The Saltergate Psalter (14 page)

He knelt, placing his right hand lightly over hers.

‘De Harville,' he said, as if it was all the explanation he needed. She sighed, staring into his eyes.

‘But you still went.' Her voice was full of reproach, still so soft that Janette and Eleanor wouldn't hear.

‘What choice did I have?' he hissed.

‘I know,' Katherine said finally, letting out a long sigh and squeezing his wrist lightly. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘It doesn't matter.' Her moods had been up and down in recent weeks, changing in the space of a heartbeat. At first he hadn't known why, thinking he'd committed some grave sin. Now, though, he understood: the baby. He'd heard other men talking, saying the same about their wives.

She started to struggle to her feet and John put a hand under her arm.

‘The pottage should still be warm. I'll dish it out for you.'

He ate hungrily; the work in Newbold had left him with an empty belly that even murder couldn't dampen. Katherine sat across from him. Finally curiosity got the better of her.

‘Who was murdered?'

‘Julian the Butcher.'

Her mouth formed an O of surprise and disbelief.

‘But you were just fighting with him yesterday. Do they–?'

‘No.' He smiled. Now the man was dead he could tell her the real reason behind the fight. ‘Yesterday he threatened to hurt you or Walter or the girls. That's why I fought him.'

‘And you didn't tell me?'

‘I didn't want to scare you,' he told her gently. ‘Julian can't do anything now.'

She stood up and left the room without saying another word. He felt as if he couldn't do right for doing wrong.

John knocked at the door on Knifesmithgate, waiting for Martha to answer. He'd spent a restless night, moving in and out of sleep, feeling guilt, anger, hopelessness. When he woke, Katherine was looking at him with sadness deep in her eyes. He stroked her face. She didn't pull away, but there was no joy in her expression, either.

‘This is a lovely surprise.' Martha beamed. She glanced at him again. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘No,' he lied. ‘Nothing like that. I'm just here for a little help.'

She arched an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You'd best come in then.'

She busied herself arranging cushions on the settle for him, then bringing out two mugs of ale.

‘Right,' Martha said briskly. ‘What is it?'

‘You know Chesterfield better than anyone I can think of. I'm looking for three men.' He told her about Stephen and the others. ‘Does that mean anything?'

‘No.' She pursed her lips. ‘I don't think I've seen anyone like that. Would you like me to ask the other goodwives?'

‘Please.' If one of them didn't recognise the men, no one would. They all had eyes as sharp as hawks on the wing and powerful memories.

‘You know, there are plenty who think that anyone who killed Julian should be given a purse full of silver,' Martha said, sniffing as she tucked her twisted hands into her lap.

‘He was still murdered.'

‘There are some people who deserve rough justice, John. You've heard some of the tales about him?'

He nodded. ‘But nobody has the right to do that outside the law,' he said.

‘Julian did,' she pointed out. All he could do was shrug. ‘He was the worst butcher in town, too,' Martha added. ‘Cheap cuts of meat, half of it on the turn. I'm surprised he could make a living from it.'

Maybe he didn't, John thought. The man was a criminal. The butcher's shop could have been something respectable to hide everything else. He needed to talk to the apprentice again to discover how busy they were.

‘Katherine wants me to stop all this,' he said after a lengthy pause.

‘Are you surprised?' Martha took a small sip of the ale and stared coolly into his eyes. ‘She's worried about you, especially with the baby coming. She wants the child to have a father.'

‘But how can I refuse?'

‘You're not de Harville's man, John. He doesn't have a hold over you. You have your carpentry. I've seen you work, you love it.'

He nodded. ‘How can I say no?'

‘Just say it,' she told him. ‘It would do him good to hear it once in a while. He can't do anything to you.'

‘Next time I will,' he said, hoping it was a vow.

‘Think about it. Since you started this you've been beaten and left for dead. I heard you had a fight with Julian, knives drawn.'

All of Chesterfield must know.

‘It wasn't–' he began, but she waved him down.

‘And you wonder why Katherine's scared? Use your brain.' She gave a frustrated sigh. ‘I know you have plenty of luck, John, but it has to run out eventually.'

He didn't even try to answer. There was nothing he could say. Every word she said was right. Maybe he could stand up to the coroner. But not now. He was in this, he had to see it through. His pride demanded it.

Finally he stood and ran a hand through his hair.

‘I should go. If you learn anything …'

‘I'll send word.' Martha smiled. ‘God watch over you.'

‘I hope He does.' He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘And thank you.'

• • •

The coroner was in the solar with his wife. The wet nurse had brought the baby and he could hear the child mewling softly.

Brother Robert was working in the hall, documents laid out across the table, parchment and books in a kind of order only he understood. He sat with the quill poised over the bottle of ink, a short knife in his other hand, ready to sharpen the nib.

John settled into a chair, waiting until the monk finished his sentence and put down the pen. He related everything the apprentice had told him.

‘There aren't many wealthy men around here,' Robert said thoughtfully. ‘And Stephen …' He stroked his chin. ‘There's someone of that name in Bakewell. He's a salt merchant. He has some money, I know that. But I can't see what he'd want with Julian.'

‘What about the others?'

‘Too vague. I'll ask the master later. What are you going to do?'

‘I'll talk to the apprentice again. He might have remembered something else. After that I don't know. No one in the Shambles is likely to talk to me.'

‘Watch yourself down there.'

He patted the knife and grinned. ‘Don't worry about me, Brother.'

Upstairs, the baby began to wail.

‘It won't be long before you hear much more of that, John.' The monk looked amused.

• • •

Heat seemed to cling to the stones in the Shambles. The air felt close, leaving him sweating as he walked. The runnels down the centre of each street stank of urine, mixing with the raw tang of blood from the butchers' shops.

A single bailiff kept his guard at Julian's door.

‘Has anyone been in or out?' John asked.

‘Plenty of them curious, Master,' the man replied. His grin showed a row of stained, broken teeth. ‘I didn't let any of them take a look.'

‘You haven't seen anyone leave?'

‘No, Master.'

In the shop the carcasses swarmed with flies. He could make out a small mass of maggots writhing around on a cut of beef. He breathed through his mouth and climbed the stairs to the solar. Nothing had been disturbed in Julian's room.

John stood for a moment, listening. The only noise seemed to come from outside. The house had a hushed, empty quality. Quickly, he climbed the ladder to the eaves. The apprentice's room was empty, the coat missing from the nail. It was easy enough to leave by the back stair and out through the yard.

Maybe Piers had felt there was nothing more for him here besides trouble. Or maybe he had something to hide. He sighed. It was too late now. The boy had vanished and the chances of finding him were slim.

‘Do you patrol around here?' he asked the bailiff. Even the stinking air in the street was better than the rank smell in the shop.

‘Aye, for my sins.' The man grimaced. ‘Worst part of town, you ask anyone.'

‘Did you know the apprentice who works for Julian?'

‘Piers?' He shrugged. ‘By sight, not much more.'

‘How long has he been here?'

‘A year, more or less,' the man answered after a little thought. ‘You could just ask him.'

‘He's gone.'

He could read the bailiff's thoughts on his face. The mix of resignation and trepidation. The knowledge of the bollocking he'd receive for letting someone go when he was watching the place. Still, no one could blame the boy for leaving. If he stayed he'd just be tainted by an investigation into the murder. And there was little future for him in Chesterfield. Nobody would take on the apprentice of a man who'd been killed.

‘It's not your fault,' John told him. ‘He just left by the back stair. You can't be in two places at once.'

‘Try telling the captain that.' He made a grim face and spat on the stones.

‘I will, if needs be.' He paused. ‘I'll make sure the coroner does, too.'

‘Thank you,' the man mumbled.

‘Do you know where Piers came from?'

‘I never heard, but I can try and find out,' the bailiff said with a wry grin. ‘There's one or two round here who'll still talk to me for a mug of ale.'

It couldn't be too far away, and the chances were that the boy would run back there to a place where he felt safe.

‘That would be useful. Just send word to me.' He clapped the man lightly on the shoulder.

• • •

John caught the coroner striding across the empty market square, a look of determination on his face.

‘Found me a killer yet, Carpenter?' he called. Heads turned to watch.

‘No, Master.'

‘Just as well, perhaps.' He gave a grim smile. ‘As soon as you suspect someone, they die. What have you discovered?'

He fell into step with de Harville, walking along Low Pavement then past the churchyard. The line of oak tiles on the steeple was rising day by day. He saw two men sweating as they worked, nothing below except a long, deadly drop to the ground.

The smithy was close enough to the church to enjoy business from the construction, but far enough from the town to keep buildings safe if it caught on fire.

The heat seemed to draw the air from his lungs. It was hard to breathe. The forge roared and the blacksmith worked, concentrating on hammering the white-hot metal resting on his anvil. A coat of sweat covered his skin. He worked bare-chested, wearing only a heavy leather apron, powerful muscles on display. Sparks flew. An apprentice pumped the bellows to fan the flames.

Finally he was done, putting the piece into a barrel of cold water. There was a loud hiss as the steam rose. The blacksmith stood, rubbing a stained piece of cloth over his face.

‘What can I do for you, Master?' he asked once he'd taken a long draught of ale. His head was shaved, his gaze intense.

‘The bridle,' de Harville said. The man nodded and snapped his fingers. In a few moments the apprentice handed him the finished piece. The leather was beautifully worked, decorated with silver. The smith's thick fingers pointed out the repair.

‘That should hold for years now, Master.'

The coroner nodded, reaching into his purse and passing over a coin.

In the light, away from the intense blaze where they could breathe again, de Harville examined the work.

‘He costs, but it's worth every penny,' he said approvingly before crushing the bridle in his hands. ‘You asked about Stephen.'

‘Yes, Master.'

‘The only one I know is the man Robert told you about. He has airs above his station, dresses like a lord.'

‘It sounds like the same man,' John said. ‘Do you know the others at all?'

‘No.' The coroner's face looked drawn, the flesh tight over his bones. There were lines around his eyes and mouth. In the last few months he'd aged. All the worries in his life had taken their toll. ‘Do you think they're involved?'

‘I don't know. They all visited Julian.'

‘Talk to the apprentice again,' the coroner ordered.

‘He's gone.'

‘Gone?' De Harville stopped. ‘I told the bailiffs to guard the shop.'

‘They have one man on the front, but there's a back stair.'

The coroner shook his head in anger.

‘Do you think this Piers was involved in the murder?'

‘I'm sure he wasn't,' John told him. ‘But I think he probably has more to tell. If I can find out where he came from …'

‘Yes, yes.' He waved his hand. ‘This whole business has become too big, Carpenter. I need it taken care of quickly. If you don't think you can do that, say so now.'

‘I don't know, Master,' he answered honestly. Katherine would be happy if he turned his back on the whole affair. He could return to what he loved, the thing he did well.

But if he didn't look into these killings, who would? Some innocent might end up dangling from the noose. Piers, perhaps. And the real killer would walk free, laughing behind his hand. Could he let that happen and still live with himself?

‘I'll try.' It was all he could promise. ‘But I'll need more authority than I have now. Who holds Bakewell for the King?' The town where Stephen lived.

‘Sir Alexander de Sèvres.'

‘The same man who has Dronfield?'

‘He has plenty of land around here, more's the pity.' The coroner grimaced. ‘He spends all his time in London trying to curry favour with the crown and his stewards milk the manors. Someone local should have them.'

‘I'll need a letter from you giving me some power.'

‘Fine,' de Harville agreed after a moment's thought. ‘I'll have Robert write one. If anyone gives you a problem, remind them I'm the
King's
coroner.'