Shadow of the Alchemist

5

Jack had gone to fetch the sheriffs while Crispin carefully removed the dagger and the bloodied parchment.

“How long, Master Flamel? How long were you absent from your shop? This had to have been a difficult thing to hang him thus without anyone seeing.”

“I was gone all morning,” he said between wiping his eyes. “Doing your job, Maître! Looking for my Perenelle. Oh, my saints. Oh God, keep his soul, the poor, dear boy. For I had accused him most foully of great sin. The greater sin is mine.”

Guilt twinged Crispin’s gut. Had he not been in his cups … “This is your apprentice, then? Thomas Cornhill.”

“Yes,” he said, sobbing.

Crispin directed his attention to the spidery script of the parchment. In Latin, he read:

You will deliver up the Stone or the fair Perenelle will die.

Crispin read it twice. “Do you recognize this hand, Master Flamel?”

The man did not look at Crispin and shook his head.

“What does he mean by ‘the Stone’? Some gem you possess?”

Flamel wiped his eyes and moved quickly to the other side of the room. “Can we not cut him down?”

“We must await the sheriffs.” Crispin looked up at the dead man, one leg extended, one leg crooked. “The gem, Master Flamel. It must be worth a great deal to kill for it.”

“It … I do not know of what stone he speaks.”

Crispin glared at him. “Do you not? You are aware that I am here to help you. And the person who has captured your wife has already killed once. I suggest you confide in me.”

His hands closed over his robe, clenching tightly. “I tell you I do not know!”

“He thinks you do. What could he mean, then?”

“I … I do not know,” he said in defeat.

Of course he was lying. But Crispin couldn’t make the man confess. Well, one couldn’t if the man was a client. Exasperated, Crispin cast his glance at the servant girl, who was watching the proceedings with a keen eye. She caught Crispin’s glance and held it, gazing at him steadily as if trying to impart her knowledge with just a look. What did she know of it? How could he ask? How could she answer?

“I need to ask your servant girl questions.” Flamel crushed his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Annoyed, Crispin bent down and grabbed the man under his arms and hauled him to his feet. “Master Flamel, gird yourself. Obviously … I was wrong. So, I need your assistance now. If you still want my help.”

Flamel’s eyes were red when he raised them. “Of course I want your help. Do you think I trust these English sheriffs?”

“Forgive me, Master, but do not forget that I am English.”

He waved his hand distractedly. “Yes, yes. But you are more French in your rational thinking.” He winced when his eye caught the slowly swinging man again, a counterpoint to the brass planets and stars moving distractedly overhead. He turned away and spoke over his shoulder. “What help do you need from me?”

“I need you to communicate with your servant. Ask her what she might know of this. Was she with you?”

“Yes, she was with me. We discovered him together.”

“Please, Master Flamel. Ask her.”

Flamel waved at Avelyn, and the girl gave him her attention. His fingers danced again and she replied in kind. But an argument seemed to have ensued, and they went back and forth, Flamel growing increasingly flustered.

“What is it?” asked Crispin, looking from one to the other.

“She says she knows nothing, only … well. It is ridiculous.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Come now.”

“Well, she says that Thomas-his position-is familiar to her.”

Crispin turned again, eyes scanning the dead man in his macabre condition, purposely hanging upside down. “In what way?”

“She … cannot say.” Flamel suddenly jumped up. He bustled about the place, turning over books and parchments, opening small coffers, and collecting things in his hands. “I must pay you your fee, before the sheriffs come. Here, Maître Guest.” He offered his cupped hands to Crispin.

Expecting coins, Crispin cupped his own hands to receive them, but instead, a collection of strange objects fell into his palms. A nail, a spoon, a key. Crispin was about to object until he noticed they were all made of gold. He scratched the spoon with the key. They appeared to be solid gold.

“What … what is this?”

“Your payment, Maître. I hope that will be enough.”

Crispin gauged the heavy weight in his hands. “Far more than sufficient,” he said distractedly before dropping them into his scrip.

A commotion at the door told him the sheriffs had arrived. He prepared himself. It was Simon Wynchecombe all over again, only doubled. Both sheriffs, appointed as was the custom on Michaelmas, had no liking for the Tracker they had inherited. Already, with each assignment, they had proved they did not appreciate Crispin’s help or interference.

Sheriff William Venour, alderman and grocer, stepped through the open door, followed by Sheriff Hugh Fastolf, alderman and pepperer. They were both momentarily diverted by the huge moving display of planets before they turned their attention to the strange swinging dead man. Fastolf gripped the hilt of his dagger and crossed himself, twice. “Holy Virgin!” he said. His bald pate was covered with a chaperon hat with a dagged coxcomb trailing down over his right shoulder.

Sheriff William nervously stroked his ginger beard. “God’s teeth, Hugh. What do you make of that?”

Eyes wide, Fastolf walked a turn completely around the hanging man, his gloved hand firmly over his mouth as if he might be sick. “For the love of the Rood, can we not cut him down?”

Jack scrambled in just as the sheriffs’ serjeants entered, drawing their knives. One held the man while the other sawed through the rope.

Crispin was about to offer the sheriffs the note and the dagger, but Flamel stayed his hand and gently took the things from him, laying them aside. Keeping silent on it, Crispin observed the scene before him instead, examining the discarded frayed end of the rope until Sheriff Venour snatched it out of his hand.

“And what are you doing here, Guest?”

He bowed. “As always, Lord Sheriff, I am only nigh when called.”

“Oh?” He glanced at Jack, standing anxiously behind Crispin. “And how came you so quickly? You sent your boy in all haste. But this corpse is still warm. How is it you were hired before there was a body?”

Crispin dared not look at Flamel, but the man stepped forward and bowed formally. “Mes seigneurs,” said Flamel, “I hired Maître Crispin a day ago to … to … find something dear to me. We could not have known that this would be the result!”

Fastolf tried for an air of indifference as the body was lowered to the floor by his underlings. He pushed his long-toed shoe forward and rested a fist at his waist. “The result of what? Just what is it you were sent to look for, Guest?”

Again, Crispin deferred to Flamel. The man reached into his pouch and pulled out a golden arrowhead. “This, Shérif de Seigneur. As you can see, it is quite valuable and it was lost. Stolen. By … by this man. He was my apprentice.”

“Eh?” said Venour. “Your apprentice? And who did this to him?”

Flamel shrugged. “I do not know. The shop was empty all this morning. Someone perhaps played a poor jest that went terribly wrong.”

“And how did he die?” Fastolf nodded toward the dead man now lying on the floor. One of the serjeants had knelt beside him and untied his crooked leg from his other, then tossed the rope aside.

Both serjeants looked up, thinking perhaps that they were being addressed. Crispin moved forward, and the serjeants seemed only too happy to get out of his way.

“Here, Guest!” cried Fastolf. “What are you doing?”

But just as quickly as Fastolf moved forward to stop him, Venour stepped in and took his companion by the arm. He slowly shook his head. Of course, thought Crispin. Don’t do any of the work yourselves.

He knelt by the body and examined it. He looked at the tear in the fabric on the breast where the dagger had stabbed. There was very little blood. So the dramatic placement of the parchment note was done postmortem. He pushed the high collar aside and saw the bruising around his throat. “Strangled,” he said aloud. A bruise on his chin seemed to indicate he had not come quietly. He picked up the limp arms, pushing back the sleeves. Red weals about the wrists. He was tied up.

“Well?” asked the strained voice of Sheriff Hugh. “What else?”

Crispin turned back toward them. “My lords, did you wish to hire me to investigate the matter for you?”

Hugh rapped him sharply against the side of his head. “Insolent dog! Do you think you are the only man in this city with a brain?”

Prevented from answering truthfully when Sheriff William shoved him out of the way, he slowly rose.

“There’s something to that,” said Sheriff William. He cast his glare upon Flamel. “You, then. You’re French, are you not? And the French bring trouble with them wherever they go.”

Instead of speaking up to defend himself, Flamel stayed quiet but tense.

“I think you should hire Guest here. He favors toiling with the dead, discovering … things.” He said the last with a sneer.

Flamel bowed. “I should be only too happy to.”

Crispin studied his shoes. Well then. Only more coin for him. And he’d planned on investigating anyway.

A glove slapped his face and he raised his head sharply to Venour. The man’s twisted scowl was aimed at him. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, knave. You heard the man. Er … who is this Frenchman?”

Flamel bowed again. “I am Nicholas Flamel, alchemist.”

The curl to Venour’s lip indicated he was not impressed. “Find the murderer, Guest. And report to me. And don’t dally. There is enough trouble in the city without your adding to it.”

“My lord?”

His scowl grew darker. “Don’t you know anything? Noblemen are stirring up anxiety at court. No one is spared from these events. The world has gone insane,” he lamented. “It’s now in the hands of Parliament.”

Crispin tried for nonchalance. “And what of … what of the king’s commissioners? What of Lord Derby?”

The sheriff jutted his chin. “What of him? Oh, that’s right. He was your pet once. Or were you his?”

Crispin ground his teeth. Just tell me, you jackdaw!

The sheriff seemed to take pleasure in saying, “Lord Derby and Nottingham stand against the king, or so the rumor holds. How do you think he is faring? At any rate, no one knows where he is, and if you know anything, Guest, you had better come to us forthwith. The king wishes to see his cousin at court.”

Henry’s visit of the night before ran through Crispin’s mind. He desperately tried to remember what he had been telling Crispin besides the silly jesting. Damn the wine that punched holes through his memory!

“But Lord Sheriff-”

He turned on his heel and signaled to Fastolf. “I’m not your herald, Guest. Go to an alehouse if you wish to get more news.” He talked to his serjeants about taking the body away to the apprentice’s family before he turned a last time to Crispin. “In any case, Guest, we expect results from you.”

Crispin bowed. “As always, Lord Sheriff.” He caught Venour rolling his eyes before the man pushed his way out the front door, followed quickly by Fastolf.

The serjeants carried the man away, and all was quiet again. Yet a rope still hung from the rafters, swinging from the draft of the ever-moving planets.

Crispin picked up the discarded bit of rope cut from the man’s leg and turned it over in his hands. Good-quality rope. Not a fisherman’s rope. New. Bought for this purpose? He placed it on the table beside the bloodied knife and parchment. The sheriffs had been so anxious to allow someone else to do their job that they had not noticed these items among the clutter, for which Crispin was grateful. He did not like to have to explain to the sheriffs the intricacies of what was truly happening. Nor did he care to lie … too much.

Just as he reached for the parchment, Avelyn swooped in and snatched it up.

“Damnable woman! Give it here!”

She pulled it away from him, holding it up to the window and studying it.

“What is she doing, Master Flamel? Make her give it to me. I-”

But he saw it. She held it up to the oiled hide covering the window opening. It allowed golden light to filter through, but it cast enough light that he saw faint lines etched on the parchment. He stepped up and took it from her, and this time she let him, nodding. He held it up for himself, finger tracing the careful invisible writing evident only with the backlighting from the window.

“Master Crispin?” Jack was at his side. “What is it? God blind me! There’s more writing there!”

Crispin brought the parchment to the hearth and took up the poker. He pulled some ashes from the cooling fire and scraped them into a pile on the hearthstone. He crouched and took some of the ashes in his hand and sprinkled them on the parchment, gently rubbing them in with his fingertips, taking special care to embed them into the words etched with an empty quill. When he’d filled in the lines, he tipped the parchment and blew away the remaining ashes.

He squinted. The lines were only just legible. He read aloud:

“‘Leave the Stone at the niche at Saint Paul’s feet in his cathedral by Sext today. Do this or she dies.’”

Jack took it from his hands and read the lines carefully, mouth moving silently.

Crispin turned to Flamel. “You knew this secret message was here.”

He shook his head frantically. “No.”

“You know far more than what you are saying. Do you realize your wife’s life is at stake? If you know the man who abducted your wife, you had best tell me.”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Then why did your servant know of this secret message?” He turned to Avelyn. She scrutinized Crispin with narrowed eyes.

“She … she is familiar with my own ways. I do many of my notes in codes and with such methods because the work I do is secret and dangerous. Of course she would naturally look for it.”

Crispin was unconvinced. “This Stone he speaks of,” he said. “And don’t waste my time lying that you don’t know what it is.”

Flamel wrestled with himself and finally nodded. “Yes. Yes. It is a very valuable broach. The most valuable thing I own, save my wife.”

Satisfied, Crispin fit his thumbs in his belt. “Well then. I suggest you fetch it. We will place it at the feet of Saint Paul as instructed and await this abductor. We’ll trap this rat with the proper cheese.”

And yet, Flamel still hesitated. Was any object worth the life of a loved one? Crispin watched the contortions of the man’s mind written clearly on his face. And then he looked to Avelyn. She was also watching Flamel. Her body tensed, as if waiting to run or jump to his bidding. Then suddenly she turned to Crispin. Her eyes seemed to bore through him, searching his soul. She was a changeling, he was certain of it. No human could have such pale hair and eyes. No human could see so clearly inside of him. He wasn’t entirely certain that she liked all she saw, but it seemed to satisfy her enough. Without being asked, she pivoted and dove into the clutter of the alchemist’s things, shoving papers aside, moving coffers out of her way to get to the doors of an ambry. She opened it and hesitated, then looked over her shoulder at Crispin. An elfin smile drew up her mouth as she touched a carving around the edge of the ambry’s opening. An audible click sounded, and a drawer that had not been there before slid forward. She reached inside, still looking at Crispin with that strange, enigmatic smile, and blindly retrieved a velvet pouch.

She pushed the secret drawer closed and it vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared. She handed the bag to Flamel with an absent curtsy. Those slanted faery eyes moved with Crispin as he walked over to the man and looked down into his hand.

He pulled forth a sapphire broach. It was nearly the size of a robin’s egg, deep and pure, surrounded by clear faceted crystals. Three teardrop pearls hung from the bottom of the oval of stone. “Magnificent,” Crispin whispered. Jack whistled. Crispin knew little of jewelry, but he knew enough that he reckoned the sale of a stone like this might buy him a very decent wardrobe … for everyone he knew.

“This was a gift from King Charles,” Flamel said softly. “We-Perenelle and I-did him a great service.”

“A great service indeed,” said Crispin in the same quiet tone. “I understand your hesitation, but your wife…”

“Yes, Maître, of course you are right.”

“You will take this and place it as he specified. But I will be following you and waiting nearby to capture the knave.”

“Is … is that all there is to that?” asked Flamel, wringing his hands. “You capture him and he tells you where my wife is? For I have never been involved in such matters before.”

“I assure you, sir, that the matter will be over quickly.”

Flamel readied himself, told Avelyn to stay, and ventured forth. Crispin allowed him a lead and then made his way out the alchemist’s door.

He had not gotten far when he encountered a crowd gathered around a man with coarse ruddy hair, waving his arms about. He had a thick Southwark accent with just the hint of somewhere else.

“… Then Satan, the enemy of the Father,” the man was saying in a loud voice, hoarse from speaking, “wishing to trouble the peace and Kingdom of the Holy Father, knocked upon the door of Man. And Man, because he is not vigilant and is weak of heart and soul, did not set guardians on his door and allowed him in. And, hidden amongst them, Satan began to solicit them with false promises. Time and again, Satan, the Great Deceiver, the one true enemy of God the Father, slew the soul of Man because he would not take the narrow gate! Look! Look here! Signs of sorcery and witchcraft.” He flung his hand toward the stone foundation of a weaver’s shop. Etched upon the surface was another odd set of symbols, something that Crispin did not recognize.

“See!” the man went on. “See the devilry at work. Have we forgotten so soon the punishment sent down upon us by our generous Lord to cleanse us of our sins? Do we not recall the terrible plague that swept our midst a mere generation ago, taking the high and the lowly, for Death does not aim his scythe at only the one or the other? All men must die, all men must suffer for to be worthy of the presence of our Father in the sky in His heavenly chamber.”

The man swept the crowd with his gaze and it landed upon Crispin, where it stayed. That pointing finger swept toward Crispin. “Lo! See the evildoer emerging from the alchemist’s lair! Foul Sorcerer, Tempter! Dabbling where angels have forbidden. Your fate is sealed, as are the fates of others so inclined to follow the path of Satan.”

Crispin straightened his coat. “Rubbish.”

Some in the crowd gasped. It stopped the mouth of the preacher, but only for a moment. He narrowed his eyes and his thin lips spread into a feral smile, revealing one gray tooth. “He does not repent. And so his sin spreads to the good people of London like a disease. To you, dear friends. His sin compounds and leaves open the unguarded door. For a traitor to God shall suffer the fate of traitors and hang by his heel to be devoured by dogs. Plague shall return unless we repent of our sins and make the sinner pay!”

Laying a hand on his dagger hilt, Crispin took a cautious step back. But the crowd seemed disinclined to make good on the preacher’s admonitions.

“For God’s sake,” said Jack, stepping protectively before Crispin. The lad was just as tall and blocked Crispin’s view of the crowd. “This man is not a sinner nor an alchemist. He’s-”

Crispin jabbed Jack in the ribs with his elbow, and the boy winced. What did this preaching man know of men hanging by their feet? Just at that moment and from the look on the man’s face, Crispin did not wish to identify himself.

“Come, Jack.” He yanked his apprentice along but kept an eye on the ruddy-haired man.

They turned a corner and Crispin ushered them quickly away until they had made a circuitous route toward Pater Noster Row above St. Paul’s.

“Master,” Jack said, flustered, “what was that all about? Why did you stop me from putting that man aright?”

“Did you not listen to him? He spoke of a man hanging upside down.”

Jack stopped. “Blind me. Do you think…”

“I do not know what to think. I like guessing even less. Go back and keep an eye on him, Jack. Tell me where he goes.”

“You will go on to St. Paul’s?”

“Yes. Meet me later back at our lodgings.”

“Aye, Master.”

“I need not tell you that the man must not know you are there.”

Jack gave him a crooked smile, not dissimilar to Crispin’s own. “I know that, Master Crispin. I’ll not let him see me. Of that you can be certain. God keep you, sir.”

“And you. Go on, you knave.”

Jack saluted and took off back down the lane, snow flying from his boots.

Crispin gathered his cloak tighter across his chest and proceeded down the street. He turned the corner at St. Paul’s and stood in the slush at the bottom of the hill, looking up toward the cathedral. Its spires, tipped with frost, sparkled in the frail sunshine. He raised his hood to keep the cold at bay and to disguise himself. At this distance, he had a clear view of the courtyard and arched entry. Men were coming and going through the church’s doors. It was a place for clerks and lawyers to solicit business, milling as they did in the cold nave, out of the weather. The nave was known as Paul’s Walk, and merchants, too, wandered, selling trinkets and sometimes food. Boys played rough games as well, until they were chased out by the bishop’s servants. Crispin often thought of the Scripture where Jesus drove the merchants from the temple and just as often wondered why the bishop did not do the same.

Crispin headed toward the church and trotted up the steps, walking in under the arch into the dim interior. He dipped his fingers into the icy holy water from the font and sketched a cross over his brow.

Just as he imagined, men were moving within the open nave under the vaulted ceiling and around the columns. They congregated in groups or stood stoically alone, trying for an air of something between eagerness and indifference. He made his way through, meeting the hopeful eyes of the men looking for employment but giving them only a slight bow in return. Ahead stood the statue of Saint Paul, and Crispin stood opposite, leaning against a pillar, pretending to do his prayers while keeping an eye trained on the statue.

Flamel appeared out of the shadows of the cathedral’s archway and walked through the nave. He found the statue and fumbled his way, depositing the ransom between the feet of the effigy. He stepped back and moved jerkily across the nave again, looking over his shoulder, until he disappeared out the door again beyond Crispin’s sight.

Men moved near the effigy, but none went directly to it. Crispin settled in, watching his breath fog around his face. The noon bell for Sext startled him. It reverberated above his head from the aerie reaches of the bell tower. The sounds resonated along Paul’s Walk and gamboled up into the vaulted ceiling high overhead. Crispin didn’t move, waiting anxiously now, eyes darting throughout the gloomy nave for anyone who showed an interest in the effigy of Saint Paul.

Could he have missed him? He hoped he had not been so foolish as to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

The last stroke of the bell echoed throughout the cavernous nave, pinging from column to column and settling into a muted tone that disappeared into the dim, arched ceiling. A lone figure approached the statue, heading directly for it. His spurs clinked with each step on the square tiles, and even in the low light Crispin could see the fine material of his long cloak that hid his frame while his face was shadowed under a chaperon hood.

Crispin moved. Cautiously he drew nearer, eyes now riveted to the back of the man who stopped before the statue of Saint Paul in its tall niche, looking up at it. The man checked slyly over his shoulder, first to his left and then his right, before stepping up to the very foot of the statue.

Softly, Crispin drew his dagger. He made certain his steps were quiet.

The man reached forward to the effigy and stuck his hand deep between the stone feet.

In an instant, Crispin’s dagger was at the man’s neck and he stuck his face near his hooded ear. “Do not move. Do not cry out.”

The man stiffened, his hand still poised beneath the statue.

“Slowly,” said Crispin. “Take your hand out, but keep them both where I can see them.”

The man did as told, his gloved hand empty and his other hovering waist high, surely itching to grab his own dagger.

With his knife still at the man’s neck, Crispin spun him to get a look at the knave who had killed, had abducted the innocent wife of the alchemist.

His dagger fell to the floor in a shock of metal on tile. Heads turned toward them, but Crispin never noticed. His gaze was fixed on the man before him, who was looking back at him with an air of annoyance.

“What game are you playing now, Crispin?” asked Henry, Lord Derby.