Cup of Blood

CHAPTER TWO

Crispin examined the dead man’s face and grimaced, not at the pale and waxy skin, for he was used to corpses both on the battlefield and off, but at the manner and incongruity of such a body in such a place. The man looked as if he had suffered. His eyes bulged and spittle whitened his lips. Crispin cautiously bent to sniff the corpse’s opened mouth but didn’t detect any unusual odors or obvious poisons. One arm extended across the table ending in curled fingers as if he were reaching for something. Crispin tested the arm by raising it. Stiff.

He shook his head. “It’s a wretched thing, Gilbert. Poor man. Dying and not a soul aware of it.”

Gilbert stood behind Crispin’s shoulder and nodded. “You don’t think it was the food? Or the wine?”

“Not the food, though you would think so.”

“Crispin! This is no time for jesting.”

“Who’s jesting?” He saw the look on Gilbert’s face and laid his hand on his shoulder with a hasty smile. “Rest assured it was nothing in your food or drink. However, it was most certainly something he consumed, though I fear not by choice.”

“Poison?” Gilbert whispered.

“I don’t see any other way about it.” His temples throbbed again and he groaned. He was too tired to entertain this now. Let others content themselves with it. He hated to leave Gilbert with such a thing, but he had spent too much time today at the Boar’s Tusk already. He glanced at the boy, still cringing in the corner. “Gilbert, I would be off to my own bed. There’s little I can do here, at any rate. You’d best wait for Ned to get back with the sheriff and the coroner.”

“Oh, Crispin, don’t go! You know how the sheriff is.”

All too well. Crispin rubbed his face. It felt like damp leather. “Gilbert. For God’s sake.”

“Please, Crispin.”

He sighed and opened his eyes to glare at his friend. “Very well. But you owe me for this.”

“I’ll take it from your overdue bill,” Gilbert muttered and stared at the dead man. He wrung his hands on his apron, shuffled backward to a table opposite, and sunk to the bench.

The ginger-haired boy stealthily made for the door but Crispin leaned over and grabbed his hood again. “I am afraid you cannot leave either, little thief. For the sheriff may wish to question you as well.”

“But I don’t know naught!”

“That remains to be seen.” He shoved him down onto a stool while he sat on a chair, rocking it back, and plopped his feet on the table. He stared over his muddy boot tips at the dead man and waited.

The nearby monastery bells rang for Lauds by the time Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe entered and looked across the smoky room, legs wide with gloved fists dug into his hips. There was nothing particularly ostentatious about his dress, for another man might have made more use of bright colors in more combination. The sheriff’s pretension sprang from his person, some of it by choice and some of it by nature. A tall, ruddy man with dark bushy brows and an equally dark mustache and beard, he seemed to relish this darkness and clothed himself equally so.

Two of his men entered after him and stood at the ready in his shadow.

The sheriff clucked his tongue, but when he spied Crispin his expectant expression melted into a scowl. “I should have known you were somehow involved.”

“Me? I have no involvement. I am merely a bystander.”

Wynchecombe grunted. “Why do I find that so difficult to believe?” He cast about again and bellowed, “Who is master here?”

“I–I am, Lord Sheriff,” said Gilbert. He sprang from his bench and shuffled forward.

“Then what mischief is here?”

“We only found him an hour ago,” said Gilbert. “Such a terrible thing.” He glanced at Crispin. “To have him dead like that and no one the wiser.”

“So he’s been dead an hour.”

“Longer,” said Crispin.

Wynchecombe leveled a glare at him. “I did not ask you, Master Guest.”

“Nevertheless.” Crispin didn’t look at the sheriff. “He has been dead longer. Possibly all evening.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Try to move his arms. They are stiffening with rigor.”

Wynchecombe snorted. He eyed the stark faces looking expectantly back at him. “Well. Does anyone know who the man is?”

“I know not,” said Gilbert. “I do not remember his coming in, and I have never seen him before. Perhaps he’s a merchant. His cloak is plain enough, but his boots are well made.”

“He’s a knight,” said Crispin.

Wynchecombe strode toward Crispin and measured him with a pinched expression. His mustache twitched. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“He’s wearing a hauberk under his gown. I felt it when I touched his arm. Further, those clothes are not of local origin. That gown is a Damascus weave. I remember it well…from a long time ago.”

Wynchecombe glared a long moment before he slapped Crispin’s feet from the table. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

Crispin clenched his fist at his side but turned an indifferent expression to the sheriff. “I have very little respect for anything. Isn’t that what you’ve heard?”

“Yes.” Wynchecombe chuckled and nodded. “That is exactly what I’ve heard.”

The sheriff studied the dead man, peering at him at close range. “I don’t suppose,” he said over his shoulder, “you know who he is?”

Crispin shrugged. His lids hung heavily. “I do not. He wears no signet. But he did wear a necklace. A thin chain. His neck.”

“What?” The sheriff bent to look closely at the man’s neck.

Crispin yawned and waved in the dead man’s general direction. “See the red stripe? As if it were pulled off. I wonder by whom?”

He did not need to turn his head to know that the cutpurse cringed. The sheriff caught the movement and swiveled, directing his attention to the boy on a stool.

“Well? And who are you?”

“N-no one, m’lord. Jack Tucker. Just an innocent witness.”

“Innocent?” The sheriff swept the anxious faces of Gilbert and Jack with a scowl. “No one here looks innocent to me.” He crossed the room with heavy steps and leaned on the table. The wood creaked under his weight. “What time did you get here, my Lord Guest?”

Crispin slowly withdrew his knife and began cleaning under his fingernails with the tip. “I am no one’s lord,” he reminded tolerantly. “Are you suggesting I killed the man?”

“It was not established he was killed. There is no blood, after all.”

“Natural causes? In one so young? Surely even you are not that dim, Wynchecombe.”

Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s hood. He leaned in so close that Crispin could smell the stale wine on his breath. “I am ‘my Lord Wynchecombe’ to you, Guest.” Wynchecombe’s eyes flicked to the dagger in Crispin’s fist, but Crispin never flinched nor took his gaze from the sheriff. “Give me an excuse,” the sheriff whispered, twisting Crispin’s hood tighter. “Any excuse.”

The sheriff’s two men at the door took several steps closer. Their hands clutched their sword pommels.

Crispin blinked. He took his time curling his lips into a slow smile. It made the sheriff’s scowl deepen. “I am your servant as always… Lord Sheriff.”

Wynchecombe released him and straightened. “Then I repeat. What time did you get here?”

Crispin smoothed out his coat and shoulder cape and resumed cleaning his nails. “Sometime after sundown. I am not certain of the hour.”

“How many were here?”

“The usual number. It was nearly a full house, wouldn’t you say Gilbert?”

“Aye, Crispin. A goodly number.”

The sheriff smiled an unpleasant grin. “Been drinking here all evening, eh, Crispin?”

Crispin snapped his blade back in its scabbard without looking up. “I am no longer concerned with the running of estates, Lord Sheriff. What I do with my time is surely my own business.”

“Yet death seems to stalk you.”

“Death stalks us all. And in this case, I believe the man was poisoned. I’d stake my-” He paused, wondering what exactly was left to stake. Certainly he possessed no reputation to wager, no property, and no money. And his life? Likewise discounted. He smiled grimly and looked the sheriff in the eye. “I am certain,” he continued. “See how he struggled? And the foam at his mouth? Yet no one noticed his dying.”

“Poison, is it?” Wynchecombe glanced at the bowls scattered on the table. Wine still glistened in the bottom of both clay cups. The one of wood stood empty. He pushed one bowl with his fingers. It wobbled and sloshed red wine onto the table. “Poison is the choice of cowards and conspirators,” he snorted. “Which bowl was his?”

Crispin grinned crookedly. “I do not recall. Why don’t you try them and find out?”

The sheriff gritted his teeth in a steely smile. “Not today, Guest.” With his gloved hand he tipped over both bowls. The wine ran red like blood. “Tavern keeper!” he said, stepping away from the dribbles spattering the floor. “Clean this mess.”

Gilbert moved quickly and plucked up the bowls with apron-covered fingers.

The sheriff edged toward Crispin. “What sort of poison?”

“The sort that kills quickly. There are a few that would do the trick.”

“You know a bit too much about this.”

“I have a habit of knowing a bit too much about everything. Jack of all trades-”

“Master of none,” the sheriff chuckled. “Then of course you-a man who knows everything-would know where to obtain such poisons.”

“Any apothecary knows of them, but only the more unsavory would sell them. Do not waste your time. It will be difficult finding the purveyor.”

“The king has appointed me to waste my time, as you say.”

Crispin shrugged. “Then be my guest.”

“And what about this fellow, Jack Tucker. Tucker?” Wynchecombe turned, but Jack had vanished. The sheriff glanced a warning at his men. Their faces flattened with guilty apology.

Crispin chuckled. “Your fish slipped the hook.”

“Damn the boy! You two! Go get him!”

“Surely you do not suspect Tucker?” said Crispin over the noise of the sheriff’s men clamoring out. “What cutpurse would waste money on poison? That boy’s a thief not a murderer.”

“I care nothing for what you think you know of it.”

Crispin glanced at the window and groaned at the sight of gray light tinting the open shutters. “As you will,” he sighed. “It is nearly dawn. Are you done with me?”

Wynchecombe’s bushy brows lowered. Crispin well knew that if the sheriff wished, if taunted enough, he could arrest Crispin and put him on trial for the crime. Evidence could be easily cobbled to make him look guilty enough. Especially since the dead man’s money pouch still lay tucked in its hiding place inside Crispin’s coat.

Wynchecombe snorted and turned his back. “Go home. If I need you further, I know where to find you.”

Crispin gathered his sluggish body and rose, made a cursory bow that Wynchecombe did not notice, and dragged himself from the tavern.

He groaned again, squinting at the eastern sky visible now as a bluish-gray wash behind the dark silhouette of rooftops and spires. The morning hung in the air as cold and as damp as last night’s laundry. He put up his hood and wrapped his worn cloak over his chest to protect his chapped fingers. His empty belly complained, but he did not feel well enough to eat, even if there was bread or cheese in his larder. There might be the dregs of wine still left in his jug at home, and that thought sustained him while he leapt the puddles and trudged down gray-edged alleys.

At last he turned the corner and surveyed the familiar haunts of the Shambles. The structures in the narrow lane tilted inward toward one another, their protruding second stories sometimes only separated by three arm lengths, making the lane dim during the day and dismal at night.

The street lay in quiet. Soon the market bells would ring when the shadows reached the first gatepost at the far end of the lane making it after Prime. Then stalls would be unfolded from their shuttered windows. Hearths, dreaming with only the gentle puff of white from covered embers, would be stoked and billow oppressive smoke from their dormant chimneys. Yet even in the stillness of the morning, the odor of butchered meat still hung in the air.

Poor as it was, it was better than digs in Southwark, the parish situated across the Thames, which housed the brothels, thieves, and the poorest of the poor. Crispin could not bring himself to live there, though the rent was far cheaper. If it were not possible to live at court as he used to, then he would at least live close enough to sneeze at it. London was his city, after all, and no one-no matter how high their rank-was going to chase him from its walls.

Crispin opened the money pouch for his key and the pouch fell to the ground. He cursed and picked it up. He must remember to repair that, and gave a grudging chuckle at the brashness of the clever young cutpurse. He climbed the rickety wooden stairs, trying to keep quiet. The still sleeping tinker who owned the shop below, made his living repairing large cooking pots for beef tallow, and sharpening and mending butchering knives and meat hooks. The forge in the back courtyard sent black smoke into Crispin’s window during the day, but even this could not smother the stench of the meat markets below.

He took out the rusty key and unlocked the door to his lodgings. He knew well the small room’s full compliment of furniture and sundries. Nothing adorned the walls, not even a crucifix. The only items he owned were the clothes on his back, a wax slate, a quill, a small ink pot, and a journal-all of which resided in the rented coffer.

“Home and hearth,” he sighed. He wrinkled his nose. The cramped room smelled of old smoke and the smothering closeness of sweat. He reached for the wine jug and found it empty. Too weary to divest himself of the cloak, he leaned toward the pallet and tumbled onto the straw-stuffed mattress. It crunched under his weight and released the smell of musty grass. Throwing his arm across his face, he lay on his back, closed his eyes, and settled into the lumpy cot, hoping to lie there the rest of the day.

He hadn’t slept for more than a few moments when the sound of doors slamming and pots rattling below stairs woke him. He jolted upright and stared uncomprehendingly at his surroundings. His mind reluctantly fell in step as a door slammed a second time. The Kemps, the tinker family, had awakened and begun their day. “God’s blood.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. He wasn’t drunk enough anymore to simply sleep through the morning. That time had been taken up with the sheriff and the dead man.

A dead knight. The idea fascinated. A poisoned knight. But what was this dead man to him? He only solved such puzzles when he was hired to do it. There was no profit in wasting time with such without pay. He needed to find a puzzle for which someone would hire him. Let the sheriff fool with this. He’d muck up the job like he always did. Arrest the wrong man and hang him. It was far too much work for the sheriff to muster the real culprit. And no truer a scoundrel there was than this killer. Poison. In the middle of a crowded tavern. That took gall. He almost admired the knave but stopped short. Poison was a horrible way to die. Knowing you had ingested the venom and incapable of stopping it from rushing through your system. A horrific loss of control. At least with a knife blade you had a chance to fight! He shook his head. He’d even rather die by the noose than by poison.

Who was that poor bastard anyway, murdered in plain view? Crispin thought he was a knight not just because of the ring mail he wore but of his groomed hair and nails, his clean-shaven face. He was no mere soldier. He had jewelry and weapons. But why was his armor hidden? Was he killed because of that secret?

Crispin unbuttoned the top buttons of his coat and reached inside to bring out the dead man’s purse. He dropped it on the table and it pooled on the nicked wood like a bad pudding. He supposed he should take it to the sheriff but not before he satisfied his own curiosity.

He looked inside. Coins, mostly silver with one or two gold. Reaching in, he pulled out a thin gold chain that held a cross potent set with small green stones. Etched on its reverse was the word pocillator. He turned the object in his hand again, feeling its heft before laying it aside. He then withdrew a pinky ring, also with a green stone, though not like the cross’ jewels. After examining it for any markings, he shrugged and laid it, too, on the table.

He glanced toward the window and sighed. The cracked shutters hung ajar and bleary sunshine cast irregular stripes across the floor. Dawn had given way to morning. However long he slept at the Boar’s Tusk was not long enough. He passed a calloused hand over his face and felt the beard stubble for the first time. He rose to go to the basin and jug and poured the icy water into the bowl. He washed his face quickly, but a sound on the landing stopped him. He listened. Water dripped from his chin. He stepped clear of the basin and pricked his ears.

The landing creaked.

Crispin edged his dagger free from its sheath and crept with slow steps toward the door. He gently pressed his ear to the wood and held his breath.

The landing creaked again. But before Crispin could respond, hard footfalls thumped on the wooden steps and hurled down the stairs.

Crispin threw the bolt and cast open the door. The tail end of a robed figure disappeared at the bottom step.

Crispin leapt down the stairs, two, three at a time and landed with an unsteady thump at the bottom. He took to the middle of the street and looked up the road.

No robed man.

He ran up the lane, splashing his boots in the gutter, pushing stray passersby out of his way.

No one in a robe. No mysterious stranger.

He ran his hand over his hair, damp from washing his face. Was he seeing things now?

A tug at his coat. He spun, brandishing his knife. A lad of ten years stood behind him. He wore the sheriff’s livery but the tabard was too large for him. The boy shrunk from Crispin’s scowl and from the menacing blade, and held up his hands to fend off the expected blow. “Master Guest!” he squeaked.

Crispin breathed. He looked at the knife in his hand and quickly sheathed it. “What is it, boy?”

The boy gathered himself and gave the message in a rush. “M-my Lord Sheriff sent me to tell you they have captured the murderer and he commands you to come to Newgate at once.”

The murderer? That was quick. Especially for Wynchecombe. Crispin looked back up the lane. Shopkeepers and passersby paid him no heed. “Commands, does he?” He ran his hand over his chin again and finally shrugged. “Then I suppose a shave will have to wait.”