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Kemp! He took a deep breath and dropped his hand away, staring at the closed door. How much had Mistress Walcote heard? His dignity seemed to be a rare commodity these days. And what did it matter in the long run? His personal honor could be measured by the number of coins in his purse. With a weak laugh, he realized that purse was presently empty. He shook his head at the irony. The entire situation was disquieting. The one who hired him was now dead, half a day’s wage still wanting. And now the wife he was hired to follow wanted his services. For what? It did not feel right working for the wife under these circumstances. But coin was coin.
    He opened the door.

3

    Philippa turned when Crispin entered. Poor he may be, but at least he had a servant to keep his meager room as spotless as he could, even though young Jack Tucker often made himself too scarce to be useful. But today, the floor showed no signs of dirt, and the dust was wiped from the few surfaces of shelf and sill. Even the hearth was clean. A small peat fire threw a ripple of gold across the floor, the only gold that room would likely ever see.
    The room itself was small, smaller than even the pavilion tents he used to occupy when he marched to war under the old king’s banner. One shuttered window overlooked the Shambles and a chipped jug with wine sat on the sill of another window on the opposite wall. It opened to reveal a view of the tinker’s courtyard and the many rooftops of London’s streets beyond.
    The head of a small pallet bed was situated against the common wall he shared with his landlord Martin Kemp and his wife. On the other side of the hearth in a corner lay a pile of straw where Jack slept, presently unoccupied. A bucket of water sat by the wooden chest near the door. Above that was a shelf of meager foodstuffs—a half-eaten loaf of bread under a cloth, a wedge of cheese, two bowls, and a razor. Nailed to the exposed timber above that was a small brass mirror. A worn table with a wobbly leg took up the space in the middle of the room where a tallow candle on a disk of tin offered its weak light. A chair with arms and a back, and a stool tucked beneath the table, served as both his dining hall and place of business.
    These meager sticks of furniture were rented along with the room. Crispin owned only the scant bits of clothing and writing tools lying in the plain wooden chest.
    He peeled off his damp cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. Pushing back the hood off his head, he bowed slightly to her. “You made mention you wished to hire me. In what capacity?”
    She pouted. Her lips were as red as her velvet gown, and his former sourness was forgotten amid lips and gown and sinewy woman. They reminded him that he still carried the miniature painting of her in his purse. He thought of mentioning it and handing it over, but that was as far as he got.
    “How lost does something have to be for you to find it?”
    The room’s dim light illuminated only a stripe across her face, revealing heavily draped lids. Her eyes hid beneath thick lashes, unwilling to reveal all. Slanted and sleepy seemed to be their natural posture.
    He measured them through the ribboning black smoke of the candle on the table. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve found,” he said. “Perhaps even mortified.”
    She exhaled through her nostrils, blowing the candle smoke toward him horizontally for a moment before the smoke spiraled upward again. “You’d be surprised at the things I’ve seen,” she countered. “Perhaps…even mortified.”
    He allowed himself a smile. “I know little about you or your husband— requiescat in pace, ” he said, crossing himself. “What happens behind closed doors does not interest me.”
    “It should.” She strode to the table and leaned her thigh against it. “Kingdoms are bought and sold behind closed doors.”
    “I own no kingdoms.”
    “To be sure.” She perused the room with mild distaste. “If you are so