The Saltergate Psalter (4 page)

‘Couldn't you have refused? I asked you.'

He shook his head. How could you say no to someone like that? She knew it well as he did. Her face was flushed, red with anger.

‘I asked you, John,' she repeated.

He understood her feelings. The last time had seen them in danger of their lives.

‘You know what he's like. I didn't have a choice. We'll be safe enough,' he promised. But they were blind words. Who knew what they'd find? He placed a hand on her belly and his voice softened. ‘Honestly. I'm not going to take any risks. Not with this one waiting.'

She nodded. Her eyes were wet with tears that were ready to roll down her cheeks as he kissed her gently.

‘Besides, I like coming home to my wife every night. I'll keep Walter safe.'

‘Then who'll look after you, John?'

‘What do you know about Edward the Butcher?' John asked as they walked down Saltergate.

‘People are scared of him,' Walter answered.

‘Why?'

‘He has a temper.'

‘Are you scared of him?'

‘No, John,' he replied with a shy smile.

‘Fear isn't a bad thing,' he said. ‘It keeps you alert.'

‘Are you ever scared, John?'

‘All the time.'

‘You don't show it,' the lad said wonderingly.

‘That doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes it's best not to show what's inside.' An image of Katherine's face came into his mind. ‘And sometimes you need to show what you feel.'

‘Do you mean girls, John?' Walter asked with interest.

‘I do.' The boy was growing up. Soon enough there'd be more questions, ones he'd need to answer. But not yet. He tousled the lad's hair. ‘Come on, we have to go and see a cooper.'

• • •

The workshop had the warm smell of wood that always reminded him of summer. In the corner, water steamed in a long metal trough placed over burning coals. Richard the Cooper was hard at work as they entered, while his apprentice adjusted a series of boards and tied them in place.

‘God's grace on you,' John called out and the men both turned.

‘God's peace,' the cooper replied, raising a hand. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Just a word, if I might.'

Richard nodded at the apprentice to keep on working, then put down his saw. He was a large man, tall, with broad shoulders and heavy arms, a thick growth of beard covering his face.

‘I know you,' he said after a moment. ‘You're the carpenter. Not long here.'

‘John.' He extended a hand and the cooper shook it. It was the firm grip of a man who worked hard.

‘They say you do good work. But you'll be wasted here, if you're looking for a job.'

‘Nothing like that.' His eyes were examining everything. Hammers, strips of iron, a bucket of nails. He understood how it all worked, the wood steamed and forced into shape for the bowed side of the barrels, the hoops fitted around to keep them in place. But seeing it here fascinated him, the way everything concerning wood did. ‘You rent this place from Timothy?'

‘Have done for years, may he rest in peace. I hope they catch that Nicholas soon.'

‘They already have,' John told him. ‘He was dead, too.'

‘Dead?' Richard turned a sharp pair of blue eyes on him. ‘How?'

‘The same time as his master, probably.' He picked up a heavy pair of tongs, weighing them in his hands.

‘I don't see why that would interest a carpenter.'

‘The coroner asked me to look into the deaths.' He saw the man's quizzical look. ‘I solved one last autumn.' John shrugged. ‘Now the man thinks I should know every mystery.'

The cooper grinned. ‘Come and have a mug of ale. I don't know about your business, but this is hot work.'

‘Any work's hot on a day like this.'

The man dipped two chipped clay beakers into an open barrel and passed one over.

‘You know I discovered him?' He waited as John raised his eyebrows. ‘Paid a fine for my troubles, too,' Richard complained. ‘Death's an expensive business.'

‘And life is even more expensive for a poor man,' John agreed. ‘What made you go to the house?'

‘Some tiles had come off the roof.' He pointed with a thick hand towards the house next door. ‘It was time to mend them so I went to remind them. The door was open. I called out and heard nothing.' He shrugged. ‘So I looked around and Timothy was sitting up in bed. It was only when I touched him that I knew he was dead.' He shuddered.

‘Did you move anything? Take anything?'

‘Of course not,' Richard said dismissively. ‘I'm not a thief.'

John nodded his apology. ‘What do you know about Timothy and Nicholas?'

The cooper let out a long breath. ‘Let's see. I moved here seven years ago. Nicholas comes every quarter day for the rent. I'd never seen Timothy before I found his corpse. Folk say he didn't walk well.'

‘That's what I heard.' John took a long drink. It was good ale. Weak, but with a bite to the taste. ‘What was Nicholas like?'

‘I never had a problem with him.' The cooper shook his head. ‘Not that we talked much, mind. I gave him my money and that was it. Just a few words. I never really thought about it.'

‘He never told you anything about himself?'

‘No. Like I said, it was business. The last time I saw him was Lady Day in March. Do you know who'll take over the properties now Timothy's dead?'

The same question as Evelyn. The dead were gone and the living looked to their futures.

‘Not until his will's read. If he made one.'

Richard snorted. ‘There'll be one. Men with money always make sure it's passed on.'

‘Probably,' John agreed. ‘Tell me, did you ever hear of Timothy owning a book of psalms?'

‘No. Wouldn't mean anything to me, anyway. I couldn't read it if you put it right in front of me.' He placed a hand on a finished barrel. ‘It's things that matter.'

John understood. ‘Can you show me how you work?'

‘Going to give me competition, Carpenter?' He asked the question with a grin.

‘Not unless you become a joiner.'

‘We're both safe, then.'

It was a good half-hour before he came back into the afternoon sun, Walter at his side. He'd learned a little of the trade, the way each stave had to be cut, so precise, wider at the middle. The way everything fitted together so perfectly. The crafting of a plug. He felt a small satisfaction in the knowledge.

‘What did you think?' John asked.

‘I don't think he did it,' Walter said.

‘Nor do I.' Richard the Cooper had seemed honest and straightforward, a man happy to live with his labours. ‘Let's see what this butcher has to say.'

‘Please, John, be careful.' A worried look appeared in Walter's eye.

‘I'll watch what I say.'

The shutters were still down on the shop in the Middle Shambles, forming a stall for the butcher to show off his cuts of meat. Flies buzzed heavily around, crawling on the flesh, so many that each piece seemed almost black and alive.

Edward stood in the shadows near the back of the shop, splitting open a carcass with a long, sharp knife. He reached a hand inside and pulled out the entrails, tossing them into a bucket and kicking at the dog that came around hungrily to sniff.

He was a large man, with a heavy, hawk-nosed face and dark eyes set deep. His belly strained against a stained leather apron over an old linen shirt and patched hose. Seeing the customers, he put down the knife and walked over, rubbing his hands on an ancient, bloody rag.

‘Walter,' he said and the boy gave a wary nod in return.

‘I'm John the Carpenter.'

‘And what do you want, John the Carpenter?' There was a mocking smirk in his voice and he nodded at his display. ‘I've got good meat for sale.'

‘Just information.'

‘About what?' He folded his thick arms across his chest with a forbidding expression.

‘This place,' John answered with a smile. ‘I understand Timothy owns it.'

‘Did,' the man said with satisfaction. ‘He's dead, or are you the only one in town who hasn't heard?'

‘I know well enough. It was the coroner who asked me to look into his death.'

Edward cocked his head and John could feel his gaze.

‘A carpenter who investigates death?' He sneered. ‘What's it going to be next, a blacksmith healing the sick?'

‘You didn't care for your landlord?'

‘I never gave him a thought, and that's God's honest truth.'

‘How often did you see Nicholas?'

‘Rent days.' The man shrugged. ‘Won't be seeing him again now he's run off.'

‘Then there's news you haven't heard yet. He's dead.'

‘Good riddance, too.' Edward hawked and spat.

A strange reaction, he thought. No one else had found Nicholas objectionable.

‘You didn't like him?'

‘Scared of his shadow, that one. I'm surprised he had the balls to kill anyone. Always brought a guard when he came down here.' He laughed. ‘Afraid someone would rob him.'

He could hardly be faulted for that. A full purse down here was a heavy temptation.

‘Who did he bring?'

‘Roland. The big one from Hathersage, not the little one from Unstone,' he explained, not that John knew either of them. ‘He'd get his money and be gone in a minute. No talk about him at all. Not when he was down here, anyway.'

‘Thank you,' he said. There was nothing to learn from Edward. John left, Walter close on his heels as they hurried along to Low Pavement. The alehouse was open and he ordered for them both, sitting at a bench away from the other customers.

‘Did you like him, John?'

‘No. Not at all.' There was an edge of violence to the man, as if his mood could shift in a heartbeat. Much longer in there and it might have happened. ‘Do you know the Roland he was talking about?'

‘Yes,' Walter replied.

‘We should go and talk to him.'

‘Do you think Edward killed them, John?'

‘No,' he answered after some thought. ‘Do you?'

‘I don't know,' Walter said after some thought, then added. ‘I think he could.'

‘So do I. But I don't think he did. Not this time. Do you see what I mean?'

‘What are we going to do now?'

The carpenter drained his mug. ‘We'd better talk to Roland. He's the only other name we have. Where does he live?'

‘I don't know, but he works at the church.'

‘The church?' John asked in surprise.

‘He's a labourer.' Walter looked at him. ‘He's very big and he has a scar here.' Walter ran a finger down his cheek.

He had a faint memory of the man now. But nothing more than that. He hadn't worked at the church long enough to know everyone. Just the carpenters and one or two of the masons. He smiled. ‘Then let's see if we can find him.'

It felt strange to be in the churchyard doing nothing while all the workers moved busily around. Without even thinking, John raised his eyes to the steeple. The framework was almost done; already some of the joiners were fixing the cross-bracing in place. It was so tall that he needed to lean his head back to see to the top.

His hands itched a little, a lost wish that he could still be working on it. Those days were gone, he told himself. He liked the life he had now.

Roland was easy to spot as he emerged from the church porch. He stood a head taller than most of the others, his scar almost white in the sunlight. He'd stripped to just his hose and boots, sweat shining on the thick dark hair that covered his chest.

He made his way to the ale barrel, standing in the shade of an oak tree, dipped a cup and took a long drink.

‘Are you Roland?' John asked, and the man turned sharply.

‘I am.' He had a deep voice that seemed to start in his belly and resonate in his chest. Grave and slow, it commanded attention. But his face was open and cheerful, the type to break into a ready smile. There were the faint lines of laughter around his eyes, and he looked as if life amused him.

‘I'm John the Carpenter.'

‘I know who you are. You used to work up there.' He nodded towards the tower.

‘That's right.'

‘And everyone knows Walter.' He reached out, clapping a large hand on the boy's shoulder. ‘What can I do for you, Master?'

‘You did some work for Nicholas.'

‘From time to time,' Roland agreed, his face darkening. ‘I'd never have seen him as a murderer, though.'

‘He wasn't.' He saw the surprise on the man's face. ‘He was killed, too.'

Roland crossed himself quickly, muttering a few words under his breath.

‘I've heard that you were his bodyguard when he went to the Shambles.' He waited for the man to nod, then continued, ‘How did he come to ask you?'

‘He saw me at the market and asked if I wanted to earn a few pennies.' He shrugged. ‘Nothing more than that. I only went there twice with him.'

‘Had he experienced any trouble?'

‘I don't know. He was scared down there, though. You could see it on his face. Nervous.'

‘Did anyone ever give you a problem?'

Roland grinned. ‘No. It only took a few minutes. In and out. I went down with him on my dinner. Two pennies each time.'

‘Did he say much to you?' John asked.

‘Nothing more than a few words,' he answered, shaking his head slowly. ‘He wasn't the talkative type. All business. But when we were in the Shambles his eyes kept moving around. He held himself very straight. Kept a hand on his knife, too. Like he was expecting something. So perhaps there'd been a problem before.' He shrugged once more. ‘That's what I thought, anyway.'