Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

“We are on our way to the Cockerel’s Tail Inn at Billingsgate. Now is as good a time as any to talk to this preacher. If he has anything to do with this, I would know it now.”

“He might be abed.”

“Then we’ll wake him up.”

The Cockerel’s Tail Inn wasn’t the best inn, but neither was it the worst. The innkeeper was a sly man of loose reliability, and though the watered pottage and watered ale made for a quick stay for most of his tenants, it was mostly clean and mostly safe.

Crispin knocked on the oak door and waited. It was well past the hour a patron would arrive, so Crispin remained patient, knowing the innkeeper might be abed.

In time, a shuffling sounded beyond the door and someone called from the other side of it, “Oi, who is there? It’s past curfew.”

“I know that, good innkeeper, but I seek one of your patrons.”

“It is well past the hour,” he said behind the wood. “Go away and come back on the morrow.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

There was a pause before he asked tentatively, “Is this … Crispin Guest?”

“Guilty, Master.”

Another pause. “Christ Jesus.” With more swearing, the bolt scraped back and the door opened a crack. “So? What poor bastard would you be needing to show your fists to this night, Master Guest?”

“Nothing as violent as all that, I hope. A patron by the name of Robert Pickthorn.”

“Oh, him,” said the innkeeper with a sneer. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he? Can’t keep his mouth shut even around the evening fire when men would rather talk of their accomplishments and greed. And here he is, mucking up their pleasure with talk of damnation. I’m losing patrons because of him. I tell you, Master Guest, I wouldn’t mind a little violence put his way to even the score.”

Crispin smirked. “Then may I enter?”

“Aye. I can’t see my way to barring you, as you would find a way in at any rate. And there’s young Jack Tucker with you, I see. Come in, gentlemen. It’s a good night for it.”

The hearth was banked, but it was still warmer in the room than outside it. Crispin waited for the man to bar the door again. The innkeeper scratched his backside and with a grunt pointed up the stairs. “Second door. Try not to make too much of a mess.”

Up the stairs Crispin went. His hand was on his dagger hilt, but he did not draw it. With Jack behind him, he arrived at the second door. He listened. The inn was quiet except for the creak of the wind in the rafters and the muffled sound of people talking and laughing down the gallery behind their own barred doors. He knocked and leaned in close to the door. “Master Pickthorn!”

They both heard a shuffling within. Through the door a roughened voice asked, “Who is it?”

“You don’t know me, sir. But I would speak with you.”

“In the morning. It is too late tonight.”

“It is most urgent.”

“It can wait.”

“I’m very much afraid it cannot. I beg you to open the door … before I break it down.”

Silence.

And then the sound of a window shutter opening. Crispin stepped back and rammed his shoulder into the door. It rattled on its hinges. He shoved again. A crack. Another hard shove, and it fell open. The window lay wide open and the cold air of the November night rolled into the room.

Crispin leaned over the sill and looked down. He heard no steps, no running, and saw no one. “Damn!”

Turning back to the room, he looked around in the dimness. Papers lay on the table. He picked through them. They were sermons in French and Latin. Clothing lay on a coffer-a long gown, an out-of-fashion foreign houppelande with patched elbows. At the hearth he spotted something and knelt. He picked up the stiff strands of black hair, merely the trimmings from what appeared to be a recent hair cutting. Dropping them, he turned toward Jack to comment when he noticed that the boy was not there. He stepped out onto the gallery and searched for him down below.

Other doors along the gallery opened slowly and cautiously, and faces peered at him from the cracks. He glared in their direction, a challenge to any of them. Widened eyes assessed him and quickly slammed their doors. Sounds of locks turning and chairs pushed against them trailed down the length of the gallery.

Crispin turned at the sound of Jack stumping back up the stairs, face damp with sweat.

“When I heard the window I run down, trying to catch him coming out,” said Jack. “But the sarding innkeeper had locked his door good and I had a devil of a time just getting out of it. And by the time I came around to the window, the man was gone. Have you learned anything from the room?”

“Just some clothes, some sermons. Clippings from a haircut. But the clippings were of black hair. Does not our preacher have auburn hair?”

“Aye, sir. Perhaps he does have a confederate.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” He glanced at the window again. “Not a confrontational sort of man, is he?”

“A stranger knocks on his door in the mid of night and threatens to cleave the door in? I’d be out the window, too.”

“You have a point. Will he be back, I wonder?”

“His things are here.”

“But maybe not tonight.”

Jack stepped through the room and closed the shutters, shivering from the chill wind passing through. “Should I keep watch, sir?”

“If you would. Perhaps downstairs by the fire.”

“Yes, Master.”

They passed the innkeeper on the stair. “Master Tucker will remain the night.” Crispin reached into his pouch, his hand closing on the golden nail before his fingers moved nimbly and grabbed a coin instead. “For your trouble and for his night’s lodgings.”

The man gestured with his thumb up the stairs. “What of yon patron? And my door?”

Crispin pulled out another coin. “For the door. And I believe your patron will be back. His things are here, at any rate. And if he does not return, you have that to sell, at least.”

“Cold comfort.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Told you not to make a mess.”

“I apologized for the door. That coin should make good on it.”

He and Jack hurried down the stairs. Jack nestled himself by the fire, trying to stay in the shadows and still keep warm. Crispin nodded to him and to the innkeeper, still watching him from the stairs as he left.

Outside, he breathed deeply of the hard, cold air. He had failed in all ways this night. He had failed to protect the Stone-whether he believed it was real or not-and he had failed to capture the man who had abducted Perenelle Flamel. And something about this chase, this hunt for riddles, was troubling him. He did not think it was merely a ruse to keep Flamel away from his shop. He thought it was a very clever game that someone was playing. Someone who knew Flamel and who hated him.

How could Crispin ever find her? Was he doomed to follow those insane clues to their bitter conclusion? The abductor wanted them to chase all over London, to solve the clues, and to find her or … or what? If they stopped, what would he do? Maybe it was time to find out. They needed another message from the man. It might draw him out, but it might also force his hand. No, Crispin was certain that the man wanted to play this game, to prove how clever he was and also to wipe their noses in the fact that he was now in possession of the Philosopher’s Stone. Would he know how to use it? He was at his so-called Great Work, that of divining the Stone, but what if he still did not know how to use it? He’d still need Flamel and his expertise. It was not over. Not yet.

Crispin stepped into the street and paused. Something wasn’t right. A tingle at the back of his neck made him turn, but it was too late.