The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I enjoyed myself,’ he said honestly. ‘He showed me a great deal.’ He glanced over at the boy who was leaning against the wall, a look of contentment on his face.

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ she said, her voice carefully formal. ‘You’re welcome here at any time. Would you care for some supper?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ John said. ‘I should go home.’ That was a strange word, he thought – home. A word he’d hardly used since he was young, but today, at least, it felt right. He stood. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’

  Katherine accompanied him beyond the screens to the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully. ‘It meant a lot to him.’

  ‘I like your brother. I’d be happy to do it again.’

  ‘You’re a good man.’

  He raised the sling. ‘I’m a broken man for now.’

  She smiled. ‘Joke if you like, but I can tell a man with a kind heart.’ She rose up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘God’s peace be with you.’

  He returned to the house on Knifesmithgate bemused at her audacity, still feeling the softness of her lips against his skin. Happy, he unlatched the door and entered the hall to find Martha pacing restlessly.

  ‘John!’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘What have you done?’ Her small hand reached for him, clutching his fingers.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He look confused. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘The coroner sent a message over an hour ago. He wants you to go to his house.’

  John frowned. ‘Why? Did he say?’

  She shook her head. ‘Just that he wants you there immediately.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Small splinters of light showed through the shutters at the coroner’s house. He rapped on the door, and heard the sound of the servant’s shoes on the floor. The girl held up a rushlight, peering cautiously at this stranger who arrived after dark.

  ‘The coroner wanted to see me,’ he explained, and after a moment’s hesitation she let him in, guiding him through to a hall where de Harville was seated at the table, finishing a supper of sliced meat, his knife poised between plate and mouth. At the other end was the woman John had seen in church, staring at him with disdain as her long, pale fingers tore at a piece of bread.

  ‘John the carpenter. It took you long enough to arrive.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Master. I was out walking; I’ve only just returned.’

  The coroner glanced meaningfully at his wife. She stood, saying, ‘I’ll leave you to your business, husband,’ before leaving. A moment later Brother Robert entered with his desk, wiping the remains of a meal from his mouth as he unpacked his vellum, ink and quill.

  John watched the pair curiously, wondering why they needed him here now, what it was that couldn’t wait until morning.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘I was in the alehouse on Soutergate,’ he replied. ‘Why?’

  De Harville held up his hand to stop John’s questions. ‘Did anyone see you there?’

  ‘I was drinking with two of the workmen from the church. And the serving girl would have seen me. I was there a few hours.’

  ‘And after?’

  ‘I went back to my lodgings.’

  ‘Who did you see on the way there?’

  ‘No one. What’s this about, Master?’ He could feel the fear slowly creeping up his spine. The coroner ignored his question.

  ‘What have you done today?’

  ‘I went to service then I was out walking with the boy, Walter.’

  De Harville raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Is that the same one who was beaten by Mark a few years ago?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him,’ John said.

  ‘And Mark came for you after we’d talked to him about the murder at the church?’

  ‘I told you that he had.’

  ‘The men you were drinking with, was one of them in a fight with Mark at the church last week?’

  ‘Yes.’

  De Harville fixed him with his gaze. ‘Late this afternoon Mark’s body was found in the reeds by the river by the fulling mill. His throat had been cut.’

  John didn’t know what to say. He felt as if all the air had been taken from his body, that he couldn’t breathe. He looked at de Harville, then at the monk who was scribbling the questions.

  ‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ He held up the broken arm in its sling. ‘I couldn’t do much with this.’

  ‘Someone killed him,’ the coroner said coldly. ‘You’ve been with two people who had reason to do that. You had good cause yourself.’

  ‘Maybe,’ John agreed warily, ‘but I’ve done nothing.’ He unsheathed his dagger and placed it on the table. ‘You won’t see any blood on that.’

  ‘Blood wipes away easily enough,’ Brother Robert pointed out.

  ‘There’s been none of Mark’s on there.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ de Harville said. ‘The facts speak for themselves, carpenter.’

  He had no option but to nod. Taken together, things built up a case against him. At least he had witnesses who’d swear for his whereabouts.

  ‘I could arrest you,’ the coroner continued. He speared a piece of meat on his plate and began to chew it slowly. ‘But I saw your eyes when I told you Mark had been murdered. You looked truly shocked.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘I’ve seen people dissemble well before. Still, I don’t believe you killed him.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ John said gratefully.

  De Harville sat back in his chair. ‘I’m going to place some conditions on your freedom. You can’t leave Chesterfield. If you do I’ll raise a posse to bring you back here and I’ll charge you with Mark’s murder. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘Be glad you have an open face. If I’d seen any guilt in you, I’d have called for the bailiff to take you away.’ He nodded at a chair. ‘Sit yourself down, pour some wine.’ John did as he was told, letting the drink ease the dryness in his mouth. ‘But all this begs a question. If you didn’t kill him, who did?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘From what I’ve heard about him, there are plenty here who hated Mark.’

  ‘Few will miss him, God save his soul,’ the monk agreed sadly.

  ‘If he’d just vanished, no one would care,’ the coroner admitted. ‘Truth to tell, we’ll all breathe easier without him around.’ He toyed with the goblet of wine. ‘But the body was found and the hue and cry raised so I have to seek out his killer.’ He sighed. ‘Two murdered here in a week. That’s a bad business.’

  ‘Who discovered the body?’ John asked.

  ‘Upstanding people,’ the coroner answered with a smile. ‘In case you were going to suggest anything.’

  ‘How long had he been there? Do you have any idea?’

  ‘The birds and the animals had been at him,’ Robert said. ‘There were some signs of bloat.’

  ‘Was he stiff?’

  ‘He was.’

  John ran his good hand through his hair. ‘You said his throat had been cut. Was there blood around the corpse?’

  ‘Was he killed there, do you mean?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was little blood, and ample sign of the reeds trampled,’ the monk told him.

  ‘What are you thinking, carpenter?’

  ‘It sounds like someone killed him elsewhere and took him there. Who’d do that in daylight?’

  De Harville rested his elbows on the table and steepled his hands under his chin. ‘That makes sense,’ he admitted. ‘Easier to move a body under the cover of darkness.’

  ‘Have you looked in Mark’s house?’

  ‘In the morning. Come with us,’ the coroner offered. ‘You seem to have a good mind for this.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’

  ‘What do you think, Robert?’ de Ha
rville asked.

  ‘I believe there’s more to Master John than he’s shown us yet,’ the monk replied quietly.

  ‘Tomorrow, then, first light. And you can have your knife; I believe you didn’t kill him.’

  • • •

  Martha was waiting, trying to sew, but he saw the needle stuck in the fabric, the anxiety plain on her face as he entered the house.

  ‘What did they want?’ she asked.

  ‘Someone murdered Mark.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘The coroner thought it might have been me.’

  She crossed herself silently, her lips moving in a prayer for the dead, then sighed.

  ‘I won’t wish something like that on any man, no matter who he is.’ She looked at him closely. ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’

  ‘No,’ he told her nd her eyes softened.

  ‘I didn’t think you could. De Harville believed you?’

  ‘He did, although he worried me at first. But he still ordered me to stay in Chesterfield.’

  ‘Is that such a hardship?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go at the moment, anyway. Not with this arm.’

  ‘Your arm will heal, and the coroner will get his man.’

  ‘I pray you’re right.’

  ‘Besides,’ she told him with a playful expression, ‘I like having you here. There are very few I let lodge, you know. I don’t need the money, but I do enjoy the company. You’ll be welcome to stay as long as you wish – if you choose to remain in town when this is all done.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I’ll have to see if there’s work here when the casts comes off.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How was the day with Walter?’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ he answered. ‘He showed me the area. I told him we’d do it again.’

  ‘Did Katherine ask you to supper?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I told you, she has her eye on you,’ Martha told him with a sly smile. ‘You could do a lot worse than her, too. She more or less looks after everyone in that house.’

  ‘What about her mother? I saw her there.’

  Martha shook her head and pursed her lips.

  ‘Jane had a bad palsy a year or two back. She worked hard for the family before that, after her man died.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘On a good day she can spin a little and sew a little. Mostly she just sits there. She can’t speak much, and when she does it’s hard to make out what she’s saying. Has a temper on her these days, too. Look into her eyes sometime and you’ll see it. So everything rests with Katherine and Walter, and for all he’s a lovely lad, you can’t call him responsible.’

  ‘It must be hard for Katherine.’

  ‘She bears it with good grace for someone so young,’ Martha said with admiration. ‘Every time you see her she has a smile on her face and time for hello.’

  ‘I’m surprised she can even think about a man.’

  ‘She’s a girl, what else is she going to think about?’ she asked, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘But she’s never had much time for the ones around here. I can’t blame her, either, they’re a feckless lot.’

  ‘She won’t do any better with me.’

  ‘Perhaps she thinks she will. She’s a determined young lass.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a wife,’ he said.

  ‘You are,’ Martha corrected him. ‘She understands that you just haven’t realised it yet.’ She pushed herself up with her hands and slowly straightened her back. ‘I’m going to sleep now. I’ve been up too late fussing and worry about you, John Carpenter.’

  ‘God give you good rest.’

  ‘But only a few hours of it, I pray. I’m not ready for eternity yet.’

  • • •

  Grey clouds and a light, misting drizzle arrived with the morning. He pulled up the hood on his cote as he stepped out of the door, careful to avoid the night soil tossed out of windows into the road as he walked to the High Street.

  De Harville was dressed for the weather in a hat of deep blue and a long cape lined with rabbit fur, with high boots to keep the mud away from his legs. Brother Robert stood behind; the cowl of his black robe pulled back just enough to show a face that wore its aches and pains openly.

  ‘At least you keep good time, carpenter,’ the coroner said with a grin. ‘I’d still be in my bed if the monk hadn’t roused me.’

  ‘I’m a working man, Master. We start early and finish late.’

  ‘Then let’s see how well you work for me today.’

  He led the way across the market square, so empty and quiet today that Saturday’s bustle might have been a dream, and out along West Bar to the cottage. The coroner lifted the latch and they entered.

  John threw back the shutters to bring in some light and clear the smell from the place.

  ‘God’s blood, how did he live?’ de Harville asked, covering his mouth with his hand. There was one small room, the floor just packed earth, and the bed in the corner no more than a filthy sheet thrown over old straw. Mould was growing on food left in a bowl, dust and filth gathered in the corners and along the wall. The only seat in the house was an old joint stool that lay on its side.

  John looked around carefully, holding his breath as long as he could before having to gulp in the foetid air. It was a hovel, kept without care or hope. But there was nothing useful to see in it, no indication of why Mark might have died.

  He waited until they were all outside before speaking.

  ‘There’s no sign of dried blood on the floor or the bed. He wasn’t killed there, that’s for certain.’ John strode around the back of the house, where the small garden was overgrown, filled with weeds and tall grass. He made his way down a path, casting glances to each side. The land sloped sharply down to the River Hipper at the bottom of the valley.

  Something caught his eye and he picked his way gently to the back corner before squatting and scratching at the ground

  ‘Over here,’ he shouted. ‘You can see the blood here,’ he showed the others when they joined him, ‘and look at the way everything’s been trampled. You said he was found by the fulling mill?’ The coroner nodded. ‘That’s almost straight down the hill.’ He stood and pointed.

  ‘What made you look back here?’ de Harville asked, his expression a mix of admiration and suspicion.

  John shrugged. ‘He wasn’t murdered inside. It had to happen somewhere.’

  They followed the path down to the river, where the small fulling mill resounded with the noise of cloth being beaten over and over to tighten the weave, the heavy smell of urine coming through the open shutters. Downstream, where the river bent, smoke rose from the dyeworks and the tannery next to it.

  ‘It was just over there,’ Brother Robert said, ‘down in the rushes.’

  The imprint of the body remained on the ground, the reed stalks crushed flat. A little blood had soaked into the damp earth, leaving it a darker shade of brown.

  ‘It’s not so far to bring him,’ the monk observed. ‘There was a good moon Saturday night. Whoever did it would have been able to see where he was going.’

  The coroner nodded his agreement.

  ‘He’ll have blood on his clothes, though,’ John pointed out. ‘That’s something to look for. But if everything they say about Mark is true, it could be anyone.’

  ‘He made enough enemies,’ de Harville conceded. ‘Keep your eyes open,’ he told Robert. They walked along the riverbank to the Lord’s Mill, with its waterwheel turning slow and steady, the rasp of the stones grinding corn, then on to Soutergate where a stone bridge crossed the flow, heading down towards Derby. John and the coroner climbed the hill leading to the church, Brother Robert falling behind and breathing hard on the slope.

  ‘I have a little more on the red-headed man,’ John told de Harville.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m told he had a woman in one of the places off the Shambles.’

  ‘It’s a war
ren back there,’ de Harville said. ‘There’s little respect for the law. And they look askance at strangers, too, if you’re thinking of going there.’

  ‘It’s somewhere to begin.’

  ‘If this Geoffrey’s even here,’ the coroner said.

  ‘I told the Brother, I thought I saw him on Saturday.’

  ‘You thought, another man in his cups imagined.’ De Harville shook his head dismissively. ‘None of that helps much. Did you even see his face?’

  ‘No,’ John admitted.

  ‘If you find out it’s the same man and where he is, then I’ll do something,’ he said.

  They parted at the churchyard, the coroner waiting for the monk before heading back into the town. John lingered by the wall, watching the work and wishing himself back up in the tower room. Beyond the east end of the building, two men were beginning to saw long oak tree trunks, sweating as they moved, the sawdust flying with each stroke.

  The wood the men were cutting would have cost a pretty penny; good oak didn’t come cheap. But even after cutting it would still need three years to dry and season before it could be used. He glanced around, eyes searching for piles of usable wood but seeing nothing. Slowly he made his way around the outside of the yard, but he still couldn’t spot anything.

  Finally he gave up. Perhaps there were carts on their way, late as usual, all packed with timber. It wouldn’t matter to him, anyway, not until he was back and working – if he ever returned to the site.

  • • •

  ‘You were out with the lark,’ Martha said as he sat by the table. She’d dished up a bowl of pottage for him as he walked in, the steam still rising from it, pieces of bacon mixed with the beans.

  He ladled up a spoonful, blowing on the liquid to cool it.

  ‘I was with the coroner and Brother Robert.’

  ‘He invited you?’

  ‘To look at Mark’s house.’

  ‘So you’ve moved from suspect to coroner’s man overnight.’ She looked at him and laughed in disbelief. ‘That’s quite a feat, John. And did you find anything?’ she asked after a moment, her manner curiously eager.