Robert shook his head. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘Dangerous.’
‘What about you, Carpenter? Did you see into their souls for me?’
‘Not yet,’ John said with a shake of his head. ‘But I think it would be worth following them while they’re here.’
‘That boy of yours?’
‘Yes.’ They’d never notice Walter. He was so far beneath them as to be invisible. He’d be safe enough.
‘Did they kill Julian?’
‘Perhaps.’ He couldn’t say more than that. They were cold enough to murder without compunction; he was sure of that, especially if it was done in the service of the bishop, with a promise of absolution at the end. ‘I’ll see Walter and set him to work. Do you need anything more from me, Master?’ He bent and hefted the leather satchel of tools on to his shoulder.
‘A word of advice,’ the coroner said. ‘A man should never be ruled by his wife. It’s not the natural order.’
He nodded his head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Outside, there was enough of a breeze to take the air from the heat of early June. If this continued, the farmers would complain. They needed warmth, but they needed rain, too.
Walter was where he spent his time when not delivering messages, squatting on his haunches with his back against a wall, gazing over the market square. He smiled as he saw John approach.
‘I have a job for you.’ He settled next to the boy. ‘Coroner’s work.’
‘Yes John.’ He smiled eagerly.
It was simple enough. And safe enough. He watched the lad pad away, then set off for Cutthorpe. The place was nothing more than a hamlet, a few miles away. But flax grew in abundance there, and looms stayed busy weaving it into linen.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The job was small, a few repairs to one of the buildings where they stored the flax after it had been harvested. Yet it could lead to more. The other buildings around were all old and beginning to topple. He’d taken time to point it all out to the steward. Flax was the manor’s wealth, it would be worth the money to keep it safe and dry.
He cut out the rotting boards, feeling the wood give under his fingertips, then adding a good six inches on either side. From there the work was simple enough. Measure and cut fresh boards of good oak that could stand the weather without warping.
There were three places around the building where the boards had to be replaced. The last one would take longest, down where the wood met the ground. He’d need to dig back the earth on both sides and put in rocks for drainage. That would wait for the morrow. He’d be able to complete all the rest today.
A servant from the hall brought him bread, cheese, and ale for his dinner. He rested in the shade of an old horse chestnut, surveying what he’d done and what he still needed to accomplish. He felt satisfied; this was the life he relished.
• • •
Dame Martha was busy setting out the trenchers of old bread when he returned to the house on Saltergate. Janette and Eleanor were kneeling on the floor, making their letters on the slates as the kitten tried to claim their attention. Already they seemed more confident, creating small words, comparing their work and laughing.
‘They’re coming along so quickly,’ Martha told him with a gentle sigh. ‘All they ever needed was someone to point them in the right direction.’
‘You’re doing that,’ he said gratefully. ‘Did you know Walter’s trying, too?’
‘Really?’ It didn’t seem to surprise her. Perhaps she really did see more in him than most.
‘I’ve seen him trying to write with a stick in the dirt.’
She shook her head in wonder. ‘He should just ask. I’d teach him.’
‘He’s too proud,’ John said. ‘Or perhaps he’s afraid of failing.’
Martha sighed, wiping her hands on the spotless apron that covered her gown.
‘Anyone can write, John. If you can speak, you can read and write. You know numbers, don’t you?’
‘In my head,’ he replied.
‘Then you could learn to write them down. It’s not magic.’
But that was exactly how it had always seemed to him. A strange secret that the clergy and the rich held close, something not to be shared. The girls would know it, though, and the child that would scream its way into the world soon enough.
‘Thank you.’ He bent and kissed her cheek.
• • •
‘Did you see them?’
Supper was done. Up in the solar the girls were in bed, Martha lulling them to sleep with a story. Katherine was in the buttery mixing the bread dough. John sat at the table, swirling the last of the ale at the bottom of his cup.
‘Yes, John.’ Walter smiled shyly. Richard d’Angers and Arthur of Warwick.
‘Where did they go?’
‘The alehouse and the cookshop. And into the church to pray this afternoon.’
That all seemed innocent enough.
‘Who did they talk to?’ he asked.
‘A few people,’ he lad replied. ‘But just words in passing.’
‘And they didn’t see you?’
‘No, John.’ He smiled. ‘They never knew I was there.’
‘Will you have time to do the same again tomorrow?’
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’
• • •
He dreamed of noise, someone using a hammer, a pounding that seemed to make his head ring. Then Katherine was shaking him awake and whispering in his ear, ‘Someone’s at the door, John.’
He sat up, trying to clear the sleep from his head, and rubbing his eyes. Hurriedly, he slipped into his hose and boots, then took the knife from its sheath. It was always better to be safe in the night.
The bolts were well greased, slipping back noiselessly. He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, keeping a tight grip on the blade.
It was one of the bailiffs, holding up a brand, his face flickering in shadows from the flames. He looked very young and very frightened.
‘Master,’ he said nervously, ‘the coroner needs you.’
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Why?’
‘A murder, Master.’
‘Who? Where?’ But he was already searching for his jacket as the night air brought goose pimples to his arms. ‘What time is it?’
‘Not long past two, Master. He wanted you to hurry.’
For a moment he considered going back up to the solar, to tell Katherine what was happening. But she’d know there was only one reason for someone calling in the middle of the night. Pray God she’d understand.
He hurried along, following the bailiff down Saltergate to the inn at the north end of the churchyard. Through gaps in the shutters he could see candles burning inside and the sound of voices talking in murmurs.
A group of people was gathered around the fire. The innkeeper and his wife, both looking glum and fearful, two men he didn’t recognise, both looking as if they’d dressed in haste, along with Arthur of Warwick, his face unnaturally pale, the coroner, and Brother Robert. The only man missing was Richard d’Angers.
‘There you are, Carpenter.’ The coroner was smiling, a dark, knowing grin. ‘It seems I need your services again. I trust your wife won’t object too much.’
‘Where is he?’
‘You’ve spotted someone missing?’ De Harville’s eyes twinkled in the low light. ‘He’s upstairs in his bed. But he won’t be rising again. Not on his own.’
John found the room easily enough, up on the second floor of the rickety building, close to the back stairway. The door was part open, a lantern burning inside. It was a typical room in an inn. A single large bed, hooks on the wall for cloaks, and a chest where travellers could keep their packs.
Only one thing was unusual in the room: the body of Richard d’Angers, his blood soaked into the sheet that covered his body, his eyes open and gazing towards Heaven. Holding his breath, John drew back the cover to examine the wound.
A single cut. It must have gone through into the heart. Murdered as he slep
t. At least death would have come in an instant. But there didn’t seem to be any sign of a fight. The body was dressed only in his fine linen, the rest of his clothes neatly folded on top of the chest. He went through the scrip. A few faded notes on vellum. Coins in the purse, and plenty of them, the first thing any robber would have taken.
He replaced the sheet, drawing it up to cover the man’s face. The flesh still had some warmth; this had happened within the last few hours. Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the room. A candle in its holder, extinguished, sat on the floor.
The door to the back stairs was unlocked. A precaution in case of fire, but it also allowed anyone to enter. Sighing, he returned to the room below.
‘Were you sharing the room?’ he asked Arthur of Warwick. The words seemed to pull the man from somewhere deep inside himself. All his disdain had vanished now.
‘Yes,’ he replied slowly. ‘It was all they could offer.’
‘Did you find him?’
Arthur nodded. ‘Richard went up to bed early. Said he was weary.’
‘What about you?’
‘I stayed down here. I wasn’t tired. I went up an hour or so ago and found …’ He didn’t need to complete the thought.
‘Were you in here the whole time?’
‘Except when I went to the jakes.’
John turned to the innkeeper. ‘You saw him?’
‘Right enough. It’s like he said.’
‘Who was in tonight?’
The man scratched his head. ‘A fair few, on and off.’
‘Any strangers?’
The innkeeper glanced at his wife. ‘One or two faces I didn’t know, but that’s often the way in this business. No one causing trouble.’
‘Anyone asking questions?
‘No.’
‘Are there any others staying here?’
‘Not tonight, Master,’ the goodwife answered in a croaking voice. ‘We only have one room free. So there was just him and …’ She raised her eyes towards the ceiling.
‘When did your companion go upstairs?’ John asked Arthur.
‘I don’t know. Not long after we ate, I remember that.’ Several hours earlier, most likely. But Arthur hadn’t committed this murder, he felt certain of that. He was too shaken and ashen-faced by the death. The man wasn’t play-acting his horror.
‘Do you know who might have done this?’ he asked quietly. ‘Have there been any threats?’
‘Why would you think that?’ Arthur turned quizzical eyes on him.
‘I’m just asking questions.’
‘No. There’s been nothing of that kind.’
‘Can I see your knife?’
‘What?’ The man looked astonished. ‘Why?’
‘To examine.’ John smiled. ‘Please, Master.’
Slowly, Arthur handed it over. John took it close to the candle, holding it near his face, searching for the slightest trace of blood. But there was nothing. The blade was as clean as if it had never been used. He passed it back and looked at the coroner. The man was standing half in the shadows, paying close attention.
‘It would be helpful to know your business here. What brought you to Chesterfield?’
Arthur was silent for so long that he might have lost the power of speech.
‘I’d need the permission of my Lord to tell you,’ he answered finally.
‘God’s blood, this is a murder!’ de Harville roared. ‘Do you think we’re here in the middle of the night for our pleasure? You were the finder. You’ll pay your fine and you won’t leave the town until we find the killer. If you try to go I’ll have you arrested. You’d best think on that and tell us what we need.’
Arthur’s stare was hard and angry but he didn’t speak.
Finally the coroner clapped his hands together. ‘Anything more you need here, Carpenter?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Then we’ll go.’ He pointed at Arthur. ‘Don’t try to leave.’
John helped the monk pack his parchment, quills and ink in the desk, securing the catch. He could see the pain on Brother Robert’s face and the awkward way he moved his hands, trying to rub some warmth into his fingers.
‘Let me,’ he said, hoisting the strap for the portable desk on to his shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ Robert said with a slow smile. ‘That’s a blessing.’ He reached for an old woollen cloak and fastened it clumsily. ‘Even the warm nights have a chill when you’re old, John. Remember that for the years to come.’
They ambled back to the High Street. De Harville hadn’t waited for them. He wasn’t even in sight, striding ahead in his usual manner.
‘What do you make of all this, Brother?’
‘I don’t know,’ Robert replied, and there was worry in his voice. ‘Six killings and no one caught. People were already growing scared before this happened.’
Were they? He’d seen no panic or heard any fearful words. But the monk could be right. The more the death toll mounted, the more people would begin to look at their neighbours with suspicion and wonder.
‘I can’t see any sense in it all,’ John admitted. ‘It’s like walking in the dark without a light.’
‘The Master’s at his wits’ end. With this many deaths, powerful people are going to take notice. Especially after this last one.’
That was true. The Bishop of Lincoln held large sway in England. He had the ear of archbishops and kings. The last thing de Harville wanted was some royal official arriving to take over the investigation. It would be a failure, a black mark against his name for the future. No more preferment.
‘Do you have any idea why a pair of bishop’s men should be here?’
‘None,’ the brother said with a sigh. ‘I just wish he’d let me go back to the monastery.’
‘He’s still saying nothing?’
‘No. He’s too wrapped up in everything in his own life. He says he needs me here.’ After a small cough he asked, ‘How’s Dame Martha? I haven’t seen her to talk to since your wedding.’
‘She’s well. She’s teaching the girls to read.’ He thought a moment. ‘Growing older, but we all are, Brother.’ He clapped Robert very lightly on the shoulder.
‘True enough, John, true enough.’ He sounded resigned.
They parted at the gate to the coroner’s house. He waited until the door closed behind the monk, the glow of a lantern spearing the night for a moment.
The town was silent as he walked home, his footsteps echoing off the buildings. What to make of this new death? It was linked to the others. It had to be. He didn’t know how yet, but there could be no other reason. From Timothy and Nicholas to Edward the Butcher and Gilbert the Shoemaker, then Julian. And now Richard d’Angers. It was a twisted path. It had to be the psalter. For a book of psalms it was turning into a cursed document. And its tale hadn’t finished yet. Not until the person behind all this was found.
He needed to know why the bishop’s men had come here. Everything might revolve around that. But if they’d already bought the psalter, or if they’d killed to possess it, why would they return? It was tempting fate, and fate could be exceeding cruel.
He unlocked the door and crept in. Nobody else was up. There was no point in going back to bed. His mind was awake and working; he’d only toss and turn till dawn, waking Katherine and everyone else.
In the buttery he poured himself a mug of ale and tore a hunk off a loaf, chewing hungrily. At the moment he had no idea who might have killed d’Angers. The open back stairs and unlocked door made everything too easy. Still, the killer needed to know which room d’Angers occupied and that he’d be alone. Even then he must have been very quiet. Or it had been someone the man knew and trusted.
He stared out of the window at the night. Not even the first notes of dawn yet. A knife … He started, slamming down the cup and spilling some of the drink. D’Angers had worn a knife. It had been on his belt. But John had never looked at it.
As soon as morning arrived he’d return to the inn.
&n
bsp; • • •
The innkeeper kept yawning. He looked haggard, as if sleep had been short and hard-won.
‘Is the body still upstairs?’
‘Aye, Master, right enough it is. You know the way.’
‘What did you do with the other man?’
‘There’s a room of sorts under the eaves. The servant usually has it.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing much but it’s clean.’ The man grimaced. ‘Best I can do since I can’t charge him for it.’
The corpse was already beginning to stink. Flies buzzed in the room and over the flesh. They’d have laid their eggs and the maggots would be wriggling.
He threw back the shutters, blinking as the sharp early light flooded in. He drew the sheet back to see the wound once more. But there was nothing he hadn’t noticed during the night. Hardly daring to breathe, he drew the knife out of its sheath and held it up. John squinted, looking along the length of the blade.
Someone had tried to wipe it clean, but they’d done a poor, hasty job. In the light he could make out the small stains of blood dried on the metal. They looked like rust, but came away easily under his fingernail.
Another quick search, the body lying there like a sightless accusation, and he found where the blade had been wiped: along the hem of the man’s cloak. At least he knew what had killed d’Angers. All he needed to learn now was the who and the why of it.
• • •
The house on Saltergate was bustling with life. Katherine looked harassed and gaunt as she laid out the food to break the fast. The girls were arguing. Kit twined itself around legs, mewling to be fed. Only Walter sat quietly, already eating, a mug of weak ale sitting next to him on the table.
He took the plate from his wife and carried it into the hall, calling the girls to eat.
‘The coroner’s business?’ Katherine asked reproachfully when they were all seated.
‘Yes. Another body.’
She crossed herself and Walter turned to him, eyes curious.
‘Who was it, John?’
‘One of the men you were following.’
Katherine pecked at her food, a nibble of this, a taste of that, pushing it around until she stood finally and stalked into the buttery. He followed.
The Saltergate Psalter Page 16
