07 Child's Play by Joyce Lionarons

Author:Joyce Lionarons [Lionarons, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery & Detective - Middle Ages
Amazon: B07N891N33
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
Published: 2019-01-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

De Bury rubbed his scar as he pondered what to do next. Jack Derwent sat on the hard chair across from his writing table looking none the worse for a night drinking with the cutpurses. Perhaps the man was learning that he need not match them drink for drink to gain the information he wanted. But what could be done with the information he had gleaned?

The idea that a priest or monk had robbed Lovecote was laughable and had surely been suggested, as Derwent believed, by the nature of the shop. Yet although de Bury could scarce credit the idea that a shopkeeper had planned the robbery and murdered Garr Werne either, he could not afford to ignore it. He would need to find out which of York’s shopkeepers were in financial trouble, and he doubted those who were would speak freely of it. His intelligencers would be no use; they were placed among the known criminals and the poor, not those he would never suspect of aught save petty deception.

“Cyril!” he shouted, ignoring Derwent’s startled jump. “I need you!”

The sour-faced clerk appeared in the doorway. “Aye, my lord?”

“How might I discover if a shopkeeper were in financial difficulty?” he asked. “Especially if he were taking pains to hide it?”

Cyril blinked. “I suppose you might look at the Pipe Rolls, my lord,” he said. “Twould show if folk claimed to owe a smaller amount in taxes last year than before. Twould show naught for this year, of course, if the difficulty were recent.”

“Aye,” said de Bury. “Do that for me.” Twould likely show him nothing, he thought. If the rumors among the cutpurses were true at all, twould be a sudden panic that led a man to do something stupid, not a lengthy decline. Yet he could think of nothing else he might do. “And, Cyril,” he added. “If you hear of aught, let me know.”

“Aye, my lord.” Cyril scurried from the Sheriff’s chamber.

De Bury looked at Derwent. “Find out who that shopkeeper is,” he ordered. “Someone must know.”

“Aye, my lord.” Derwent stood, but did not turn to leave. “My lord Sheriff,” he said, “There is a man who drinks at the Dancing Hen, dark with black eyes and a black beard with a scar above his eyebrow. He watches me, and I do not believe he drinks as much as the others, but rather listens and keeps his own counsel.”

“Aye, what of him?” de Bury asked. God’s blood, he thought, twas Morton Crouch that Jack was describing.

“Tis just that I believe he would bear watching, unless, of course, he is your man.” Derwent’s mouth twitched, but he managed to control his grin.

De Bury scowled. How had Jack discovered twas Crouch who was the informer? “Do not worry about him,” he said. “Just find that shopkeeper!”

“Aye, my lord,” Derwent said, unable to hide the grin longer. “Twas what I thought.” He stepped out of the Sheriff’s chamber.

“Cyril!” de Bury shouted. Footsteps sounded outside the door, but before the clerk could respond, he said, “Find Morton Crouch and tell him I want him.

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