The Saltergate Psalter (9 page)

In the morning he'd look at Edward's body. Very likely there was nothing to find, some cuts, a fatal blow. The tale – thieves falling out – could be a true one. It was certainly simple; it wrapped everything up.

But he just didn't believe it. No matter how much he wanted to, it wouldn't sit right in his mind.

The coroner was satisfied. Why couldn't he be, too?

He ate a little more, trying to think things through. Edward and Gilbert must have stayed in Chesterfield, not fled. They'd put their trust in someone. Had he betrayed them or killed them?

His mind moved to Julian, the brooding, threatening presence he'd met the afternoon before. It wasn't too difficult to imagine him behind all this. A man who'd murder without too many qualms. And people like that always had willing followers.

He ran his hands down his face, as if he could draw away the tiredness behind his eyes.

‘John?'

He looked up to see Walter watching him. Sometimes the lad could move as silently as a ghost. At other times he clumped through the house like a herd of cattle.

‘Do you want something to eat?' He gestured at the food.

‘You left very early.'

‘I know.' He sighed softly. ‘The coroner needed me.'

‘Has someone else died?'

‘Edward and Gilbert.'

Walter's face turned pale.

‘Don't worry. It's safe enough. They can't hurt anyone else now. I have to go back in a little while,' John continued. ‘You can come with me, if you want.'

‘I do, John,' he said firmly.

‘Then get yourself something to eat first. It might be a long day. Are Katherine and the girls still asleep?'

‘Yes.'

At least someone was, he thought wearily.

• • •

John knew that Walter was nervous. The lad seemed tense as he walked, eyes searching around in the early light. But he wanted to come along and see the dead. To be a part of this.

It was going to be another warm day. Dawn felt gentle, lulling, the sun appearing off to the east. The road was broad enough for two carts to pass, the verges wide, a King's highway that led all the way to Doncaster.

He breathed deep, taking in all the scents. In the woods there was a chorus of birdsong, the pretty music of the countryside. It was a morning for picking up his leather bag of tools and going to work. To make something that would last and feel the wood take shape under his hands. Not a morning for viewing the dead.

But the corpse was there, lying in the grass, exactly as it had been last night. The bailiff sat with his back against a tree, waving his hand in lazy greeting.

The flies had gathered on Edward's body; he had to keep brushing them away as he examined the corpse. The same type of wounds on the forearms. The fatal blow had been to the chest, a wide patch of blood dried rust-red on the man's shirt. He checked: the purse strings had been cut.

‘Look all around,' he told Walter. ‘Be as thorough as you can. I don't expect there'll be much to find, but we need to look.'

Half an hour later, with the heat of the day beginning to rise, he called an end to it. Nothing at all.

‘What are the arrangements for the body?' he asked the bailiff.

The man shrugged a reply. ‘They'll send a cart out soon enough. Are you finished, Master?'

He nodded. ‘The pedlar who found him. Do you know where he's staying?'

‘He'll be with old Gabriel out by West Bar. Always stays there. He's been coming round every few months for years now. Plenty of folk know him.'

Not to be suspected, in other words. He nodded and turned away, Walter beside him.

‘What do we do now, John?'

‘I think we'll start by finding out more about Julian the Butcher,' he said thoughtfully.

He rubbed his wounded arm. It would be several days before it was strong enough to finish work on the barn in Newbold. All of it empty time. He might as well do something to fill it. There was something here that just wasn't right, even if he didn't know what it was yet.

‘Do you think he killed them?' Walter asked.

John stifled a yawn. Already it felt like a long day and it had barely begun.

‘I don't know,' he said.

‘But why would he do that?'

That was the question.

‘Everyone seems happy with the idea that Edward and Gilbert fought and killed each other.' He watched as Walter nodded. ‘Maybe they did. But it seems too simple to me, too easy. And both of them had their purses stolen.' He tried to put his thoughts into words but how could he describe what was nothing more than an instinct?

‘It feels wrong. I can't even say why.' He let his thoughts turn and they came back to a single person. ‘Who would know about Julian?'

The boy stayed quiet for a long time.

‘I can think of someone,' he replied eventually. ‘Christian of Dronfield.'

Dronfield. Where poor dead Nicholas had been born. Not even a handful of miles from Chesterfield.

‘How do they know each other?'

Walter shook his head. ‘I don't know. But they seem to talk a lot at every Saturday market.'

A friend, then, and one who might not want to say much.

‘Anyone else?'

‘Not that I know, John.'

‘Then we'd better start walking. We can be in Dronfield before dinner.'

• • •

The road was dry, few carts around. Somewhere along the valley he heard a cow lowing. It was fertile land here, out towards Unstone, the grass and the growing shoots of wheat lush on the hillside. A few late blossoms remained on the apple trees, the sun catching the brilliance of a magpie's feathers as it flickered through the branches. A pair of crows were fighting over something, their caws briefly filling the air.

Everything was so peaceful, so placid, that it was hard to believe that just a few years before God had turned his back on the world. The sun was warm on his face, not too hot, as perfect a spring day as anyone could wish. Just right for a walk.

The village was clustered around a thin, gurgling stream that meandered through the bottom of the valley. The church stood halfway up the hillside, close to a long stone barn and an inn. At the peak, the manor house, staring down over everything. He'd passed through here once before, when he was first making his way to Chesterfield. The priest had shared his food and offered a bench in his house for sleeping.

It seemed like a contented place, one that might have looked exactly the same a hundred years before. A few of the cottages were abandoned, neglected and crumbling, but most were carefully tended, large gardens growing behind them.

John led the way to the alehouse, a cramped old building, its business shown by a green branch hanging over the door. Inside, the place was clean and airy, shutters thrown back to the sun, fresh rushes and lavender strewn on the floor. A woman was bent over, tapping a barrel, filling a mug and holding it up before tasting it and giving a little smile of satisfaction at her work.

‘A good brew, Mistress?'

She turned quickly, slopping a little of the drink over the rim. A tall woman, heavily built, past her middle years but still looking strong and smiling with pride.

‘Indeed it is, Masters. Perhaps you should try it.'

‘We will,' John told her. ‘And two bowls of pottage.'

He paid and they sat at a bench, staring out through an unglazed window. In the distance men worked on their strips of land, tending the growing crops. A horse and cart moved lazily along the main street. It was like so many other villages he'd seen on his travels, where people lived and died surrounded by their joys and their sorrows.

‘Do you know where we can find Christian?' he asked the woman as she brought the food. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

‘The manor house, like as not. If he's not there he'll be going round the lord's fields. Have business with him, do you?' It was a natural villager's curiosity.

‘Someone mentioned his name, and we're passing.' John shrugged. ‘Did you ever know someone called Julian? Lives in Chesterfield now?'

‘Him.' Her face turned hard. ‘I wouldn't give you a farthing for him. You'd be hard pressed to find anyone here who would. Dronfield's a lot better since he left.'

‘Why does everyone hate him?'

‘He stole anything that wasn't locked up. Nothing anyone could prove, mind you. He was sly enough for that, but we all knew. Finally we decided to give him a warning: leave or pay the price. He went.'

‘All the way to Chesterfield,' John said.

‘It's far enough.' She shrugged. ‘As long as he's not coming around here, I don't care.'

The food was good, heavily spiced and tasty. He finished the bowl, wiping it clean with a slice of bread, then washed everything down with the last of the ale. But even with the meal in him, Walter still looked hungry. He could wait for more; they had work to do.

The stone of the manor house was still bright, the windows glazed. Some lord's rich statement. The building looked no more than a few years old, but solid and ready to stand for the ages. Two men were working close by, turning over the soil. They stopped as they noticed the approach of two strangers.

‘God go with you.' John raised a hand in greeting.

‘And with you,' the older of the men said warily, a large hand resting on his shovel. ‘Are you looking for someone?'

‘Christian, if he's here.'

A shadow seemed to cross the man's face. It only lasted a moment then his expression was empty again.

‘The steward's down in the bottoms, along the Sheffield Road.' He pointed north. ‘They're draining a ditch.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Just follow the road by the stream and you'll find him.'

‘What do you want with Christian?' the younger of the pair asked. He was thin, the hose baggy on his legs, arms no thicker than twigs.

John smiled. ‘Just a little business. Good day to you, Masters.'

‘Did you notice that?' he asked as they went back down the hill. ‘The way that man's look changed when I mentioned Christian's name.'

‘I don't think he likes him. You should have asked him why.'

‘He wouldn't have told me.' It wasn't something to share with complete strangers. ‘There's someone else I want to see while we're here.'

At the church he swung the door open. The air felt cooler, fragrant with the faint scent of incense. The priest was standing by the altar, lost in prayer. John put a finger to his lips as they entered.

As their soles rang out on the tile floor the man turned in alarm, his mouth still open. He peered with old eyes.

‘I know you, don't I?'

‘You do, Father.' John grinned. ‘You gave me shelter for a night last summer.'

‘You're a … carpenter?' He tried to remember.

‘I am, Father. John the Carpenter. And settled in Chesterfield now, married with a child due.' The priest crossed himself with his hope for the baby. ‘This is Walter, my wife's brother.'

‘What brings you back here, my son?'

‘Questions, Father. I'm doing work for the coroner.'

The priest raised an eyebrow.

‘If you want to talk we should go outside,' he said after a small hesitation. ‘There's a bench in the shade. It's a pleasant place to sit.'

Indeed it was. By the north wall of the church, in the shadow of the building, catching the small wisps of breeze that fluttered down the hill.

‘Questions, you said?' the priest asked as he settled.

‘That's right. I'd like to know about two people,' John told him. ‘Christian the steward and someone who used to live here.'

The Father chuckled. ‘If you're asking about Christian, then the other person must be Julian.'

‘They were close?'

‘They're cousins,' the priest told him. ‘Their mothers are sisters.'

‘That doesn't always mean much.'

‘True enough,' he agreed with a nod. ‘But the pair of them were closer than most brothers. Born the same year, grew up together.'

‘And was Christian as bad as Julian?'

‘Not as bad. You've heard the tale?'

‘Only a little of it, Father.'

‘Probably enough. Stories always grow bigger in the telling.' A flutter of wind ruffled his black cassock. ‘Are you old enough to remember what things were like after the pestilence?'

‘Yes,' John answered. Walter shook his head.

‘Those were good days for lawless men,' the priest sad with a sigh. ‘Or for those who wanted to be.'

‘Julian and Christian wanted to be?'

‘Julian did. He'd always been wild, the way some boys are, but his parents stopped the worst of it. After they died …' He shook his head.

‘What about Christian?' John wondered.

‘He was always easily led.' The priest sighed. ‘But he was never as bad as his cousin. There are plenty of folk who still resent him for those times, though. And he's a hard man to work for.'

‘But the villagers never demanded that Christian leave?'

‘No. The lord had appointed him as steward by then, so there wasn't much we could do. Getting rid of Julian was enough. There's been no trouble here since then.'

‘Christian and Julian often talk together at the Saturday market,' Walter said and the priest nodded.

‘That doesn't surprise me. The kind of bond they had doesn't vanish.' The father turned to John. ‘Why are you so interested in Julian?'

‘Something he might have done. But even if he did it I don't think I'll ever be able to prove it. Tell me, do you remember someone called Nicholas? He was from here.'

‘No. Perhaps it was before my time here.'

‘Who owns the manor?'

‘Sir Alexander de Sèvres. Not that we ever see him from year to year. He has most of the land from here to Doncaster. But it's the steward who takes care of it for him.'