Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“Masters, may I please pass? It is urgent that I speak with them.”

“Urgent, he says, like we are supposed to wait on him,” said Tom to the other.

“I am not asking you to wait on me or even announce me. I merely ask for permission to pass.”

Wendell joined Tom at the entrance. “But it is our duty to guard the way,” he said, elbowing Tom. “We can’t let just any knave through, scumming up the place.”

Crispin eyed the both of them with a sneer. “Too late.”

As soon as he said it, he knew it had been a bad idea. Tom growled and swung his fist. Crispin ducked but jabbed upward into the man’s belly. Tom doubled over, but his companion tried to grab Crispin and managed to shove him up against the wall. Wendell tried for a gut punch, but Crispin rolled out of the way in time for the serjeant to deliver his blow to the stone wall. He yowled and spun away, clutching his injured hand.

By then, Tom had recovered and remembered he had a weapon. He grabbed the pike and aimed the point at Crispin’s midsection, drawing it back to strike. The spear point jabbed and Crispin jumped out of the way at the last moment. The iron point clanged against a stone column instead. Recovering, he stabbed toward Crispin again, but Crispin sidestepped nimbly out of the way.

Crispin grabbed the pike’s staff and swung it wide, while Tom, still clutching it, slammed against the wall. Tom tried to wrestle it from Crispin’s grasp … and kept getting smashed into the wall for his trouble.

“By all the saints, what is going on here?”

Tom froze, with Crispin holding tight to the pointed end of the pike. “Crispin Guest,” Tom snarled in explanation, as if that were all the reason anyone needed for violence.

Sheriff William Venour made a sound of disgust. “Guest. I should have known. God’s wounds! Why do you vex us? What sin have we committed to be so abused by you?”

“Call off your serjeant, my lord. I merely come for your help. It is your duty.”

The sheriff did not look as if he would comply, but after a moment that went on far too long, he finally motioned for Tom to put away his weapon. Crispin released his hold of it. Venour glared at the other serjeant, who was still nursing his hand. “What happened to you?”

Wendell motioned with a jerk of his head toward Crispin.

“Fools and incompetents. I am surrounded by fools and incompetents. Come, Guest.” The sheriff turned up the stairs and didn’t look back.

Crispin kept a careful eye on Tom, who had lowered his spear but did not relinquish it. He followed the sheriff upward to the parlor, past a wizened clerk scratching on a parchment by lantern light, and into the warm room.

Sheriff William took a seat behind a large table, with bulky round legs carved and scrolled with leaves and vines. Sheriff Hugh was nowhere in sight.

He did not offer Crispin a chair as he folded his hands over his pouched belly and looked down his long nose, ginger mustache twitching. “Well?”

Crispin took a breath. “My Lord Sheriff, I have discovered a plot that has left twenty-five of London’s citizens dead.”

He jolted to his feet. “What?”

“Twenty-five at last count, my lord. I do not know how many more there might have been or might be in the future if you do not act.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“You must close the cistern at the Tun. It is poisoned.”

“Poisoned? What utter nonsense is this, Guest?” He passed a hand over his face and sat again. “God’s toes, you had me worried for a moment. Poisoned indeed! Is this another ploy to extort a fee from this office? I have heard of your tricks. This is foul, even for you.”

Hands on the table, Crispin leaned in toward the man, much closer than he would have liked. “I am not lying. The cistern is poisoned and children have died. More will die unless you shut the cistern.”

“Your imagination astounds me. What next, I wonder? French spies creeping into our houses to slit our throats? I suppose it’s the French poisoning the wells, then, correct? I receive reports all the time from hysterical fishwives, thinking a Frenchman is hiding in their cellars. They blame the French now for souring their milk or when their horse goes lame. The French are the new boggart. Begone, Guest. I’m sick of you.”

“Lord Sheriff, I entreat you. Do not dismiss me. More people will die. I don’t know whether it is a French plot or not, but it is there nonetheless.”

“Where’s your proof, Guest?”

“I have spoken to Father Edmund of St. Aelred’s parish, and he had ministered to the families of these children. They died suddenly and hideously. No one else in the house was affected. Don’t you see? Only children who regularly drank water were affected. Not babes that suckled, and not older ones who drank ale.”

“Children, you say? What of it? Children die with great frequency in London. No one has bothered about it before.”

“They have not been murdered and in these numbers before.”

He shook his head. “Look at you. You believe your own tales, Guest. A murderer behind every shadow. I haven’t time for you. Begone, I say!”

He stood fast, fisting his hands. “If I bring you proof, Lord Sheriff, will you close the cistern?”

The sheriff rubbed his eyes wearily. “Oh, for the love of the Holy Ghost. You are a thorn in my side, do you know that? Yes, damn you. Bring me proof and I will consider it. Only consider it, mind.”

Tight-lipped, Crispin bowed and turned on his heel. Proof, eh? What could he do to bring the man proof? He’d have to think of something.

Down the steps he went. He paused near the bottom, looking out for Tom and Wendell. He saw them by the brazier. Wendell was still nursing his hand. He probably broke it. Crispin smiled. He trotted the rest of the way down and passed them by through the arch. They jeered at him but did not approach.

Proof, he thought, striding down Newgate Market. Perhaps the waters could be tested. Perhaps Nicholas Flamel, with all his alchemical craft, could detect a poison if it was present. It would help the man take his mind off his troubles. As for Crispin, Perenelle was no nearer to being saved. But if the key to her freedom lay with those symbols, he would have to get to work on deciphering those with all haste.

Crispin arrived at the Tun early in the afternoon and surveyed the round stone structure. Looking like the lower portion of a castle’s tower, it captured sweet rainwater and quenched a thirsty city. But now it looked to be a tower of disaster, dealing death to the weakest within its shadow. Who was doing it? Had the sheriff stumbled upon the truth in his flippant remarks? Was it French spies? He suddenly thought of the shadow men who had followed him earlier. If these miscreants could get to the water, what else could they poison? Grain? Livestock? While Lancaster and the chivalry of England were off to Spain, was an insidious plot being concocted by England’s enemies in France?

He watched with growing anxiety as maids and young children came to the cistern, filled their buckets and bougets, and trotted away, bringing the befouled water into their homes.

He stopped a boy with a bucket. “Boy, I will give you two pence for your bucket.”

The boy’s openmouthed shock muted him until he came to his senses and tentatively asked, “For the whole bucket?”

Crispin smiled kindly. “Yes, the whole bucket. Along with its water.”

“Aye, sir. As you will.”

Crispin handed over the coins and the boy presented him with the full bucket. But then his small face furrowed with worry. “Shall I carry it for you, sir? Where are you bound?”

“For another farthing, lad, we’re headed to Fleet Ditch.”