The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Again? Why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ That was all Jeffrey had to say on the matter. As they strode out, he filled the air with inconsequential things, verses from romances, anything to avoid silence.

  ‘That house there.’ He pointed towards a neatly-kept cottage close to the bottom of the hill that led up to Whittington.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I noticed it yesterday. Anyone going towards the village would pass it, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Of course. And the track doesn’t bear off into the woods for what, another quarter of a mile?’

  ‘Not quite so far,’ Jeffrey corrected him. ‘I paced it off. But yes. I came out here at first light and spoke to the goodwife who lives here. When she’d finished, I said I’d return with you.’

  The woman was perhaps ten years older than him, with two young children to help her with the cooking and feeding the chickens. Her husband was a carter, delivering to Derby then on to Nottingham. She noticed all the people who passed. Stuck down here, her curiosity was natural, particularly as few went to or from the village.

  Yes, she’d seen the coroner and his men the day before. The gossip had drifted down the hill about poor Adam.

  ‘When I saw you earlier, you told me about a rider,’ Jeffrey said.

  ‘That’s right,’ the woman replied. ‘He went by very early, before it was light, going up the hill towards Whittington. I never sleep well while my husband’s away, and I wondered who could be passing through at a time like that.’ She gestured out of the window. ‘I was so curious that I looked. We don’t have many go by, and never close to dawn.’

  She looked from one man to the other, as if she wanted to be sure they believed her.

  ‘You saw him again, you said.’

  ‘Well, I think it was him.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, I’m sure it was. As far as I could tell, the horse looked the same, with a white blaze on its chest. Coming back down and heading off towards Chesterfield.’

  ‘When was this?’ John asked.

  ‘A while,’ she replied, ‘but not too long. Still early enough for the dew to be on the ground but full light. He was going quicker this time. Not a gallop, more a canter. But faster than the slow walk up the hill.’

  ‘Did you see what he looked like?’ John held his breath and hoped. A good description might give them the killer. But the woman shook her head.

  ‘He was wearing a cloak and he had his hood up. I thought that was strange, because it wasn’t a cold morning. I couldn’t see his face at all. I’m sorry, Masters.’ She lowered her head.

  ‘There’s no need to apologise, Mistress,’ John said. ‘We’re grateful to you, you’ve helped us.’

  ‘Did he murder Adam, do you think?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I liked him. He was a pleasant old man. Him and Oswald. Sometimes he’d give me things he found.’ She crossed herself. ‘I wish I knew more.’

  ‘That’s plenty.’ Jeffrey smiled at her, full of charm. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It all helps,’ John said as they walked back to town. ‘That detail about the horse… I’ll talk to the ostlers as soon as we’re back in town. They might know who owns an animal with that marking.’

  ‘I’ll ask people I know as well.’

  ‘Come to my house at dinner.’

  ‘Are you sure? Won’t your wife mind me being there again?’

  ‘Not at all,’ John told him with a smile. ‘She likes your company. We all do.’

  • • •

  The ostler leaned on his shovel and frowned. The yard smelled of dung, piled up against one of the stone walls. Soon enough, men would cart it off to the fields, to rot down before it was spread next year.

  The man reached into his mouth with a dirty finger and searched for a scrap of something. Finally he spat.

  ‘Blaze on the chest… I know of three horses like that, Master. One of them’s old Tom’s nag, so you can rule him out. You’d no more ride him than you’d hunt with a lapdog.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘One belongs to my Lord l’Honfleur. I know that because I’ve had it here once, when he had guests come to stay. Gentle beast, not too big. Not seen it lately, it might be on one of his manors.’

  ‘And the last one?’

  ‘Must be a year since I spotted that one,’ he said. ‘But it belonged to the Unthank family. The lad, the cousin of the boy who died a day or so back, he was riding it then.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Mind you, I heard he died, too, months ago.’

  The Unthanks. Back to them. He’d dismissed them. But was it possible that they were somehow involved after all?

  ‘No, I don’t believe it,’ Jeffrey said. They’d eaten, and now they sat in the hall with mugs of ale. Katherine had taken the girls down to the river to help her with a bundle of washing, their linen piled in a wicker basket. Richard was having a bad day, asleep up in the solar. ‘I’d take an oath on it.’

  ‘Be careful what you say,’ John warned.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in all directions. ‘But I asked them questions myself. I know the family. They wouldn’t do this.’

  ‘The ostler said that the other one with a blaze is my lord’s property. He’s not likely to have done it, is he?’

  ‘We don’t even know if the Unthanks still have the horse. Maybe someone else bought it.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. All I can say is that I’m sure this has nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Their fortunes declined after Gertrude preferred the Church to their son.’

  ‘Yes, but… I still won’t accept that they’re involved.’ Jeffrey shook his head.

  ‘Go and find out. You know them. Ask a few questions. Find out where the horse is now.’

  ‘I will.’ He stood and tugged down his tunic. Today he was dressed in dark leaf-green, with a matching hood and liripipe that hung down his back almost to the waist. Black hose of fine wool and shoes of carefully-worked leather. No mistaking that he came from money. But he wore it without thought, not parading like a peacock showing its plumage. They were clothes to cover his flesh, nothing more.

  The Unthanks, John thought. He didn’t want to believe they were responsible. Jeffrey had vouched for them and he didn’t want the man to be wrong. But they had a motive, there was no doubt about that. What of Lady Gwendolyn and Sir Roland? So far he’d found nothing to tie them to the murders.

  He sighed, then left the house, striding quickly along the street to l’Honfleur’s house.

  ‘My lord,’ John said when the man was finally willing to receive him. ‘You have a horse with a blaze on his chest.’

  ‘I do. But I own several horses. You already know that, Carpenter. What of it?’

  ‘Who’s ridden it lately?’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘I don’t know.’ L’Honfleur seemed amused by the question, not affronted. ‘The horse has been on my manor in Yorkshire for almost a month. Why do you need to know?’

  He explained, although it scarcely seemed worth his breath now. The horse was far away, it hadn’t been ridden to Whittington.

  ‘But the Unthanks have one like that?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. They had, at least. Jeffrey of Hardwick is finding out more about that.’

  L’Honfleur nodded his approval.

  ‘What do you think about it, Carpenter?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord.’ It was an honest answer, the only one he could give.

  ‘It changes everything again, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It might, Master. There’s always the possibility it’s another horse altogether.’

  ‘That’s true. Do I take it you’re not still pointing your finger at my daughter and her husband?’

  ‘At the moment I don’t know enough to accuse anyone, my lord.’

  ‘Then I’ll remind you once more: find your evidence. The fair starts very soon.’

  He was well aware of that. On his way here h
e’d seen a group of acrobats arriving, giving a short performance in the market square then passing a hat for coins. Tumbling, climbing on each other, falling and catching, all to the accompaniment of a tabor and rebec. People ran from all over town as soon as they heard the music; he’d spied Katherine with Juliana and Martha, their eyes wide with wonder.

  Yes, the fair would open soon. Very soon. And when it happened, his fifty pounds would disappear as certainly as if someone had burned it.

  • • •

  He paced up and down until Katherine sent him out into the garden.

  ‘If you need something to do, go and dig the soil.’ There was an edge to her voice, but kindness in her eyes. Deep down, she wanted the money as much as he did. It would change their lives. They’d be rich beyond anything he could imagine. To men like l’Honfleur or Jeffrey, the amount might be nothing. To a carpenter, though, it was a true fortune.

  He started to work, pushing down hard with the spade and turning over the ground. In a curious way, it was comforting. It occupied his body and stretched his muscles. By the time a voice called his name, he was surprised to discover he’d dug over a strip almost as long as a man.

  ‘I’d hoped to be here well before this,’ Jeffrey apologised. ‘I know time is important.’

  ‘You’re doing what you can, I know that. Besides, we both know these people wouldn’t speak to me.’

  Jeffrey snorted, a mix of anger and frustration. ‘It was hard enough to make them speak to me, and I’m kin. After a fashion,’ he added, ‘although you’d scarcely believe it, the way they treated me today.’

  ‘The horse?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He took a breath. ‘They sold the animal last year. It was through a horse dealer; they don’t know who bought it.’

  ‘Then we’re back where we began.’

  ‘Your ostler might not know every horse in Chesterfield with a blaze on its chest.’

  That was possible. But it sounded desperate and they both knew it; this was a small town.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There are people arriving all the time for the fair. It could be one of them.’

  John cocked his head. ‘It wasn’t a stranger who went to Whittington and killed Adam, and we both know it.’

  Jeffrey nodded. ‘True,’ he said sadly. ‘True.’ He put his hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Don’t give up.’

  ‘I won’t. I can’t. But there is something I need to do. Come with me, if you like.’

  • • •

  Alan was waiting patiently, sitting on the floor and sharpening his chisels with a whetstone before rubbing everything with an oily rag. He looked up, smiling as John entered and began to examine the work.

  It didn’t take long. He knew everything would be perfect, every joint and fit tight. He tested the glass to be certain it sat firm in the new frames, and that those were squarely seated in the wall. He couldn’t have done it any better himself.

  A smile for the lad and he turned to the householder.

  ‘I trust you’re satisfied, Master.’

  ‘It’s good,’ the man agreed, before his face hardened. ‘But I employed you to do it, not an apprentice.’

  ‘And yet you say it’s good?’ Jeffrey asked. ‘You don’t find any fault with the workmanship or the materials?’

  ‘No,’ the man replied. ‘It’s—’

  ‘I taught Alan,’ John said. ‘He learned from me, he’s served his years and his work is the equal of mine. Surely, Master, if it pleases you and you’re satisfied, there can’t be a problem, can there?’

  ‘I expect the man I hired to be the one doing the work.’ He’d lost the argument and he knew it. But he wasn’t giving up without a final blow.

  ‘When I came to look at the job, Alan was with me,’ John reminded him. ‘I told you that we work together.’

  ‘Together! Not him alone.’

  ‘Yes. But the coroner has asked for my assistance, and you’re pleased with the work.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to address your complaint to the coroner,’ Jeffrey said. ‘I’m sure Sir Mark would listen.’

  ‘No,’ the man said quickly. ‘No, the work is very good indeed. How much do I owe you?’

  He paid without haggling, and after they’d left, John gave Alan the full fee. The boy’s hands moved rapidly. Are you sure?

  ‘You did everything. You earned it.’

  Thank you. He turned to Jeffrey and the fingers moved once more. A smile and he ran off.

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He thanked you. He can’t speak. He can hear and he can understand, but his tongue won’t work. He uses his hands to speak to his mother, and I learned to understand it.’

  ‘There’s more to you than I thought,’ Jeffrey said with admiration. ‘But it doesn’t solve our problem, does it?’

  ‘No.’ He glanced up at the sky. It was the very end of the afternoon, shading into evening. Men would still be working. ‘We should be able to find the farrier and the blacksmith.’

  The smith only knew the horses the ostler had described.

  ‘He’s the one who brings them here if they need a shoe or it’s shed a nail,’ he said with a broad grin. ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it? Same if they need a new bit or a fitting for the bridle. He brings it here for me to do.’

  The farrier kept his business on the far side of the Hipper. It was a small place, just the man hammering out horseshoes, with his son to work the bellows. He put up his hammer and listened as John explained, throwing suspicious glances at Jeffrey in his finery.

  ‘I’ve seen one or two like that. The Unthanks had one, I know that. But they sold it.’

  ‘Have you seen it since?’ John asked.

  ‘A man brought it in earlier in the summer. It had thrown a shoe. Very skittish beast, I remember that. Almost kicked young Harold.’ He nodded towards his son, a muscular lad of about thirteen.

  ‘Who owned it?’ The man wanted to talk, to tell his story. The only way to find the answer in a hurry was to prod him along.

  ‘Oh.’ His eyes widened and for a moment he looked annoyed to be interrupted. ‘It belonged to a servant of Sir Roland. You know, the husband of Lady Gwendolyn, my lord’s daughter.’

  ‘Yes,’ John replied, ‘we know who you mean.’ His mouth was dry, as if someone had just blown dust into it.

  ‘I had to chase him for two months before his steward paid, mind.’ The farrier gave Jeffrey a half-hidden glance. ‘I’m sure it’s not true of them all, Master, but getting the rich to pay what they owe is a job in itself.’

  ‘Once they have money, they hate to part with it,’ John agreed, and hoped he was wrong. To find out, though, he needed to discover the killer. At least it made the farrier smile.

  ‘Back to Gwendolyn and Roland,’ Jeffrey said as they walked away. The shadows were growing longer and the nightjars were beginning to call.

  ‘Much good it does us.’

  ‘If we tell my lord, it might convince him to question them, at least.’

  ‘It won’t.’ He’d seen it in the man’s eyes. Unless there was evidence that was as hard as iron, l’Honfleur wouldn’t confront his daughter and son-in-law. He wasn’t ready to accept that they could kill their own kin. But who would want to face that?

  Suddenly John felt weary, as if a weight had fallen on his shoulders. He stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. Sleep, that was what he needed. Hours of it, diving deep and waking rested and alert with his mind working properly.

  ‘In the morning,’ he said.

  • • •

  ‘The fair begins the day after tomorrow,’ Katherine said.

  He was lying in the darkness. The promise of sleep had been wonderful. But in the end it proved no more than a tease. After he lay down, it eluded him. Snatches of it, then shuddering awake again. He shifted restlessly as his wife settled beside him.

  ‘I know.’ His voice was a whisper. He could almost pin to the hour when the fair would start. The service at the church first
to bless the fair, followed by the procession across Chesterfield. Then his time would be done, no more hope of fifty pounds.

  There was still time. If he was lucky. But right now, luck seemed like sleep: an illusion. It had turned its smile from him.

  ‘Do you think…’ she began, but the rest of the words failed her.

  ‘Maybe.’ He turned on to his back and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. Her hair tickled his cheek. The warmth of her body was comforting.

  She was a balm of sorts. He did sleep, opening his eyes with Katherine still nestled against his chest. The first hint of light came through the shutters. He rose and dressed, washing his face and hands and brushing his teeth with a willow twig in the buttery. Some bread and a mug of watered ale and he was ready for the day.

  • • •

  John walked out along the road that passed Roland and Gwendolyn’s house. It was still early, not even fully light yet, but already there were people and carts on the road, making their way towards the town. Some looked as though they were part of the fair, others arriving to sell at the weekday market. A trickle of them, all nodding and wishing him a day filled with peace.

  But that wasn’t what he needed. He wanted things to happen, to find a thread he could tug.

  The house was awake, the shutters drawn back. He could see servants hurrying around. A man gathered wood from a pile and carried it inside. A young groom came out of the stable, cleaned off his hands in the trough and vanished into the house.

  Early risers, gone to break their fast.

  John stopped, studying the land. The stable stood apart, close to the woods at one edge of the property. He should be able to slide through, go in for a moment and make sure they still had a horse with a blaze on its chest.

  It was safe, it wouldn’t take long.

  The air in the woods was dank and heavy. Ferns as tall as a man sprang up between the trees. Good cover as he made his way towards the barn. He crept along, his back to the wall, ears pricked for the smallest sound.

  The door was open just far enough for him to squeeze through. He stood for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. Then he went from stall to stall, checking the horses. There it was. A sleek chestnut with the sharp white blaze. It whinnied loudly as he approached and drew back from him.