The Saltergate Psalter (6 page)

‘Did Timothy have any enemies?'

Durrant shook his head. ‘If he ever did, he outlived them.' He gave a wan smile. ‘But no, none I know of. Tell me, what was taken?'

‘Money.' John paused. ‘Did he ever mention a psalter to you?'

Durrant smiled.

‘Yes. When my sight was going, he showed it to me. It was the last thing I ever saw, apart from my wife's face. Such a beautiful book.' His thoughts drifted away for a moment. ‘Is that gone too?'

‘Yes.'

‘He told me he had plans for it when he died. Maybe he'd already done something with it?'

‘He hadn't,' John said. Certainly not if he'd shown it to Father Geoffrey.

‘So sad.' His words hung in the air. He lifted the mug and emptied it in a long draught. ‘Take me home, please. I've had enough of the world for today.'

It felt strange to walk with a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. They talked haltingly, the weather, the way the crops were growing, until they stopped in front of Durrant's house.

‘I've one favour to ask of you,' the man said.

‘If I can, Master.'

‘Please, come and tell me about your progress.'

‘Gladly.' John smiled.

He watched as Durrant's hands moved on the door, opening it and stepping inside carefully, waiting until it closed before he walked away.

Trying to find out about Timothy was like grabbing smoke. The only one who'd really known him was Nicholas and he couldn't tell his tale.

But there was another road to follow. To find the man with the bald crown who smelt of leather, the one who'd asked Roland about Nicholas and the rent money.

He weighed the purse in his hand when she gave it to him and raised an eyebrow.

‘I've held feathers that weigh more than this,' he said in horror.

Katherine stared at him and folded her arms, drumming her fingers against her sleeve.

‘You're not too old for a slap,' she told him, and he grinned.

‘A joke.' He held up his hands. ‘You're the best and most frugal of wives.' He kissed her lightly. ‘And the most beautiful.'

She arched a brow. ‘It'll take more than that to get back in my good graces.'

He studied her for a moment, then leaned close and whispered something in her ear. She blushed and tried to stifle a giggle.

‘Will that help?'

‘It might, as long as it's more than words.' She sighed contentedly. ‘Did old Will tell you anything?'

‘He confirmed that the psalter exists. But as far as he knew, Timothy had no enemies.'

‘He must have had one,' Katherine observed.

He nodded. ‘Or someone who saw an opportunity,' he said quietly. ‘I need to go out tonight.'

‘John …' she warned. He held up a hand.

‘I'm only going to ask a few questions.' He saw her sceptical look. ‘Nothing more than that, I promise.'

• • •

There were three taverns on Soutergate, all of them busy on a Saturday evening. In the first, John cradled a mug of ale and moved through the crowd. He saw a few men he knew, nodding his hellos, passing the time briefly with one of two of them. But his eyes were always searching. Plenty of men with the hair gone from the crown of their head, but none with the ripe smell of leather.

He waited a full half hour, watching and listening. Some mentioned the murders in passing, but no one lingered over the topic. No one seemed to stare at him. He asked a few questions, but none recognised the man from his description.

By the time he left and walked down the hill, full darkness had arrived, the stars bright in a clear sky. The scents of the fields and woods drifted in on a light breeze. He stood for a moment, breathing it in, before pushing open the door of the second alehouse into a fug of stale ale and sweat.

The old men had the benches, sitting and supping quietly. The young stood, louder, eager to drink themselves senseless and think of it as a good night. The stout alewife stood by the barrels, a heavy cudgel dangling from her wrist as a warning. Her veil was stained, the old dress shapeless on her body. She looked at him as he ordered.

‘You're the carpenter,' she said. It came out like an accusation.

‘I am, Mistress,' John admitted. Maybe she needed some work doing here.

‘Investigating for the coroner.'

He nodded his reply.

‘You'd better not be causing trouble here,' the woman ordered him.

‘I won't.'

She kept her eyes on him. ‘See you don't.'

Not that there was much chance of it. People were huddled in tight groups, not looking for strangers to join them. He moved around, squeezing between people. But there was nothing for him here, no one who seemed to fit what he sought.

People walked up and down the street. A pair of whores touted listlessly for business. Their time would come later, when the men emerged, reeling, not ready for their own beds yet.

The last of the alehouses stood at the bottom of the hill, close to the bridge over the River Hipper and the Derby Road. Downstream, he could see the fulling mill silhouetted in the moonlight, and he could hear the flow of the water as it passed close by.

The place was as packed as the other two, but it seemed different. There was nothing friendly about it. The man who took his order was surly, and the groups of folk seemed to talk in quiet voices, as if they didn't wish to be overheard.

No one resembled the man he was seeking, though. He moved around, asking his quiet questions. Someone believed he remembered the man, but couldn't give him a name. Others just shook their heads.

Finally, he emerged. He'd hoped for more, but life wasn't always generous. On Monday he'd go to the tannery; there hadn't been time today. He'd wager they'd know the man there.

The fresh air felt glorious against his face. Just cool enough. John stood on the bridge and stretched. Tomorrow, at least, he'd have some peace.

He heard the rush of footsteps and turned quickly, reaching for the knife in his belt. Before he could pull it the blow landed and the world became black.

• • •

He came to with the shock of cold water, blinking his eyes quickly, unsure where he was. He felt cold. Small waves rippled against his face, making him splutter.

The river.

The moon was strong enough to show the bank and he paddled towards it. Each stroke felt like an effort, but he knew he had to do it. It was that or drown. His left arm was weak, not even able to support him as he dragged himself out. He was close to the fulling mill. Two hundred yards he'd been carried.

On hands and knees, crouching on the grass, he began to retch, trying to get the water from his lungs. He was dizzy, he couldn't stand yet. His arm felt as if it was on fire.

He tried to look, but his clothes were sodden, stuck fast against his skin. He tried to crawl and gave up. He had to; he didn't even have the strength to move. If his attackers came to finish him off, he'd be simple enough to find. With his right hand he drew his knife. Perhaps he couldn't put up much of a fight, but he wouldn't die easy.

Time passed. He couldn't even begin to say how long. The cold seeped through to his bones and he started to shiver. John breathed slowly. Even the smallest movement made him dizzy and sent waves of pain through his arm.

Up at the top of the hill, the church bell tolled eleven.

Finally, gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet. The world seemed to spin around him. He stood for a moment, then forced himself to take one step, then another. It seemed like the hardest thing he'd ever done. A pause, then a few more staggering paces. John closed his eyes until everything seemed even. Why did his arm hurt so much?

They'd hit him. He remembered that. Nothing more.

A few more steps, each one agony. His foot pushed against a heavy branch on the ground. Taking a deep breath, he squatted and picked it up, leaning heavily against it as he moved on. Five steps, six.

They must have thrown him in the river, thinking he was done for.

Another few steps. He wanted to scream from the pain in his arm.

The bridge was close now, just the slope up to the path and then the road. What if they were waiting?

No, John told himself. They'd gone. They must have gone. He prayed they'd gone.

The bell rang for midnight as he turned on to Saltergate. The walk should have taken no more than ten minutes. But he'd been forced to stop, to lean against the houses as he climbed the hill. Just long enough to regain his breath, to have enough strength to go a little further. Whenever he heard footsteps he hung back in the shadows. Just in case.

He was shaking with cold. Freezing. So stupid, he thought; it was a warm night. With his right hand he scrabbled for the key in his scrip, taking four attempts to force it in the lock then pushed the door open.

Inside was safety. Nothing could hurt him here. He hobbled into the hall and passed out on the floor.

The ringing of a bell seemed to hammer in his skull. He opened his eyes, no idea where he was. But everything seemed to swim in front of him, nothing clear. John tried to raise his head, but the pain was so sharp that he fell back.

He remembered a blow, the river, the long, hard walk home.

Home. He took in a shallow breath and tried to open his eyes again.

‘John?'

He turned his head slowly, blinking against the pain it brought.

‘I'm in bed?' he asked. His voice was a raw croak.

‘You're at home,' Katherine told him softly. Her hand stroked his cheek. ‘You scared me to death. What happened to you?'

‘I was attacked. They dumped me in the river.' A sudden memory came. ‘I need to see the coroner,' he said urgently. But as he tried to struggle up the pain overcame him.

‘You're not going anywhere.' Her voice was firm. ‘I'll send Walter and he can come here. For once it won't hurt him.'

Very carefully, John raised his right hand to his head. He could feel a bandage. But when he tried to raise his left hand, he barely managed an inch. The pain was too great.

‘What's wrong with my arm?'

‘You were stabbed.' She fussed with the blanket, pulling it up around his neck. He could see her properly now, just one of her, her face full of worry. ‘And you had a blow to your head. You collapsed inside the door. Walter and I brought you up here, and I sent him for Mistress Wilhelmina.'

The wise woman.

‘She made a poultice for your head and dressed your arm. She said you were lucky, but you'll be fine.'

Katherine put a hand behind his head and lifted it tenderly. She gave him a few sips of ale from a mug. The liquid felt like balm in his throat.

‘Tell Walter to fetch de Harville,' John said. He lay back again, exhausted. He only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

• • •

‘Wake up, Carpenter. I don't have all day to stand here.'

He opened his eyes, waiting a little until the coroner came into focus.

‘Master,' he said. He could make out Brother Robert standing in the corner, whispering with Katherine.

‘You wanted to see me.' De Harville sat on the edge of the bed. He wore an elaborate leather jerkin over a heavily embroidered linen shirt. ‘Well?'

‘I know who attacked me.'

‘Who?'

‘Edward the Butcher from the Middle Shambles. He was with the man I was looking for last night. I don't know his name.'

‘I'll send the bailiffs out for him.' He ran a hand through his hair.

‘I don't understand it,' John said. ‘When I talked to Edward he didn't seem to know Nicholas was dead. Why would he try to kill me?'

‘Maybe he was helping this other man. Maybe he's a good play actor.' De Harville dismissed the concern. ‘One way or another we'll find out when we catch him. When will you be working again?'

‘When he's ready,' Katherine said in a tone that brooked no objection, her eyes fiery. ‘Not until he's fit enough.'

The coroner stared at her, then finally shrugged and shook his head.

‘Already under her thumb, Carpenter?' He stood up. By the door he gave an exaggerated bow, saying, ‘Good day, Mistress.' The monk gave an apologetic glance as he trailed behind.

‘I loathe that man,' Katherine said softly after they heard the men leave.

‘It's just his way. And he'll have Edward arrested.'

‘You didn't mention him to me.'

‘It only came to me when we were talking. I could see his face …' His voice trailed away as the bell began to ring again. ‘You should go to service.'

Katherine shook her head. ‘I'm not leaving you.' Her words had the tone of an order. ‘When I saw you last night I thought you were dead.'

‘I …' he began. He hadn't expected anything like that. He tried to see a clear picture of it all through the fog in his mind. It had to mean that Edward and the other man had murdered Timothy and Nicholas. That was the only way the attack on him made sense. But when he talked to Edward the man had believed Nicholas was the killer and still alive. That was no play-acting, he'd swear an oath on it. But perhaps he was wrong, too trusting, and the butcher had been too clever for him. He raised a hand to his head, moving his fingertips gently over the bandage around his skull and wincing when he found the tender spot. Now the bailiffs would find them, they'd be tried for murder and hung. ‘Did Wilhelmina say how long before I can be up?'

‘Once you're ready,' she chided. ‘She's coming back later to see how you are.'

He reached out with his good hand, taking hold of her fingers. ‘I never thought anything would happen. Honestly.'

‘It's too late now,' she told him stiffly.

‘At least I know who did it. Let the bailiffs catch them.'

‘I hope they do.'