The Saltergate Psalter (2 page)

‘As long as you pay me,' John said.

De Harville put his head back and roared with laughter. It was an ugly scourge of a sound.

‘You hear that, Brother? He thinks he can make demands.'

The monk kept his head lowered, his gaze fixed on the parchment in front of him.

‘King's Coroner or not, Master, I need fourpence a day and my ale.' If he had to do it, he'd be damned if he was going to lose money on this.

‘Done,' de Harville agreed quickly. ‘Make a note of that so we can claim it later.' He looked at John and shook his head. ‘You should have asked for more. The crown would have paid. Too late now. Be here first thing in the morning. We can let Timothy sit overnight. No one can do him any more harm now, anyway.'

John was up before first light, slipping out of the room quietly, leaving Katherine and the girls asleep up in the solar. He could hear Walter moving around in the buttery, preparing his food for the day. Bread, some cheese.

‘Can I come with you?' he asked as John entered, yawning.

‘Not this morning,' he answered kindly. The lad had helped him in the past, and even saved his life once. But he'd do what Katherine wanted, as long as it was in his power.

‘Why, John?' Walter was smiling as he asked the question. He'd grown tall during the winter, bigger than his sister now although he was a few years younger. His dark hair was wild, his face so open it showed all his thoughts. The lad was still thin, not much more than a stick, but quick on his feet as he delivered messages around town. No one knew Chesterfield better. People thought the lad had turned simple after a blow on the head when he was young; in truth, he was anything but. Quick to learn and eager to please, he might stumble over words, but there was nothing wrong with his mind.

‘De Harville just wants me for now.' He put a hand on the lad's shoulder. ‘Don't worry, I'll need you soon enough.' He hoped that wasn't true.

But it was enough to make Walter smile.

‘I'm glad, John.'

For some reason the boy looked up to him. He was always eager to help, the way he had on the barn in Newbold and other jobs that needed a second person. John had tried to teach him carpentry and he'd mastered the basics. But no matter how willing, he didn't have the natural feel for it.

He liked Walter's company. On Sunday afternoons, as the church bell faded into memory, they'd often walk in the country, talking, discovering things. The lad had a sharp eye, he could identify the birds and the animals, where to find them and how to watch them unseen.

‘Stop,' he whispered when they'd been out one day, halting John with a hand over his chest. ‘There.' Slowly, he raised a hand and pointed. It took a while, but after a few moments John had been able to make out the stag in the trees, almost hidden in the branches. Yet Walter had spotted it straight away.

• • •

The coroner led the way through to the top of Saltergate. It was early, the sun barely risen, still a breath of coolness on the land.

John lagged behind, strolling beside Brother Robert. The old monk was limping, a small portable desk with its quills and parchment hanging from a strap on his shoulder.

‘How are you, Brother?' He nodded at the coroner. ‘He won't let you go back to the monastery yet?'

Robert shook his head. ‘He tells me I'm too valuable. I keep saying that he needs someone younger to keep pace with him, but he still won't let me leave. With his wife ill, he's prickly all the time.' He gave a pointed glance. ‘I'd advise you not to test him, John.'

‘But the other way round …?' He smiled.

‘Power does what it likes, you know that.'

‘How's the child?'

‘Strong and healthy, praise God. He's with the wet nurse.' Robert's eyes twinkled. He paused before adding, ‘You'll be a father yourself, I believe.'

‘What?' John stared in surprise. ‘How did you know?'

‘I've seen Dame Katherine,' Robert said gently. ‘The glow on her face tells its own story.'

For a moment he was nonplussed, unsure what to say. Finally he just smiled and nodded.

‘October, she says. Pray it's a safe birth for mother and child.'

‘I will,' the monk assured him. ‘Don't you worry about that.'

The coroner was waiting outside the house. The building looked as if it needed some work, as if it has been neglected too long.

‘I don't have all day to spend here,' he said sharply. ‘Old women move faster than you two.'

De Harville brought out a key and unlocked the door. Inside, the shutters were closed tight, just a little light coming through the gaps. The hall smelt of neglect and the sweet stink of death. John blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom before he moved.

A rich man's house, that was certain. A long table, a settle of good, carved oak, and a pair of fine tapestries hanging on the walls.

‘Up in the solar,' the coroner said, and they climbed the stairs.

Here the shutters had been thrown back, showing a man propped up in a bed, a pillow behind him. The smell of putrefaction was stronger in the room; John held his breath and put a hand over his mouth as he approached the corpse. Maggots were already doing their work around the mouth, nose and eyes. Flies buzzed relentlessly. He swept them away, but as soon as his hand passed they returned. Brother Robert stood with his hands together and eyes closed, lips moving as he silently said prayers for the dead.

Timothy's eyes stared sightlessly. Old hands rested on the blanket, the flesh wrinkled, dappled and gnarled by time. A full head of white hair, his linen shirt so ancient it had yellowed.

But there was no sign of violence. He looked as though he'd died in his sleep. John stepped back, still staring at the body. Then he turned to the coroner.

‘It looks like he died naturally.'

‘I agree,' de Harville nodded. ‘But if he did, why would his servant flee? Tell me that, Carpenter.'

All John could do was shake his head. He glanced around the solar. A glazed window, the catch closed. A small chest for clothes stood in the corner, a night pot on the floor, still partly filled.

In spite of the heat, there was a thick cover on the bed, a sheet and heavy, rough blanket. Not too unusual, he thought; old bones loved the warmth and loathed the chill. He approached Timothy's body again. Pulling back the covers revealed little. A man's thin legs, most of the hair gone from them, the flesh very pale. Tenderly, he lifted the head from a pillow made of soft down.

His fingers could feel it immediately. A lump at the back of the skull. John's fingers parted the hair, concentrating as he examined, working his way along slowly. It must have been a heavy blow. The skin wasn't broken, but it had certainly been enough to kill an old man.

He stood back once more, thinking rapidly. The position of the blow … Timothy couldn't have been sitting in bed at the time. Someone had taken the time to arrange him there, to try and make it look as if age had taken him.

‘Well?' the coroner demanded.

‘Someone murdered him,' John said finally. He began to walk around the solar, searching for the weapon. But there was nothing likely in the sparse room. ‘How did you even discover he was dead?' he wondered.

‘Timothy owned three houses in Chesterfield,' Robert replied. ‘One of his tenants came to see him. When no one answered the door, he tried the handle. It wasn't locked. He came up here. As soon as he saw Timothy he called for the Master–' he nodded at de Harville ‘–and we arrived and pronounced him dead. When the servant didn't return, we raised the hue and cry.'

Simple enough, John thought, and obvious.

‘How long had the servant been with him?'

‘Since I was a boy, at least,' de Harville snapped. ‘God's balls, Carpenter, the man must have killed him and run off. Anyone can see that.'

‘But why now? If he'd been here for years …'

‘Who knows?' he said. ‘Does it matter? We'll find that out when we catch him. That's what I want you to do.' The coroner walked to the window and stared down at the street. The town was coming alive, the sound of voices, the grate of a cart's wheels as it passed.

‘What do you know about the servant?' John asked the monk.

‘Very little,' he replied after a moment's reflection. ‘Nicholas has worked for Timothy as long as anyone can remember. You must have seen him.'

John nodded. It was hard to imagine him as a killer. Especially one that seemed so calculating. Who could tell what lay deep in another's mind? Maybe Timothy was a bad master and he'd finally had enough. His anger had risen and he'd committed murder. He wouldn't be the first.

Then he stopped and wondered again. If this had been born from years of anger and resentment, would Nicholas have been satisfied with a single blow? And would he have taken the time to arrange Timothy in bed so carefully that it looked as if he'd died while sleeping? That was hard to believe.

‘Well, Carpenter?' the corner asked. ‘What are you thinking?'

‘I don't know yet, Master,' he answered honestly and heard a frustrated sigh.

‘No ideas?' he asked mockingly. ‘I expected more from you.'

John was about to reply when they heard the tentative footsteps downstairs, moving around slowly then climbing the stairs to the solar. They stood quietly, looking from one to the other.

He knew the face that emerged into the light. He saw it each Sunday, conducting the service at St Mary's Church. Father Geoffrey. A man who spoke his Latin with painful slowness, his voice hardly louder than the mutterings and gossip that formed a constant murmur during the service.

The priest had dark hair that grew wildly from his scalp, streaked with grey here and there, and eyes that seemed to peer like an owl, as if he wasn't quite certain what he was seeing. His surplice was simple, as clean as anything could be in Chesterfield, no more than a few stains on the dark cloth. There was no sense of wealth and riches about him, not like the churchmen John used to see every day when he lived in York.

‘God's blessing, Father,' de Harville said, and the priest looked around, taken by surprise.

‘God's blessing on you, too, sir,' Geoffrey replied. ‘Brother,' he added with a small nod before turning his gaze on John. ‘God's grace on you too, my son.'

‘Thank you, Father.'

‘What brings you here?' the coroner asked.

‘When I came home last night, they said that poor Timothy was dead.' He crossed himself as he stared at the body. ‘They told me you've raised the hue and cry for Nicholas.' He glanced at the corpse. ‘His death looks peaceful enough.'

‘Don't believe everything you see,' de Harville said smugly. ‘Right, Carpenter?'

‘Yes, Master.'

‘You mean someone killed him?' Geoffrey sounded shocked.

‘The servant. He's run off.'

‘Did he …' Geoffrey began, then gave a small, urgent cough. ‘Have you seen the psalter?'

‘Psalter?' John asked.

‘It's a book of psalms,' Brother Robert explained, then looked at Geoffrey. ‘I didn't know Timothy owned one.'

‘He did,' the priest replied seriously. His eyes seemed to shine. ‘He showed it to me. Such beautiful illustrations, and all bound in leather. He promised it to the church when he died. It's been in his family for generations but he had no one to leave it to.'

‘Where did he keep it?' John asked.

‘In the chest. After he showed it to me, he had me put it back. It caused him so much pain to move.'

John was on his knees, lifting the lid, hands scrambling around inside the chest. A few clothes, all of them old and the worse for wear. Some ancient, cracked rolls of vellum. But no book.

‘It's not here.'

‘Well, now we know who took it and why he killed his master,' the coroner said triumphantly.

‘Nicholas …' Father Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I find it hard to believe. He always seemed like such a loyal man.'

‘Loyalty's only worth the pennies it's paid,' de Harville told him.

‘Did you come to see Timothy often, Father?' John asked.

‘Every week. I gave him communion and heard his confession. I doubt he'd been out of the solar in more than a year. He couldn't manage the stairs, you see. His legs weren't strong enough to support him.'

‘How was his mind?'

‘As clear as ever. It was just his body that betrayed him.' Geoffrey shook his head sadly. ‘He was waiting up here for death.'

But not in the way it happened, John thought. Not so violent. He looked around once more. No weapon, not even a sign that there'd been a struggle. Just the corpse in the bed. Someone had taken time here. No fear, no panic. And the psalter missing …

‘The psalter?' he asked. ‘What does it look like?'

‘It's about as big as a man's hand,' the priest said after a moment's thought. ‘Easy enough to hide in a scrip or a pack, I suppose.'

‘What about money? Did Timothy keep a purse?'

‘Under the bed,' the priest told him.

On his hands and knees again, John searched. There was only the dust on the wooden boards.

‘Have we finished here?' de Harville interrupted.

‘Yes, Master.'

‘Good.' The coroner moved to the stairs. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Come on, Robert, we have business.' And to the priest: ‘I'll leave you to take care of the body.'

There was nothing more to learn in the room. John knew what had killed Timothy and very likely who'd done it. Even why. All that remained was to find Nicholas, and that shouldn't be too difficult. Where would an old man go? With a nod to the priest he made his farewell.

But he didn't leave the house. Not yet. John prowled around the hall, pulling back the shutters to let in the day. A settle, a table and chairs, plate worth good money on display, the expensive tapestries, all of it covered with a layer of dust. And behind the hall, the buttery. Bread, cheese, oats to make oatcakes. Two flagons of ale. Off to the side was Nicholas's room. It was as spare as his master's, nothing more than a bed and a small chest that held a shirt and a pair of well-darned hose. Odd, he thought. If Nicholas had run, he'd surely have taken those. Burrowing further down, he found a small purse of coins. Stranger still. Why would he leave that?