The Saltergate Psalter (11 page)

‘Yes, Master.'

• • •

Edmund looked harried. He had a nervous face, hair cut short, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to show hairy arms. An assortment of his wares was on display across the lowered front shutter. Fashionable shoes with long, pointed toes, lovingly worked in expensive leather. Sturdier, cheaper boots, made for men who laboured and needed something strong.

John looked down at his feet. He'd worn the same pair of boots for the last three years. New, they'd cost him a pretty penny, but they'd lasted well. Now, though, they looked scuffed and sad. Perhaps it was time to replace them.

‘Good day, Master,' Edmund said with a smile. ‘Looking for anything in particular?'

He could see the shoemaker assessing him, judging what type of footwear he'd need and how much might be in his purse.

‘Perhaps.'

‘What's your work, Master?'

‘I'm a carpenter.'

‘You need something that will last, then. But comfortable.' Edmund moved out from the counter. ‘It looks like those have served you kindly. Doesn't look like the work of anyone local, though.' He smiled quickly. ‘We all have our little touches. I don't recognise these.'

‘I bought them in York.'

‘York! They have good craftsmen up there. A wonderful place, people say.'

‘It is.'

‘I could make you a pair like these,' Edmund said, stroking his chin. ‘Something to last you three years and better. They won't be cheap, but they'll still feel good after a day's labour.'

‘How much?'

The shoemaker named his price. Half the cost of the boots in York.

‘As long as they're strong.'

‘The best, Master. I promise you that.'

‘I'm surprised you don't have anyone working with you.'

Edmund's face turned sour. ‘I did. A hard worker and he'd been with me a long time. Then he didn't turn up on Monday and the next thing I know he's dead out on Tapton Lane.'

‘The men everyone's talking about?'

Edmund nodded. ‘One of them. Gilbert, his name was. Fine with a needle, too; he could sew a pair of shoes as tight as anyone I'd ever met. But he had his ways.'

‘His ways?' John asked.

‘He liked to drink and wager. He could probably have had his own shop if he'd put his mind to it. But that wasn't Gilbert. You know how some people are. He thought that if he bet cleverly enough, he'd win and life would be easy.'

‘Didn't they find another man out there, too?'

‘Edward the Butcher. He was a bad sort. I daresay there won't be too many honest folk who'll miss him.' He looked around and leant closer, lowering his voice. ‘The rumour is that they killed old Timothy and his servant. I wouldn't put that past Edward. There was something about him.'

‘Were they good friends? Gilbert and Edward?'

‘Drank together, gambled together.' Edmund shrugged. ‘Must have been close enough, I suppose. Hand me your boots a minute, Master, so I can make some outlines.'

In a little while he was back on Soutergate. His purse was lighter, but a man needed stout boots for work. It was an investment, he told himself; they'd serve him for a long time. That was some consolation.

He spotted Walter at the top of the hill and quickened his pace to catch up. The lad vanished into a little jennel between two houses. John arrived in time to see the menacing presence of Julian at the end of the lane, blocking the way out. The boy stood, clutching a package to his side.

John drew his knife, walking along calmly. Walter turned in fright at the footsteps, then smiled with relief.

‘I thought we could walk together,' John said.

Julian didn't move as they approached. He wore no expression on his face, eyes narrow, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger.

‘Good day to you,' John said. ‘You'll need to move so we can go past.'

But Julian stood his ground. ‘You've been asking about me in Dronfield.'

‘I have,' John admitted.

‘Why?'

‘I was on the coroner's business.' It was a flat statement. ‘Maybe you'd like to talk to him about it.'

‘You and the whelp ought to take care.'

‘Should we?' He tightened his grip on the knife. ‘Why's that?'

‘Things might happen to people you love.'

In one swift movement John was on him. He planted a leg behind Julian then pushed hard so the man tumbled on to his back. He knelt on Julian's chest, pinning his arms with his knees and holding the knife at his throat.

‘I'll say this once,' John hissed. ‘And I'll only say it once. If anything happens to anyone I care about, if there's even a hint of it, I'll come for you. And next time I won't stop. Do you understand me?' He pressed the edge of the blade against the man's flesh, just hard enough for a thin line of blood to appear.

Julian stayed silent, a stare of pure hatred.

‘If I need to ask questions, I'll do that without begging your leave,' John continued. ‘We've had four men dead here. From all I've heard, another wouldn't be missed.' He reached down and lifted Julian's knife from its sheath, sending it skittering away. Then further, plucking another from the man's boot. It followed the first. ‘Do I make myself clear, Master?' He spoke the title mockingly. ‘You threaten people I love and there'll be no mercy for you. Do you understand?' He lent on the blade a little more. ‘Do you?'

Cautiously, Julian gave a nod and John stood.

‘I think we're done here, Walter.'

His heart seemed to beat so loud as he walked away he thought the whole town must be able to hear it. He pushed his hands into his belt so no one could see them shaking.

‘How did you do that, John?' Walter asked in a voice filled with wonder.

‘Do what?'

‘Make him fall.'

‘Something I was shown once.' He let out a breath. ‘You'd better be careful. He's going to want his revenge.' The lad nodded. ‘And not a word to your sister. I don't want her worried.'

‘Yes, John,' Walter promised solemnly.

‘No gossiping about it either,' he warned.

He watched the boy lope away. The day was as warm and sunny as it had been a few minutes before, but it felt different, as if there was danger in the air. He'd humiliated Julian, and the man wouldn't stand for that. He was the type who'd demand vengeance. Not a clean, fair fight, but at a time and place where he had the advantage.

But it also made him wonder just how deeply Julian was involved in all this. He wouldn't threaten unless he had something to hide. Could Edward and Gilbert have been working for him, and he'd killed them before they could be arrested and talked? That made sense, there was logic in the chain of it all.

Proving it would be another matter.

By the time he reached the weekday market on the north side of the church, he felt exhausted. The fear and anger had drained away, leaving a hole inside. All he wanted was to lie down somewhere quiet, to sleep and forget for a while. He might be recovering from his injuries, but he wasn't all the way back to himself yet.

The stalls were full of goodwives and servants shopping for milk, butter, eggs, and the produce on sale – young onions and wild garlic, the first fresh greens of the seasons, pulled from the ground before sunrise and carried into town.

He nodded good day to one or two he knew and raised his gaze to the spire. The oak tiles rose higher each day. Men climbed, held fast by harnesses, to nail them in place on the cross beams. It was a remarkable creation, tall enough to touch heaven. As impressive in its own way as the great minsters in York and Lincoln, the beautiful stone castles of God.

In the house, the girls were spinning with the type of playful concentration only children could manage. The kitten kept pawing at the thread, and they kept pulling it away. He paused to kiss them on the tops of their heads and stroke the cat. No one was going to hurt them, he promised himself. No one.

Katherine was working out in the garden, hoeing the weeds out from a line of crops. The first shoots of this and that, the soft fern tops of carrots, more he couldn't identify. He held her close for a moment and told her he needed some rest.

She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Has something happened?' she asked him.

‘I've bought new boots,' he answered with a grin, pointing to the ones on his feet. ‘These have had their day. Spending money leaves a man weary. We're not like women.'

She swatted at him and he ducked back. With luck she'd never hear about the incident with Julian. Walter had been the only witness, he believed. And that was best for everyone.

The bed brought sweet comfort to his body. He'd rather have been working. Real work, with wood. But things were as they would be. Another day or two and he'd be ready. Before then he could indulge himself in dreams.

He woke in the middle of the afternoon, refreshed, his mind sharp and alert. He'd promised the man Gabriel that he'd come and mend his door. It was satisfying to put on the leather satchel of tools and feel the weight slapping against his thigh as he walked along Knifesmithgate and crossed the empty market square.

It was simple work. A moment to see the problem, no more than a quarter of an hour to repair it and see that the door opened and closed smoothly. As he was wiping the tools clean, Gabriel brought two mugs of ale.

‘You could have done it yourself,' John told him.

The man shook his head ruefully. ‘The last time I tried I only made it worse.'

‘People have different skills.'

‘I bought and sold.'

‘A merchant?' he asked as he put the tools back in the bag.

‘It's as good a word as any,' Gabriel said with a shrug. ‘Bits of this and that.'

‘A pedlar?' he guessed.

‘No. I couldn't afford this place on a pedlar's income. I let Luke stay because he always has good stories and the gossip from all over.' He smiled. ‘He brings the world to me. What do I owe you?'

‘We'll say a penny. Is that fair?'

‘Perfectly.' He took a coin from the purse on his belt.

‘Were you born here?' John asked idly.

‘Born here and this is where I'll die.' He stroked his white beard, a glint in his eyes. ‘But I've seen plenty in between. As far north as York and all the way down to London.'

‘Business?'

The man nodded. ‘I had the chance to go to France but I didn't take it.' He sounded wistful. ‘You're a young man. Always take your opportunities when they come. If you don't you'll only regret it later.'

‘I'm a man with a wife and a child on the way.' He smiled. ‘I've seen enough of the world for my tastes. I worked in York for two years.'

They fell into idle, easy conversation, whiling away the time. The warmth was lulling, the ale strong, and the company pleasant. They exchanged reminiscences and tall tales until John finally stood and picked up the leather bag.

‘I knew your wife's mother,' Gabriel said. ‘Long ago. She was just a lass then. It's funny. You see them grow and have children of their own. My sons are scattered now. The two who survived the plague, that is.'

‘You must have known Timothy.'

‘Never that well,' Gabriel said slowly. ‘Not at all after his accident. It was a shock to hear he'd been killed, though. And his servant.'

‘What was he like?'

‘Quiet, I suppose,' Gabriel answered after some thought. ‘When he wasn't working he was always off hunting and hawking.' He shrugged. ‘That was a long time ago.'

‘Did you ever hear any talk of him having a book?'

‘A book? No–' He stopped himself. ‘Maybe there was something. I don't know, it was so far back. Why?'

‘He owned a psalter. He'd promised it to the church when he died.'

‘And it was gone?'

‘Yes,' John replied.

‘It seems to me I remember something about a book, but I don't know what.'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘I'll tell you when there's more work to do here.'

• • •

Outside the air was balmy. It had felt good to be using his hands again, to mend something that was broken. Another two days and he'd be back in Newbold, to see the barn take shape.

On an impulse he crossed over to the High Street, enjoying the satisfying weight of the tools as they banged against his leg. De Harville was in the yard outside his house, talking to his groom and preparing to mount a roan. When the servant looked and muttered a word, he turned. He was elaborately dressed in a black velvet jerkin over his linen, with hose the colour of dark red wine. His riding boots shone, and a shimmering peacock feather rose from his cap.

‘Carpenter. And with your tools. Are you looking for business? There's nothing I need doing here.' He put a foot in the stirrup and pushed himself up into the saddle. ‘What do you want? Be quick.'

‘I don't think Edward and Gilbert killed each other. They might have murdered Timothy and Edward, but there's more going on.'

The coroner gave a weary sigh and patted the horse's neck. ‘Why do you have to make trouble? We have them, they're dead. That's an end to it. If you're trying to wheedle more money to continue, I won't pay it.'

‘What was missing when they were found?'

‘Their purses,' de Harville answered.

‘And the book, if they were the killers.'

‘What does it matter?' He dismissed it. ‘It's over.'

Then he realised the thing he'd missed, the doubt that had gnawed at him since he'd seen the bodies.

‘If they were leaving Chesterfield, where were their packs?'

It was enough to halt the coroner. Reluctantly he dismounted and threw the reins to the groom.

‘Take her out and exercise her,' he ordered as he began to stride off to the stable. ‘Maybe those were stolen, too.'