The Saltergate Psalter (3 page)

The door at the back of the house was unlocked. He walked out into an ordered garden. Apple trees stood against the back wall, catching the bright morning sun. The soil was well dug and hoed, the first stirrings of plants poking through the soft earth.

The kitchen stood a few yards away, separate from the house in case of fire. Wood was stacked inside, a pan of pottage standing on the table next to a pair of clay bowls.

Against the far wall of the garden, as distant from the house as possible, lay a sprawling midden, flies buzzing noisily around it. John stood, stroking his chin. None of it made sense. Everything pointed to Nicholas as murderer and thief. But why hadn't the man taken his few possessions? They'd be easy enough to carry. And even with Timothy's purse he'd still have use for the coins in his chest.

The hoe was resting against the stone wall of the kitchen. He picked it up and started to poke at the midden, methodically pulling at the waste as he held his breath against the stench. It only took a few moments. The metal struck something and he carefully scraped the pile of refuse away.

He knew the empty face staring up at him. Nicholas the servant.

De Harville stood a few yards from the body and sighed.

‘God's blood, Carpenter. I bring you to help and you turn everything upside down.'

He turned away and strode quickly back towards the house.

‘He hoped this would be simple, John,' Brother Robert said sadly, staring at Nicholas. ‘What made you look there?'

‘The midden seemed too big,' was the only answer he could offer.

‘May the Lord rest his soul.' The monk made the sign of the cross. ‘Can you see what killed him?'

‘No.' He hadn't examined the body yet. Did it even matter how he'd died? Someone had murdered him and tried to hide the corpse. Surely that was enough?

The coroner was in the buttery. He'd poured himself a mug of the ale standing there. Still early and the day was already warm.

‘That boy,' he said, ‘the one you used before. Your wife's brother.'

‘Walter.' It was the first time the man had ever acknowledged that John was now married.

‘Have him work with you.'

‘He has his own jobs.'

De Harville turned, fire behind his eyes.

‘It's not a request, Carpenter,' he roared. It's an order.'

He waited before answering. It was the only resistance he could offer. He had no power.

‘Yes, Master. But he'll need to be paid.'

The coroner nodded his agreement after a moment. ‘Two pence per day. That's as high as I'll go. The crown isn't made of money.' He slammed the mug down on the counter. They could hear the soft voice of Father Geoffrey, still up in the solar as he continued to pray over Timothy's corpse. ‘Have him shrive the servant once he's done.' He shook his head in frustration. ‘Come along, monk, we have work to do.'

John watched them walk away, the brother limping slowly behind the coroner. Who could have killed Timothy and Nicholas? He had no ideas, nothing to point him in the right direction. What he needed was to learn more about Timothy. What he did, what enemies he might have made during his life.

• • •

It took a little while for Dame Martha to answer his knock. When she did, her eyes were bright, her veil brilliant white and her gown as fine as ever. But somehow she seemed a little more frail, as if she was slowly fading away. For the first time, he noticed the flesh stretched tighter over her bones and the way her skin seemed more transparent.

She'd spent her whole life in the town; few knew it as well. Here there had been joy and sorrow for her. The love of a long marriage. Time and the pestilence that had taken so many of her kin and friends. How does a life balance out, he wondered?

‘Come in, come in,' she told him, guiding him to a stool. ‘So the coroner has you looking into Timothy's death? Everyone said Nicholas did it and ran away.'

‘Then everyone's wrong,' he said and saw her astonishment. Martha loved to be able to give fresh gossip to the other goodwives in the marketplace. Now he could offer her something tasty to pass on. ‘Nicholas is dead, too. In the garden behind the house.'

‘May God give him peace,' she said without thinking, then asked, ‘What happened?'

Her eyes were full of curiosity and he told her what little he knew.

‘What I really need is to know about Timothy,' John told her. ‘And Nicholas.'

She poured ale for them both and sat, sifting through her memories.

‘Timothy was very handsome when he was young,' she began. ‘He was older than me, but I still noticed him. I think all the girls were in love with him.'

‘Were you?' She blushed slightly, but didn't reply. ‘Did he ever marry?' John asked.

She shook her head. ‘No, he never seemed interested. He rode and hunted, that was what he enjoyed. There was talk that he had someone, but it was never more than that. No one knew a name, even if it was true. He grew up in that house on Saltergate. It became his when his father died.'

‘So he had money.'

‘That goes back a long way in the family,' she told him. ‘That's what my mother always told me. Something to do with trading in wool. His father and grandfather before him. And Timothy carried it on.' She paused. ‘Until his accident, anyway.'

‘Accident?'

‘His horse threw him,' Dame Martha explained. ‘After that he couldn't walk much. He sold off his business and spent all his time in that house.' She chewed at her lower lip. ‘I doubt I've seen him more than twice in the last ten years. He had to use two sticks to get around. I think he felt ashamed to be seen like that. After he'd always been so strong and active. I know he owned a few houses around Chesterfield but I'm not sure how much he had besides that.'

‘No children anywhere?'

She shook her head again. ‘Not that I ever heard of. Not around here, anyway. He hardly seemed to notice women. He had his friends and that was all. And the pestilence took most of them.'

He swirled the ale in the mug and took another long sip.

‘How long has Nicholas been with him?'

‘Oh, it must be years and years.' Martha brought a hand to her mouth, trying to think. ‘Long before the plague, I'm certain of that. Timothy's parents died when he was about twenty. I suppose it was soon after that.' She turned to look at him. ‘I'm sorry, I wish I could tell you more.'

‘What was he like?' John asked. ‘Timothy, I mean.'

‘Pleasant enough when he was younger, I suppose. But he was always a little distant, as if he'd rather be somewhere else. He always rushed through his business to make time for his pleasure.'

‘And then his pleasure was taken from him,' John said quietly.

‘It was, God rest his soul.'

‘Have you ever heard of a book of psalms in the family?'

‘No,' she answered with a thoughtful glance. ‘Nothing like that. Why?'

He ignored her question.

‘What about Nicholas? Did you know him?'

‘Not really. You should talk to Evelyn.'

‘Evelyn? I don't think I know her.'

‘Of course you do, John.' She swatted playfully at his arm. ‘You repaired the hinge on her door back at the turn of the year. She's the one who lives over by West Bar. One of Timothy's tenants. Walks bent over. I often used to see them talking on market day.'

He remembered her now, one of Martha's friends. They stood together at the side of the church nave with the other goodwives during the Sunday service.

‘You don't miss much,' he said in admiration.

‘I like to know what's going on,' she sniffed. ‘But since you're here, there's something I wanted to ask you. What are you going to do about Janette and Eleanor?'

‘The girls?' He didn't understand. ‘What do you mean?'

‘They're very bright. They should learn to read and write.'

The thought took him aback. Reading? Writing? What would they need with that?

‘But why?' he asked.

‘Because everyone should,' she told him simply. ‘I already talked to Katherine. She agrees.'

He smiled. Even if he objected he had no chance.

‘Who'd teach them?' John asked.

‘I would,' she told him as if it was obvious. ‘Their numbers, too. I might as well be of some use in my old age.'

‘You're not so old.'

‘And you're not a good liar, John the Carpenter.' Dame Martha smiled and tapped him on the knee. ‘It's settled then.'

• • •

‘Yes, I know Nicholas,' Evelyn told him. She shook her head. ‘I can't believe he could have killed Master Timothy.'

‘He didn't,' John said.

She turned to look at him. Her face was lined with wrinkles, all her hair carefully tucked under her veil. Her wrists were like twigs, her fingers bent almost into claws by age. The years hadn't been kind to her. Her back had twisted so she could no longer straighten it, and she shuffled more than walked. But her mind appeared sharp enough.

‘That's what everyone said.'

‘Someone killed him, too.' He kept his voice low and gentle and put his hand over hers.

‘But … why would anyone do that?'

‘I don't know yet. Dame Martha says you knew Nicholas.'

‘Knew?' She considered the word. ‘We talked. I don't know if anyone
knew
him. Maybe Master Timothy did.'

‘Anything you can tell me about him will help.'

‘I don't know. He told me once that he was born in Dronfield. Nicholas never really said much about himself.' She looked around the small house. ‘What will happen to this place?'

‘What do you mean?' John asked.

‘Timothy owned this house. That's the only reason I knew Nicholas, really. He came to collect the rent every quarter day.'

‘I suppose the house will belong to whoever Timothy named in his will. Martha said he didn't have any children.'

‘No, poor man. Not for want of offers when he was young.' Her eyes drifted into memories. ‘We'd all have wed him if he'd asked. But all he wanted was horses and hunting. Hawking, too.'

‘What about Nicholas? Did he go with his master?'

‘I don't remember.' She gave a wan smile. ‘I don't have a picture of it in my mind.'

‘What other houses did Timothy own?'

‘Where Richard the Cooper lives, close by the church. And one in the Middle Shambles. Edward the Butcher.'

The Shambles, John thought. The market for meat, but also home to most of the thieves and the whores of the town. Fine during the day, perhaps, but dangerous at night. A place for an honest man to take care of his purse and his life.

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘If you think of anything else, can you send word to me?'

She nodded her agreement.

‘Martha says you're a good young man. Married now, she told me.'

‘I am,' he agreed with a smile. ‘To Katherine.'

‘I know her. God wish she's chosen well.'

He gave a small bow. ‘I hope so, too.'

• • •

The bell was striking the hour as he hurried through the streets. Ten o'clock in the morning and time for dinner. He greeted some of the people he passed, realising that he'd become a part of this place now. It was home; he'd become woven into the town's fabric. In its present and its future. Few chose to glance towards the past, and with good reason.

Back in the year of the pestilence it had seemed as if half the land was dying. In the towns where few were left alive, people seemed more ghost than human, silent and untrusting. There were villages where no one remained, the doors to the houses hanging open. In the fields the crops waited for the men who would never come to harvest them. Cattle lowed piteously, desperate to be milked. He was eight then. He could barely recall his mother, already long dead. Then his father took the sickness, going so quickly it seemed to pass in three breaths. And John was alone. All he had was the bag of tools that weighed heavy on his shoulder, and his skills with wood. The two things he'd inherited from his father. But his knowledge, his craft, was still unformed and untutored. He learned as he went. Not begging, but exchanging his services for food and a bed. Finally he became the master of it. The wood spoke to him. He could feel how it should be, what it wanted, the strengths and weaknesses of a length of timber. He travelled around the land.

And now he was here. Fourteen years after the Great Plague and Chesterfield was alive and bustling, as if nothing had ever happened. It was often kinder to forget all that had once been.

Katherine was dishing out the pottage as he walked into the hall. He'd fashioned wooden bowls for them all when he had an idle day. Simple enough work with a chisel and a few hours, but she'd been delighted by it.

He settled on the bench next to Walter, across from his wife, Janette and Eleanor on either side of her eating with the endless hunger of children.

‘A busy day?' he asked the boy.

‘It's been quiet, John.'

‘Would you like to earn some money? Tuppence a day?'

Walter's eyes shone and he smiled. ‘Does the coroner want me to work with you?'

‘He does.' From the corner of his eye he saw Katherine frown. ‘And I'd be glad to have you.'

‘People are saying that Nicholas is dead, too.'

‘He is, God rest him in peace.'

They said little more during the meal, but John could feel his wife's disapproval. She might reluctantly accept him working for de Harville, but she didn't want her younger brother doing it. It was too dangerous, too bloody.

As she collected the empty dishes she looked at him and inclined her head. He followed her into the buttery.

‘Why are you involving Walter?' she hissed angrily.

‘The coroner commanded it,' was the only answer he could offer. Not enough, he knew.