Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

The man’s face was mostly hidden by his hood, but his eyes widened. He bowed to the coroner and nodded. “Aye, my lord. He was Roger Grey, an armorer. A sorrowful man. God’s mercy.”

“Do you say it was a suicide?”

“Oh aye, my lord. Funny, him speaking of leaving London. I would have wagered good money he meant to do it the usual way. No accounting for it, is there?”

“Married? Children?”

“Neither, my lord.”

Charneye pursed his lips and looked back at the dead man. “I suppose summoning a priest is out of the question, under the circumstances,” he muttered.

Crispin squirmed. This was abominable. The man was dead and therefore calling a priest was moot, but still. In all decency, a priest should be called. Though a suicide’s fate was known to all. They could not have a funeral mass, they could not be buried in hallowed ground. Excommunicated even from the dead.

“My lord,” Crispin said slowly, “I … am of the mind that this was not a suicide.”

Charneye whipped his head toward him. “What? Would you naysay this good man, Guest? You just said you did not know him. How can you say this now?”

Crispin shook his head. “I know all that, my lord. But I saw him fall. He did not leap, at least not of his own free will. And if I had to think about it, I believe it possible that he was already dead when he was tossed from the window.”

The coroner stared, his jaw hanging open wordlessly. Well, that’s done it. Crispin shivered and sneezed, clutching the blanket over his shoulders.

The bridge dwellers chattered all at once and the coroner’s clerk scrambled from man to man collecting his notes. Jack shook his head, grimacing into the shadow of his hood.

Crispin could have left it alone. He could have made himself believe the man was a suicide and left it at that. Escaped to his own lodgings to warm himself and maybe get some much-needed sleep. But he well knew what he saw, and he feared there was murder afoot. Just as those two miserable sheriffs predicted he’d say.

Charneye was still glaring at him. Well, Crispin was not a man to hide from the truth. Everyone knew that. Unpleasant truths, especially. By Jack’s cringing and moaning, it was obvious that the boy agreed that it was rather inconvenient at times.

“Perhaps we should look at the body,” Crispin offered.

The coroner only grunted his reply, but he didn’t stop Crispin as he headed toward the shrouded figure lying on the ground with a wide circle of curious onlookers around it.

Kneeling, Crispin pulled back the sheet from the dead man’s head. Still, pale, and wet, the man had a dark beard and his closed eyes sat in smudged hollows. Someone was holding a torch and Crispin beckoned to him to come closer. The torch was lowered and Crispin probed the man’s head through his wet hair. A dent. A good-sized one in the skull. He supposed he could have hit his head on a pier. His nose, also, appeared to be broken and there were bruises around his neck. Crispin was certain there would be others on his person, but this was not the place to look. He rose and stared down at the still, waxy face, crossed himself, and tossed the sheet back over him.

“Well?” Charneye asked.

Crispin scanned the loitering crowd. If murder it was, then the guilty party might still be present.

Before he had a chance to speak, a figure in a cloak was pushing its way through the gathering and finally reached the coroner. He turned his vexing scrutiny away from Crispin and directed it toward the figure, talking earnestly. Crispin could not hear the exchange but the coroner looked just as pleased by that as he had by Crispin.

Perhaps this is my cue to leave. Tomorrow will be time enough to tell the coroner what I know. “Jack, let us go. I am weary and cold and need my bed.”

Jack lent Crispin an arm when the coroner and the cloaked figure both turned toward him.

Dammit.

They approached and the mysterious figure tossed back the hood, revealing a woman’s face.

Crispin eyed her lustrous dark hair and haunted eyes. She was nineteen, perhaps younger. A sister of the dead man?

Without preamble she said, “Master Grey committed suicide. But you insist he did not. Why? Do you know him?”

Crispin stood and bowed. She did not acknowledge it. He could tell by her garb that she was a merchant or craftsman. The cut of her gown was fine but not that fine, and the material a bit coarser than that of a rich merchant. The hands clutching her cloak at her chin were red and raw, meaning she did the work. His eyes kept tracing the thickness of her lips, chapped, but sensual in their plumpness.

“I saw him fall, damosel. He did not seem to me to have gone out the window under his own power. I would venture to say that he was dead before leaving the bridge. Upon my examination of the … of him, I would say definitively that he was murdered.”

“That is mere speculation,” said the coroner.

“It is based on years of experience on the battlefield, my lord,” Crispin countered. “I know a murdered man when I see one.”

Charneye smiled grimly. “And yet you jumped into the water to save him. If you knew he was dead before he hit the water, why then did you risk your own life?”

Jack snorted beside him in agreement.

“It … happened so quickly. I moved on instinct. It wasn’t until I saw his face and gave it some thought that I realized the truth of it. And the witness of my eyes.” He gestured toward the shrouded figure. “Though he may have gotten his bruises if he hit one of the piers, there were marks on his neck. He could not have gotten them from the river.”

The woman grabbed Crispin’s arm and pulled him back into the room with the hearth. “No! That cannot be. He was a … a man of sorrows. I know he took his own life.”

“One man claims that the dead man said he was leaving London, and that he meant in this way.”

She shook her head. The hearth flames gleamed darkly in her thick tresses. “He never said he was leaving London. That is a lie!”

The coroner had followed them inside. He rested his thumbs in his thick belt. “Who are you to Master Grey? A relative?”

She ducked her head, hiding her reddened cheeks in her hair. “No. We were … we were betrothed.”

Charneye expelled his breath and rolled his eyes. “It is for a jury to decide.” He waved to his clerk and the both of them ambled toward their horses.

She followed them only a few steps and stood stiffly in the doorway, staring after them with hands clenched white and taut at her sides. After a moment she swung back toward Crispin, eyes wide and angry. “And you! Do you dismiss me as readily?”

Crispin sighed and stared at his feet. He spared a glance at Jack, who was discreetly picking at his nails, eyes downcast.

“I see,” she said. She turned to depart when Crispin spoke.

“I do not believe as the others do, damosel. That Master Grey killed himself. I think that he was murdered, and if you have further information on that, then I should like to hear it.”

“He took his own life, I tell you!” She grabbed her cloak and bunched it tight over her breast. “Why would you meddle in this?”

“Here now,” said Jack, stepping forward. He gestured back at Crispin. “You don’t know who you are talking to. This is the Tracker. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Unless you’ve been living under a rock.”

Her eyes perused Crispin, from his soggy boots to his black hair hanging in wet locks to his shoulders; to his, no doubt, reddened nose. He sneezed again, his whole body wracked.

“You’re Crispin Guest. Yes, I’ve heard of you. What business is this of yours?”

“You might have noticed the state of my clothes. I jumped into the Thames to save him.”