Troubled Bones (22 page)

“No, I told him not to.”

“Why ever not? He sounds like a churl of the worst kind.”

“He is. But if he has anything to do with the missing bones, I would prefer to watch him to see if he may lead us to them.”

“Is that likely, sir? I mean, it’s not as if he’d sell them or even need to. If he had them and was a true Lollard, would he not destroy them?”

Crispin blinked. “Sell them?”

“I said ‘destroy them,’ sir, not sell them.”

“No. But I can think of a pair who might sell them. If they had them.”

“That Pardoner and Summoner. Thick as thieves, them two.”

“Thick as thieves.”

“You don’t mean they might have stolen the bones?”

“Since it isn’t exactly clear when the bones disappeared, it is difficult to say. I wish I knew when they went missing.”

“Perhaps you should call on Master Edward. He’s a pensioner in the monastery. He has his theories.”

“Perhaps later. My concern is to talk again with Dame Marguerite. I must fix these circumstances in my mind and quickly in order to clear Geoffrey of all charges.”

“What will you speak with Dame Marguerite about, sir?”

“To see if she is any clearer on Madam Eglantine’s assailant. With some time past she might be more lucid.”

“May I … may I go with you when you do? So’s I can, er, see how you do it.”

“I suppose so.”

They reached the inn when the shadows had fallen completely and entered into the golden warmth. Harry Bailey greeted Crispin with a salute from his perch by the stairs. Obviously he had taken to heart Crispin’s admonition to watch Bonefey. “Master Bailey. Is all well?”

“Indeed, Crispin, it is. Sir Philip expressed an interest in leaving the inn and Canterbury once he knew you were gone. Our friend Gough disabused him of that notion. Rather heartily, I think.”

“Oh? Where is Master Gough now?”

“Edwin is sitting on Sir Philip.”

“Not literally?”

Bailey’s face broke into a wide smile. “Yes. Quite literally.”

He beamed. “Well then. There is no fear that he bolted or will any time soon. Is Dame Marguerite about?”

Bailey’s face fell. “Poor soul. She wanders in the back garden or stays in her room. I feel quite aggrieved for her.”

He measured the time. She was probably in her room. Maybe tomorrow would be better. He looked at Jack and decided. “It has been a long day. I think I will retire.”

“What of food?” said Bailey. “Shall I have the innkeeper send victuals to you?”

“Yes. Thank you, Master Harry.”

He trudged up the stairs with Jack in tow and entered his room. He realized he had scarce spent any time there in all the days he’d been in Canterbury.

Jack sat hard onto his cot. “I miss our London lodgings.”

“I never thought I’d say it, but so do I.” He sat on his own bed and wondered if he wanted to bother undressing.

*   *   *

IN THE MORNING, CRISPIN
stared at the sword. He had spent the early hours cleaning it with an oiled cloth, taking all the blood and bits of bone from the blade. Still scratched and worn, the sword at least looked more presentable. He studied the pommel, wondering how on earth he was going to find the owner.

Jack was up, making a wide path around the sword and straightening the room and clearing away last night’s supper things.

He reluctantly set the blade aside and stood. “Come, Jack. It is time to ask our questions.” They left the room and he was about to head toward Dame Marguerite’s room when he heard raised voices below. Crispin leaned down over the stair rail to see what the matter was and sprinted down the steps.

16

LIKE DOGS IN AN
alley, Maufesour and Chanticleer were at each other’s throats, brandishing their knives.

“What goes on here?” bellowed Crispin above their voices.

They turned, but neither lowered their daggers. “He’s a thief!” cried Chanticleer, gesturing with his blade at the Summoner.

“Ha!” the Summoner rejoined. “Look who speaks! A master thief if ever there was one.”

Chanticleer lunged for him, but Crispin grabbed his arm and spun him about. “Now, now. Is there no honor amongst thieves? Keep it civil.”

Even with mouths poised to speak, they both seemed to realize something at the same time and fell silent, eyeing each other.

Crispin smirked. “Will you not speak of your troubles, gentlemen? There was an accusation of thievery.…”

But neither would say a word. They shared a look again and even offered artificial smiles. “A, er, minor disagreement over the sharing of funds,” said Maufesour. He urged Chanticleer to respond with a waggling of his brows.

Chanticleer got the hint. “Oh yes! A disagreement. To be sure.”

Crispin slid his arms over both sets of shoulders. “See how much better it is when two talk it out rather than fight? Sheath your daggers, gentlemen. And sit. I would speak with you two.”

“Oh, but we have more business to conduct in the city, Master Guest,” sputtered Maufesour. “We must attend to that.”

“Oh yes,” Chanticleer agreed, trying to edge out from under Crispin’s grasp. “You would have no argument to that, certainly.”

Crispin strong-armed them to a bench and forced them down. “We’ll see.
After
I speak to you.”

Both men stared sourly at the table. The other tavern patrons moved guardedly away to their own tables.

Crispin drew his knife and toyed with the sharp blade. “It is interesting that I have repeatedly enjoined the pilgrims to remain at the inn, yet time and time again, you two have flouted my orders.”

Maufesour turned a frown on him. “You cannot stop us from doing our duty.”

“Indeed,” said the other. “We are on the Church’s business.”

Crispin continued to toy with the blade. “I must tell you a truth about me, gentlemen. I am intolerant of liars. Less so of thieves. Not at all of murderers.”

Maufesour sputtered again. “We are not murderers, sir!”

“Thieves, then?”

“No!”

“Liars?”

Maufesour huffed. “It is clear you insist on accusing us of ill deeds. Accuse, then. Say your peace.”

He leaned toward them, close enough to smell Maufesour’s foul breath and Chanticleer’s overly perfumed hair. “You two are as guilty as they come,” he said softly. They stiffened at his words. “I am of the mind that you have something to do with the theft in the cathedral.” They both tried to rise but he shoved them back down. “I will give you exactly till sunset to return that item to me or I shall have both your heads on a platter. Have I made myself clear?”

Maufesour tried a “But—”

“
Have I made myself clear?
”

Slowly, they both nodded their heads. Crispin released them and straightened. “Good. Now. Begone to whatever devilry you had planned.” In a flash, they were up and out the door.

He straightened his new coat and looked back toward Jack, waiting by the stairs. Time to speak to Dame Marguerite. But as he approached the stairs Alyson was making her way down. Her face broke into a wide smile on seeing him and she gave a coy lilt to her shoulder. “Crispin,” she said. “I missed you last night.”

He didn’t look at Jack, who was making himself scarce at the other end of the hall. “Alas. I was far too agitated to be of good company, Alyson.”

Slowly she descended the stairs until she was at the foot. “But that is when such company can do you the most good.”

He smiled. “Sometimes. But murder and the involvement of old friends makes for a troubled mind, which leads to troubles … elsewhere.”

“Bless me, Crispin! But no man has ever had those troubles in my bed.”

He suddenly longed to embrace her, but knew it would not be proper in such a public place. “I do believe you,” he said softly. “Unfortunately, I am working at the moment and need to talk to Dame Marguerite. Is she still abed, do you think?”

“Oh no. She is much better these days and has taken to spending time in the inn’s back garden amongst the herbs and flowers. I think the fresh air is good for her.”

“Can you show me the way?”

She took his hand and led him through the hall to a narrow alley to the kitchens. Jack followed at a discreet distance.

The innkeeper and his staff watched warily as the entourage filed through, and then Alyson opened a back door. At first they encountered a dirt yard with hewn stumps no doubt used for beheading poultry as evidenced by its bloodstains and scattered feathers, but beyond that lay the greening of a garden. “There,” she said with a raised arm, pointing. “There is a bench beyond that myrtle. Would you like me to stay?”

He glanced back at Jack, who was pretending to be absorbed by a beetle climbing up a stump. “Thank you, no, Alyson. I prefer to ask my questions without too much of an audience. She might be more at ease with less of us in attendance.”

“You know your business best.” She turned to leave but leaned back, resting her hand on his cheek. “At your leisure,” she whispered.

“As you wish.” He watched her backside until his gaze rose and met Jack’s. The lad was smiling. “Come along, Jack.”

They strode past a short wooden fence and onto a gravel path. The garden showed dark earth with sprigs of green shoots emerging from the tilled rows.

Dame Marguerite sat on a mossy bench and fingered her repaired rosary hanging from her rope belt. Her face was tilted upwards into the spring sun and her brown eyes seemed to be gazing distantly. Encased in her nun’s weeds of brown, she blended into the shadows cast by the myrtle and the rear wall of the stable. Crispin and Jack were not necessarily silent as they approached, but she did not acknowledge them.

Finally, he cleared his throat, and she struck her gaze from that faraway place and lowered it to him. She looked him up and down, in fact, and then did the same to Jack. “Master Guest,” she said in her same shy way. “And Master Tucker.” He did not look at Jack’s face, but he noticed the boy throwing back his shoulders in a fulsome manner.

“Dame Marguerite,” he said gently with a slight bow. “Forgive me for interrupting your prayers, but have you heard the further tidings from the cathedral?”

“Of the murder of Brother Wilfrid? Yes, it is most distressing.”

“Indeed. I came to discover if there was perhaps more you could tell me about the death of your prioress.”

She raised her head and cocked it at him. “What more could I say?”

“I hoped you could better identify the assailant. Tell me for certain what he might have been wearing, for instance.”

“Whatever I told you before could not have changed.”

“But you were in great distress at that time. Now with the passage of days—”

“But why would my words be different? Why would my eyes have witnessed more as time passed?”

He drew silent. Was she being deliberately abstruse? More likely she was just a simple maid who understood little.

“Master Crispin, I wonder when I may be allowed to return to my convent. I must get on with my life in God.”

“Your life at your convent is important to you, I know. May I ask how long you have been a nun?”

“It seems all my life, and yet that is not so. I was raised in the convent. My mother worked as a servant, and as I grew and worked with her in the kitchens, I saw the wonder of that life and begged to be a part of it. Madam Eglantine took me as a novice when I was fourteen. I became a nun only last year.”

“You speak well for the daughter of a scullion.”

She didn’t exactly smile, but her face wasn’t quite blank either. She offered no more. He shuffled his feet. “Have you given any more thought to what the assailant was wearing? You seemed uncertain whether he was wearing a cassock or not.”

“No. No thoughts at all.”

“Dame Marguerite, I am trying to ascertain the murderer. Surely you want to help me in this?”

“And should you find him, what would you do to him?”

“I would have him arrested.”

“And then what would happen?”

“He would be judged and sentenced to hang.”

She lowered her face and studied her belt. “Then I shouldn’t truly like to help you if that is the outcome.”

“But justice must be served.”

“Aye, justice. But does not God ultimately decide justice, no matter what little thing we do on earth to determine it?”

“So says your catechism, but we are mere mortals. We must do what we must to live in a just society, and our society has decided that murderers must die.” He stepped closer. “You are not protecting someone, are you? Someone you know?”

She offered him a consoling smile. “And if I were … would I tell you?”

No, not a simpleton. He conceded with a bow. “If you have nothing further to offer, then I take my leave.” He turned to go but a hand plucked at his sleeve. His eyes fell on Jack.

“May I stay a moment, sir? I would speak with Dame Marguerite.”

Crispin looked from the determined face of his protégé to that of the sedate nun and then back again. What goes on here? He knew the boy seemed to have an infatuation for the girl. Perhaps Jack might get more information from her than he did. It was a guilty thought, because it meant using the boy, and it also meant eavesdropping. But the flush of guilt was only temporary. There was too much at stake. Geoffrey’s innocence for one.

He gave Jack a nod and turned on his heel to walk back up the path. But once Jack turned away from him toward the nun, he made a stealthy journey back behind the hedges to listen, wondering how much of his pride he had to sacrifice for the price of a man’s life.

Jack stood uncertainly for a moment, measuring the garden, the sky, anything it seemed but the nun. He checked the knife at his belt, pulled at the hem of his new coat, straightened his hood, and finally dropped his hands to his sides. “Well,” he said at last in a halting voice. “I am pleased to see you looking so well, Dame.”

She blinked at Jack but said nothing.

Jack shuffled his feet for a bit and raised his eyes again to the spring sky just opening from a lacy cloud cover. “My master is good at what he does, this finding of criminals. Tracker, they call him.” He made a halfhearted chuckle. “And though I know you would not see a murderer hang, surely you would see that he is stopped before he can do harm to another.”