‘Nothing bad is going to happen to us,’ he promised, and hoped he wasn’t tempting fate with his words.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘What did you manage to find out about Stephen and the other men?’ John asked. He leaned against the wall, staring out over the marketplace. It was still early, the light rising in the east as men moved around quickly, setting up their stalls.
‘Stephen comes here often,’ Walter replied. His voice was serious as he concentrated on what he’d learned. ‘He sells salt to the bakers and the shops here.’
‘How regularly does he come to Chesterfield?’
‘About every fortnight. That’s what I was told.’
A butcher might well need salt to keep his meat. His contact with Julian could be innocent. From the look of Stephen’s house in Bakewell he didn’t live extravagantly. Someone who once had money and lost it, Roger had said.
‘What else?’
‘He’s done business with Julian for years. Edward the Butcher was a customer of his, too. Most of them in the Shambles seem to buy from him.’
‘How did you hear all this?’ John asked with a smile.
‘I asked,’ Walter answered with a shrug and blushed. ‘It’s easier down there now that Edward and Julian have gone.’
‘Were you able to find anything about the other men?’
‘No.’ The boy lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry, John, but no one seemed to know them.’
‘That’s fine. You tried.’ He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we’ll get something from the cookshop.’
The two mystery men, he thought as he ate the warm oatcakes with butter. Nobody seemed to know anything about them, as if they hadn’t really existed. Maybe they weren’t even involved; coincidences did happen.
He sighed. This was all too complicated. Little trails that seemed to lead nowhere, or to dead bodies. Timothy, Nicholas, Edward, Gilbert, Julian. Why, he wondered? Did it all start with someone seeing Timothy as an easy victim? Or was there more behind it? And where did the psalter enter into it all?
John wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. The day had started off quite cool, refreshing, and hazy clouds filled the sky.
‘I need to talk to the priest,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
The indecision was plain on the lad’s face.
‘I can’t, John. I need to run messages today. The horse traders are coming to the market. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ he assured Walter. ‘Go and do your work. If I discover anything interesting I’ll tell you later.’
‘Yes, John.’ The boy grinned broadly and scampered off, long legs raising dust.
The priest. But there was another place to visit first.
• • •
Edmund the Shoemaker was sitting on his stool, a shoe half-sewn in front of him. As John entered he looked up, his face breaking into a smile.
‘Master! I was wondering when you’d come.’ He turned, fumbling along the shelf for a pair of boots and rubbing the dust off the leather with his sleeve. ‘Try them on and tell me if they’re not the most comfortable you’ve ever worn.’
John slipped off the old, worn shoes, flexing his toes before pulling on the boots. They felt supple, snug without being tight. He took a few tentative steps. The sole was firm but bent freely. Sitting down again, he pulled them off, turning them in his hands and examining them.
‘You won’t find better boots anywhere, Master,’ the shoemaker told him hopefully. ‘You ask anyone in town, they’ll tell you I’m the best.’
He put them on his feet again and paced around the shop. They’d need to be broken in, of course, but that should be easy enough. Finally he nodded his satisfaction.
‘I’ll take them,’ he said and heard the man’s sigh of relief. ‘Can you mend these?’ He put the old pair on the trestle. Edmund looked at them.
‘I can, Master. They’ll never be as strong as they were, but they’ll hold for a long time yet.’ He grinned. ‘As second-best, of course.’
His feet felt light as he walked up Soutergate. Each step felt like a pleasure. The shoemaker was good at his craft. He kept glancing down to admire the boots. Maybe he’d have no regrets about spending the money, after all.
Men were working in the churchyard. The tiles on the spire reached almost to the peak now; the work would be finished very soon. Labourers were packing up, putting materials into piles and wooden boxes. All the chores that accompanied the end of a job. It was always the hardest time, knowing it would be over soon, then being paid off and wondering where to go next. He remembered that all too well, glad those days were all in the past.
Chesterfield would miss the men, too. The alehouses would do less business, landlords would have empty beds and no one coming to fill them.
In the church his heels clicked over the tiles as he made his way to the vestry, knocking on the door then opening it. Father Geoffrey was there, his head bent in prayer, holding up a finger; wait until he was done.
His lips moved quickly and silently, then he crossed himself and sat back.
‘Good morning, my son.’ His face became quizzical. ‘I saw you at Timothy’s house, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, Father. I’m John the Carpenter. I work with the coroner.’
‘I remember now. Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, my son?’
‘It’s about the psalter that was stolen,’ he asked as he settled on the low joint stool. ‘You said Timothy had shown it to you.’
‘Yes.’ The priest nodded. ‘And he promised it to the church as he had no heirs.’
‘How valuable is it?’
‘Valuable?’ Geoffrey spoke the word as if it surprised him. ‘Well, it’s beautifully illuminated and carefully lettered. I don’t know how old it is, but Timothy said it had belonged to his grandfather and maybe further back than that. So it might be worth a good sum if anyone was willing to pay.’
‘And would people pay to own it?’
‘Oh yes,’ the priest replied without hesitation. ‘It’s beautiful and it’s holy.’
‘Who’d buy it, Father?’
‘Rich families.’ He paused, thinking, fingers stroking the stole around his neck. ‘Maybe a church or an abbey, if they had money. But I hope they’d want to know where it came from.’
John nodded. But they both knew that many places would ask few questions if they truly wanted something, whether it was a relic or a book.
‘Was there anything on the cover?’
‘A cross in gilt. It was the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.’ He shook his head to clear the reverie. ‘Do you read?’
‘No.’
‘I do.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘Not very well. But the psalms were beautifully written, and the drawings looked just like life. When Timothy said he wanted us to have it I had to hold my breath and make sure I’d heard him properly. It would have been a very generous gift. Do you think you’ll find it?’ he asked bleakly.
‘I’m trying, Father. But this is a very tangled web. And too many have died.’
‘May God help you in your search.’
‘I need all the aid I can get,’ John told him and stood. ‘I don’t even know what’s going on.’
It was the truth, he thought as he wandered out into the fresh air. The trees in the churchyard cast welcome shade. A group of labourers were gathered under an oak, drinking cups of ale. For a moment he wished he was one of them, enjoying the company. But there were no faces he recognised and they paid him no attention as he walked to the lych gate.
These murders made his head ache. Last time had been straightforward. This … it was as if someone had set a puzzle, one that wound and twisted around itself until it was impossible to see ahead.
He’d barely started up Saltergate when someone called his name. Turning, he saw one of the bailiffs.
‘What is it?’
‘The coroner, Master,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He wants to see you.’
‘Why?’
Please God, not another murder. ‘Where?’
The bailiff bent, hands resting on his knees, his face ruddy.
‘At his house, Master. As soon as you can.’
He didn’t wait for the other man but strode along Knifesmithgate to the High Street, his fist coming down heavily on de Harville’s door. As soon as the servant saw him, she ushered him through to the hall.
The coroner was there, a thin surcote of brilliant blue over his shirt, one hand stroking his chin. Robert had his desk open, quill poised over a piece of parchment. And there was another man standing, his face set in determination.
He looked to be close to forty, the lines of age like a map on his face. His hair was short, the colour of iron, a beard cut close against his cheeks. He looked like a man used to being obeyed, his body relaxed, his hands resting on his belt. Expensively dressed, with good riding boots, fine woollen hose, and a nicely worked velvet jerkin.
‘Well, Carpenter,’ de Harville said with amusement, ‘there’s someone I want you to meet. Ralph of York.’ The man gave a small bow. ‘He arrived here an hour ago. He claims to be a relative of Timothy.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘I don’t claim to be a relative. I am a relative.’ His voice was gruff, a man who didn’t brook any argument.
‘How are you related, Master?’ John asked pleasantly.
‘His mother was my grandmother’s sister.’
A cousin of some sort, he thought.
‘How did you hear he was dead?’ York was a long way off.
‘I was drinking in the York Tavern and I heard a carter talking about it.’ He shrugged. ‘I asked him some questions, then I came down here.’
John knew the York Tavern. In St Helen’s Square, close enough to the Minster. He’d drunk in there a few times when he lived in the city.
But he wondered at Ralph’s presence. No one had mentioned that Timothy had any relatives. Certainly they couldn’t have been close.
‘When did you last see Timothy?’
‘I was a young man. I was remiss. I became busy with work and my own family.’
‘What’s your work, Master?’ he asked genially.
‘I’m a merchant. Goods to and from the Lowlands. Some wool, some cloth.’
‘You haven’t seen Timothy in many years but you still felt the need to dash down here?’ the coroner asked.
‘He’s a relative. He deserves that.’
De Harville raised his eyebrows. ‘And it wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that he had money you might inherit?’
‘I have money!’ Ralph protested.
‘You have clothes and an arrogant manner. Were you hoping you’d be in his will?’
The man raised his head. ‘I’m his only relative.’
The coroner turned to the monk.
‘Does Lawyer Henry have the will?’
‘No, Master,’ Robert nodded. ‘He says there’s a will lodged in Derby, though.’
‘Do we know what’s in it? Is Ralph of York mentioned at all?’
‘No, Master, no word on it yet.’
‘If I’m not mentioned I’ll challenge it in court,’ Ralph said. There was anger in his eyes.
‘You do that,’ the coroner advised. ‘Give the lawyers all your money and after five years get nothing in return.’ He raised a goblet of wine in a toast. ‘I wish you well of your adventure. If you want to pay your respects to Timothy, you’ll find him in the graveyard.’
He stared at Ralph until the man had to look away, stalking out of the room and slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.
‘A plague on him,’ de Harville grunted. ‘Well, Carpenter, what do you make of our claimant?’
John shrugged.
‘He might be real enough,’ he said. Who could tell?
‘He made it up or just hoped it was that way,’ the coroner said dismissively.
‘It’s possible.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What are you doing about Christian, Master?’
‘The monk told me I need to be diplomatic.’ He shot Robert a dark look. ‘I’ve sent a letter to the lord of his manor saying I need to question him.’
‘I thought Sir Alexander spent all his time in London.’
‘He does.’
‘It could take weeks before you hear anything.’
The coroner smiled. ‘I know, and justice won’t wait that long. I’ll bring Christian here on Monday.’
‘Send three or four men. He won’t want to come easily.’ He thought a moment. ‘But I doubt there’s anyone in Dronfield who’ll help him. He’s not well-liked there.’
‘I’ll tell you when he’s here.’
• • •
He was glad to be home. He hadn’t gone far, hadn’t even done much, but it seemed as if the day had disappeared around him in a welter of words. The only thing that seemed real from it all was the new pair of boots. He wriggled his toes. These would be worth the money.
Katherine was sitting on a stool in the garden, supervising the girls as they tugged weeds from the rows of plants.
‘Not that one,’ she told Eleanor. ‘That’s not a weed.’
They were making a game of it, seeing who could pull the most. He watched for a moment, then bent and kissed his wife’s forehead. The kitten was asleep in her lap. Her face seemed drawn, her eyes weary.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘I’m just tired. These two have been running me ragged today.’
‘Go and sleep. I’ll look after them.’
She took his hand. ‘There’s too much to do.’
It was natural for a woman with child to be tired; Dame Martha had told him that. She’d given him so many instructions that his head reeled from them all. Treat her gently, but not like she might break. Make sure she rested. Comfort her.
‘You’re going to be good to her,’ Martha told him, ‘or you’ll answer to me. I’ve seen too many men heedless of their wives. You’re not going to be that way.’
Her eyes had flashed as she spoke. All he felt was fear of all the things that could happen. The way the baby could die, before or after the birth. How fragile life could be for mother and child.
Since she’d told him, the worry had never vanished. It lay there, at the bottom of his mind, peering up at times. Whenever she seemed tired the warnings all flooded back into his head.
‘Rest,’ he told Katherine. He was going to look after her, as well as he could.
After a small hesitation she nodded. He helped her up, watching until she was in the house. Then he turned to Eleanor and Janette.
‘All the traders will be taking down their stalls at the market. Do you want to go and watch?’
‘Yes!’ Janette shouted.
‘You have to promise not to run off.’
Solemnly they both agreed and holding them both by the hand, he led the way to the marketplace.
In the distance he spotted Walter, deep in conversation with a man putting his goods into packs while a donkey stood patiently waiting. The boy knew so many people. It still surprised him.
He took the girls around, pointing out this and that, buying each of them a pastry covered with marchpane. A little luxury. Let them feel spoilt for once; once the baby arrived they’d have less attention. They giggled as they ate, wrapping a few crumbs in a handkerchief to take home for the kitten.
The three of them wandered for an hour, walking out past West Bar, then up the hill and home along Saltergate. He glanced up at Timothy’s house. Someone had closed the shutters; already the place looked uninhabited and neglected.
At home he cautioned them to be quiet, to find the cat and feed it. He walked lightly up the stairs, peering into the solar to see Katherine stretched out sleeping. There was a smile on her face, long hair spread over the pillow. She looked so gentle, so peaceful that the sight of her filled his heart. He could have stayed there for a long time, simply watching her.
• • •
The girls were in bed, the giggling growing
more sporadic as they settled down. Every night it was the same. Katherine was preparing the dough for tomorrow’s bread.
He sat at the table with Walter. The lad had been quiet for a long time, but he was fidgeting a lot. There was something he wanted to say, John could tell, and he waited patiently until the boy was ready to speak.
‘John,’ he said finally.
‘What is it?’ he asked kindly.
‘The two men you were looking for …’
Julian’s mystery visitors. ‘Do you know who they are?’ he asked with sudden urgency.
‘I was talking to someone today who thinks he recognised them.’
‘Go on.’
‘He saw them the day Julian died.’
Now he was interested. ‘The person you talked to, who is he?’
‘He used to live in Lincoln. He’d seen the men down there. They work for the bishop.’
That was news worth knowing. But what would bishop’s men be doing in Chesterfield?
‘Is he sure?’
Walter nodded. ‘Yes, John, he is.’
‘Does he know their names?’
‘No, John.’
‘You’ve done well,’ he said with a smile. ‘Thank you.’
Walter had kept at it. He’d persisted, asking his questions and eventually discovering a few answers. It was more than he’d found himself.
But what did it mean? Why would a pair of bishop’s men be visiting someone as unholy as Julian? There was only one reason he could imagine: to buy the psalter. Would they kill to have it, though?
He hoped not, but a part of him knew better than that. People could be ruthless to own the things they wanted. And the money saved could line their own pockets. Yet that still didn’t explain Stephen the salt merchant.
Too many names. Too many people. Too much death.
There was a chain that linked them all. It began with Timothy, killed in his bed. Nicholas was not guilty of any crime, though. He was as much a victim as his master. Edward the Butcher and his friend Gilbert. They’d committed the first two murders. He was as certain of that as he could be. And now they were dead, too.
Everything pointed to Julian as their executioner. Maybe he really had been. But there were also parts of the picture still hidden from sight.
The Saltergate Psalter Page 13
