The Saltergate Psalter (13 page)

‘What have you done wrong now, John?' Martha asked.

‘I've been out to Dronfield again. Just to ask a few more questions.'

‘Did you find any answers?'

‘No.' Without thinking, he rubbed the wound on his arm. It was still sore, but it was healing quickly now and mending well.

‘Maybe you need to get back to carpentry,' Martha said kindly. ‘Idle hands are the devil's work, that's what they say.'

He smiled. ‘Perhaps.' He stood. ‘You're a very wise woman.'

‘Me?' she answered in horror. ‘God forbid it.' But her eyes were smiling as she spoke. She shifted her gaze towards the buttery. ‘Go on,' she whispered, ‘give her your apologies.'

‘But–' he began.

‘It doesn't matter. Sometimes it's better to give.'

He hefted the bag of tools on to his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight. Katherine kept her back to him as she worked.

‘I'm sorry,' he said hesitantly. She stopped and turned to stare at him, her back against the table.

‘I thought you were happy being a carpenter,' she said wearily. ‘John … please.'

‘I'm going out to Newbold now,' he told her with a hopeful smile.

‘No more questions about all this for the coroner. I want you to promise.'

‘Unless he demands it.'

‘I heard what happened yesterday,' Katherine said sadly. He opened his mouth, but she continued. ‘Did you think I wouldn't? It wasn't Walter, before you blame him,' she added quickly. ‘Someone saw you. It's all over town. I felt embarrassed when I was told about it this morning. Everyone thought I must have known.'

‘I didn't want to worry you.' It sounded like an empty excuse.

‘Why, John?' she asked. ‘Why did you do it?'

He didn't want to give her the real reason, didn't want her scared.

‘He threatened me. And Walter.'

Katherine nodded and pursed her lips.

‘No more.' She placed a hand on her belly. ‘Please.'

He nodded and kissed her cheek. ‘I'll be back for supper.' At the door he turned. ‘Just carpentry.'

She nodded without looking at him.

• • •

No more than a few days, but everything in the fields had grown. At the barn he put down the tools and examined the work he'd done before he'd had to leave. Everything looked solid as he tested it, pushing and pulling on the frame. Not a big building, just large enough to hold four cows and a pair of goats. It would last for years. He had pride in his work.

The farmer arrived, bringing a mug of ale, eager to know all the news from town. John gave it willingly, then lingered after the man left, fitting pieces here and there but nothing more. He dawdled, letting his mind wander. He'd disappointed Katherine. He felt guilty, even though he was trying to protect her. Maybe he should have blurted it all out. But with the child inside her …

Finally he picked up a piece of wood, measured by eye and cut it before nailing it to the frame. After that it all became easier. Within half an hour the natural rhythm took over and he was working up a fair sweat. He stripped off his shirt, feeling the sun warm on his skin. John grinned. It was good, it was
right
.

By the time he finished for the day he'd completed half of one wall. He rubbed himself down with a rag, flecks of sawdust scraping against his flesh. Tomorrow everything should go faster. It was easy work. When everything was in place he'd daub pitch between the planks to make them watertight.

He sat in the shade of a beech, cleaning the tools with an oily rag. The saw needed to be sharpened; he'd take care of that tonight. Eventually he packed everything away, drew on his shirt, ready to walk home.

Katherine was right. Working like this was what made him happy. With a glance over his shoulder he started on the road.

As he turned the corner he saw a man in the distance, running towards him and waving his hands. His hand drifted to the hilt of his knife; it was a natural reaction. You could never tell what trouble was coming.

Soon enough he was able to make out the man's face. One of the Chesterfield bailiffs. John picked up his pace.

‘Master,' the man said breathlessly as he came close. ‘The coroner wants you to come. I went to your house and they said you were out here.'

‘What is it? What's happened?'

‘It's Julian, Master. He's dead.'

They had to push their way through the crowd in the Shambles. Men parted grudgingly to let them by, the bailiff cursing and shoving, John following close behind. Two men guarded the shop. The shutters were closed but the door stood open.

Inside, he had to blink his eyes to adjust to the deep gloom. The smell of blood was thick and cloying, enough to bring the bile into his throat.

‘Up the stairs, Master,' the bailiff said, leading the way. Carcasses lay on the bench, a cleaver next to them. Flies buzzed and gathered in clusters on the meat. A few landed on his face and he brushed them away quickly.

The room above the shop was spare. Just a table, a chair, and a bed of straw in the corner, covered with a sheet. A chest, the lid thrown back and contents strewn across the floor.

The shutters were open, late afternoon light pouring in through the unglazed window. De Harville stood there, gazing out at the street, hands resting on the sill. Brother Robert sat on a joint stool, the portable desk open on his lap, a quill in his hand.

‘You took your time, Carpenter.' The coroner didn't even turn his head.

‘I was in Newbold,' he answered. The room was fetid, stinking of decay. But there was no body. ‘Where is he?'

De Harville waved a hand. ‘I had him taken away. He looks worse dead than he did alive.'

‘What happened?' Without a corpse it was impossible to tell. There was a dark stain on the floorboards that was most likely blood; the flies certainly crowded on it.

‘The apprentice found him after dinner,' the monk said. ‘Julian didn't go back to work after he came up here to eat. The apprentice started searching and found him dead.'

John looked around. No dishes laid out, no food. But no sign of a fight, either.

‘Is there another way up here or is it only through the shop?'

‘There's a door at the back, too,' de Harville answered lazily. ‘The stairs there go out into the yard. No lock on the back gate.'

John looked around. ‘Was the chest open when you arrived?'

‘It was,' Robert told him. ‘Whatever he owned has gone.'

But this hadn't been a fight and robbery. There hadn't been a struggle. It must have been someone that Julian knew, someone he trusted.

‘How was he stabbed?'

‘The wound was in his back,' the monk said. ‘When we found him he was face down on the floor.'

‘Was the weapon still in him?' He saw the monk shake his head, and continued, ‘Had Julian drawn his dagger?'

‘No.'

He paced around, stopping and staring for a moment then moving on, trying to picture it all in his mind. It would have been easier with the body still here. There might have been something; now he'd never know.

‘What about his purse?' John asked suddenly. ‘Had it been cut?'

‘I don't care about a few pennies.' The coroner turned, his eyes empty, his voice like winter in the room. ‘We have five bodies now.
Five
of them. Each time we have a suspect he ends up dead.'

‘I thought you'd be happy to see the back of Julian.'

De Harville snorted. ‘May he spend eternity in Purgatory for his sins. No one will miss him. But I still have to find his killer.'

‘Where's the apprentice?'

‘He has a room up in the eaves,' the Brother replied. ‘There's a ladder. He's up there now.'

‘Find me the murderer,' the coroner ordered. ‘And make sure he's alive.'

The ladder was rickety, wobbling under his feet. At the top there was barely enough room to stand; the roof sloped away sharply to the sides. The young man sat in a crouch by the open window, staring down at the Shambles. It was high enough to catch a breeze, but that couldn't dispel the years of mustiness and sweat. A pallet had been roughly made up in one corner, and a tattered surcote hung on a nail.

John settled himself down, legs stretched out, his back against the wall. The boy hadn't even turned to glance at him. Caught in the light, his face showed an angry red welter of spots across the cheeks, greasy black hair tumbling on to his shoulders.

‘You're the one who found him.'

The young man turned his head slowly, as if he was coming out of an enchantment. His eyes glistened, and he rubbed at them quickly with the back of a bony hand.

‘Yes, Master,' he answered. His voice was husky.

‘What's your name?'

‘Piers, Master.' He ducked his head quickly.

‘I'm John the Carpenter. Why don't you tell me what happened?'

The lad looked around nervously, biting his lip. ‘I came back from my dinner at noon,' he began. ‘The church bell was ringing. Julian left me to look after the shop. I heard him go up the stairs.' He paused.

‘Carry on, Piers,' he encouraged softly.

‘A long time passed and he didn't come back down.'

‘Was that unusual?'

Piers nodded. ‘He always liked to spend his time in the shop or going around. He had business to attend to, he said.' He reddened. The apprentice knew exactly what Julian did, he thought.

‘Did you wait until you came up?'

‘Just a short while. I tried shouting up to him but he didn't answer.'

‘Tell me what you found. Was the door to his room closed?'

‘No, Master.' He raised his eyes quickly. ‘He always kept it closed, locked when he wasn't inside. I knocked and walked in and he was there … on the floor. Does the coroner think I killed him, Master?' His voice was trembling. ‘Are they going to hang me?'

‘No.' John smiled. ‘No one thinks you're a murderer,' he said, and saw relief fill the boy's face. ‘Did you hear anyone up here with Julian? Or anyone using the back stair?'

‘No, Master.' He shook his head vigorously. ‘But I was busy and there's always noise from the street.'

He considered that, framing his next question.

‘Who used to come and visit your master?'

‘I don't know.' Piers hung his head. ‘The window doesn't look on to the yard.'

‘You didn't see any of them in passing?'

‘Only a few.'

‘Do you remember their names?' He tried to keep his voice low and easy, hoping that the boy would be able to give him something.

‘There was one called Stephen, I know that. I heard the Master address him. Two more who came a few times. But I never heard their names.'

‘Can you describe these men?' John could feel his heart beating in his chest. Pray God that Piers had a good memory.

He did, and the lad possessed a sharp eye, too. He spoke haltingly, squeezing his eyes shut to recall details. By the time he finished, John could picture them as clearly as if Piers had drawn them in ink.

They were men of some standing, by the sound of it. Fur on their surcotes, even if it was just lamb. Velvet jackets and shoes with long points, in the style of the capital. One had six feathers in his cap, a gaudy display, while another wore parti-coloured hose in black and red.

The problem was that John couldn't remember seeing anyone like that in Chesterfield. With clothes like those they'd have stood out all too clearly and gossip would have flown around the town.

‘How often were they here?' he asked.

‘The two who came together I saw twice. Stephen three times.' His face reddened. ‘They might have come more often. I didn't see everyone.'

‘That's fine,' John assured him. ‘When was the last time you saw any of them?'

‘Stephen was here two days ago. It was in the evening. I was sitting up here and I heard the Master talking to him.'

‘What about the others?'

‘Not for a few weeks now,' Piers answered after a little thought, then shook his head.

‘Do you know someone called Christian?'

‘He's the Master's friend.' He stopped and corrected himself. ‘Was. He often came into the shop on market day.'

‘Never upstairs?'

‘I didn't see him there.'

That was interesting, although he didn't know what it meant, if anything at all. John rose, moving to the middle of the room so he could stand upright.

‘You've been very helpful. Thank you.'

He'd just start to climb down the ladder when Piers called out, ‘Master!'

‘What?'

‘I just remembered. Stephen has a scar. On the back of his right hand. It goes from side to side, right across.'

‘Good.'

That was distinctive; it should make him easy to spot. At least he could begin to ask questions. He looked through the open door into Julian's room. There was nothing else to see. De Harville and Robert had gone, leaving two frightened bailiffs to guard the shop.

Eyes followed him as he walked away. If looks were knives he'd have been dead five times over. He was an outsider, an interloper. In this area they liked to dispense their own justice.

• • •

He was late for supper. There was a trencher and a carved spoon waiting at his place on the table. The rest of the family must have eaten.

John walked through to the buttery. The back door stood open. The girls were playing with Kit. They had something tied to a string, tugging it around and delighting in the kitten jumping and running as it kept trying to pounce.

Katherine was on her knees, pulling up tiny weeds in the garden plot. There were still a few hours of evening. He could see the sheen of sweat on her face, just below the veil. Her fingers moved deftly, plucking stems and throwing them aside.