The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘And do you like living back in the world?’

  ‘Not so much, to tell you the truth.’ He walked towards the porch with the slow gait of an old man who had traipsed too many miles. ‘The monastic life chose me, I was happy in it. I’ve asked to go back, but the Master says he needs me.’ At the porch he straightened a little. ‘God go with you, John Carpenter,’ he said.

  • • •

  The men clamoured around, eager for the gossip and the verdict. John told them briefly, his eyes moving around, searching for someone. Finally he saw Stephen, standing by the barrel of ale, a dirty bandage wrapped around his forearm.

  Soon enough the questions faded, men wandering off to spread the word of Will’s murder. John strolled across and poured himself a drink.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ he asked.

  ‘Well enough,’ Stephen answered with a small shrug. He was tall, with a thick growth of beard on his sallow face and his hood pulled back to show long, stringy hair. ‘I can still work, if there’s anything for us today.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ John told him. ‘Not with Will dead.’

  ‘You’re the one who found him?’

  ‘Aye.’ He took another drink, trying to wash the taste of death from his mouth.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Knifed, by the look of it.’ He let the words sink in for a moment. ‘That one who attacked you, who was he?’

  ‘Mark?’ Stephen shook his head. ‘He was just one of the labourers. Turned up drunk most days, when he showed up at all. Always with a temper on him too, just itching to pick a fight.’

  John knew the type all too well; there were one or two like that on every site, never happy, never satisfied, their anger lying too close to the surface.

  ‘What happened on Friday?’ he asked.

  ‘He tried to push in front of me for the ale. I wasn’t having that. He pulled out the knife and cut me.’ His voice turned boastful. ‘Another minute or two and I’d have put that blade up his arse.’

  ‘This Mark, is he local?’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘I never asked.’

  John put down his empty mug. ‘God be with you. Maybe we’ll all be able to earn some money soon.’

  He was scarcely ten yards down Knifesmithgate before Walter was at his side, all gawky limbs and questions.

  ‘Did you really find him?’ he asked, walking quickly to keep pace.

  ‘Word travels fast here,’ John replied, smiling inwardly at the boy’s eagerness. ‘But I did.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  He stopped, put a hand gently on Walter’s shoulder. ‘He was dead, lad. That’s all you need to know. It’s not a sight anyone wants to recall, believe me.’

  The boy’s face fell for a moment, but then brightened again. ‘Do they know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He smiled sadly. ‘The coroner thought it might be me. I found him, and I’m a stranger.’

  ‘You?’ Walter looked shocked. ‘You’d never hurt anyone like that.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But don’t be so trusting. You don’t know me.’

  ‘But I can tell,’ the boy protested.

  ‘Then I thank you for that,’ John said graciously, and asked, ‘Do you know of someone called Mark? He was dismissed from the job on Friday.’

  ‘I don’t go near him,’ Walter replied cautiously, and he could see fear in the lad’s eyes. ‘Keep away from him, John.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Over by West Bar, the far side of the marketplace. Why?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Be careful if you see him. Please, John.’ The boy’s voice was serious and pleading, his gaze steady and worried. ‘He’s a bad man.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ John assured him, wondering what Mark had done to the boy.

  Walter started to lope away, then turned his head as he ran. ‘My sister says you look handsome,’ he called back with a grin. ‘She thinks you look like a rogue.’

  He was still smiling when he entered the house, expecting to find Martha there. Instead the place was empty, only the ghosts of family life there in the marks on the walls and the scuffs on the furniture.

  He settled in his room, removing his hose to darn a rip in the knee with the needle and thread he kept packed deep in his satchel. He’d barely finished and dressed again when he heard the door open and emerged to see the widow with a large, heavy bag.

  ‘Let me take that,’ he offered, removing the weight from her arms.

  ‘Bless you,’ she said, settling herself on the bench. ‘Just leave it on the table, I’ll put everything away later.’ She flexed her fingers. ‘Thirty years ago I’d have thought nothing of carrying that.’ She paused and reflected. ‘Even twenty.’ Martha raised her eyebrows at him. ‘So everything they’re saying is true, then?’

  ‘Everything?’ John asked. He went into the small buttery, returning with two mugs of ale.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully, and drank. ‘They say that someone’s been murdered at the church.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true enough. The master carpenter.’

  She eyed him carefully, running her hand over the rim of the cup.

  ‘Folk are saying you were the one who found him.’

  ‘They’re right,’ he admitted, ‘and the coroner made me pay a fine for the privilege.’

  ‘All the goodwives at the baker’s are wondering if I have a murderer in my house.’

  He leaned against the table. ‘Do you think you have, Martha?’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘If I believed you were capable of that you’d never have had a bed here,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure you’ve done things you’d rather not talk about, but murder’s not one of them.’

  He laughed loud and for a moment the tension of the day left him. ‘That’s one way of saying it. Even the coroner doesn’t think me guilty, according to his clerk.’

  ‘Brother Robert told you that?’

  ‘A Benedictine with a desk under his arm and a face as long as death? If that’s his name, then yes.’

  ‘He’s the one. He was just Robert when we were young. We used to dash up and down the street there with no more sense than a pair of buttons. His parents lived over on Saltergate. Then he had his calling,’ she cocked her head, ‘and now we’re both old and he’s back where he began,’ she sighed. ‘It’s strange how the wheel turns, John Carpenter. Whenever I look at him I still see the boy who had to keep pulling his hose up as he ran.’

  ‘He seems like a pleasant man.’

  ‘He is, he is,’ she agreed. ‘And if anyone knows Richard de Harville’s mind, it’s him.’

  ‘What do you know about a man called Mark? He lives over by West Bar.’

  ‘What would you want with someone like him?’ she asked with the same wariness he had heard in Walter’s voice.

  ‘The master carpenter broke up a fight between him and another man on Friday and dismissed him.’

  ‘Leave him for the jury, then,’ Martha advised seriously, looking up at him. ‘They’ll know who he is right enough, and no one would put murder past him. The good Lord knows he’s spent enough days in the stocks for his fighting.’

  ‘Walter warned me to keep away from him.’

  ‘And well he might,’ she said sadly. ‘A year or two back, Walter said something. It was nothing at all, just a little joke or whatever. But Mark overheard, took it the wrong way and beat the poor lad bloody before anyone could haul him away.’ She lowered her eyes and took a small drink. ‘The boy’s never been quite the same since.’ The silence hung deep in the air. ‘Stay away from him, John,’ Martha told him quietly, ‘for your own sake.’

  He grinned, trying to cheer her with his charm. ‘I’m not after a fight with anyone, you don’t have to worry.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ she asked wryly. ‘I’ve been in this world long enough to know what a man’s thinking, even if he believes he’s not showing it.’

 
‘You’re a wise woman, Martha.’

  ‘I’m an old woman,’ she corrected him with a gentle pout. ‘That doesn’t mean the same thing. But I’ve known enough men in my life.’

  ‘You’ve had sons?’ he asked.

  ‘Three of them.’ She gave a long, sorrowful sigh. ‘One of them was a John, too. He’d have been about ten years older than you if the great death hadn’t taken him. It took two of them, God rest them both. The other one drowned in the river when he was small. Then one of my girls died when she was giving birth, so there’s only Agnes left now.’ She paused. ‘It’s hard to know you’ve outlived your children.’

  He said nothing; he didn’t have any words to comfort the woman. His memory slipped to his father, a strong, kind man who did his best to look after a lonely boy, then further back to the woman who had died when he was three. Her face was no more than a blur in his mind, but sometimes, on those long, empty nights when sleep was an enemy, he could hear her voice in his head. It was just her tone, never the words, as if the wind had whipped away meaning, but still it brought comfort.

  John put the mug on the table. ‘I think I’ll take a walk. Explore the town a little. There’s nothing else for me to do today.’

  Martha stared at him shrewdly. ‘And the walk will take you to West Bar?’

  ‘Only if my feet take me there.’

  ‘Be careful, John. That’s all I can say.’

  He nodded and took his leave. At the door he loosened the knife in his sheath. It was better to be prepared.

  The streets were livelier than he had expected, with folk bustling hither and yonder, faces determined as they went about their Monday errands. Servant girls dawdled to gossip and stare at apprentice lads who worked under their Masters’ eye, still finding time for a wink or a yelled comment that caused outraged, flattered laughter.

  This was a town where a man could feel comfortable, he decided. Small enough to know all the folk around but still large enough for there to be work. And if he stayed until the spire was complete, he’d be here a while yet.

  In the broad square of the market place he tried to imagine the space filled with the noise and cries of vendors, and all the items they had to offer. One Saturday he’d find the time to come down here and take it all in, maybe even buy a small gift for Martha.

  She had known where he was going just as certainly as he had, he thought, as he headed to West Bar. He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this; it was none of his concern, it was the business of the jury to find Will’s killer.

  It was the work of a moment to ask the direction to Mark’s house, a small, tumbledown building out beyond the town, on the road to Bakewell and the green country beyond.

  The thatch on the roof was old, heavy with mould and rotting in places. A shutter hung loose on the window, leaning like a drunkard away from the opening. He stood and stared, hearing no sounds from within, wondering if the man was even there and what he might say to him.

  ‘John Carpenter.’

  He turned at the sound of his name to see Richard de Harville coming towards him, striding out with serious purpose, and Brother Robert struggling to try and keep pace, balancing the small desk awkwardly under his arm, a grimace of pain on his face.

  ‘God be with you, sir,’ John said.

  ‘And with you,’ de Harville said without thought. ‘What brings you out here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘To see what this man Mark says.’

  ‘Why would that interest you?’ he asked with a dark look.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John answered truthfully, then gave a small laugh. ‘Maybe because I’m under suspicion. Maybe I’m too curious for my own good.’

  In the full light de Harville looked older than he had in the church. There were lines etched in the pale skin around his mouth and eyes, his shoulders slumped slightly, as if he carried too many cares in his head.

  ‘When I questioned you, you should have told me that Mark was the man dismissed for fighting,’ the coroner reprimanded him.

  ‘I didn’t know his name then. But it seems as if you had no trouble discovering it.’

  ‘Not too difficult to find,’ the man admitted. ‘He’s someone the town wouldn’t miss if he died. Most of them would probably come out to watch him hang.’

  ‘I’ve heard a thing or two.’

  ‘I’d wager they’re all true, too.’ He noticed that de Harville kept a hand loosely on the hilt of his dagger, watching alertly. ‘He had reason to kill Will, then?’

  ‘Possibly,’ John said. ‘I was the one who disarmed him. He probably has just as much reason to wish me harm.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ The coroner eyed him with deepening curiosity. ‘There aren’t many here who’d try that with Mark.’

  ‘I didn’t know who he was. It was just a little pressure on his wrist. There’s no magic in it.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll be a good man to have by me while I question him.’

  ‘If you like,’ John agreed.

  ‘Stay close and use your knife if you need,’ de Harville instructed. He turned to Robert. ‘Are you ready, Brother?’

  ‘As much as I’ll ever be, Master,’ the monk replied in a low, weary voice.

  ‘Dame Martha sends her regards,’ John told him mischievously and watched a small, astonished look come into Robert’s eye before he said,

  ‘And return mine to her, if you please.’

  De Harville knocked hard on the wood then moved back a pace. Moments passed before the door was flung open.

  Mark wore old hose with holes on the thighs and calves and a dirty, threadbare tunic that was too short for him. There was the madness of drink on his face, and John felt the same heat and intensity he’d experienced close to the man on Friday, the anger that was ready to flare in a heartbeat.

  ‘You,’ he said to de Harville.

  ‘I want to talk to you about the murder of the master carpenter.’

  ‘Dead, is he?’ Mark leaned against the jamb. ‘Good riddance to a bad soul.’

  ‘We can talk in the street or in your house. It’s your choice,’ de Harville said coldly.

  ‘Out here is fine,’ Mark told him. ‘Let the gossips have their fill.’ He hawked and spat, the phlegm landing close to the coroner’s boots. ‘They’re all tosspots, anyway.’

  ‘Where were you Saturday night and Sunday?’

  Mark chuckled. ‘Ask in the alehouses. I daresay they’ll tell you. Or I was maybe here, sleeping. Does that tell you what you want?’

  ‘Do you want me to arrest you for murder?’ de Harville asked.

  ‘You’ll do whatever you wish, Master,’ the man replied with a mocking, exaggerated bow. John watched him carefully. His breath was full of stale ale, but there was a wire edge of danger to him.

  The coroner glanced at John and raised his eyebrows in a question. He gave a minute shake of his head in return. Mark was too cocksure, playing with them.

  ‘Let me see your knife,’ John said, and the man looked at the coroner in surprise.

  ‘You let your dog ask questions now?’

  ‘Do as he says,’ de Harville ordered.

  Very slowly Mark removed the knife from his belt. John kept his eyes on the man’s hand. He presented it blade first, daring John to take hold. Then, in a quick, flowing motion, he gave the dagger a small flick, letting it turn swiftly in the air before taking it between his thumb and first finger close to the tip.

  John took hold of the handle, pulling the knife free of Mark’s hand. He examined the metal. It was rusted and uncared-for, although the edge was sharp when he ran it against his thumb. But there was no blood to see, and it was thinner than the cut he’d seen on Will’s back.

  He returned the knife, carefully watching Mark’s face.

  ‘Anything?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘No blood that I can make out, and it doesn’t look as if he’s cleaned it in a long time,’ John told him.

  ‘I’ll still be checking.’

  M
ark turned and stared at de Harville. ‘Aye, you do that. Folk know me around here.’

  ‘And hate you. We might be back if there’s cause.’

  The man nodded. As they walked away John glanced back and saw Mark examine the weapon, a look of black fury on his face.

  De Harville led them to an alehouse on Low Pavement, the branch over its door showing its trade. It was nothing more than a small room, but clean and tidy, fresh rushes and thyme on the floor bringing a sweetness to the air.

  The men settled around a bench, Brother Robert off to the side, lowering his old bones carefully. The alewife bustled over, wiping her hands on a leather apron and opening a mouth empty of teeth to ask their pleasure.

  Once she’d brought the ale, the coroner drank slowly then asked, ‘Why don’t you think it was him?’

  ‘He knew full well where he’d been,’ John answered slowly, building the ideas in his mind. ‘And he knows you can discover the truth easily enough. If h’d been guilty he would have been more wary.’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve seen enough like him. And there’s something else.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I barely saw Will’s wound but it looked wider that Mark’s blade.’

  De Harville nodded. ‘Aye, you might be right there.’ He turned to the monk. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Mark’s one whose blood is always hot,’ Robert said after deep thought. ‘He could commit murder, right enough, but he’d never have the wit to plan it.’

  The coroner nodded. ‘That’s worth considering.’ He supped more, looking thoughtful. ‘And you, you’re a strange one, John the carpenter.’

  ‘Me?’ John asked, bemused. ‘I’m just a man who works with wood, nothing more than that.’

  ‘And one who notices things, who can think, and understands men.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s nothing more than life, Master.’

  ‘Maybe,’ de Harville allowed. ‘But you’re a rare one, nonetheless. I’ll remind you to stay around Chesterfield until we find the killer.’

  ‘I’ll be working again tomorrow, God willing,’ John told him. ‘Is the body gone?’

  ‘Aye, but you can still see the blood on the floor.’

  ‘We’ll scrape that clean first thing. When’s the burial?’