The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

‘Why did you go?’ she hissed. ‘You could have said no. I thought we were done with all that.’

  He knew what he’d promised and hung his head.

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be, John? De Harville whistles and you come running like a dog?’ He started to speak but she waved him down. ‘You made a vow to me.’ Katherine placed a hand on her belly. ‘You made us a vow. I know the husband is the head of the house but I want you here to help with your child. I want him to know his father.’

  ‘Or her,’ John said softly.

  She shook her head. ‘Him. I can feel it.’

  ‘Him.’ He put his hand over hers. For a moment he felt something move and looked at her.

  ‘That’s him,’ Katherine told him. ‘That’s your son.’

  He didn’t know the words for what he felt. The life in her, growing. The life they’d made, that God had granted them. A fragile, fleeting existence on this earth.

  ‘The man who was killed,’ he tried to explain. ‘It all goes back to Timothy and this psalter of his. I’ve been in this from the beginning. I need to know. Do you understand?’

  Very slowly, she nodded. ‘You always will, won’t you? You can’t refuse a mystery.’

  He’d never thought of himself that way, but she was right. Each death was a challenge, a puzzle to try and solve, where he had to use his wits to find the answer. And she was right; he relished it, no matter how much he complained. That was the truth of the matter.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘I’ll just have to accept it, won’t I?’ She took hold of his hand.

  He breathed slowly. ‘It won’t happen often.’

  ‘I pray not, John,’ she said sadly. ‘I truly do.’

  • • •

  The coroner was parading around his hall, a houpelande of grey silk over his shirt. The sleeves billowed so wide that they touched the floor. A pointless garment, John thought as he watched the man strut. Too thin to be any sort of coat. Just decoration for those with more money than sense.

  ‘So we know he was murdered with his own knife,’ de Harville said. ‘That’s useful, but what does it tell us?’ He stood by the window, peering through the thick, clouded glass.

  ‘Nothing too much.’

  ‘Find out who used that knife, Carpenter.’ It wasn’t an order so much as a plea. The coroner was feeling crowded, he knew that. Too many deaths with no answers. Enough for his name to be spoken in London and for the authorities to wonder whether he should be replaced.

  ‘Where’s Brother Robert this morning?’

  ‘I let him sleep after having him up in the night.’

  It was the first time the man had shown any compassion for the monk.

  ‘You should let him go back to the monastery,’ John ventured.

  ‘No.’ De Harville shook his head firmly. ‘I trust him. I need people around me that I can trust.’

  ‘He’s old, Master. He’s served you well.’

  ‘I said no, Carpenter.’ The coroner dismissed the matter. ‘Remember your place. Use your brain to discover the killer. Maybe then I can let him go.’

  The hint of a bargain. Not that he believed a word of it.

  ‘It would help if we knew why Arthur and d’Angers had come here. Not just this time, but when Julian was killed.’

  ‘I’ll see him again this morning.’

  ‘I’d like to hear his answers.’

  The coroner shook his head. ‘Leave him to me.’

  The words brooked no objection.

  He left, out into the bright morning sun, and no idea how to start the task ahead. He’d learned all he could at the inn, he couldn’t question Arthur of Warwick. What could he do? Nothing until he had more information.

  • • •

  The boards were a tight fit. Exactly the way he wanted. He took some of the iron nails and hammered the wood into place. Finally he heated a small pot of pitch over the fire until it would spread easily, then used it on the boards to make a seal. No damp would penetrate now. The cut flax at Cutthorpe would stay dry.

  He’d stripped off his shirt, leaving it to hang in the shade. He took a piece of linen and wiped the sweat from his body.

  Katherine had been surprised to see him return to the house for his tools. He’d kissed her before he left again, watching the girls sitting and spinning while the kitten attempted to play with the wool. Home, with all its pleasures and all its troubles. He was happy here.

  John inspected the work once more then began to pack away his tools, making sure everything was clean and carefully coated with a thin film of oil to ward away rust. That was the secret, his father had said. The first thing he’d taught him in those summers before the pestilence arrived and tore England apart.

  In his mind he could still see his father’s hands. Large, the fingers long and supple, the skin hard from all the years of work. He held up his own. Perhaps he’d become his father. He’d have a difficult task to live up to the man he remembered.

  Slowly, he walked back to Chesterfield. The spire stood tall in the sky, a beacon to everyone around, a marker, a guide. It was beautiful, the sun giving a warm glow to the oak tiles so that it seemed to invite everyone to come closer. God was there, it proclaimed.

  At least he could say he’d had some small part in it. Not as much as he’d have liked, but a few little things. That alone would be a wonder to tell his children as they walked to church on a Sunday.

  Bees droned in the air. A faint breeze whispered in the trees with a ripple of leaves. He’d hoped that a day away from the murders might have brought him some insight, a clue where to go, who to ask.

  But there’d been nothing. Each way seemed blocked or led into an empty wilderness when he thought it through. He kicked out at a stone, watching it bounce down the track, kicked it again and followed it with his eye, then paused to watch a flock of starlings wheel and dart in the air.

  There was no silence in the countryside. Sound was everywhere – the scuffling of animals, songs and calls, the men working in the fields. Not as loud as the town, but always there, a constant backdrop to the landscape.

  By the time he reached home his throat was dry and hunger gnawed at his belly. He’d taken nothing for his dinner, working through to make up for his late start. And in the end he’d done a good day’s work, although it was taking longer than he’d anticipated. God willing, he’d finish it tomorrow, then try to persuade the steward to spend money on the other buildings later in the year. For now, though, he had more jobs waiting. He’d have no chance to be idle during the summer.

  The house was empty. No one in the garden at the back. The kitten came running for attention, mewling its welcome. He tore up a few scraps of bread and scattered them on the floor before he poured himself a mug of ale, drinking it down quickly then sipping at a second.

  They’d probably gone to see Dame Martha, he decided. And Walter … he kept his own hours these days, never arriving until all the work was done for the day.

  No matter.

  He left the satchel of tools in the corner. The cat sniffed at it then stalked away, searching for something more interesting. John sat on the bench, resting his elbows on the table. A few minutes doing nothing, this was what he needed.

  By the time Katherine and the girls bustled in he felt at peace with the world, ready for company. He grabbed Janette and Eleanor, tickling them until they giggled and screamed with laughter, wriggling away with innocent, happy smiles on their lips.

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’ Katherine ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I’m content,’ he told her, kissing her palm. ‘And all thanks to you, wife.’

  ‘Me?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Everything you’ve given me. Yourself, this place, a family.’ He placed his hand over her belly, smiling. ‘This.’

  ‘And we need you here. All of us.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. But–’

  ‘You’ve started something and you need to finish it.’ He tried to identify h
er tone. Resignation? Or infinite sadness?

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘I’m not a fool, John. I said it earlier. You love the mysteries. I can see it on your face. Just be careful, please. You want us, you have to take care of us.’

  ‘I will.’

  She smiled. ‘Where’s Walter? He should be back by now.’

  He hadn’t returned by the time they’d finished supper. Nor when they’d settled their girls on their pallet. The evenings stretched out longer, dusk lingered, slowly darkening the horizon. But at nightfall there was still no sign of him.

  ‘I’m worried about him,’ Katherine said. She’d tried to settle to needlework and darning, but after a few minutes she kept putting everything aside and pacing round the hall. ‘He’s never this late. Not without sending word.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for him.’ He doubted that there was a problem; the lad was at that thoughtless age. He’d be off enjoying himself and not thinking of anyone else.

  John slipped into his jacket, checking that the knife was in his belt. He wouldn’t need it but better to be safe.

  Somewhere in the distance the night birds were calling. As he walked towards the church his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His ears caught the whispers of a courting couple somewhere close by. Could Walter have found himself a girl? No, he decided. The boy would never have been able to hide that. It would have been all over his face.

  The streets of Chesterfield were quiet. Most people were already in their beds, their lights extinguished. Groups of young men gathered on the edge of the market square, drinking and laughing, some arguing and on the edge of a fight. He walked by them all, trying to spot Walter’s face in the moonlight.

  Nothing.

  He tried Low Pavement, along Knifesmithgate, then down the hill on Soutergate, all the way to the bridge over the Hipper. There were men around, the late stragglers.

  But no Walter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The cap lay atop the churchyard wall, close to the lych gate. He’d have missed it entirely in the darkness if the moonlight hadn’t glinted on something metallic. The scallop shell pilgrim badge that someone had given Walter months before and that he’d pinned proudly to the hat.

  The rough wool, the black raven feather. It was his. Could he have dropped it and still be out searching for it? That would be just like the lad, to become so caught up in what he was doing that he’d forget everything else.

  John put the cap in his scrip and made his way back around the town. There were fewer people out now. Even the sots and wastrels had taken to their beds. His footsteps echoed off the cobbles as he walked, the only sound in the stillness.

  Nothing.

  Outside the Guildhall he spotted one of the bailiff’s men. He hadn’t seen Walter, but he’d tell the others and they’d keep watch for him.

  He made his way back to Saltergate, muttering a prayer for God to keep the boy safe. He might have come home while John was searching.

  But God wasn’t listening tonight. Katherine was in the hall, starting hopefully as he came in. A lantern shone, casting long shadows around the room.

  ‘I can’t find him.’

  She looked on the edge of tears. He held her close, letting her shake and shiver as he gently rubbed her back. Once she sat down again he drew out the cap and laid it on the table.

  ‘It was by the church. I thought he might still be looking for it.’

  She reached for him, her hand trembling in his. He squeezed it and gave her a smile he didn’t feel. He was scared. But he needed to stay strong, to keep a brave, hopeful face. If he let his fear show, Katherine would know it.

  ‘I’ll go out again as soon as it’s light. And the bailiffs are keeping their eyes open. We’ll find him.’

  ‘Please God,’ she whispered. ‘Not a word to the girls.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed.

  The time seemed to crawl, one minute reluctant to become another. He’d open the shutters, see nothing and close them again. Then, finally, a band of blue low on the horizon. Soon it would be dawn. The first birds began their early calls; a few minutes later the air was a chorus of song.

  They barely spoke, locked inside their own thoughts. The cat jumped on to Katherine’s lap and she stroked it, hardly noticing its presence. John ate a little bread and finished the mug of ale.

  ‘I’ll go and look again,’ he said, seeing her bleak, empty nod.

  • • •

  There was a freshness to the weather, the hint of a morning chill. Off to the west, clouds gathered over the hills. He fastened his jacket, eyes looking for any movement, anything unusual.

  The market square was empty, the streets quiet. He glanced into yards as he passed, then went out beyond West Bar to search there.

  John followed a winding track down to the river, peering through the undergrowth, eyes alert for places where the long grass had been rumpled. But there was nothing.

  The water was undisturbed, nothing bobbing in the shallows, nothing carried by the current. The path showed no boot prints, no signs of a struggle. It was as if Walter had vanished.

  He followed the river, searching all the way, and finished by the church, where he’d found the cap. Where was the lad? What had he done, where had he gone? He looked at the grave markers. Was that where Walter would be in a few days? Buried and consigned to the earth, left to God’s mercy? He prayed not.

  • • •

  The head bailiff was seated behind his desk, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He knew John well enough to greet him with a nod and wave him to a chair.

  ‘What can I do for you, Master? You look troubled.’

  ‘Do you know Walter? The boy who runs messages for people?’

  ‘Aye, of course.’

  ‘My wife’s brother. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘What did you do? Beat him?’ As he looked up, the smile died on his lips. ‘I’m sorry, Master.’

  ‘He didn’t come home last night. I found his cap by the churchyard. I’d like your men to search for him.’ He paused. ‘And no, there’d been no argument or cruel words at home. I talked to your night man. He said they’d look.’

  ‘He said nothing to me. But we’ll search, Master, I can promise you that. Everyone has time for Walter, he’s a good lad.’

  ‘Thank you. If you find …’ He wasn’t sure what to say. ‘If you find anything at all, send word to my house. My wife is there.’

  The coroner’s house lay on the other side of the square. De Harville was breaking his fast, bread and a thick wedge of white cheese in front of him.

  ‘What is it, Carpenter? Not good news from the look of you.’

  ‘Walter’s missing.’ He told it all in a few quick sentences. ‘The bailiffs are looking.’

  ‘You’ve no idea why he’s gone?’ The coroner stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Are there any special places he likes to go? That boy’s an odd one, he might have somewhere like that.’

  Did he? Walter knew the countryside all around Chesterfield. The green lanes, the fairy roads that sprang up and seemed to lead nowhere. He’d discovered them all. But were any of them special to him? John didn’t know. There didn’t seem to be one in particular he went back to often.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘The bailiffs will do their job. Was he on coroner’s business?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I hadn’t given him any instructions.’

  ‘It’s not a large town, Carpenter. Someone will spot him.’

  As long as he was alive.

  He returned to the house. Dame Martha was there, entertaining and distracting the girls. She looked up as he entered, her face falling as he gave a quick shake of his head. Katherine dashed through from the buttery, wiping her hands on a square of linen.

  ‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ he told her. ‘The bailiffs are out searching and I’ve told de Harville.’

  ‘The coroner?’ she asked sharply.
‘Why?’

  She knew. He could see it in her eyes. She simply didn’t want to be the one to admit the possibility that Walter was dead somewhere. And if he’d been killed, did it have something to do with the psalter and the string of murders?

  ‘The more people who know, the better,’ he offered as a defence. She nodded carefully.

  ‘Katherine,’ Martha said, ‘would you take the girls outside for a while? I need to talk to John.’

  ‘Of course.’ She held out her hands. Janette and Eleanor scrambled to their feet and went to her, the cat hopping down to join them.

  ‘Sit down,’ Martha said when they were alone.

  ‘What is it?’ He settled on the bench.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ she commanded. He looked at her quizzically but did as she wanted, laying it all out from the very beginning. He made sure all the aid Walter had given him was in the tale.

  ‘And you think all of this has something to do with this psalter that Timothy owned?’ she asked when he’d finished.

  ‘I don’t see what else it can be,’ he answered with a low sigh.

  ‘I remembered something last night.’

  He cocked his head. ‘What?’

  ‘I was young. Probably fifteen or sixteen.’ She smiled. ‘A long time ago now. Timothy was older. I suppose it wasn’t too long before the accident stopped him walking. There was a rumour that he’d given the psalter to his mistress as proof of his devotion.’

  ‘What?’ He could hardly believe what she said. It was the first he’d heard of any mistress. ‘But Father Geoffrey saw it a few weeks ago. That’s what he told me. Timothy was going to leave it to the church here.’

  ‘It was only a rumour,’ Dame Martha said. She rubbed the back of her hand, as if she could wipe away the spots of age that marked her skin. ‘You know how people love to talk. It seemed to die away soon enough.’

  ‘He showed it to Will Durrant before he went blind, too.’

  ‘Maybe they were just words.’ She stared at him with her clear blue eyes.

  He tried to think. ‘His mistress. What was her name?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think anyone knew. Or even if it was true. It seemed strange to me, even then. Timothy never had any interest in women. He liked male company.’