Jeri Westerson - The Demon’s Parchment

Squinting, the man pulled his gold-embroidered gown close over his chest. “Good master,” he said to Crispin with a bow. Crispin returned the courtesy.

“I have come to inquire about the boy yesterday. The one pulled from the Thames.”

The man’s brows rose. “The Coroner already inquired of me and I gave my testimony.”

“Yes. But I am here to dig deeper.”

As expected, the man looked Crispin up and down, no doubt noting the frayed hem of his cotehardie and the patches on his breast. Crispin endured it with a clenched jaw.

“And who are you?”

“I am Crispin Guest-”

“God in heaven!” the man gasped. He grabbed the door and tried to shut it but Crispin was quicker and blocked it with his hands.

“Clearly my infamy precedes me,” he said with a sneer. He shoved the door hard and the man fell back.

“Please!” cried the goldsmith, stumbling to his feet. He searched wildly in his shop for a means of escape. “I run an honest business. I wish no congress with you, Guest.”

“We’re not posting banns, man. This is a murder inquiry. Get a hold of yourself.”

“You. . here. . near the palace. .?”

“Yes, the palace. I am here on the king’s business. Surely you have heard of the Tracker? I am he.”

“The Tracker?” He blinked and Crispin could see his mind whirring behind his fluttering lids. Crispin gestured to the chair. Gingerly, the man sat. “I. . have heard of the Tracker.”

“Then you know what deeds I have done. I am here to ask about the dead boy.”

He looked from Crispin to Jack. “Yes. Yes. But I already told the Coroner-”

“Did you know the boy?”

“No. He did not sound familiar.”

“Did you hear anything, see anything?”

“Nothing. Only the hue and cry last night.”

“Have you heard a rumor regarding this boy or. . others?”

“Others?”

Crispin looked quickly at Jack. “Other. . mayhem,” he corrected.

The man shook his head. “No. As I said. But there are many alleys, many shadowed lanes, even near the palace. Such things might occur there.”

“Indeed.” Crispin rocked on his heels, studying the shop. “You are a goldsmith?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Matthew Middleton. I have been a goldsmith on these premises for nigh on twenty years.”

“Then you have seen much. Have you ever seen such a murder?”

“The death of a child?” He toyed with his beard. “Alas. Too many, I fear.” He glanced at Jack. “A city is a harsh place, at times. Death takes his own by way of sickness and poverty. Surely you have seen with your own eyes the plenteous beggar boys in the streets. There is not enough charity to protect them all. They do not last long. The Thames has claimed its share, I’ll be bound.”

Crispin felt Jack’s presence most keenly. “And lately?”

“I have heard of none of late. But I do my duty and give to the queen’s charities. I give my share in the alms basket.”

“I do not impugn your generosity, Master Middleton. I merely inquire.” He walked slowly around the shop. Neat. Good order. Rich, of course. A trader in gold did not starve nor would his children or servants. He looked last at the man himself. “Have you perchance heard of an errant apprentice or servant? Someone who has gone missing?”

“No. Nothing.”

“If something should occur to you, I can be found on the Shambles in London.”

The man rose and bowed. “If something does, I shall so do, Master Guest.”

Crispin nodded and with a tilt of his head at Jack, they departed.

Looking out to the broad street he sighed a cloud of cold into the day. The smell of the Thames was strong here, but at least they were upwind of the privies. “Jack, I fear that questioning these shopkeepers will not yield anything of substance.”

“Are we to ask anyway?”

“Of course.”

But as Crispin suspected, the others they questioned did not know the boy nor had they heard anything untoward in the evening. The murder did not happen on the street, but in a private place where screams would not be heard.

Jack had not spoken all day unless addressed directly, and even then his replies were grunted and sullen. Crispin understood. He had never asked Jack how he had managed to survive for his many years on the streets as an orphan. He had not felt it his place to ask. He knew Jack was a clever thief, but cleverness could only take a boy so far.

“Jack,” he said kindly. “When you were. . before we met. . you must have known many such boys on the streets.”

Jack raised his head, squinting from the cold. Those amber eyes looked Crispin over. So clever, those eyes.

The boy pushed his palm over his reddened nose and sniffed. “Aye, Master,” he said slowly. “You know well what I was. A beggar and a thief.” He crossed himself. “I am not proud of that,” he said mulishly, as if by rote. “But it kept me alive for four years since me mum died. A sister run off, a father I never knew. What did you expect?” The last was harsher than Crispin anticipated, and it seemed more than Jack wanted to convey. He gusted a sigh through his freckled nose and stood, feet planted, waiting for Crispin’s backlash.

But he did not strike out at the boy. Instead, he ran a thoughtful finger over his own lips. “Surely you were old enough to get work on your own. Why did you not stay with your master?”

“I didn’t have no master. Me mother worked as a scullion for a merchant. I kept the fires. When she died they threw me out. Didn’t want no part of me.”

“Could you find no similar work?”

“No. I was too angry for it. Those sarding masters. Flung me out like the dregs of a pissing pot.”

“And so you found yourself on the street. Can you tell me what a typical day was like?”

“Why?”

Jack had never looked so angry and Crispin furrowed his brow at him. “Why do you think, boy? Do you think I wish to know out of prurient curiosity? Do you forget who you are speaking to? Do you not recall that I spent many a day on the streets myself, begging for my meals?”

Jack’s toughened expression softened. He kicked at a dirty lump of snow, wetting the toe of his patched boot. “I. . I reckon so.” His glance darted away from Crispin again, hiding his many secrets. “You. . you want to know what a day was like?”

“Yes. It will help, perhaps, to follow in the footsteps of the dead child. I know what my days were like. But it must have been quite different from that of an eight-year-old boy.”

Jack gnawed uncertainly on a finger until Crispin dropped his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let us to an alehouse, Jack. We will warm ourselves and share wine. Maybe some bread will help you decide whether to speak or no.”

Jack allowed himself to be steered toward a nearby tavern. When Crispin opened the door, the noise spilled out with a cascade of raucous laughter. The sharp tang of a reed and a drum bleated out a tune that some were singing to. It looked to be a better kept place than the Boar’s Tusk, but, to be fair, this tavern was in the shadow of Westminster Palace and the clientele were apt to be wealthier than the patrons of the Gutter Lane’s alehouse.

Crispin guided Jack to two stools by the hearth and waved to the alewife.

“Aye, good masters,” she said to them.

“Good wife, please bring a jug of wine.” Crispin handed her the coins. “And a loaf of bread, if it is not too dear.”

She examined the silver and nodded. “A loaf and wine,” she said, and left them. Alone again, they measured their surroundings. Jack said nothing, staring at the men nearby in their fine fur-trimmed gowns and long-sleeved houppelandes. From under low lids, Crispin observed Jack’s nervous movements.