Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

“A dead man, my Lord Sheriff. Drowned.”

“Yes,” More interjected. The slight, dark-haired sheriff stood farther back than Staundon, who hovered in the doorway. “Why is it, Master Guest, that dead bodies always seem to be at your very door?”

Crispin coughed for a moment before laying a hand on his breast. “That, my Lord Sheriff, is known only to God and His angels.”

More moved closer and peered from behind Staundon’s shoulder. “What do you make of it, Master Guest?”

Both sheriffs were garbed in rich finery. Both were slight men, though Staundon was somewhat taller than More. They had pleasant enough faces, he supposed, for aldermen. Staundon’s hair was a dull barley color and his beard and mustache seemed like an afterthought of a whitewasher’s brush, swathed across his chin with little care, while More’s face sported a neat, dark line of beard. Both men were ordinary in the extreme.

“One man suggests it is a suicide,” said Crispin. “That the man jumped. Of this I have no knowledge. I only saw him fall from the window and plunge into the Thames. He must have struck his head upon a pier.”

Both sheriffs “oohed.”

For the last month, Crispin had had to endure these two men in what could only be described as a parade of tedious sheriffs. At least they were not cruel like Wynchecombe, or indifferent like Wynchecombe’s nearly invisible partner, John More. Nor like the last pair of sheriffs, John Organ and John Chyrchman. No, these two seemed inordinately interested in Crispin’s doings, looking upon him as if he were a character from some epic poem. Always, they seemed to loiter on the Shambles waiting to see what he would be involved in next. He almost longed for the days of Simon Wynchecombe.

“The coroner will arrive anon,” said More. He inclined his head toward Staundon and they both made for the door.

“My lords,” said Crispin. They stopped and glanced back at him. “Er … is that all? You will leave this now for the coroner?”

“There is little left for us, Master Guest. Unless…” Staundon leaned toward Crispin, and More did likewise. There was a mischievous gleam in both their eyes. “You have information you are keeping from us.”

“I for one would be most interested in what you may wish to offer,” More interjected excitedly.

“I have nothing more to offer, my lords. If the man took his own life then that is that.”

Staundon smiled and ticked his head. “You know something.” He turned to More. “Care to wager? That Guest will be on the prowl within the next few hours?”

“I shan’t take that bet,” said More, making merry over it as if a dead man weren’t lying only a few feet away. “For I know it is just as likely. Ah, Master Crispin. I wish I could take a peek into your mind. It is all cogwheels and pulleys rather than bone and tissue.”

Crispin struggled not to roll his eyes. For God’s sake! There was a dead man here and these men were making of it a mummery. God save him from disciple sheriffs!

“It is a suicide!” he said far louder than he meant to.

Staundon huffed a sigh of disappointment. “Very well, Guest. We shall leave you to the coroner. Such a pity. Er … about the man’s soul, that is.”

“Yes, a pity,” sneered Crispin at their retreating backs. He rubbed his dripping nose on the blanket and struggled to his feet. How long did he have to endure waiting for the coroner? Certainly the others, those from the bridge who knew the man, were better equipped to give their testimony. After all, one man who knew him thought it was a suicide. Crispin crossed himself. To give up one’s life. He couldn’t fathom it. Hadn’t Crispin been in dire straits himself? But he had never given up, never given in to the melancholy that threatened to drown him. But this man took his own life. Surely it was a demon that inhabited his soul to make him fling himself from his own window to drown in the Thames.

Wrapping the borrowed blanket tighter about himself, he staggered to the doorway and leaned against it, gazing at the body that was lying in the street surrounded by wary onlookers.

The image of the man in the moonlight was seared on his eyes. He saw it again, the body falling from the upper story and arcing into the Thames. When the image played a second time in his mind, he straightened. If the man were leaping to his death, shouldn’t he have … well, flailed a bit? Dived away from the window? But, clearly, as he saw it again, the silhouette against the bright moon showed the man, limbs limp, simply … falling … from the window.

His head snapped up as a dim figure tore from the night and skittered to a halt before him, kicking up mud. “Master!”

“Jack?” But it was the boy, freckled cheeks red from running. His ginger fringe was plastered with sweat to his forehead under his hood. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard that the sheriffs were off to see to a man who drowned in the Thames … and that there was some fool who jumped in to save him. I was mortally afraid that fool might be you.” He stared at Crispin’s wet coat and stockings. “I see that I was right.”

Crispin grumbled a sound in answer before a deep shiver overtook him.

Jack was at his side in an instant, gripping him with strong, long-fingered hands. “Are you hurt, Master?”

“No. Only frozen to the bone.”

“And you with a head cold already. Come to the fire.” He dragged Crispin back inside and sat him down again by the glowing log. He grabbed another chunk of wood that was sitting beside the hearth and tucked it into the coals. “A proper fire,” he muttered, gazing in envy at the stacked logs. Then he cocked an eye at Crispin. “Why’d you go and do a fool thing like jump in the Thames? Haven’t you got any sense?”

Crispin squinted up at his apprentice as the boy began to pace, arms flailing.

“It’s mad what you do sometimes,” Jack went on, his tirade becoming louder and more desperate. “And then I’ve got to pick up the pieces. It’s not right, sir. Not right at all.”

“Are you chastising me? I’ll have you know that I’ve been doing even more dangerous deeds since before you were in swaddling! Don’t lecture me, Tucker!”

Jack stopped and looked down at Crispin with a sorrowful expression.

Oh. The boy had been worried. Crispin suddenly felt very foolish and ducked his head into the blanket.

“Well … I’m not drowned, as you see.”

“Where did you get the bruises, sir?” He gestured. “To your face.”

“A run-in with the Watch. I won, by the way. Until all this happened. Now I suppose I’ll be fined.”

“Here. Give over the money pouch, then.”

Without a second thought, Crispin reached his hand into the blanket and untied the sodden pouch from his belt. He handed it to the former cutpurse. Faster than he could tell what happened Jack had secreted the pouch somewhere on his person. At least those coins would be safe. For now.

A clatter of horses outside took Crispin to his feet, and he was in the doorway again. The coroner, John Charneye, had arrived with his retinue. He swept the crowd but when his eyes lighted on Crispin, he frowned and dismounted. Instead of approaching the dead man, he went straight for Crispin.

Jack bowed and backed away, finding a place behind his master.

“Guest,” said the coroner. “Should I ask what you are doing here?”

“I saw him fall, my lord. They say-” And he gestured at the crowd. “They say it was a suicide.”

“God have mercy. And you. What do you say?”

Crispin shrugged. “These men knew him better than I.”

Charneye turned to a man standing nearby and pointed a gloved hand at him. “You! Did you know the dead man?” The coroner’s clerk hurried to his side, quill poised over his waxed slate.