Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

Jacob lifted his chin and his cheeks darkened to a dusky hue. But his lips firmed and he spoke not a word.

Their silent joust yielded nothing. The man was formidable and his sharp gaze never wavered. This was no certainty of the man’s veracity. . but it was close enough.

With a growl, Crispin spun away from both father and son and shoved his knife hard into its sheath. He found himself staring at the table, watching that god-awful thing floating in its jar. He hated like hell to be wrong. He hated still more to admit it. But there was something about that youth that irritated the devil out of Crispin, got under his skin like a rash. There had to be something he could blame him for-oh yes. With a sly grin, Crispin turned back toward them. “There is also the little matter of a dead servant who was about to inform me of a very interesting fact regarding your parchments, Master Jacob. A servant who made an appointment to meet with me. . an appointment overheard by Master Julian.”

Relaxed, Julian’s lids drooped over his eyes and a brow arched. It galled Crispin that he did not seem to fear him or God’s retribution. “Yes, I heard that servant when you were talking to him. But I was not the only one in the corridor. There were several men behind me. Any one of them could have heard. You should have closed the door.”

“How very convenient. And impossible to prove. Give me your sash.”

Julian started and his hands went instantly to the scarlet sash at his waist. “W-what? Why?”

“I’ll give you exactly to the count of three.”

Those droopy lids snapped open. Whatever expression Crispin wore, it certainly convinced him. Julian hastily grabbed at the silken sash and unwound it. He held it forth and Crispin snatched it and stomped to the hearth. He held it to the light as he carefully untied the thread from his money pouch and laid it upon the silky cloth.

The colors were not even close.

Crispin braced himself. He almost tossed the sash into the flames for spite but held himself in check. Instead, he studied it. No tears, no sweat stains, no wrinkles as one would find had it been used as a garrote. It was in perfect order.

Without looking back, he thrust the sash behind him until someone took it from his fingers. He tied the thread to his pouch again. His shoulders winced when he heard Julian’s throaty laugh. “Are you satisfied now ?”

“No.” His arms were firmly crossed over his chest. “What do you know of these secret Jews?”

It was Jacob’s step he heard approach and then the man’s shadow quivered beside his. “Secret Jews, Maître Guest? What tidings are these?”

“I have encountered the unlikely habitation of a secret enclave of Jews, descendants of those Jews supposedly exiled from England. These were supposed to be converts, but they forsook their oaths and their baptisms.” He spat the last, disgusted by anyone whose oaths meant nothing.

Jacob made a snorting sound and pressed his hand to his mouth. “Interesting. But. . I have nothing to do with them, if these tidings are true. And my son is also innocent of congress with them.” Jacob’s face was lit from the hearth, half in light while the other surrendered to shadow. The stark line of light served to emphasize the deep creases and wrinkles carving the man’s features. “ Maître Guest, it is late. You have had strange encounters today. And these murders are vexing and horrifying. I have not heard these details before. I only knew of the murders. I did not know of these. . other matters.” He appeared worried, but he did not look at his son. “I will offer a prayer, for it is all I can do.” He gave Crispin a steady look. “And I offer assurances about my son. He is a man of science with a superb mind. But he is not a murderer. Nor is he any of the other things you would ascribe to him. Come back on the morrow, and we will talk of it. Perhaps he can tell you of the other men in the corridor.”

“No. I do not know who they were,” the boy retorted. Crispin wanted to strangle him. But then he realized the context of his thoughts and felt slightly ashamed. There had been far too much strangling of late.

He raised his eyes instead to Jacob. He wanted to offer an apology, an explanation, but it withered on his tongue. Holy saints, but he was tired. Bone weary and melancholy at all these events. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had not been thinking as clearly as he could have done. He was hungry and in need of wine. It was too late to patronize the Boar’s Tusk, but perhaps not too late to call upon Gilbert and Eleanor.

Crispin escaped the palace without incident, vowing to return in the morning to further question Julian. When he had looked at the boy to make this avowal, the knave had the nerve to sneer at him.

The fog was no better at this late hour, but it served to hide him from the Watch and he was grateful for that relief at least. Back to London, Crispin was grounded in the familiar as he made his way down Newgate Market until it became the Shambles. He cast an eye to his window above the tinker shop and frowned at the absence of a candle glow piercing the shutters. Perhaps Jack had gone to bed, tiring of waiting for Crispin to return.

He traveled down Cheap and turned the corner at Gutter Lane, and because of the dense fog, he had to travel by rote to the shuttered Boar’s Tusk. He was no stranger to this trek, drunk or sober.

The Boar’s Tusk was a blocky edifice with a stone foundation and lime-washed walls slashed by dark timbering. Some of its roof slates hung precariously over the street, but Crispin viewed all its flaws as a besotted lover disregards the wrinkles of his paramour. The place was as poor as he was and perhaps just as flawed. He felt a kinship with that old building as much as he felt a warm stirring of friendship for those within.

The door was shut and no doubt barred. The entry was a large expanse of old oak, fastened with heavy iron hinges. He pounded upon it and waited a beat before his fist offered a few more.

A voice from within called through it, “Peace, friend. The tavern is shut for the night. Come back on the morrow.”

“But I would have my wine now,” said Crispin as loudly as he dared.

A pause. “Crispin?”

“The same. Open up, Gilbert. I’m cold.”

A heavy beam clunked as it lifted from the door and the way was suddenly opened, revealing Gilbert’s smile and a shadow of a beard on his round face. “Crispin, do you know the hour?” he chided, even as he ushered him in. He closed the door again and replaced the beam to bar it.

“My apologies,” he said with a cursory bow. “But I was hungry. And I need my wine. It has been. . a day.”

“And perhaps you wanted your friends to offer a comforting ear?” He rested his hand on Crispin’s shoulder and steered him toward the hearth.

The place seemed more solemn without the usual raucous crowd. Forlorn. The shadows hung in the corners like cobwebs. Even the hearth, still glowing from a few good-sized logs, seemed dispirited. But it was warm. He sat, easing a sigh from his lips as Gilbert leaned over him. “I will bring wine and a bit of cold fish. Will that do?”

“Gilbert, you are a saint.”

Gilbert guffawed and rubbed the back of his reddened neck. “That I am not.” He trudged back toward the kitchens, and Crispin heard him call to his servant Ned for some fish.

Crispin leaned back and kneaded the ache in his shoulder, not realizing until he sat down how taut and gnarled his muscle was. Sitting before the fire, he thawed, glad of this small pleasure.

A few moments passed and Gilbert returned. He had a tray with two stacked bowls, a jug of wine, and a trencher with several fish and a wedge of cheese.