Jeri Westerson - Blood Lance

Stubborn woman. Why does she insist? “You said you came this morning and found it thus?”

She nodded.

“Why did you not venture here last night?”

“What would be the point? Roger was dead.”

A thin veneer of fine ash lay on the worktable nearest him and he ran a finger over it. “Was the door locked?”

“No.”

“No?”

“As I said,” she answered with agitation.

“Did you touch anything?”

“No.”

He stared at her a long time before speaking to Jack, though he did not turn his gaze from hers. “Jack, is anything missing from this room?”

“Sir, how is a body to know? I knew him not and there’s all this chaos strewn about.”

“Observe, Jack.”

Jack screwed up his face and looked around again, stepping cautiously over the gray spots on the floor. When he got to the end of the worktable he made a noise of exclamation. “Master Crispin! Look here.”

But Crispin didn’t move. He continued to match glares with the woman. “What do you see, Jack? Describe it.”

“Something’s missing from here, right enough. Something rectangular. Perhaps a box?” He cast about again and saw what Crispin did: There was nothing there resembling anything that could have made that mark. “Whatever it was, it was taken away after the fracas, for the floor is not covered in ash but has left an outline of it.”

“Very good, Jack. Mistress Coterel, are you certain that you removed nothing from this room?”

“Of course I am!” Her cheeks reddened prettily.

“And what of his apprentices? Might they have removed it?”

“Apprentices?” Her fingers found the edge of her lips and white teeth suddenly bit down on her nails. “Master Crispin, his apprentices! They are not here.”

It took him a moment to follow her logic. Too long. “Indeed. They would be here, before the cock crowed. And if they found the place thus they would have gone to the law. But they are not here.”

“Those boys. Surely … surely … no mischief has befallen them-”

Crispin walked to the window and looked out, wondering. Did more than one murder occur here last night? He glanced at the smaller footprints again.

What, by God’s blood, did this killer want?

“That’s a dreadful speculation!” cried Jack, looking desperately at Crispin. “Sir? Are they, too, dead?”

“Were they young boys, damosel?”

She joined him at the window. “One was fifteen, the other ten. Brothers.” She gestured to the cots in the corner, both overturned, their bolsters tossed upon the floor.

“Their parents?”

“I know them. Only down the way in Southwark. I shall … I shall go there anon.” They all fell silent, Jack with his mouth hanging open.

Would the sheriffs wish to investigate now, he wondered. Two boys, two apprentices missing, possibly dead? He squeezed the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes.

“Mistress Coterel, never fear. I will not rest until the killer is put to the king’s justice … or mine.”

Taking a steadying breath he swept the room again with a probing gaze. “Can you speculate, damosel, as to what that missing object”-and he waved toward the rectangle of clean floor again-“might have been? I must assume you know this place well.”

Her hair was mostly caged by a linen kerchief but she tossed the long, looped plaits back with a recalcitrant shoulder. “And why do you assume that?”

“You told me plainly that you were the man’s betrothed.”

“I had my work and he had his. I did not have the time to dawdle watching him swing a hammer all day.”

He nodded and scuffed his boot in the ash. “How long have you been betrothed?”

Her stony veneer cracked slightly and she turned away. She took a step toward the window but stopped suddenly-the ash marks showed so plainly what had happened. She appeared to think better of it and turned toward the worktable instead. A pair of snips had avoided the carnage and her fingers touched the instrument, running down its dark surface. Her jaw clenched. “Not long. But we knew each other a long time.”

“Damosel, forgive me.” He stood behind her now, trapping her between the table and escape. “I have observed much in this room, but I have also observed that you do not seem as saddened by these events as a woman in your position might be. Care to explain?”

She made an agitated sound. “He was a singular man, Master Guest. Can you understand that? He did not judge … people … the way other men did. He was going to marry me. He was going to see that I was well cared for.” She turned to him and the loss on her face was no invention. Her large eyes ensnared him with their sincerity. The lips she wetted with a pink tongue distracted. “I am saddened at that loss and worried for his mortal soul. But … I did not love him, if that is what you are implying … and I know well that it is.” She hugged herself and glanced toward the window. “His time came early. But perhaps not by his own devising as … as I had wrongly supposed.”

She whirled and faced Crispin so suddenly that he stepped back. “I know now that Roger was murdered even if that lout of a coroner will do nothing about it. If that is the will of the king’s men, then so be it. But I hoped you’d come back for another reason if not for justice for poor Roger. But for me and my father. We need you. We … we need to hire you.”

“Oh? For what?”

She sighed. “Someone has stolen money from us. Our rent money. And if we don’t come forth with it soon, our landlord will turn us out. He threatened the law.”

“And?” He sensed there was more to it and could tell by the frown of her brows he was right.

“I came this morning to look for the money Roger said he’d lend me. But it’s not here.”

“That box-”

She shook her head vigorously. “No. I know nothing of that.”

Crispin took the damp rag he had stuffed in his belt and wiped his runny nose, coughing down into his chest. He replaced the rag when it had done all it could. “Very well. Your shop? Show me.”

“Come see.”

She did not wait for him to follow but darted swiftly out the door. Jack gave Crispin the eye. Crispin nodded at his servant. “What do you think?”

“I think she’s lying.”

“So do I. Let us see what is next in her poke of tales.” Crispin passed through the doorway and spotted the impatient woman gesturing to him from the entry to his right. He followed her to the tailor shop he had noted earlier, his eyes scanning quickly over bolts of cloth on neat shelves and several sizes of shears hanging from hooks above a worktable.

A man was waiting for him by the hearth. Lank hair streaked with gray hung to shoulders slightly bent. His face, riven with lines, drew down to a sharp chin. There was no mistaking their resemblance. His lips and eyes were very like his daughter’s.

“Master Coterel,” said Crispin with a slight bow.

The man bowed in return. “Robert Coterel. And you are Crispin Guest. My daughter spoke of nothing but you. She seemed to think you could help us.”

“This is the sort of thing I do, Master Coterel. For a fee.”

He raised his face to his daughter, who was clutching his arm. “But fees are our problem, Master Guest. We owe our landlord, but our coins have been stolen. He is not an amenable man and will surely turn us out without so much as a by your leave. I expect him here at any moment, I am afraid.”

“Have you no way to secure temporary funds? No friends, no kin?”

“If only we did, Master Guest.”

“What of a client whose work you can quickly complete?”

He shook his head, face red with mortification. “With the threat of invasion, no one seems to wish a new cotehardie or gown. They are ready to flee with the clothes on their backs rather than be burdened with new things.”