Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

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.