The Saltergate Psalter (15 page)

‘Yes, Master.' He gave a quick smile.

When he arrived home there was a message waiting from the bailiff: Piers came from Bakewell.

The evening was warm enough to leave the shutters wide, sounds drifting in. The girls were both in bed, the cat curled on the blanket between them as they slept. He took one final look at them all, serene and innocent, then went quietly down the stairs.

‘Walter, I could use your help tomorrow.'

The lad's face lit up at the request. ‘Yes, John. What do you want me to do?

‘I'll tell you in the morning.' He looked at Katherine. ‘Would you mind if I had some time alone with your sister?'

He waited until he could hear Walter moving around quietly in the solar.

‘More coroner's work?' she asked coldly.

‘Yes,' he answered softly and reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

‘I ask you to stop working for him and now you drag Walter back into it,' she hissed. There was fury in her eyes. ‘What are you doing, John?'

‘I have to.' He looked at her.

‘De Harville can do his own work for once.'

‘He's worried about his wife and son.' As soon as he spoke he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

‘But you're not?'

‘Of course I am,' he insisted. ‘You know that.'

‘I thought I did,' she replied slowly.

‘If I don't do it, he'll use the bailiffs, and they can't see beyond the end of their noses. They'll just go for the obvious.' He told her about Piers, the apprentice who'd fled.

‘Maybe he did it,' she said.

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘I'm sure he didn't. But there's a good chance he'll end up dead for it. I want the person who really did it all.'

‘Why?' she asked. ‘Why does it matter so much?'

‘I don't know.' He tried to think, but there wasn't a reason he could pull out of the air. ‘It just does. I want to find the truth.'

‘Doing that put you in the river. Or have you forgotten that? It almost killed you.'

‘I know.' It was still fresh in his mind. The wound in his arm had almost healed, the throbbing in his skull long past. But the memory was still raw. ‘That's another reason. To find out who was behind that.'

‘When you came home that night I thought you were going to die.' Katherine's voice was empty. ‘Every time you leave now I'm scared that someone will come and tell me you've been killed.'

John reached for her hand again. This time she let him take it.

‘Do you understand?' he asked. ‘Why I need to do this?'

Very slowly and hesitantly, she nodded. ‘But do you see how I feel, too?'

‘Yes,' he answered, then tried to sound more cheerful. ‘I'll make sure nothing bad happens.'

‘John …' she began, then words failed her.

‘I promise.'

‘Please,' Katherine said. He could see the tears running down her cheeks and wiped them away gently with his thumb.

‘I'll be very careful. But I feel I have to do it.' He tapped his chest. ‘In there.'

She sniffled and gave a weak half-smile. ‘I know. But I need to feel that we come first.'

‘You do,' he assured her. ‘But I'm involved in this now. I have to see it through. No one else will care enough.'

‘You're a good man, John. Too good for the coroner.'

‘There's nothing to be done about that.' He grinned. ‘Come on, let's go to bed. I've a long day tomorrow.'

‘Where do you have to go?'

‘Bakewell. I'll probably have to stay overnight.'

‘Just look out for yourself. Please.'

‘I will.'

Bakewell looked smaller than Chesterfield, a neat little market town that stood on the far side of a new bridge.

John slipped down from the cart with thanks for the driver. He'd been lucky to find someone heading here after he'd only walked a couple of miles. The pace was little faster than walking, but he arrived fresh and with less wear on his boots.

He'd set off early, before dawn while the air was still cool. He'd given Walter his instructions – to find out all he could about Stephen the salt merchant and the two other mysterious men who'd visited Julian.

The boy had been disappointed not to come with him, but this was a job for one person. He had the coroner's letter of authority in his scrip. All he needed was to find the right people.

The market square was empty. A few shops lined the street, and a pair of alehouses were marked out by their signs. It seemed like a sleepy little place, one that probably only came alive on market day.

A few questions led him to the bailiff's house. The man who answered the door had a patchy beard, grey mixed with black, and hair receding from his forehead. His shirt bulged over a wide stomach, thick legs straining against a stout pair of hose.

John produced the letter. The bailiff looked at it quizzically.

‘What is it?' he asked as he scratched an ear.

‘It's from the coroner in Chesterfield. I need to ask some questions here.'

‘Aye.' The man pursed his lips and handed back the piece of parchment. ‘That's no good to me. I wouldn't be able to make head nor tail of it. You'd best come in.'

His name was Roger. He'd held the post for a year, since the old bailiff died. It didn't demand much, but it didn't pay well, either. At least he no longer had to give service to the lord of the manor and he had strips enough to grow what he needed.

‘It's not a bad life,' he said as he poured another mug of ale for them both. ‘We don't have much crime here. Just a few fights, really, or a dispute over boundaries. Now, what do you want?'

‘I'm looking for two people. Stephen the salt merchant–' he saw Roger nod ‘–and a boy called Piers. He went to be an apprentice to a butcher in Chesterfield. I think he might have come back here.'

‘Everyone knows Stephen,' the bailiff told him. ‘He calls himself a salt merchant, but the amount of trade he does would hardly keep a chicken alive. Not that you'd know it to look at him.'

‘A lordling?' John asked.

‘He certainly dresses the part,' Roger agreed. ‘What's he done? He's never given me any trouble here.'

‘I don't know that he's done anything. It's who he visited in Chesterfield.'

He laid out the whole story for the bailiff, beginning with Timothy's murder and the theft of the psalter. As he finished, Roger rubbed a hand over the bristles on his chin.

‘That's quite a tale,' he said in admiration. ‘More like a puzzle.'

‘You can see why I want to talk to Stephen. He might have been one of the last to see Julian alive.'

‘I saw him first thing this morning, strutting around like a bantam cock. He should still be here.'

‘What about Piers?'

Roger sighed. ‘I knew he went off as an apprentice. I haven't seen him since. The boy has the devil's own bad luck. His father's first wife died in the pestilence. He married again and they had Piers and a brother. Then the plague came back three years ago. Took the mother and the other boy.' He shook his head. ‘The father started drinking and he hasn't stopped yet. When Piers left I thought there was some hope for the lad.'

‘Never much, given who was his master.'

‘We can see if he's returned. Who do you want first – him or Stephen?'

• • •

In the end it was Piers. The cottage was no more than a stone's throw from the bailiff's house. Neglected, there were slates missing from the roof, a shutter hanging by a single hinge, the limewash faded and crumbling in place. Roger raised an eyebrow and knocked on the door.

Piers looked different in this place. His face was more open and he stood tall, not bowed. Then he saw the carpenter and all the bravado crumbled. He turned, then stopped, panic on his face.

‘Don't worry,' John told him. ‘I haven't come to arrest you. I just have a few more questions.'

Reluctantly, Piers nodded and stepped back into the house. It was a single room, forlorn and dirty, two pallets of straw in the corners, a single joint-stool and a battered table. A floor of bare, beaten earth, not even any rushes on the ground. Hardly a home at all. More a hovel.

The boy sat on one of the beds. He looked resigned, lost.

‘You've grown since I saw you last,' Roger said with a smile. ‘Shot up.'

Piers just nodded blankly.

‘Why did you run away yesterday?' John asked kindly.

‘You know,' the lad answered quietly.

‘Nobody thought you killed him.'

‘The coroner did,' Piers said. ‘I saw the way he was looking at me.'

‘I don't believe you did. And nor does he. But I think there are some things you saw and didn't tell me.'

The boy's head jerked up sharply. The spots on his face were bright red, as if they were burning. ‘I didn't.'

‘You're a very bad liar,' Roger said lazily.

‘Who else did you see?' John asked.

‘No one,' Piers muttered.

‘He can take you back to Chesterfield and make you talk,' Roger said. Panic rose on the lad's face.

‘Who else did you see?' he asked again.

‘Christian.' The name came out as a whisper.

John squatted, looking directly at Piers. ‘Why didn't you tell me before?'

‘I'm scared of him … I thought you were going to let me hang.'

‘No, I'm sure you're innocent.' He hoped the boy would believe him. ‘When did you see Christian?'

‘He came after the master had gone upstairs for his dinner. I didn't see him come down again.'

‘Could you have missed him?'

‘No,' Piers answered with certainty. ‘Unless he went the back way.'

John let out a slow breath. Christian. That changed everything.

‘You said you saw Stephen, too. When was that?'

‘Just after the master went up. I had to take something out to the shed in the yard and he was leaving by the back gate.'

‘You're sure it was him?'

The boy nodded. ‘He didn't see me.'

‘Was this before Christian arrived?'

‘Yes.'

‘Had you seen him arrive?'

‘No.'

‘I want you to stay in Bakewell,' John told him. ‘I might need you to testify in court. Against someone else,' he added for comfort. ‘You're not in trouble. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘Maybe it would be best if you came and saw me every day,' Roger added. ‘Just so we can be sure.'

‘I will,' Piers agreed.

Outside, the sun was hot and not even at its peak. The bailiff led the way to the riverbank and found a place in the shade.

‘Who's Christian?' he asked.

‘The steward of the manor in Dronfield. He and Julian have been friends since they were boys. Cousins.'

‘What's he like?'

‘The last time I talked to him, he threatened me.' He chuckled. ‘The lord in Dronfield is the same one you have here.'

Roger snorted. ‘The last time I saw the lord here, my son was ten. He's twenty now. The steward shows up four times a year for the rent. It's the reeve who looks after the moot court and everything else. Probably the same up there. Your Christian will have some power.'

‘He seems to think so, anyway.' He plucked a blade of grass and put it in his mouth, chewing on it. ‘We'd better have a talk with Stephen. Do you know him?'

‘Not well,' the bailiff replied. ‘He likes to think he has a higher status then me.'

‘Haughty?'

‘Very.'

John stood, dusting off the seat of his hose. ‘Then the sooner we begin, the sooner I can start on my way home.'

‘You're not staying?' Roger asked in surprise. ‘It'll be long after dark when you reach Chesterfield. The roads are dangerous.'

‘I have a pregnant wife waiting for me.'

‘It won't help her if someone beats and robs you, will it? You can stay with me. Not as much room as an inn, but it's cheaper.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘It won't be luxury but you'll be warm and fed.'

‘Then thank you.' He hadn't expected such a generous offer. ‘Thank you,' he repeated.

‘Right, let's see what Stephen has to say for himself.'

Stephen's wife met them at the door. A tiny woman with a shrewish face, wearing a gown of sarcenet. It had obviously been expensive once, well-cut and elaborately sewn, but its best days were long in the past, the colour faded and worn.

‘He left this morning,' she said. There was a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘Gone over to Cheshire. He'll not be back before next week, probably after that.'

‘How long ago did he go?' Roger asked.

‘Two hours,' the woman told him. ‘If you don't believe me, take a look in the stable. The pack horses are all gone.'

‘I'll believe you, Sarah.' He held up his palms in surrender. ‘He was in Chesterfield recently, wasn't he?'

‘What about it?' she asked suspiciously.

‘Was he?' the bailiff asked again.

‘Yes,' she admitted.

‘Did he visit someone called Julian?'

She lifted her head. ‘He doesn't tell me his business,' Sarah said defiantly.

‘Has he mentioned someone called Julian?' John interrupted.

She turned to stare at him. ‘I wouldn't know.'

‘When he comes back I'll need to talk to him,' Roger said. ‘Make sure you tell him.'

‘I will,' she promised reluctantly.

As soon as they turned away, she slammed the door.

‘She's not much help,' John said.

‘Sarah doesn't like me,' Roger explained. ‘Years back we courted a little, then I met my wife, God rest her, and broke things off with Sarah. She married Stephen and she'll defend him to the death.' He shook his head. ‘He had money when they wed. It's been going downhill ever since. It looks like this part of your journey is wasted.'