He’d heard nothing more from the coroner. Good. Better to let those deaths disappear out of memory.
• • •
On Sunday they processed to church. The sky was a crisp, pale blue, curlews on the wing in the distance. Summer warmth was in the air, and just enough of a breeze to take the sting from the heat. Dame Martha, dressed in good sarcenet, paused to breathe deep, smiling as she took in the scents.
Only two other plague cases during the week, and both of those had been down by the river, close to the fulling mill and its foul air. Nothing in the last three days. For the first time in weeks John let himself believe that the worst might have passed, that they could really have escaped so lightly. He still glanced over his shoulder as he walked and kept his hand close to the hilt of his knife. But each morning the fear was a little less.
Katherine had her arm through his, the girls holding on to Juliana as she toddled slowly, raising her eyes to try to see the top of the spire. What was she thinking as she saw it, he wondered. How high did it seem to her? Did it reach all the way to heaven in her mind?
De Harville’s wife stood in the churchyard after the service, looking frail and nervous. The servant was already on her way home, keeping tight hold of the boy’s hand.
As John emerged, drinking in the air, she approached him cautiously and he realised he hadn’t seen the coroner at the service.
‘Master?’ she asked. ‘You’re John the Carpenter, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ Surely she knew that by now. She’d seen him with her husband, he’d been to her house often enough. Her skin was so pale it almost shone, hair gathered close under a wimple. But there were deep shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept.
Katherine came up to them with Juliana in her arms. The little girl’s face was red and blotchy from the heat inside the church.
‘Mistress,’ she said, and made a small curtsey.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me,’ the coroner’s wife said. ‘I need to speak to your husband for a moment.’
‘Of course.’ Katherine reached out and squeezed his arm, then walked away, the girls trailing behind her.
‘You have a full family, Master.’
He tried to read her face but all he could see was terror.
‘Has something happened?’
She nodded and he saw a tear roll down her cheek.
‘What is it, Mistress?’
‘These deaths,’ she began. Words failed her for a moment. He saw her building the courage to say more. ‘My husband won’t leave them be. He received a message yesterday. Someone claimed to have information. He wanted to meet.’
‘Did the coroner go?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out in a short, sad breath. ‘Before dusk. He hasn’t come home.’
‘Where were they meeting?’ he asked. The skin prickled on his arms.
‘He didn’t tell me. But he rode there.’
By itself that didn’t mean much; the man liked to ride almost everywhere.
‘Do you still have the note?’
She shook her head. ‘He put it in his scrip.’ Her eyes cast down, she said: ‘I’m scared. I have no right to ask, Master, but would you look for him? Please. I know he put faith in what you could do. Please, Master.’
How could he refuse her when she was so desperate? But where could he even begin?
‘I’ll try,’ he answered.
‘Thank you.’ She began to walk away, still staring at the ground. After a few paces, she turned. ‘Whatever you need. Money, a horse, just tell me and it’s yours.’
• • •
For once Katherine didn’t try to stop him.
‘Go,’ she urged. ‘This time you have to.’
‘I will.’ But where could he go? Where could he look? He could take a fair guess what had happened. Was he going to find the man’s corpse?
Walter was waiting at the door. ‘Can I help, John?’
‘Yes. Come on. Let’s go and find him.’
The head of the bailiffs was in his office at the Guildhall by the market square. He listened carefully.
‘Aye, I’ll get them out and looking.’
‘The places where we found the first two bodies.’ John paused for a second. ‘And try the salter’s house, too.’
That meeting could have taken place anywhere. But John knew who’d sent the note: the two armed men who’d taken him by surprise and delivered their warning. The killers. It had to be the reason de Harville hadn’t returned. Was the man that stupid? Or did he truly believe his small rank was a shield?
He began to walk out along Beetwell Street, where the houses jettied up, storey upon storey, then down Soutergate and across the bridge over the Hipper.
They’d want somewhere secluded. But there were so many choices outside Chesterfield. Somewhere the men knew, where they’d walked the land and knew where to hide. Nowhere was better than the place Richard the Salter’s body had been discovered, where the men had taken him down. Quiet, out of sight of the road and any travellers.
‘Where are we going, John?’ Walter asked.
‘Where I was attacked.’ Even as he said the word he could feel the grip of panic in his throat. ‘We need to be very quiet. Don’t say a word unless you have to. And stay off the track. We’ll approach from the far side of the copse.’ He drew his knife, knowing that if he needed to use it he was already dead, fighting against men who killed for their living.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
He tried not to make a sound, watching the ground before each pace to be certain he wouldn’t break a twig. His head throbbed and he could feel his heart thumping. Walter was somewhere to his right, moving as silently as a cat.
Here and there the long grass had been flattened. What did that mean? Did it signify anything at all? John stopped and listened, straining for the smallest noise. But there was nothing beyond the call of birds and the soft snuffling of creatures in the undergrowth.
Would they kill de Harville? The death of a King’s Coroner would bring attention. Surely they’d want to avoid that? They’d let a carpenter live, but he was nothing. They’d murdered men who’d been far more important. Men who’d been allowed to walk away from their pasts. History had caught up with them.
He was close to the edge of the trees now, able to make out the clearing. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Crouching, he took a couple of paces until he was behind a tree trunk. The clearing was empty.
No, it wasn’t. Light glinted on something. Metal, shining as the sun caught it.
John froze. It could be a trap, something to lure them in. A little time passed. No movement, no noise. Knife drawn, looking all around, he walked very quietly out into the open ground.
It was a sword. Next to it, a scabbard. De Harville’s; he recognised the design in the worn leather. He’d never leave it behind. This was what – a hint? A warning? He picked them up and sheathed the weapon. Whoever put it here had to be long gone.
This was their way of saying they had the coroner. Still alive, too. The body would have been left here otherwise.
He heard a soft rustle and turned, knife at the ready. But it was only Walter, shaking his head. He held his slingshot in one hand, two or three stones in the other. His weapon, and he was good with it. Fast and accurate.
‘They have de Harville.’
He couldn’t be too far away, John reasoned. Everything in this revolved around Chesterfield for some reason. They’d stay close.
‘We might as well go back,’ he continued. ‘There won’t be anything else to find here.’
These men were too good, too clever to forget anything, to leave any clue.
It felt like a long walk back to the road. At the end of the track John stopped.
‘You go on ahead,’ he told the lad. ‘I’m going to see if they know anything at the leper colony.’
‘I can come with you, John.’
‘Are you sure?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘If you’re not
scared of them, I’m not, either.’
He laughed. Walter looked so serious, so intent. ‘Come on then.’
The leper by the gate rattled a cup.
‘Alms, Masters, for the love of God.’
Cowled and hidden, he couldn’t tell if it was Alison. He gave a coin and received the blessing, then opened the gate.
The priest was in the small stone church that smelt of incense and tallow wax. The floor was beaten earth, the windows unglazed.
‘I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, my son.’
‘I didn’t think I’d come back, Father. This is my wife’s brother, Walter.’ In a few sentences he explained what had happened. ‘I need to know if any of the lepers saw anything.’
‘Last night?’ the priest said doubtfully. ‘We close the gates at seven. No one goes in or out after that.’
‘No one?’ People would always find their ways if they wanted.
‘No.’ His voice was firm. ‘It’s one of our rules. I can ask, if you wish, but I don’t think they can help.’
‘Please do,’ John said. ‘It’s important. The coroner’s life might depend on it.’
‘Wait here.’
It was almost half an hour before he returned. John examined the wood. Quick carvings, cheap work. But what should he expect in a place like this? Joints were loose and uneven. A doorway slightly askew. Another few years and this place would tumble to the ground.
‘I’m sorry,’ the priest said breathlessly. There was a hint of triumph in his voice.
‘Thank you, Father.’ He’d hoped for luck, but God hadn’t been that generous.
A figure waited by the gate. Impossible to tell if it was man or woman until the creature spoke.
‘I heard something last night, Master.’
Alison. He glanced at Walter; the boy didn’t seem wary or fearful.
‘What did you hear?’
‘People riding. They went off the road, along the track to the clearing.’
‘When was this?’
‘Not too long after dark.’
‘How many horses?’
‘Three, I think,’ she said after a small hesitation. ‘Two came first, then another a few minutes later.’
So that was the meeting place, where they’d wanted the coroner to come. As he’d thought.
‘Did you see them?’
‘I didn’t look, Master.’
‘Did you hear them leave?’
‘No, Master.’
But it was enough, a confirmation. He drew a coin from his scrip ready to give to her.
‘Please, Master,’ she said. Her misshapen hand appeared from the sleeve and he dropped the money into her palm.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
• • •
The head bailiff sat in his room at the Guildhall. He gazed up expectantly as John entered.
‘Any sign?’ the carpenter asked.
‘Aye, Master. The coroner’s horse was tethered by the spot on Tapton where we discovered the steward’s body. And we found his cloak inside the house near Holywell where we found Crispin.’
John held up the sword and scabbard.
‘This is from the clearing where they left the salter’s body. He met them there. What have you done with the other things?’
‘Took them to his house. Where do you want us to look now?’
Where? He was still thinking when Alfred and another of the bailiffs came in from the jakes, still tying their braies.
‘Gather everyone here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back very soon. Bring anyone else who’s willing to search.’
Outside, he turned to Walter. ‘Go and tell Katherine what’s happened. See if she or Dame Martha have any ideas for places to search.’
‘Yes, John. Where are you going?’
He looked across the market square to the High Street. ‘I’m going to talk to the coroner’s wife.’
• • •
He placed the sword and scabbard on the table. The neatly folded cloak lay next to it. De Harville’s horse was in the stable.
‘Where is he?’ The woman asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘No, Mistress. I wish I did.’
She seemed to be in complete control of herself, not allowing her face to betray any of her feelings. But inside, he knew her heart would be shrieking. Her fingertips traced the pattern on the leather scabbard.
‘Is he alive?’
‘Yes, I believe he is.’ If they murdered the coroner then they carried even more power than he thought; they were untouchable.
‘Can you find him?’
‘I’m trying, Mistress. The bailiffs have been looking—’
She cut him off. ‘I don’t care about them. I need you. He’s always said you have a gift for it.’
John reddened. ‘With God’s blessing we’ll bring him home. But at the moment I don’t know where else to search.’
She thought for a moment. ‘He likes to ride on the far side of the Hipper, upstream.’ She paused and cocked her head. ‘Of course, he doesn’t have a horse right now, does he?’
It seemed like a strange thing for her to say. But he simply replied: ‘No, Mistress.’
‘Bring him home to me,’ she begged. ‘Please.’
• • •
All six of the bailiffs were at the Guildhall. A dozen other men had gathered. He knew them all by sight, some to talk to in the marketplace or the alehouse. Walter waited at the back of the room.
‘Two men have taken the coroner,’ John began. He stared into hard faces, heard the murmuring and the shifting of feet. ‘I need you to search in groups of three.’
‘Will we find him alive?’ someone called.
‘I hope so,’ John answered quietly. ‘We should all pray for that.’
That was enough to quieten them. He gave out the tasks – by the Brampton road, out towards Newbold, others in the direction of Whittington, some following the track out to Bolsover. They’d meet back here at dusk.
Finally, the only one remaining was Walter.
‘Come on,’ John told him. ‘We’re crossing the river again.’ To where the coroner liked to ride. It was as good a guess as any other. Maybe God would listen to some prayers for once.
• • •
Something had come along here. There was a thin track of dry earth as wide as a man’s feet, but the grass on either side had been crushed down. In one spot where damp wallowed up he could make out the print of a horseshoe.
They pressed on. John kept the dagger in his hand, ready for the worst. Walter had his slingshot and pebbles.
A fallow field, empty, only dry earth that showed nothing to give them direction.
‘Which way now, John?’
‘Straight,’ he decided. ‘We’ll follow the river and see what happens.’ If he didn’t spot any signs they’d go back and around the field. The riders had gone somewhere, they hadn’t vanished off the face of the earth.
There it was. Tall grasses bent and trodden down. He picked up his pace, with Walter keeping step. No talking, eyes on the ground. The river curled around a point. He followed the track until he came to a clearing and stopped at the edge, raising his hand.
De Harville was there, tied firmly to a tree, eyes blindfolded, a piece of dirty linen stuffed into his mouth as a gag. Was this the luck he’d asked for, or did his wife see things? The coroner’s head lolled. Jesu, was he alive?
John stood, watching, listening very closely. This might be a trap; the men could have their horses hobbled somewhere out of sight. They would be hidden and waiting. It was an ideal spot, and these were men with patience and experience.
‘Slip back and around,’ he whispered to Walter. ‘A hundred yards or so.’ He waited until the lad nodded. ‘Then I want you to fire a couple of stones from the shot. Aim them towards the clearing. Hit some trees.’
Walter nodded again and vanished noiselessly into the undergrowth. John stayed still in the cover of a bush. Wait, he thought; another few minutes won’t matter
either way to the coroner.
Finally came the short crack of stone on wood. Once, twice, three times. He tensed, ready to spot any movement, but there was only a flutter of wings as startled birds rose from the branches. He stood a little longer, then edged along the outside of the clearing until he was behind de Harville.
He counted off the moments. Ten, twenty of them, and then he eased forward into the light, slicing through the ropes that fastened the coroner to the tree. The man collapsed in a heap. Dear God, let him still be alive. He worked the gag out of de Harville’s mouth and heard him draw in a sharp breath. Good. John pulled off the blindfold.
The coroner opened his eyes then closed them again. He hadn’t moved. But there was no sign of blood on his body. John let out a low whistle. Soon enough Walter was there.
‘Help me with him. Let’s sit him up, put his back against the tree.’
He fetched water from the river, rubbing it on the man’s face to rouse him, letting a few drops sprinkle on his tongue. The man lapped at them eagerly.
‘More,’ John ordered, and Walter raced down to the bank.
No words, no questions yet. De Harville was alive but he was drained. There were bruises on his face and he winced as John felt his skull.
‘Run back to town,’ he told Walter. ‘Tell whoever you can find. We’re going to need a cart out here to take him home.’
• • •
Just the pair of them. The eternal burble of the river, the sound of birdsong high in the trees. The warmth of the sun. On any other day this might have seemed like perfect peace.
He waited, squatting on his heels, carefully watching the coroner’s face. There was a thick knot at the back of his head, a match for John’s. The man drowsed on. Better for him that way. A few times he began to stir, then settled once more. He didn’t seem to be injured, but he’d been out here for a night; God alone knew what had happened to him. Rest was the best medicine now; the tale could wait.
De Harville came to just as John heard the faint rumble of cart wheels in the distance.
‘What?’ He blinked in surprise. His voice was thick and awkward in his mouth. ‘Carpenter?’
‘I’m here, Master.’
The coroner gazed around, blinking his eyes and trying to make sense of everything.
The Holywell Dead Page 10
