taking accommodations there.”
“Thomas.” Crispin strode with him to the door. “I need more than that to do you justice. Why can you not tell me?”
“I’ve told you what I could. Grey explained what it was, what it looked like. But I don’t see anything like it here now.”
“Thomas! I must insist.”
He shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only trust you so much, Crispin. I fear … if you know all, you might … but no.” His eyes were a glittering pool of confusion. “If anyone can find it, it will be you. In two days, come to me at the Falconer.”
“But Thomas—” Too late. The man was gone. Crispin followed him outside, watched him mount. He turned once, waving gravely at Crispin, before he kicked in his spurs and galloped his beast toward London.
He felt Jack come up beside him. “How, by God’s breath, are we to find a relic where we have no inkling of what it is?”
Crispin sighed, coughed, and sighed again. “I was wondering that myself.”
* * *
THEY RETURNED TO THE Shambles with a full pouch but also with lots of questions. When Jack had stoked the fire and did his best to brew some Flemish broth, Crispin settled in his bed, boots and belt discarded on the floor, and his cloak and blanket wrapped about him. His back lay against the cold plaster and he drowsily watched the single candle flame flickering from its dish on the table.
“This is a puzzle right enough,” muttered Jack. He stirred the eggs into the broth with a wooden spoon and allowed it to bubble into thickness. He stuck a finger in to see if it was hot enough. Satisfied, he sucked his finger, took the pot off the trivet, and poured the broth into a bowl in which he had crumbled some old bread. He put the wooden spoon in the bowl and handed it to Crispin. “There you are, sir. That will have you feeling your old self in no time.”
“Much thanks, Jack.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl and brought up the soggy bread, slurping it into his mouth. The heat soothed his aching throat and sinuses, and he sat back against the wall with a sigh, eyes closed. He brought the steaming bowl close to his face and inhaled as best he could, scooping the liquid and sops into his mouth with the spoon. He ate until the bowl was empty. Jack offered him more, but he declined and set the bowl aside, closing his eyes.
The mattress settled beside him and he cracked open an eye to spy Jack making himself comfortable on Crispin’s bed. He sat cross-legged facing him. “So the problems, as I see it,” he began, “are threefold. One, there is the matter of Roger Grey’s murderer.” He stuck up a thumb and counted them down on his fingers. “And two, the matter of the stolen rent money, though I doubt we shall be able to find so obscure a culprit. A pouch of coins is such a wayward thing—”
“This from the expertise of a cutpurse?”
Jack did not seem discomfited in the least discussing his erstwhile profession. “Aye, Master, that is the truth. A purse of coins is scattered quickly with meat being bought here and ale bought there. It disperses like smoke.”
“Indeed. And three?”
“Three is this business of a relic.” He shook his head. “Blind me, Master Crispin. How they do follow you.”
“It is perplexing and maddening. But I think perhaps that we have two problems, not three.”
“Eh? Which then?”
Crispin lay back again and closed his eyes. “Do you recall the missing object from the armorer’s? A box, perhaps?”
“Aye. Wait. You don’t mean to say—”
“That is merely a guess, Jack. And I don’t like guessing.”
“The relic, then. Stolen from Master Grey.”
“And not easily. He died for it.”
“Good Christ.” He crossed himself. “Then what do we concentrate on first?”
“A murderer, of course. He must not be allowed to take another life. He’d already taken three in his pursuit of this object, something that he wanted badly. Well, he seems to have it now. Perhaps he will
“Thomas.” Crispin strode with him to the door. “I need more than that to do you justice. Why can you not tell me?”
“I’ve told you what I could. Grey explained what it was, what it looked like. But I don’t see anything like it here now.”
“Thomas! I must insist.”
He shook his head. “I cannot say. I can only trust you so much, Crispin. I fear … if you know all, you might … but no.” His eyes were a glittering pool of confusion. “If anyone can find it, it will be you. In two days, come to me at the Falconer.”
“But Thomas—” Too late. The man was gone. Crispin followed him outside, watched him mount. He turned once, waving gravely at Crispin, before he kicked in his spurs and galloped his beast toward London.
He felt Jack come up beside him. “How, by God’s breath, are we to find a relic where we have no inkling of what it is?”
Crispin sighed, coughed, and sighed again. “I was wondering that myself.”
* * *
THEY RETURNED TO THE Shambles with a full pouch but also with lots of questions. When Jack had stoked the fire and did his best to brew some Flemish broth, Crispin settled in his bed, boots and belt discarded on the floor, and his cloak and blanket wrapped about him. His back lay against the cold plaster and he drowsily watched the single candle flame flickering from its dish on the table.
“This is a puzzle right enough,” muttered Jack. He stirred the eggs into the broth with a wooden spoon and allowed it to bubble into thickness. He stuck a finger in to see if it was hot enough. Satisfied, he sucked his finger, took the pot off the trivet, and poured the broth into a bowl in which he had crumbled some old bread. He put the wooden spoon in the bowl and handed it to Crispin. “There you are, sir. That will have you feeling your old self in no time.”
“Much thanks, Jack.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl and brought up the soggy bread, slurping it into his mouth. The heat soothed his aching throat and sinuses, and he sat back against the wall with a sigh, eyes closed. He brought the steaming bowl close to his face and inhaled as best he could, scooping the liquid and sops into his mouth with the spoon. He ate until the bowl was empty. Jack offered him more, but he declined and set the bowl aside, closing his eyes.
The mattress settled beside him and he cracked open an eye to spy Jack making himself comfortable on Crispin’s bed. He sat cross-legged facing him. “So the problems, as I see it,” he began, “are threefold. One, there is the matter of Roger Grey’s murderer.” He stuck up a thumb and counted them down on his fingers. “And two, the matter of the stolen rent money, though I doubt we shall be able to find so obscure a culprit. A pouch of coins is such a wayward thing—”
“This from the expertise of a cutpurse?”
Jack did not seem discomfited in the least discussing his erstwhile profession. “Aye, Master, that is the truth. A purse of coins is scattered quickly with meat being bought here and ale bought there. It disperses like smoke.”
“Indeed. And three?”
“Three is this business of a relic.” He shook his head. “Blind me, Master Crispin. How they do follow you.”
“It is perplexing and maddening. But I think perhaps that we have two problems, not three.”
“Eh? Which then?”
Crispin lay back again and closed his eyes. “Do you recall the missing object from the armorer’s? A box, perhaps?”
“Aye. Wait. You don’t mean to say—”
“That is merely a guess, Jack. And I don’t like guessing.”
“The relic, then. Stolen from Master Grey.”
“And not easily. He died for it.”
“Good Christ.” He crossed himself. “Then what do we concentrate on first?”
“A murderer, of course. He must not be allowed to take another life. He’d already taken three in his pursuit of this object, something that he wanted badly. Well, he seems to have it now. Perhaps he will
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