The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  All John could do was shake his head. He glanced around the solar. A glazed window, the catch closed. A small chest for clothes stood in the corner, a night pot on the floor, still partly filled.

  In spite of the heat, there was a thick cover on the bed, a sheet and heavy, rough blanket. Not too unusual, he thought; old bones loved the warmth and loathed the chill. He approached Timothy’s body again. Pulling back the covers revealed little. A man’s thin legs, most of the hair gone from them, the flesh very pale. Tenderly, he lifted the head from a pillow made of soft down.

  His fingers could feel it immediately. A lump at the back of the skull. John’s fingers parted the hair, concentrating as he examined, working his way along slowly. It must have been a heavy blow. The skin wasn’t broken, but it had certainly been enough to kill an old man.

  He stood back once more, thinking rapidly. The position of the blow … Timothy couldn’t have been sitting in bed at the time. Someone had taken the time to arrange him there, to try and make it look as if age had taken him.

  ‘Well?’ the coroner demanded.

  ‘Someone murdered him,’ John said finally. He began to walk around the solar, searching for the weapon. But there was nothing likely in the sparse room. ‘How did you even discover he was dead?’ he wondered.

  ‘Timothy owned three houses in Chesterfield,’ Robert replied. ‘One of his tenants came to see him. When no one answered the door, he tried the handle. It wasn’t locked. He came up here. As soon as he saw Timothy he called for the Master–’ he nodded at de Harville ‘–and we arrived and pronounced him dead. When the servant didn’t return, we raised the hue and cry.’

  Simple enough, John thought, and obvious.

  ‘How long had the servant been with him?’

  ‘Since I was a boy, at least,’ de Harville snapped. ‘God’s balls, Carpenter, the man must have killed him and run off. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘But why now? If he’d been here for years …’

  ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘Does it matter? We’ll find that out when we catch him. That’s what I want you to do.’ The coroner walked to the window and stared down at the street. The town was coming alive, the sound of voices, the grate of a cart’s wheels as it passed.

  ‘What do you know about the servant?’ John asked the monk.

  ‘Very little,’ he replied after a moment’s reflection. ‘Nicholas has worked for Timothy as long as anyone can remember. You must have seen him.’

  John nodded. It was hard to imagine him as a killer. Especially one that seemed so calculating. Who could tell what lay deep in another’s mind? Maybe Timothy was a bad master and he’d finally had enough. His anger had risen and he’d committed murder. He wouldn’t be the first.

  Then he stopped and wondered again. If this had been born from years of anger and resentment, would Nicholas have been satisfied with a single blow? And would he have taken the time to arrange Timothy in bed so carefully that it looked as if he’d died while sleeping? That was hard to believe.

  ‘Well, Carpenter?’ the corner asked. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, Master,’ he answered honestly and heard a frustrated sigh.

  ‘No ideas?’ he asked mockingly. ‘I expected more from you.’

  John was about to reply when they heard the tentative footsteps downstairs, moving around slowly then climbing the stairs to the solar. They stood quietly, looking from one to the other.

  He knew the face that emerged into the light. He saw it each Sunday, conducting the service at St Mary’s Church. Father Geoffrey. A man who spoke his Latin with painful slowness, his voice hardly louder than the mutterings and gossip that formed a constant murmur during the service.

  The priest had dark hair that grew wildly from his scalp, streaked with grey here and there, and eyes that seemed to peer like an owl, as if he wasn’t quite certain what he was seeing. His surplice was simple, as clean as anything could be in Chesterfield, no more than a few stains on the dark cloth. There was no sense of wealth and riches about him, not like the churchmen John used to see every day when he lived in York.

  ‘God’s blessing, Father,’ de Harville said, and the priest looked around, taken by surprise.

  ‘God’s blessing on you, too, sir,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘Brother,’ he added with a small nod before turning his gaze on John. ‘God’s grace on you too, my son.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘What brings you here?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘When I came home last night, they said that poor Timothy was dead.’ He crossed himself as he stared at the body. ‘They told me you’ve raised the hue and cry for Nicholas.’ He glanced at the corpse. ‘His death looks peaceful enough.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you see,’ de Harville said smugly. ‘Right, Carpenter?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘You mean someone killed him?’ Geoffrey sounded shocked.

  ‘The servant. He’s run off.’

  ‘Did he …’ Geoffrey began, then gave a small, urgent cough. ‘Have you seen the psalter?’

  ‘Psalter?’ John asked.

  ‘It’s a book of psalms,’ Brother Robert explained, then looked at Geoffrey. ‘I didn’t know Timothy owned one.’

  ‘He did,’ the priest replied seriously. His eyes seemed to shine. ‘He showed it to me. Such beautiful illustrations, and all bound in leather. He promised it to the church when he died. It’s been in his family for generations but he had no one to leave it to.’

  ‘Where did he keep it?’ John asked.

  ‘In the chest. After he showed it to me, he had me put it back. It caused him so much pain to move.’

  John was on his knees, lifting the lid, hands scrambling around inside the chest. A few clothes, all of them old and the worse for wear. Some ancient, cracked rolls of vellum. But no book.

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘Well, now we know who took it and why he killed his master,’ the coroner said triumphantly.

  ‘Nicholas …’ Father Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I find it hard to believe. He always seemed like such a loyal man.’

  ‘Loyalty’s only worth the pennies it’s paid,’ de Harville told him.

  ‘Did you come to see Timothy often, Father?’ John asked.

  ‘Every week. I gave him communion and heard his confession. I doubt he’d been out of the solar in more than a year. He couldn’t manage the stairs, you see. His legs weren’t strong enough to support him.’

  ‘How was his mind?’

  ‘As clear as ever. It was just his body that betrayed him.’ Geoffrey shook his head sadly. ‘He was waiting up here for death.’

  But not in the way it happened, John thought. Not so violent. He looked around once more. No weapon, not even a sign that there’d been a struggle. Just the corpse in the bed. Someone had taken time here. No fear, no panic. And the psalter missing …

  ‘The psalter?’ he asked. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘It’s about as big as a man’s hand,’ the priest said after a moment’s thought. ‘Easy enough to hide in a scrip or a pack, I suppose.’

  ‘What about money? Did Timothy keep a purse?’

  ‘Under the bed,’ the priest told him.

  On his hands and knees again, John searched. There was only the dust on the wooden boards.

  ‘Have we finished here?’ de Harville interrupted.

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Good.’ The coroner moved to the stairs. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Come on, Robert, we have business.’ And to the priest: ‘I’ll leave you to take care of the body.’

  There was nothing more to learn in the room. John knew what had killed Timothy and very likely who’d done it. Even why. All that remained was to find Nicholas, and that shouldn’t be too difficult. Where would an old man go? With a nod to the priest he made his farewell.

  But he didn’t leave the house. Not yet. John prowled around the hall, pulling back the shutters to let in the day. A settl
e, a table and chairs, plate worth good money on display, the expensive tapestries, all of it covered with a layer of dust. And behind the hall, the buttery. Bread, cheese, oats to make oatcakes. Two flagons of ale. Off to the side was Nicholas’s room. It was as spare as his master’s, nothing more than a bed and a small chest that held a shirt and a pair of well-darned hose. Odd, he thought. If Nicholas had run, he’d surely have taken those. Burrowing further down, he found a small purse of coins. Stranger still. Why would he leave that?

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.’