The Saltergate Psalter (8 page)

‘I'm not sure,' he said. ‘Why don't you go and see the shoemaker and find out where Gilbert lives?'

‘Gilbert won't be there, will he?' the lad asked nervously.

‘No, he's gone. I'm sure of that. I'll be in the alehouse.'

He watched the boy run off on eager legs. Inside the building, with the smell of ale and old rushes on the floor, he took a coin from his purse and sat with a mug. He wanted time to think, but he was weary. He simply needed to sit for a while.

The battering he'd taken on Saturday night had drained more from him than he cared to admit. A few minutes' rest and he'd be fine. He had to be now, with killers to seek.

He'd be willing to wager that Gilbert lived in the Shambles; maybe even lodged with Edward the Butcher. Wherever it was, he'd need to go there. They'd be gone, somewhere, but he might find some indication of where.

It wasn't a task he relished. Instinctively he touched the handle of his knife, just to check it was there. A small comfort for the Shambles.

He leaned back on the bench, closing his eyes. Just for a moment. He needed some rest.

Someone was shaking his arm. He opened his eyes, dragged away from a beautiful dream that vanished into the light.

‘I've found out where Gilbert lives, John.' Walter sat down, beaming.

‘Is it in the Shambles?' He drank some of the ale to wet his dusty throat. The lad looked disappointed.

‘On Packers' Row. How did you know?'

‘It was just a guess.' He smiled. ‘Good work.' Slowly, he drained the cup, relishing the earthy taste. ‘We'd better take a look at his room.'

The Shambles was made up of pinched little streets – Fisher Row, Potters' Row, many more. Runnels in every road overflowed, filling the air with a stink the residents didn't even seem to notice. The buildings rose higgledy-piggledy, no order to them. Everything seemed to radiate out from the Royal Oak, the inn that stood at the centre of the area.

Conversations stopped as they passed. People stared at them. The folk in the Shambles had a look about them. Suspicious faces that seemed as if they'd never spent much time in the sun. Dirt was everywhere. A dead cat had been carelessly thrown against a wall. Walter stopped by a house that looked close to toppling over.

John brought his hand down on the wood. He waited, but no one came, and he tried again, pounding harder until someone inside drew back the bolt. She was a big woman, as tall as him, wearing a cheap dress layered in dirt and stains, a cudgel clutched in a thick hand. A wisp of grey hair escaped from her wimple, and her nose looked as if it had been broken at some time.

‘What do you want?'

‘Mistress.' He smiled and gave a small bow. ‘I'm looking for Gilbert.'

‘Why?' She didn't move an inch, filling the doorway, menacing with her size.

‘The coroner's searching for him.'

She shook her head. ‘He's gone. Left Saturday night. The bailiffs were here yesterday. I told them.'

‘I'd like to see his room.'

She snorted. ‘I daresay you would. But you can't. Someone else already has it.'

‘Did he leave anything behind?'

The woman shrugged. Anything Gilbert hadn't taken was now hers, and he doubted there would be anything of value.

He could face her down, demand entry in the coroner's name. But from the corner of his eyes he could see a few people starting to gather. It wasn't worth the argument. John smiled and nodded.

‘Of course, Mistress. May God go with you.'

Eyes watched them until they turned the corner. He stopped and let out a long breath, a mix of fear and relief.

‘Were you scared, John?' Walter asked.

‘Very.' He still had the wounds and the bruises from Saturday, and no desire for more of them. ‘But I suppose we'd better check Edward's shop, too.'

In the tangle of lanes and streets he had no idea which way to turn. But the lad led him, right, then left, and left once more, until they were standing in front of the place. An apprentice, trying to look sure of himself, stood behind the counter.

‘Good meat, gentlemen?' he asked. ‘Fresh, cut how you like.'

‘I'm looking for Edward,' John told him.

‘He's not here.' The young man's eyes darted around nervously.

‘Does he often leave you in charge?'

‘Sometimes.' He lifted his head. ‘Why, what business is it of yours?'

‘That's between me and your master,' John told him, his face stern. ‘When will he be back?' When there was no reply, he repeated, ‘When?'

‘He didn't say.' The apprentice tried to shrug it off. ‘Soon.'

John kept staring, watching the man's face. ‘How soon?' he asked finally.

‘The 'prentice said soon,' came a voice behind them. John turned slowly, seeing a hefty man, his hose patched in many colours, his shirt faded, hidden by a vast leather apron covered in bloodstains. His face was covered with dark stubble but the hair on the top of his head was as short as bristles. A long knife hung from his belt, his right hand resting lightly on it. There was an air of violence about him.

‘I heard him. I wanted to know how soon.'

‘What is it to you, anyway?'

‘I have business with Edward.'

The man looked him up and down and gave a grim smile that showed broken, brown teeth. ‘It looks you like came off worse in the last business you transacted, friend. You might do well to think on that.'

John glanced back at the apprentice. He looked more confident now, cocksure in his gaze.

They left without a word, forced to squeeze by the large man in the doorway. He smelt of decay, dirt ingrained into his fingers.

Twice he'd been bested in the Shambles. But he'd been stupid to expect anything more. They looked after their own here. Edward and Gilbert could even have been tucked away, looking down at them from a second- or third-storey window.

‘Come on,' he said, putting his arm around Walter's shoulder. ‘Let's go home. Do you know who that man was?'

‘Julian.' The lad stared at the ground. ‘He owns the butcher's shop next to Edward.'

‘He looked like more than a butcher to me.'

‘They say he's killed people.'

From the man's face, it was easy to believe. He seemed cruel and arrogant. Someone used to being obeyed and making people fearful.

‘Why haven't they hung him, then?'

‘I don't know, John. Maybe they could never prove it.'

‘Maybe so. Put him out of your mind. He won't hurt you.'

Walter gave a trusting smile.

‘Yes, John.'

The noise persisted. He opened his eyes and it was still there. Someone banging hard on the door.

John eased himself out of bed. His arm hurt as he tried to dress quickly, dragging on his hose and tying them before pulling on his boots. Katherine stirred but didn't wake as he slipped down the stairs.

He had no idea what time it might be. Somewhere in the middle of the night. He turned the key and drew back the bolt, peering into the darkness.

‘Master?'

He squinted, just able to make out the face of one of the bailiffs.

‘What is it?' John asked. ‘What time is it?'

‘Not long rung two, Master,' the bailiff answered apologetically. ‘The coroner sent me to fetch you.'

‘What's happened?'

‘We've found Edward and another man.'

‘Alive?' he asked, knowing it was unlikely if the man was here at this hour.

‘Bodies. On Tapton Lane.'

‘Does he need me there?' John asked wearily.

‘Yes, Master. He said you should come right away.'

Very carefully, biting his lip against the pain, he drew on his jerkin again the chill outside.

The town was silent, no lights burning in the houses. A dog was barking somewhere, and he heard a creature snuffling through a midden near St Mary's Gate. The bailiff had nothing to say, just moving with quick, sure steps along the road.

It wasn't too far, less than ten minutes. The moon appeared from behind some clouds, casting light and deep shadows over the land. Finally he heard low voices, and as they came close John could make out the silhouette of a body sprawled on the dusty road.

The coroner was leaning against the tree, Brother Robert sitting on the ground beside him.

‘About time, Carpenter. You must like your bed too much. What do you make of this?' He gestured at the corpse.

John knelt. The moon was bright enough to make out the face of Edward the Butcher.

‘Who found him?'

‘A pedlar who was late on the road,' de Harville answered. ‘When we arrived, this one wasn't alone.'

‘What?' He started to rise, gazing around. All he saw was Edward. ‘Who?'

The coroner shrugged. ‘I don't know his name. But he was still alive. Two of the men took him back to town. He died on the way. Good riddance to him, too.'

Gilbert. He'd wager money on it.

‘There was a pair of bloody knives by them.'

Both of them dead now.

Something about all this was wrong, he thought immediately. It was too convenient. Two wanted men fight and kill each other as they make their escape? He didn't believe it.

‘Has anyone searched the area?'

‘Why?' the coroner asked. ‘We know what happened. We have the men who killed Timothy and Nicholas, the ones who attacked you. We don't even have the expense of a trial,' he said with satisfaction as he pushed himself away from the tree. ‘I wanted you to see it. Everything's done.'

De Harville waved a hand and the monk struggled to his feet.

‘I want to look around,' John told him.

‘Do what you wish, Carpenter.' He shrugged and began to walk away. ‘But you'll see better once it's day.'

‘What do you want us to do with the body, sir?' one of the bailiffs asked.

‘Leave him here and keep a guard on him,' he decided. ‘I'll send a cart in the morning.'

Brother Robert started to limp after his master, the portable desk weighing heavy on one shoulder.

‘Let me carry that for you,' John offered, hoisting the strap on to his good shoulder.

‘Thank you, John.' The monk smiled with relief.

‘What do you make of it, Brother?'

‘It looks simple enough. They fell out and fought.' He gave a brief, tired smile. ‘Thieves do that. They're with God now, ready to be judged. May He have mercy on their souls.'

‘Do you think they deserve it?'

‘I'm not the one who sees their sins.'

John let his thoughts wander as they trudged towards town.

‘Where's the other body?'

‘At the jail,' the monk told him. ‘We'll see he's buried tomorrow. You should be glad it's over.'

‘I'm not so sure it is.'

‘Sometimes the obvious explanation is the real one, John,' Robert cautioned.

‘Sometimes,' he agreed slowly. ‘I'm just not sure it is here. Where's the psalter?' He stayed silent for a while, then asked, ‘Do you know who Julian is? The butcher.'

‘Don't mention his name around the master,' Robert warned quietly.

‘Is he as bad as people say?'

‘The talk is that he's murdered at least four.'

‘Why not put him on trial for it?'

‘No one will ever testify against him. And we've never been able to find any evidence. But we're certain it was him.'

‘Who were the victims?'

Robert shook his head. ‘Ask me in the morning, please, John. I'm too old to be sharp after a broken sleep.'

At the foot of Saltergate, close to the stone cross, they parted company.

• • •

The jailer was asleep at his desk, loud snores filling the room. John had to slam the door to make him stir.

‘What do you want?' He was a heavy, jowly man who reeked of ale and sweat, not happy at having his rest disturbed.

‘I want to see the body that was brought in tonight.'

‘And who are you?' He turned his head and spat on the dirt floor.

‘I'm looking into the killings for the coroner.' He paused. ‘Go and ask him if you don't believe me. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you.'

They stared at each other until the jailer finally reached for his set of keys. Grumbling, he unlocked the door.

‘I'll need some light down there.'

Slowly, the man took out his flint and tinder, striking the spark and blowing it into a flame. He picked up a torch coated with pitch and soon there was light. Without a word he handed it over.

It was Gilbert. The bald spot at the top of his head, The body which reeked of leather. The corpse had been thrown against the wall in an untidy tangle of limbs.

Wincing, he turned the man, holding up the smoking, stinking brand. Five wounds that he could see. One on the face, down the cheek, another three on the forearms, the last, the one that killed him, on his belly. It looked as if he'd been trying to defend himself. They could have come from a knife fight; it was impossible to be certain.

Gilbert's purse strings had been cut; just two small leather thongs dangled from his belt.

‘Did you steal his purse?' John asked after he'd climbed from the cell.

The jailer spat again. ‘No. I haven't even looked at him.'

He was telling the truth. It glittered in his hard eyes.

• • •

John unlocked the door to the house, moving lightly inside. Everyone still seemed to be asleep up in the solar. He found some bread and cheese in the buttery and half a mug of weak ale to drink with it.

Four dead now. Too many, far too many. And all for the contents of Timothy's house and a book the killers probably hadn't even known existed. One they very likely couldn't read.

Greed.

He sighed, feeling the weariness of a broken night climbing around him. His arm ached. There was a low throb at the back of his head. But there was no point in going back to his bed. His mind was working now; he'd never get to sleep.