “Is this where you intend to sleep?”

The boy shrugged. “It isn’t bad. It’s dry.”

“Where do you usually sleep?”

“Anywhere I can. But, being your servant now, I’d thought I’d be hard by.”

Crispin tapped his finger on the key. He called himself three kinds of fools before he spoke quietly into the wood of the door. “It is warmer inside.”

“Oh no, Master,” he said shaking his head, all the while rising and drawing near the door. “What, me? Sleep by a fire?” Jack’s face brightened with hope.

Crispin smiled. He turned the key and pushed open the door. “Go on in, you fool. And you are not my servant!”

Jack moved forward but stopped abruptly halfway over the threshold.

Beyond him, a feminine shape sauntered forward. The glow from the hearth embers painted only a golden line down the curves of one side of her silhouette. Until she reached the doorway and stepped out of the shadows.

Crispin staggered back as if struck by an arrow. His chest contracted with an old and unpleasant twinge. His voice was rough when he could speak at last. “My God. Rosamunde.”