Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

Which did beg the question as to why he was there in the cathedral. Had he been sent? And if so, by whom? If he could couch it in this way, Henry might be persuaded to answer. Henry was involved in some way whether Crispin liked it or not.

He pushed it all aside. It didn’t matter. As long as Crispin stopped the plot, prevented more deaths, that was what mattered.

He glanced out the window. The sun had moved and the bells had recently rung for None. He picked up the parchment fragment again. You shall never see her return unless you play fairly. You had best begin at the beginning .

Play fairly. Begin at the beginning. There was something he was missing, but his mind wouldn’t work on it. For now, he had to know how Flamel fared with testing the water. He had to go back and see what the man had discovered.

“Arsenic,” declared the alchemist.

In the back of his mind, Crispin had not wanted to believe it, but to hear confirmation sent a deep shiver down his spine. “How … how bad is it?”

“A very weak concentration. Little wonder only those very feeble succumbed. But already I see that the solution is being diluted. More rain and snow and the problem will resolve itself.”

“But how long will that take?”

“It all depends on how much rain and snow is added. Days. Weeks. Hard to say.” They both looked toward the window and to the sun shining through.

“Should the cistern be closed?”

“I would advise it. And have a guard set on the others.”

“Will you come with me to the sheriffs to explain it? They won’t listen to me without proof.”

He wrung his hands and cast glances about his shop. “But who will await a message? How shall we ‘begin at the beginning’? My Perenelle. What has become of her?”

“When my apprentice returns we will know more. Have patience, Master Flamel. Please. You must come with me.”

“Patience is all I have. Very well.” He took the cloak offered by Avelyn and shrugged it on. “Quickly, now. We must hurry back.”

Crispin grabbed the bucket and Flamel’s arm and pushed him out the door. They traveled through the busy streets with all haste, stepping aside for a small contingent of armed soldiers marching down the lane. Crispin did not recognize their captain, but they wore the arms of the king and their presence was enough to remind all and sundry that Richard was still England’s ruler.

Crispin and Flamel moved on, the bucket knocking against Crispin’s leg as they hurried.

They arrived at Newgate and both serjeants were there. Wendell had a bandage wound tight around his hand and they both stood to attention when Crispin neared them.

“You have your nerve showing your face here again, Guest,” said Tom with a deep scowl.

“It is the only face I have, I’m afraid.”

Wendell clenched and unclenched his good hand over his spear shaft. “You broke my hand, you churl.”

“You broke it yourself. Have a care, Master, or your other will suffer the same fate.”

Tom jabbed his spear forward. “Get out, Guest.”

“The sheriffs are expecting me.” It was a little lie. “How would it go for you if they expected me and you would not allow us to pass? Not well, I should think. Losing one’s position in these troubled times? You wouldn’t want your families to starve, now, would you?”

Tom’s silent scowl said it all. He gestured with a jerk of the pike up the stairs, and Crispin wasted no time. He hauled Flamel after him, taking the steps two at once.

They emerged into the lantern light of the outer alcove. The clerk looked up and squinted at Crispin’s face. “Eh? Master Guest? Back so soon?”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the archway into the sheriffs’ parlor.

“You might as well.” He turned away and wriggled back into his seat, positioning his quills before him.

Crispin entered and bowed to both sheriffs. Venour sat at the heavy table, while Fastolf stood by the arched window, looking down into the street below. They both turned at Crispin’s step. “My lords,” he said.

“Guest,” spat William Venour. “What are you doing here? I thought I told you-”

“You wanted proof, my lord. I brought you proof.”

He set the bucket down but pushed Flamel forward.

“Isn’t that the alchemist with the dead apprentice?” said Hugh Fastolf.

Flamel bowed. “ Oui, mes seigneurs . But I come to you now by request of Maître Guest. I tested the poisoned water myself.”

Fastolf frowned. “What is this? Poisoned water? What’s he talking about?”

Venour propped his head on his hand. “Guest came in earlier spouting something about a poisoned cistern. Plainly it is rubbish, as are all his complaints, but now he would bring this Frenchman in on it.” Something seemed to fall into place in the sheriff’s mind, for his eyes narrowed. “Wait. Frenchman? ”

Flamel cringed. Clearly he had seen the like before.

“He’s an alchemist,” Crispin explained. “He knows about poisons. Uses them in his work. There is nothing particularly sinister in that.”

“So you say,” said Venour. “Sounds terribly suspicious to me.”

The old alchemist looked at each sheriff, then back at Crispin for confirmation. Crispin urged him on.

“It seems, mon Shérif de Seigneur, that arsenic has been given into the water. Enough to kill the feeble and to make others sick.”

“Preposterous. Where’s your proof?”

“I did the tests. It is unmistakable.”

Crispin moved forward. “Will you close the cistern, my lords? Master Flamel here says that it will take only a few days of more rain and snow to dilute the solution so that it will do no further harm.”

“No, I will not! Close the cistern at the word of you and this Frenchman? Are you mad?”

“More people will die, Lord Sheriff. Is that what you want on your conscience?”

“Very thin ice, Guest,” said Sheriff William with a snarl.

Sheriff Hugh slapped his hand over his sword hilt and stepped forward. “And I don’t believe you either! What nonsense. Who says anyone has died?”

“I spoke to Father Edmund of St. Aelred’s parish and he attests to the strangeness of these deaths. I can bring him forth, if that will appease you. I accompanied him when he administered the last rites to a young girl. Only the day before a boy died in the same household.”

“A pestilence, then.”

“Only the weakest succumbed. Those that drank the water. The others were fine. Including babes in swaddling.”

“It proves nothing, Guest!”

Tight-lipped, Crispin snatched the goblet from the sheriff ’s table and tossed its contents out across the floor. He grasped the bucket he’d left nearly under the table and dipped the goblet in. He thrust the dripping cup toward Sheriff William. “If you think I am lying, then you will not fear to drink this.”

Venour shrank back. Crispin turned to Sheriff Hugh and stepped up to him, offering the cup. “And you, Lord Sheriff. Will you drink and call me a liar?”

Fastolf refused to touch it, to look at it. He skirted Crispin and glared at the alchemist. “I will do no such thing. You probably tampered with it yourself.”

“To what end? Blame me for closing the cistern, if you must. But you must close it! Take the credit yourselves when no more die.”

“Oh ho!” said Fastolf. “So you would have your name involved?”

Crispin lowered his head and shook it. “Do what you will with my name, my lords. But for God’s sake close the cistern .”

For the first time, the sheriffs looked uncomfortable. They exchanged mute glances and then stared at the same time at the goblet Crispin had set down on their table.