The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

• • •

  Monday brought rain, and cooler weather swooping out of the west. The clouds hung low and threatening on the horizon. He kept the shutters closed, hearing the water against them and pitied those who had to work. Today, at least, he could feel grateful for his injury.

  Martha fed him dinner, asking for his tales and he gave her stories of York, of the size of the Lady Chapel the archbishop hoped to create and the view from the top of the tower when the whole city spread out below him, covering such ground as seemed impossible.

  Her eyes were entranced by his words and the pictures they put in her mind.

  ‘I don’t understand why you left it,’ she told him, then her eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘It was a woman, wasn’t it?’

  He smiled guiltily and shrugged.

  ‘I should have guessed,’ she said, smoothing down the apron over her skirts as she stood. The green veil that covered her hair shimmered in the light. ‘Running away from your responsibilities, were you?’

  ‘There was more to it than that.’

  ‘There always is, when a man’s telling it,’ Martha said acidly. ‘I thought you had more about you than that.’ She gathered the bowls.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Please.’ He wanted her to understand why he had done it, to regain her respect. He liked the woman, enjoyed being here in her house, and he didn’t want their relations to be soured.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she answered, sitting again and putting her hands primly in her lap, her face set hard.

  ‘I was courting a girl there. Her father was a mason at the Minster.’

  ‘Did you love her?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ he replied, stung by the question.

  ‘You’d lain together and she was having a child? It’s an old story, John,’ Martha told him wearily and began to rise again.

  ‘I wasn’t the only one she had lain with.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you be so sure? Or did you listen to gossip?’

  ‘There was talk,’ he admitted. ‘But I asked the ones who had been named and they said it was true.’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Five.’ At first he had been certain it was all lies, dark rumours to blacken her reputation, and he had gone to the first man in a fury. But he admitted it readily, laughing about it, and all John could feel was his own shame. By the third his humiliation was complete, knowing he had just been one of many. ‘But her father insisted I should marry her.’

  ‘Did he know the truth?’

  He raised his eyes. ‘I didn’t say anything. How do you tell a man his daughter will sleep with anyone? Who would want to believe that?’

  ‘So you came here.’

  ‘Her father was becoming more insistent. She was more and more demanding, not the girl I’d met and wanted. Most of the time we were together I felt the sharp edge of her tongue and none of the kindness.’ She reached out and placed her hand over his, her fingertips rough against his skin. ‘I didn’t want to end up as one of those men you see in the alehouse, cowed and cuckolded. I didn’t want to have to spend the rest of my life admitting my shame every day.’ He looked at her, sighed and shook his head. ‘So I left York, and I didn’t tell anyone I was going.’

  ‘That’s the truth?’

  ‘Every word.’

  She gave a small, sad smile. ‘Then I owe you an apology. At my age I should know there’s always more beneath the surface. I was too quick to judge you.’ He didn’t say anything. He’d brought the memory out again and it tumbled in his head. For a while at least, he had loved the girl and believed he could have been happy with her. ‘There are lasses like that,’ she told him. ‘You’re not the first to be played for a fool. But remember, men are just as bad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Worse, from what I’ve seen. But don’t let it sour you on all women. There are plenty of good ones out there.’

  ‘Like Katherine?’ John asked wryly.

  ‘I told you, you could do a lot worse than her.’

  ‘If I was looking,’ he countered.

  ‘You’re looking. If you’re not wed, you’re looking.’ She chuckled. ‘And half of them that are married are looking too, come to that.’

  ‘I’ve noticed that. A few years of marriage and they’re looking at everything.’

  ‘Not all of them. My husband didn’t. Most of them are all talk, anyway. They’d run a mile if a girl offered herself to them.’

  ‘Probably,’ he agreed with a laugh.

  ‘I’ve known Katherine since she was born. She’s had a few things thrown at her in her life and she’s carried on.’

  ‘She’s courted, you said?’

  ‘You see, I knew you were interested in her.’ She patted his hand lightly. ‘She needs someone steady, does that girl.’

  ‘Like a carpenter who can’t even work at the moment and might not again?’

  ‘I never claimed there was reason in love. God didn’t make it that way.’ She stood once more. ‘Don’t run from your heart, John. That’s all I can tell you. But you’ll do what you do, no matter what I say.’

  • • •

  He tried to rest in his room, but he felt as if the walls were contracting around him, closing him in. His throat felt tight, and he was restless, pacing the floor, a few steps one way, a few back. Finally he let himself out of the house quietly, pulling his hood up against the rain and holding his cote tight against his chest.

  The gaol was up Holywell Street, close to the church and the cross that stood by the weekday market. It was a small stone building, one room with the cells down in the ground, the only light through a small barred window just above the ground.

  The gaoler was dozing in his chair, his head snapping up quickly as the door opened.

  ‘The coroner said I could talk to Roger.’

  The man shrugged, standing and stretching lazily as he selected one of the keys from the ring on his belt. He unlocked one door and led the way down the stone steps into the darkness.

  The smell was rank, harsh and cloying, a mix of urine, faeces and the stench of all the bodies who had spent time here over the years. He began to cough, feeling the bile rise in his throat.

  ‘You’ll get used to it after a while,’ the gaoler laughed. ‘Especially if you’re here a few weeks.’ He turned a key in the cell door and winked. ‘Shout when you’re done. If you’re lucky, I might hear you.’

  Roger was seated on the floor, his back against a wall where moisture ran down the stone, glistening in the half-light. He had a manacle around one ankle, connected by a chain to an iron staple in the floor.

  A few days here had changed him. He was dirty, his face empty of hope, the hair matted against his head.

  John stood, waiting until the man looked up and met his gaze.

  ‘Happy to see me here?’ Roger asked.

  ‘You killed Mark. Do you think you deserve better?’

  ‘I did the town a favour when I got rid of him.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you, anyway? You’re not a local man.’

  ‘I’m the one the coroner first thought had murdered him.’

  The man gave a short laugh. ‘You should have. Sooner you here than me. All that’s left is a journey to Derby and a rope.’

  ‘Pray for forgiveness.’

  ‘You pray for me.’ Roger turned his head and spat. ‘You helped put me here, it’s the least you can do.’

  ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘Why?’ Roger shook his head in surprise. ‘He owed me money and he wouldn’t pay.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘When you’ve got nothing, it’s enough.’

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘Sixpence,’ the man said wearily. Sixpence: a day and a half’s wages for a skilled man – little enough to die for.

  ‘Don’t you feel any sorrow for what you did?’ John wondered.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m here, if that means aught. If you want to do me a good turn, give the gaoler a couple of coins to buy me ale. Yo
u’d better watch him, though, he’s a thief.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ A little ale for a dying man; it was charity, nothing more.

  ‘There’s something else. You’d better get your coroner over here. I want to approve someone.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Approve? Who?’

  ‘That’s for me and the coroner,’ Roger said with a smug grin. ‘I’ll see what he offers first.’

  He knew of approving, of course, a man accusing others of crimes in return for some favour; from all he’d heard it happened often.

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ John said. ‘But what he does then is up to him.’

  ‘He’ll be here, right enough,’ the man said confidently. ‘It’s about a murder.’

  ‘Whose?’

  The man closed his mouth and tapped the side of his noise with a finger.

  He left. There was nothing to be gained from staying. Roger wasn’t about to say more to a man who had no power; he’d save his words to make a bargain. John gave the gaoler a pair of coins to purchase ale for his prisoner, watching the man’s eyes gleam at the money.

  The rain was still heavy, soaking him as he walked to the High Street. It was a fruitless journey; de Harville was out, the servant said, Brother Robert with him, and they weren’t expected until late. He left word and made his way home.

  He stripped off slowly and awkwardly, careful of his arm, and towelled his body with the scrap of linen, hanging his cote and hose to dry, dressed just in shirt and braies. Could Roger know who’d killed Will? That was the only other murder he knew of in Chesterfield. Or was it something older?

  Never mind, it was the coroner’s business. He would be interested, John was certain of that, but he doubted he’d soil his fine clothes at the gaol; he’d have Roger brought to him in chains and see him in the yard behind the house, where the smell wouldn’t contaminate the rooms.

  Roger had been right about one thing, he thought. For a man with nothing, sixpence was a fortune. It could buy him a cheap room for a week, feed him and buy him ale. He would have readily believed him, too, if the man hadn’t stunk of drink when they’d questioned him. He wondered how much Roger had carried in his purse when he was arrested and whether there was anything in his room.

  He lay on the bed, hearing the rain still heavy on the shutters, knowing that he would have spent the day cursing the weather if he’d been working. They’d have done precious little on the spire, but then, there’d be little they dare attempt before spring. In truth, he was surprised they’d started it at all with winter a few short months away.

  He lay down and pulled a blanket up to his neck, the wool rough against his skin. Sleep came, but it was a troubled rest, peopled by folk with gargoyle faces, and bringing him back to wakefulness breathing hard, the pictures still vivid in his mind.

  He sipped at some ale, letting the dream fade like mist, sitting until his heart beat more slowly. His clothes were still wet but he dressed anyway; they’d dry on his body.

  Martha had set up a brazier in the hall, the warmth spreading around the room, and rushlights burning in the sconces. She sat on the bench working on her embroidery, stopping to hold the frame away from her to examine the stitches.

  ‘Time was when I could see up close without any problem and do this all day without my eyes growing tired,’ she told him. ‘Eyes get old, too, John, but inside I’m the same age as Katherine.’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘Remember that when the years have passed you by.’ She glanced at his damp clothes that were beginning to steam in the heat. ‘Where did you go?’

  He told her, and she stuck the needle in the fabric, setting it aside to listen to him, asking questions about the gaol, saddened to learn of the reason behind the killing. In her eyes, though, in spite of the sympathy, he saw she couldn’t understand anyone killing for so small a sum. But she’d never wanted for anything, never had to choose between somewhere to sleep and something to eat. She had a large, kind heart, but some things she would never have to comprehend.

  They’d eaten supper and he was finishing the last of his ale when there was banging on the door. Brother Robert stood there, a sad, drenched figure, his habit soaked, the cowl pulled over his head.

  ‘You left word for the coroner.’

  ‘Come in,’ John said. ‘I thought he’d wait until morning, not send you out in this.’

  ‘We’ve been out in it all day,’ the monk answered, settling close to the heat and accepting a drink. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I visited Roger today.’

  ‘Did he tell you what you wanted to know?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he said slowly, ‘but he also said he wants to approve.’

  ‘Who? What?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me. He says he’ll only talk to the coroner and see if he can have some better treatment.’

  ‘The master will listen, but I wouldn’t wager on him making things more comfortable for Roger.’

  ‘He said it was about a murder,’ John told him and Robert frowned.

  ‘Aye, he’ll definitely hear him out then.’

  ‘How many unsolved murders do you have?’

  ‘Four. Five, with your master carpenter.’ He thought for a moment, idly chewing on his lip. ‘I’ll have him brought over in the morning. I suppose you’d like to be there.’

  ‘Will your master allow it?’

  ‘He’ll complain for a while and then he’ll accede,’ Robert said with a chuckle. ‘For some reason, he likes you. He respects you.’

  ‘His trust flatters me,’ John said as the monk stood to leave. ‘Roger said he killed Mark because of a debt of sixpence. I wonder how much money Roger had in his purse when the bailiffs took him.’

  ‘I’ll ask them,’ the monk said thoughtfully. ‘However little it was, it’ll be in their pockets now. Come in the morning, an hour after dawn.’ He bowed his head slightly. ‘God grant you good rest, carpenter.’

  ‘And the same to you Brother.’

  • • •

  The rain passed in the night, leaving a brisk, warm wind behind. The ground was sodden, mud clinging fast to his boots as he walked along the street, the dust of the weeks before just a memory.

  The servant directed him through to the cobbled yard. De Harville and the monk were in the stables. The coroner was sweetly stroking the nose of a roan, greeting it with soft words, while a stallion whinnied and snorted in another stall, eager for attention. Hay was stacked high in the loft.

  ‘Good day Brother,’ John said to the monk, and the coroner turned.

  ‘In good time, carpenter, they haven’t brought the prisoner yet. You say he wants to approve?’

  ‘That’s what he told me.’

  ‘If he says enough we can give him more food and the promise of a quick end when the noose goes around his neck.’ He reached into his robe, took out an apple and gave it to the stallion. ‘How does that sound for a bargain?’

  ‘It’s not mine to make, Master,’ he answered.

  ‘After a few more days in that place he’ll probably agree to anything. Robert, go and see where they are.’

  The monk limped out. When he was beyond earshot, the coroner said, ‘You’re a clever man, carpenter.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’

  ‘But I don’t know what to do with you.’ John looked at him with curiosity but said nothing. ‘You possess a subtle mind and you seem to learn things about people, but I don’t understand you and that troubles me.’

  ‘I’m just a man who works with wood.’

  De Harville snorted and shook his head. ‘If that were true you wouldn’t be standing here now.’

  ‘Would you like me to leave, Master?’

  ‘No. You can stay. You might as well hear what Roger has to tell me.’

  The monk’s sandals slapped across the yard. ‘They’re bringing him now,’ Robert announced.

  In the daylight the man wasn’t a pretty sight. Rats had bitten the flesh of his arms, his clothes were covere
d in filth, and the rusted chains and shackles weighed him down so he could only move slowly and painfully.

  The coroner regarded him as he approached. ‘You want to approve?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ Roger said, looking around the faces.

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘The master carpenter at the church.’

  John stood straighter, suddenly attentive.

  ‘Who killed him?’ de Harville said.

  ‘What’s it worth to you?’ The man gave a smirk.

  ‘If you tell me the truth, food and a clean, quick hanging.’

  ‘And ale. He –’ Roger nodded at John ‘– paid for some but the gaoler’s watered it down.’

  The coroner gave a short nod. ‘If your information’s good, I’ll see you have all that.’

  ‘Why should I trust you?’ the man asked suspiciously.

  ‘He gave his word.’ Brother Robert spoke quietly. ‘That should be enough for you.’

  ‘Who killed the master carpenter?’ de Harville asked again.

  ‘A red-headed man named Geoffrey, lives by the Shambles.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was paid to.’

  The coroner glanced at John, his expression blank. The stable was silent except for the snuffling of the roan in its stall.

  ‘Who’d pay him to do something like that?’ de Harville asked finally.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Roger admitted with a shake of his head.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ John wondered. He pushed himself away from the wall to stand in front of the man.

  ‘I heard him boasting about it in an alehouse.’

  ‘How did you know his name?’

  ‘One of the men he was with called him Geoffrey.’ Roger looked over at the coroner in desperation. ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’ John continued.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the people he was talking to?’

  ‘No. I thought they were all workers on the church.’ His gaze shifted around the room, uncomfortable with the onslaught of questions.

  ‘When was this? Before or after the murder?’

  ‘Before. About a week or so.’

  John rubbed the stubble on his chin with his good hand.