The Saltergate Psalter (20 page)

‘To you as well, Master,' he said as the young man led Durrant away.

• • •

Two chairs sat on one side of the table in de Harville's hall. A thickset man with a hook nose and a disdainful expression sat in one of them, a lanky fellow with greying hair and a long, lugubrious face next to him. They were plainly dressed, but the wool and linen of their clothes was expensive, well-cut and sewn. They wore their elegance lightly, boots of Spanish leather on their feet and velvet caps set on their heads.

‘Your names, please, Masters,' the coroner asked. He was seated across from them, Brother Robert at his side, ready to make notes.

‘I'm Richard d'Angers,' the heavier man replied in flowing French. ‘This is Arthur of Warwick.'

‘I'd prefer this in English,' the coroner said lightly. ‘I assume that's no problem for you?'

‘Of course not,' Arthur answered with a haughty nod. ‘But we prefer French. An educated tongue.'

‘And in Chesterfield we usually speak English.' He raised his gaze a little to look at John, standing in a corner behind the two strangers, his arms folded. ‘I believe you work for the Bishop of Lincoln, Masters.'

‘Who told you that?' D'Angers asked with amusement.

‘Is it true?'

‘We've helped the Bishop on a couple of matters,' Arthur acknowledged. ‘But we don't
work
for him.' He spoke the word with disdain.

‘Are you here on his behalf now?'

The pair glanced at each other. ‘We are,' d'Angers answered reluctantly, then held up a hand before the coroner could ask his next question. The sunlight sparkled on a jewelled ring. ‘But we're not at liberty to tell you why.'

‘It's not your first visit here, I believe.'

‘Oh?' D'Angers looked down his nose.

‘You visited a man called Julian,' John said. Neither of the men turned to look at him.

‘What evidence do you have for this?' Arthur said, staring at the coroner and the monk.

‘You were seen,' John continued. ‘What business did you have with him?'

‘Does this man work for you?' Arthur asked de Harville.

‘He works with me. Why do you ask?'

‘He's a nobody. A nothing.'

‘I'd value it if you treated his questions as if I'd asked them,' the coroner said.

‘Very well.' D'Angers sighed. ‘Yes, we visited him once. What of it?'

‘What took you to his house?' John continued.

‘We'd been told he'd be a good agent here for us. The Bishop is looking for fleeces to buy and sell on abroad.'

It seemed reasonable enough, he thought. Julian knew Christian, a man with fleeces to sell.

‘And how did you find Julian?'

‘He was a venal, grasping man,' Arthur told him. ‘No more than you'd expect from a butcher.'

‘Did you do business?'

‘We did not,' he replied emphatically.

‘How was he when you left?' John wondered.

‘Disappointed,' d'Angers said with a heavy chuckle. ‘Why, what does he say?'

‘Nothing, Masters. He can't. He's dead.'

That made them turn, heads craning to see his face.

‘When did this happen?'

‘Shortly after you left.' He let the suggestion hang in the air.

‘D'Angers stood, hand moving towards the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you saying we killed him?'

‘Sit down,' the coroner ordered. ‘No one is accusing you of anything. You're easily upset, Master. You don't have anything to hide, do you?'

‘I won't have someone like that insult my honour.'

‘I didn't,' John said. ‘I told you he was killed after you left. Do you know why anyone would want to kill Julian?'

‘I would imagine there are many who would want to do that.' D'Angers smiled. ‘Why? No reason beyond his manner. He believed he could behave beyond his station.'

‘How?' the coroner asked, leaning back in his chair.

‘No deference or politeness,' Arthur said. ‘He seemed to believe we were equals.'

They were hiding something. He felt certain of that. They held themselves too still, John thought, and reasoned out their words too well before they spoke. Every sentence was calculated, and there was more than honour behind it all.

But if they'd bought or taken the psalter when they met Julian, why were they back in Chesterfield now? Revisiting the scene of a crime seemed to be a dangerous business. He felt the rasp of stubble as he ran a hand over his chin.

‘Masters,' John said, ‘it would be a great help if you could tell us your business here.'

‘We can't tell you.' D'Angers bristled. ‘Didn't you hear what I said earlier?'

‘It would be useful.' The coroner gave a lazy smile. ‘And we'll keep your confidence, I promise that.'

‘No.' Arthur stood first, sword banging against his hose, then d'Angers. ‘I think we've answered all your questions. I bid you God's peace.'

As the door closed behind them, de Harville raised an eyebrow.

‘Haughty fellows, aren't they? What did you think, Brother?'

Robert shook his head. ‘Nasty,' he said. ‘Dangerous.'

‘What about you, Carpenter? Did you see into their souls for me?'

‘Not yet,' John said with a shake of his head. ‘But I think it would be worth following them while they're here.'

‘That boy of yours?'

‘Yes.' They'd never notice Walter. He was so far beneath them as to be invisible. He'd be safe enough.

‘Did they kill Julian?'

‘Perhaps.' He couldn't say more than that. They were cold enough to murder without compunction; he was sure of that, especially if it was done in the service of the bishop, with a promise of absolution at the end. ‘I'll see Walter and set him to work. Do you need anything more from me, Master?' He bent and hefted the leather satchel of tools on to his shoulder.

‘A word of advice,' the coroner said. ‘A man should never be ruled by his wife. It's not the natural order.'

He nodded his head in acknowledgement but said nothing. Outside, there was enough of a breeze to take the air from the heat of early June. If this continued, the farmers would complain. They needed warmth, but they needed rain, too.

Walter was where he spent his time when not delivering messages, squatting on his haunches with his back against a wall, gazing over the market square. He smiled as he saw John approach.

‘I have a job for you.' He settled next to the boy. ‘Coroner's work.'

‘Yes John.' He smiled eagerly.

It was simple enough. And safe enough. He watched the lad pad away, then set off for Cutthorpe. The place was nothing more than a hamlet, a few miles away. But flax grew in abundance there, and looms stayed busy weaving it into linen.

The job was small, a few repairs to one of the buildings where they stored the flax after it had been harvested. Yet it could lead to more. The other buildings around were all old and beginning to topple. He'd taken time to point it all out to the steward. Flax was the manor's wealth, it would be worth the money to keep it safe and dry.

He cut out the rotting boards, feeling the wood give under his fingertips, then adding a good six inches on either side. From there the work was simple enough. Measure and cut fresh boards of good oak that could stand the weather without warping.

There were three places around the building where the boards had to be replaced. The last one would take longest, down where the wood met the ground. He'd need to dig back the earth on both sides and put in rocks for drainage. That would wait for the morrow. He'd be able to complete all the rest today.

A servant from the hall brought him bread, cheese, and ale for his dinner. He rested in the shade of an old horse chestnut, surveying what he'd done and what he still needed to accomplish. He felt satisfied; this was the life he relished.

• • •

Dame Martha was busy setting out the trenchers of old bread when he returned to the house on Saltergate. Janette and Eleanor were kneeling on the floor, making their letters on the slates as the kitten tried to claim their attention. Already they seemed more confident, creating small words, comparing their work and laughing.

‘They're coming along so quickly,' Martha told him with a gentle sigh. ‘All they ever needed was someone to point them in the right direction.'

‘You're doing that,' he said gratefully. ‘Did you know Walter's trying, too?'

‘Really?' It didn't seem to surprise her. Perhaps she really did see more in him than most.

‘I've seen him trying to write with a stick in the dirt.'

She shook her head in wonder. ‘He should just ask. I'd teach him.'

‘He's too proud,' John said. ‘Or perhaps he's afraid of failing.'

Martha sighed, wiping her hands on the spotless apron that covered her gown.

‘Anyone can write, John. If you can speak, you can read and write. You know numbers, don't you?'

‘In my head,' he replied.

‘Then you could learn to write them down. It's not magic.'

But that was exactly how it had always seemed to him. A strange secret that the clergy and the rich held close, something not to be shared. The girls would know it, though, and the child that would scream its way into the world soon enough.

‘Thank you.' He bent and kissed her cheek.

• • •

‘Did you see them?'

Supper was done. Up in the solar the girls were in bed, Martha lulling them to sleep with a story. Katherine was in the buttery mixing the bread dough. John sat at the table, swirling the last of the ale at the bottom of his cup.

‘Yes, John.' Walter smiled shyly. Richard d'Angers and Arthur of Warwick.

‘Where did they go?'

‘The alehouse and the cookshop. And into the church to pray this afternoon.'

That all seemed innocent enough.

‘Who did they talk to?' he asked.

‘A few people,' he lad replied. ‘But just words in passing.'

‘And they didn't see you?'

‘No, John.' He smiled. ‘They never knew I was there.'

‘Will you have time to do the same again tomorrow?'

‘I think so.'

‘Good.'

• • •

He dreamed of noise, someone using a hammer, a pounding that seemed to make his head ring. Then Katherine was shaking him awake and whispering in his ear, ‘Someone's at the door, John.'

He sat up, trying to clear the sleep from his head, and rubbing his eyes. Hurriedly, he slipped into his hose and boots, then took the knife from its sheath. It was always better to be safe in the night.

The bolts were well greased, slipping back noiselessly. He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, keeping a tight grip on the blade.

It was one of the bailiffs, holding up a brand, his face flickering in shadows from the flames. He looked very young and very frightened.

‘Master,' he said nervously, ‘the coroner needs you.'

‘What?' he asked. ‘Why?'

‘A murder, Master.'

‘Who? Where?' But he was already searching for his jacket as the night air brought goose pimples to his arms. ‘What time is it?'

‘Not long past two, Master. He wanted you to hurry.'

For a moment he considered going back up to the solar, to tell Katherine what was happening. But she'd know there was only one reason for someone calling in the middle of the night. Pray God she'd understand.

He hurried along, following the bailiff down Saltergate to the inn at the north end of the churchyard. Through gaps in the shutters he could see candles burning inside and the sound of voices talking in murmurs.

A group of people was gathered around the fire. The innkeeper and his wife, both looking glum and fearful, two men he didn't recognise, both looking as if they'd dressed in haste, along with Arthur of Warwick, his face unnaturally pale, the coroner, and Brother Robert. The only man missing was Richard d'Angers.

‘There you are, Carpenter.' The coroner was smiling, a dark, knowing grin. ‘It seems I need your services again. I trust your wife won't object too much.'

‘Where is he?'

‘You've spotted someone missing?' De Harville's eyes twinkled in the low light. ‘He's upstairs in his bed. But he won't be rising again. Not on his own.'

John found the room easily enough, up on the second floor of the rickety building, close to the back stairway. The door was part open, a lantern burning inside. It was a typical room in an inn. A single large bed, hooks on the wall for cloaks, and a chest where travellers could keep their packs.

Only one thing was unusual in the room: the body of Richard d'Angers, his blood soaked into the sheet that covered his body, his eyes open and gazing towards Heaven. Holding his breath, John drew back the cover to examine the wound.

A single cut. It must have gone through into the heart. Murdered as he slept. At least death would have come in an instant. But there didn't seem to be any sign of a fight. The body was dressed only in his fine linen, the rest of his clothes neatly folded on top of the chest. He went through the scrip. A few faded notes on vellum. Coins in the purse, and plenty of them, the first thing any robber would have taken.

He replaced the sheet, drawing it up to cover the man's face. The flesh still had some warmth; this had happened within the last few hours. Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the room. A candle in its holder, extinguished, sat on the floor.

The door to the back stairs was unlocked. A precaution in case of fire, but it also allowed anyone to enter. Sighing, he returned to the room below.

‘Were you sharing the room?' he asked Arthur of Warwick. The words seemed to pull the man from somewhere deep inside himself. All his disdain had vanished now.

‘Yes,' he replied slowly. ‘It was all they could offer.'