The Saltergate Psalter (5 page)

‘What happened when you left the Shambles?'

‘I walked with him back to his house and he paid me before he went in. That was it. Thanked me polite enough and said he'd need me again on the next quarter day when he went back for the rent. I told him he'd be welcome. It was all done so fast there was still time for me to eat before I started work again. And now you're here and telling me he's dead.' The man looked down at John. ‘I'm sorry, Master, that's all I know.'

The carpenter believed him. The big man seemed honest. As honest as anyone might be, anyway. Then a thought struck him.

‘How many people did you tell about it?'

Roland frowned. ‘A few, I suppose,' he answered eventually, his face reddening with embarrassment. ‘It was a good story for the alehouse. Worth a laugh and a drink or two.'

‘Did anyone seem especially interested in it? Can you recall?'

‘Not really. No, wait,' he added after a moment. ‘There was someone who kept asking me questions one night.'

‘Who was he?'

‘I've no idea. I was in that inn at the top of Soutergate with some of the lads from here.' He made a gesture back towards the labourers working around the church. ‘Someone must have heard me talking. He bought me a mug of ale to hear it again, then another for a few questions.'

‘What kind of questions?'

Roland shook his head. ‘I don't remember.' He gave a rueful smile. ‘We went out for a long night, if you know what I mean.'

‘Do you remember anything about him?' John pressed.

Roland pursed his lips as he concentrated then said suddenly, ‘Leather. He smelt of leather. And the crown of his head was bald like a monk.' He smiled, surprised by his memory.

It was something.

‘Thank you,' John said and shook the man's hand, feeling the rough calluses on his palm.

As they walked away he looked back wistfully, seeing the carpenters climbing gracefully up the steeple to work. Another few weeks and the work would be complete, maybe even by St John's Day. A framework built over the wood and the oak tiles in place. A wonder for all the country around. Part of him wanted to be up there. It was dangerous work, but worthwhile for the satisfaction of creating something as remarkable as the steeple that stayed in place through its own weight.

Walter pulled him back to the present. ‘What are we going to do now, John?'

‘I'm going to see the coroner and tell him what we've learned.' He saw the hope in the boy's eyes and asked, ‘Do you want to come with me?'

• • •

De Harville sat rubbing his temples. His face looked strained. The goblet of wine in front of him sat untouched.

‘So you haven't found anything useful,' he said wearily after John had recounted the day.

‘We've discovered a few things,' John objected.

‘But not the killer.' He raised his head to stare at Walter. ‘Have you, boy?'

‘No, Master.'

‘You could take lessons in politeness from him, Carpenter.' The coroner sighed. ‘God's blood, why can't it be simple?'

The carpenter looked over at Robert. The monk gave a small shake of his head.

‘Catch the killer,' de Harville ordered.

It was a dismissal. Outside the house, standing in the yard with the strong smell of horses from the stable, John looked up at the sky. Blue, not a cloud to be seen. A perfect day to be building something, not chasing a murderer. But he was in the hunt now and there was no turning back.

‘John.' The monk had appeared silently beside him. ‘Don't pay too much attention to him. His wife's no better and he went to visit his son at the wet nurse. He loves the boy, it always puts him in a temper when he has to leave.'

The carpenter nodded. ‘I'll pray for him.'

‘Pray for all of them.' He rested his gnarled hand on John's shoulder. ‘He has too much on his mind at the moment. Everything's tearing him apart. Give him your forgiveness when he seems angry. He doesn't really mean it.'

‘I will, Brother.'

The monk smiled. Like Martha, he seemed older, smaller. The habit hung loosely on his frame.

‘And look after your wife, too. You know,' he added thoughtfully, ‘if you talk to Will Durrant, he might be able to tell you more about Timothy.'

‘Who?'

‘Have you ever seen the blind man in town being led by a boy?'

‘Yes.' The old man, as old as Timothy had been, stooped and shuffling with his hand on the lad's shoulder. ‘Did they know each other well?'

‘They grew up together.'

• • •

There was bread and cheese on the table. Walter chattered as they ate while John sat and looked at his family. He'd never imagined it would be this way. A wife, yes, and his own children to follow. But not a house already brimming with life and voices.

When he left York, running from a woman who'd been happy to betray his trust, he'd had few thoughts of settling. He'd tried that in the rich city and it had come to a bad end. He wanted the road, he wanted the freedom to practise his craft and go where he pleased. No ties, nothing to ground him.

Yet God had another plan in store, he thought. And he had no regrets. Katherine was more than a helpmeet, she was someone who made him brighten every time she smiled. And soon they'd have their son. Or daughter.

That brought its own fears, too. So many women died in childbirth, so many babies didn't reach their first birthday. A baby was an act of faith, of defiantly loving.

‘You're very quiet,' Katherine said.

‘I'm just thinking.' He reached across and squeezed her hand.

‘The deaths?'

He shrugged, saying nothing. There was no need to tell her what was on his mind; it would only worry her.

‘Just that I'll be glad when this is all over.'

‘The coroner takes advantage of you,' she told him. ‘Don't you be doing anything dangerous.'

‘I won't,' he promised. She leant across and kissed him, the girls giggling to see the brazen affection.

‘Hush, you two,' Katherine said, but her eyes twinkled and she was smiling.

‘Yes,' John agreed. ‘You're both going to be busy enough soon. Dame Martha's going to teach you to read and write.'

‘Really?' Janette said. ‘Really?'

‘That's right,' Katherine agreed. ‘Your numbers, too.'

With a giggle the girls slipped off the bench and out into the garden to trace imaginary letters in the dirt.

• • •

‘Do you know Will Durrant?' John asked as he used his plane on the edge of the door, watching the thin curls of wood tumble to the floor. He tried it in the jamb again, seeing a spot where it still stuck.

‘Of course I do,' Dame Martha said.

‘Brother Robert told me he was a friend of Timothy's.'

‘Long ago,' she said slowly. ‘I remember them together when I was a girl. But that's years back.'

‘I'll see him tomorrow.' He sighed and ran his thumb over the wood. It would fit now. A nothing job, but he was happy to do it for her. From taking him in as a lodger when he first arrived in Chesterfield, she'd become a good, trusted friend. ‘I don't have anything else.'

Just the man with the bald crown and the smell of leather. He'd need to find him first.

‘I don't know how much you'll get from him,' Martha warned. ‘He suffered from the palsy a few years ago. Do you know where he lives?'

‘No.'

‘That old house next to the Guildhall on the market square.'

He could place it in his mind; he had a good memory for buildings and how they were constructed. Wood and limewash, with weathered oak shutters and a thick front door, the rivets on the hinges dark and heavy.

He rubbed his tools with an oiled rag before replacing them in the leather satchel, then swept up the shavings and the sawdust.

‘You won't have any more problems with that.'

‘You're a good man, John. If I was fifty years younger …'

‘You'd just be a little girl, then.' He winked and she beamed.

‘Get away with you.' She swatted his arm lightly. ‘You're full of flattery. It's market day tomorrow. That means you'll see Will out and about. He never misses it. His servant's son leads him around.'

‘I'll look for him there.'

The big Saturday market was always full. People came from the villages all around, some as far as Bakewell, to sell and buy. There was everything a man could want, not just food, but iron nails, horses, spices, bolts of silk and tiny bottles of sweet perfume. Jugglers and storytellers entertained the milling crowds.

He loved the place. Each market day felt new, like an adventure in a land touched with magic. He and Katherine would wander, the girls at their side hoping for a treat made from spun sugar or marchpane, knowing he'd give in and buy them one.

Tomorrow, though, would be a little different. He'd be searching for a man in the crowds. At least he should be easy to spot. There were other blind folk in Chesterfield, but none as old as Will Durrant.

• • •

They stood on the High Street, gazing down at the press of people. John took out a pair of coins then gave Katherine his purse. She looked at him and arched a brow, weighing it in her hand.

‘It feels heavier than it really is,' he told her. ‘Please, wife, be kind and leave something in it when you've finished.'

She giggled. ‘Go and do your work,' she said with a grin. ‘When you come home you can see how much you've earned my kindness.'

He gave an exaggerated bow and disappeared into the crowd. He was buffeted this way and that as he squeezed and elbowed his way through, stopping to glance around at faces.

Will Durrant was rubbing his fingers over a length of woven cloth when John found him.

‘How much?' the old man asked in a cracked, shaky voice, shaking his head when the seller gave the price. ‘Too rich for my blood.' He put a hand on the shoulder of the lad next to him and began to move away.

Like so many blind men, he walked with his head raised, as if he was looking up to the sky, with an old man's short steps. He sniffed a little, turned his head this way and that, using his other senses as his eyes failed him.

‘Master?' John said, and Will stopped and turned to face him.

‘Who are you?'

‘John the Carpenter. I wish you a good day.'

‘And to you.' Durrant smiled, showing a toothless mouth. His beard was white and patchy, thick round his chin and sparser as it grew up his cheeks. His hair had been cut so short it was little more than stubble. He could pick out a hesitant slur in the man's voice, the way his tongue slid over words as he tried to pronounce them. ‘I've heard your name. You found a killer.'

‘I did.' He had no sight and his speech might not be what it had been, but the man's wits were still clear.

‘They said you're looking for whoever killed Timothy and Nicholas.' He moved his head so his eyes seemed to be staring into John's face. He knew Durrant couldn't see him but it was still disconcerting.

‘I am, Master. You knew Timothy, I believe.'

‘Once upon a time.' He gave a weary sigh. ‘Old age takes men away from each other as it leads us to the grave.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be. It's the way of the world and it always has been. So you want to know about Timothy?'

‘Yes, I do.'

Durrant leaned towards the boy who was standing patiently. ‘Go on home. The carpenter will look after me and make sure I get there. Won't you?'

‘Of course,' John agreed, surprised by the trust.

‘And now you can take me to the alehouse and buy me a mug or two.'

• • •

The man settled with his hands around the cup. His head moved, as if he was curious about everything around him. His fingernails were short, hands clean. His linen was neat. It seemed that his servants cared for him. A leather jerkin was tied neatly over the top.

‘You want to know about Timothy,' Durrant said. His hands shook a little as he picked up the cup, but not enough to spill the liquid.

‘You knew him for a long time, I believe,' John said.

‘I'm probably the last one here who remembers him as a boy.' The words seemed to come out reluctantly, as if he had to fight them to speak. But he smiled as he spoke. ‘We used to hunt and hawk together.' He sighed. ‘A long time ago.'

‘You weren't always blind?'

‘No.' Durrant gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Not until I was thirty. One morning I was as fine as I'd ever been. Half a year later I couldn't see a thing.' He cocked his head to the side. ‘You sound like a young man.'

‘I am,' John told him.

‘Are you married?'

John smiled. ‘Yes, Master. Not long ago.'

‘Treasure her,' Durrant said seriously. ‘I miss my wife's face more than anything, even though she's long dead.'

‘I'm sorry,' was the only answer he could give. After a pause, he asked, ‘What was Timothy like?'

‘Like a brother sometimes. Distant at other times.' The words arrived slowly, with difficulty. But it was a battle he endured many times a day. ‘I never saw him lose his temper.'

‘When did Nicholas become his servant?'

‘Let me see.' His words vanished into thought. All around them, men who'd come for the market stood, talking as they drank. One, with a heavy beard, wearing torn hose and a patched shirt, told a joke, finishing in a bellow of laughter. Durrant didn't even seem to notice them. ‘We must have been twenty-five. It was after his parents died, I know that. Nick was still a boy then.' He sighed.

‘Did you visit Timothy?'

‘A few times a year.' He ran a hand over his chin. ‘Not that we ever had much to say. When you're old and can't do much, memories of when you were strong become embarrassing.'