The Saltergate Psalter (17 page)

‘No.'

‘I do.' Geoffrey smiled. ‘Not very well. But the psalms were beautifully written, and the drawings looked just like life. When Timothy said he wanted us to have it I had to hold my breath and make sure I'd heard him properly. It would have been a very generous gift. Do you think you'll find it?' he asked bleakly.

‘I'm trying, Father. But this is a very tangled web. And too many have died.'

‘May God help you in your search.'

‘I need all the aid I can get,' John told him and stood. ‘I don't even know what's going on.'

It was the truth, he thought as he wandered out into the fresh air. The trees in the churchyard cast welcome shade. A group of labourers were gathered under an oak, drinking cups of ale. For a moment he wished he was one of them, enjoying the company. But there were no faces he recognised and they paid him no attention as he walked to the lych gate.

These murders made his head ache. Last time had been straightforward. This … it was as if someone had set a puzzle, one that wound and twisted around itself until it was impossible to see ahead.

He'd barely started up Saltergate when someone called his name. Turning, he saw one of the bailiffs.

‘What is it?'

‘The coroner, Master,' he said breathlessly. ‘He wants to see you.'

‘Why?' Please God, not another murder. ‘Where?'

The bailiff bent, hands resting on his knees, his face ruddy.

‘At his house, Master. As soon as you can.'

He didn't wait for the other man but strode along Knifesmithgate to the High Street, his fist coming down heavily on de Harville's door. As soon as the servant saw him, she ushered him through to the hall.

The coroner was there, a thin surcote of brilliant blue over his shirt, one hand stroking his chin. Robert had his desk open, quill poised over a piece of parchment. And there was another man standing, his face set in determination.

He looked to be close to forty, the lines of age like a map on his face. His hair was short, the colour of iron, a beard cut close against his cheeks. He looked like a man used to being obeyed, his body relaxed, his hands resting on his belt. Expensively dressed, with good riding boots, fine woollen hose, and a nicely worked velvet jerkin.

‘Well, Carpenter,' de Harville said with amusement, ‘there's someone I want you to meet. Ralph of York.' The man gave a small bow. ‘He arrived here an hour ago. He claims to be a relative of Timothy.'

‘I don't claim to be a relative. I am a relative.' His voice was gruff, a man who didn't brook any argument.

‘How are you related, Master?' John asked pleasantly.

‘His mother was my grandmother's sister.'

A cousin of some sort, he thought.

‘How did you hear he was dead?' York was a long way off.

‘I was drinking in the York Tavern and I heard a carter talking about it.' He shrugged. ‘I asked him some questions, then I came down here.'

John knew the York Tavern. In St Helen's Square, close enough to the Minster. He'd drunk in there a few times when he lived in the city.

But he wondered at Ralph's presence. No one had mentioned that Timothy had any relatives. Certainly they couldn't have been close.

‘When did you last see Timothy?'

‘I was a young man. I was remiss. I became busy with work and my own family.'

‘What's your work, Master?' he asked genially.

‘I'm a merchant. Goods to and from the Lowlands. Some wool, some cloth.'

‘You haven't seen Timothy in many years but you still felt the need to dash down here?' the coroner asked.

‘He's a relative. He deserves that.'

De Harville raised his eyebrows. ‘And it wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that he had money you might inherit?'

‘I have money!' Ralph protested.

‘You have clothes and an arrogant manner. Were you hoping you'd be in his will?'

The man raised his head. ‘I'm his only relative.'

The coroner turned to the monk.

‘Does Lawyer Henry have the will?'

‘No, Master,' Robert nodded. ‘He says there's a will lodged in Derby, though.'

‘Do we know what's in it? Is Ralph of York mentioned at all?'

‘No, Master, no word on it yet.'

‘If I'm not mentioned I'll challenge it in court,' Ralph said. There was anger in his eyes.

‘You do that,' the coroner advised. ‘Give the lawyers all your money and after five years get nothing in return.' He raised a goblet of wine in a toast. ‘I wish you well of your adventure. If you want to pay your respects to Timothy, you'll find him in the graveyard.'

He stared at Ralph until the man had to look away, stalking out of the room and slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.

‘A plague on him,' de Harville grunted. ‘Well, Carpenter, what do you make of our claimant?'

John shrugged.

‘He might be real enough,' he said. Who could tell?

‘He made it up or just hoped it was that way,' the coroner said dismissively.

‘It's possible.' He ran a hand through his hair. ‘What are you doing about Christian, Master?'

‘The monk told me I need to be diplomatic.' He shot Robert a dark look. ‘I've sent a letter to the lord of his manor saying I need to question him.'

‘I thought Sir Alexander spent all his time in London.'

‘He does.'

‘It could take weeks before you hear anything.'

The coroner smiled. ‘I know, and justice won't wait that long. I'll bring Christian here on Monday.'

‘Send three or four men. He won't want to come easily.' He thought a moment. ‘But I doubt there's anyone in Dronfield who'll help him. He's not well-liked there.'

‘I'll tell you when he's here.'

• • •

He was glad to be home. He hadn't gone far, hadn't even done much, but it seemed as if the day had disappeared around him in a welter of words. The only thing that seemed real from it all was the new pair of boots. He wriggled his toes. These would be worth the money.

Katherine was sitting on a stool in the garden, supervising the girls as they tugged weeds from the rows of plants.

‘Not that one,' she told Eleanor. ‘That's not a weed.'

They were making a game of it, seeing who could pull the most. He watched for a moment, then bent and kissed his wife's forehead. The kitten was asleep in her lap. Her face seemed drawn, her eyes weary.

‘Is something wrong?' he asked.

‘I'm just tired. These two have been running me ragged today.'

‘Go and sleep. I'll look after them.'

She took his hand. ‘There's too much to do.'

It was natural for a woman with child to be tired; Dame Martha had told him that. She'd given him so many instructions that his head reeled from them all. Treat her gently, but not like she might break. Make sure she rested. Comfort her.

‘You're going to be good to her,' Martha told him, ‘or you'll answer to me. I've seen too many men heedless of their wives. You're not going to be that way.'

Her eyes had flashed as she spoke. All he felt was fear of all the things that could happen. The way the baby could die, before or after the birth. How fragile life could be for mother and child.

Since she'd told him, the worry had never vanished. It lay there, at the bottom of his mind, peering up at times. Whenever she seemed tired the warnings all flooded back into his head.

‘Rest,' he told Katherine. He was going to look after her, as well as he could.

After a small hesitation she nodded. He helped her up, watching until she was in the house. Then he turned to Eleanor and Janette.

‘All the traders will be taking down their stalls at the market. Do you want to go and watch?'

‘Yes!' Janette shouted.

‘You have to promise not to run off.'

Solemnly they both agreed and holding them both by the hand, he led the way to the marketplace.

In the distance he spotted Walter, deep in conversation with a man putting his goods into packs while a donkey stood patiently waiting. The boy knew so many people. It still surprised him.

He took the girls around, pointing out this and that, buying each of them a pastry covered with marchpane. A little luxury. Let them feel spoilt for once; once the baby arrived they'd have less attention. They giggled as they ate, wrapping a few crumbs in a handkerchief to take home for the kitten.

The three of them wandered for an hour, walking out past West Bar, then up the hill and home along Saltergate. He glanced up at Timothy's house. Someone had closed the shutters; already the place looked uninhabited and neglected.

At home he cautioned them to be quiet, to find the cat and feed it. He walked lightly up the stairs, peering into the solar to see Katherine stretched out sleeping. There was a smile on her face, long hair spread over the pillow. She looked so gentle, so peaceful that the sight of her filled his heart. He could have stayed there for a long time, simply watching her.

• • •

The girls were in bed, the giggling growing more sporadic as they settled down. Every night it was the same. Katherine was preparing the dough for tomorrow's bread.

He sat at the table with Walter. The lad had been quiet for a long time, but he was fidgeting a lot. There was something he wanted to say, John could tell, and he waited patiently until the boy was ready to speak.

‘John,' he said finally.

‘What is it?' he asked kindly.

‘The two men you were looking for …'

Julian's mystery visitors. ‘Do you know who they are?' he asked with sudden urgency.

‘I was talking to someone today who thinks he recognised them.'

‘Go on.'

‘He saw them the day Julian died.'

Now he was interested. ‘The person you talked to, who is he?'

‘He used to live in Lincoln. He'd seen the men down there. They work for the bishop.'

That was news worth knowing. But what would bishop's men be doing in Chesterfield?

‘Is he sure?'

Walter nodded. ‘Yes, John, he is.'

‘Does he know their names?'

‘No, John.'

‘You've done well,' he said with a smile. ‘Thank you.'

Walter had kept at it. He'd persisted, asking his questions and eventually discovering a few answers. It was more than he'd found himself.

But what did it mean? Why would a pair of bishop's men be visiting someone as unholy as Julian? There was only one reason he could imagine: to buy the psalter. Would they kill to have it, though?

He hoped not, but a part of him knew better than that. People could be ruthless to own the things they wanted. And the money saved could line their own pockets. Yet that still didn't explain Stephen the salt merchant.

Too many names. Too many people. Too much death.

There was a chain that linked them all. It began with Timothy, killed in his bed. Nicholas was not guilty of any crime, though. He was as much a victim as his master. Edward the Butcher and his friend Gilbert. They'd committed the first two murders. He was as certain of that as he could be. And now they were dead, too.

Everything pointed to Julian as their executioner. Maybe he really had been. But there were also parts of the picture still hidden from sight.

‘What are you thinking, John?' Walter interrupted his flow.

‘I'm trying to work out the puzzle.' He sighed. ‘Have you ever watched people playing chess?'

The boy looked at him in confusion. ‘Yes,' he replied slowly.

‘If you watch them, they're always trying to think five or ten moves ahead. They're planning.' He looked at Walter, seeing him nod slightly. ‘I think someone is behind all this, moving people around like the pawns.'

He'd always admired those who were good at chess. He didn't have a mind for the game and no one had ever offered to teach him. But he knew it needed a certain type of thinking, a person who planned well. And it seemed that whoever was behind this stayed two steps ahead of him, if not more.

‘What do you mean, John?'

He tried to explain it, but the words eluded him and he tried to make sense of it all.

‘I don't know,' he said finally, slapping his hand on the table in frustration. ‘But you've done a good job there.'

Walter blushed at the praise.

‘Thank you.'

• • •

He knocked on the door of the house on Knifesmithgate, the family behind him. The Sunday weather was fair, a light breeze to take the edge off the heat. Dame Martha stepped out, wearing her best clothes, the gown hung overnight to remove all the creases, her wimple as white as winter. She linked her arm through his, Katherine on his other side, and they processed to the church as the bell rang for the morning service.

The spire was complete now, the oak tiles glowing warmly in the sun. People stopped to admire it, pointing and smiling.

‘What do you think of it now?' Martha asked him.

‘It's magnificent.' His voice was full of awe. At one point it had seemed impossible, something just held on to the tower by its own weight. But here it was, finished.

‘I never thought I'd see anything like it in my lifetime,' Martha agreed. Even the girls were silent, gazing up towards the top as it climbed to heaven. ‘Come on, we'd better move. The service will be starting.'

She always stood with the other goodwives at the back, where they could exchange their comments and looks without anyone else noticing. He moved down the nave, the others besides him, standing and waiting. From the corner of his eye he could see the coroner over to the side with the other burghers of the town, the monk a pace behind him, head bowed in prayer.

Father Geoffrey appeared, resplendent in his robes and colourful stole, leading the prayers in Latin that hardly anyone understood. It was the rhythm of the words, the sense of devotion, the idea of coming together before God that mattered. The words droned by him, the way they always did, and his thoughts floated away.