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“I am saddened at that loss and worried for his mortal soul. But … I did not love him, if that is what you are implying … and I know well that it is.” She hugged herself and glanced toward the window. “His time came early. But perhaps not by his own devising as … as I had wrongly supposed.”
    She whirled and faced Crispin so suddenly that he stepped back. “I know now that Roger was murdered even if that lout of a coroner will do nothing about it. If that is the will of the king’s men, then so be it. But I hoped you’d come back for another reason if not for justice for poor Roger. But for me and my father. We need you. We … we need to hire you.”
    “Oh? For what?”
    She sighed. “Someone has stolen money from us. Our rent money. And if we don’t come forth with it soon, our landlord will turn us out. He threatened the law.”
    “And?” He sensed there was more to it and could tell by the frown of her brows he was right.
    “I came this morning to look for the money Roger said he’d lend me. But it’s not here.”
    “That box—”
    She shook her head vigorously. “No. I know nothing of that.”
    Crispin took the damp rag he had stuffed in his belt and wiped his runny nose, coughing down into his chest. He replaced the rag when it had done all it could. “Very well. Your shop? Show me.”
    “Come see.”
    She did not wait for him to follow but darted swiftly out the door. Jack gave Crispin the eye. Crispin nodded at his servant. “What do you think?”
    “I think she’s lying.”
    “So do I. Let us see what is next in her poke of tales.” Crispin passed through the doorway and spotted the impatient woman gesturing to him from the entry to his right. He followed her to the tailor shop he had noted earlier, his eyes scanning quickly over bolts of cloth on neat shelves and several sizes of shears hanging from hooks above a worktable.
    A man was waiting for him by the hearth. Lank hair streaked with gray hung to shoulders slightly bent. His face, riven with lines, drew down to a sharp chin. There was no mistaking their resemblance. His lips and eyes were very like his daughter’s.
    “Master Coterel,” said Crispin with a slight bow.
    The man bowed in return. “Robert Coterel. And you are Crispin Guest. My daughter spoke of nothing but you. She seemed to think you could help us.”
    “This is the sort of thing I do, Master Coterel. For a fee.”
    He raised his face to his daughter, who was clutching his arm. “But fees are our problem, Master Guest. We owe our landlord, but our coins have been stolen. He is not an amenable man and will surely turn us out without so much as a by your leave. I expect him here at any moment, I am afraid.”
    “Have you no way to secure temporary funds? No friends, no kin?”
    “If only we did, Master Guest.”
    “What of a client whose work you can quickly complete?”
    He shook his head, face red with mortification. “With the threat of invasion, no one seems to wish a new cotehardie or gown. They are ready to flee with the clothes on their backs rather than be burdened with new things.”
    The woman was stoic but he could well see the fear in her eyes. He knew that look. There was nothing as fearsome as the threat of losing the roof over one’s head. And with winter coming on …
    Crispin sighed deeply. “What amount did you owe?”
    “Five pence,” said the man. “We had just spent our last cache on new cloth from Italy. We were counting on a new Flemish clientele when the borders were closed. Our funds have dried up. And the rent, which was in a pouch hidden in a wall niche, was stolen.”
    “What else was taken?”
    “Nothing.”
    Crispin eyed him curiously. “ Nothing else was taken?”
    “No, good sir. Just the coin pouch.”
    “The hidden coin pouch.” He looked once at Jack. The boy’s eyes were alight with ideas. Sharp lad, was Jack.
    Crispin was about to comment when the door slammed open. A red-faced man with a bald pate and