The Saltergate Psalter (16 page)

‘Could we catch up with him? He can't be going fast.'

‘There are two routes he could take. He has to go over the Pennines. We'd just be guessing. For what it's worth, I can't see Stephen killing anyone. It takes fire in someone to do that, and I've never known him have more than an ember. It's probably why he's never made much money.'

‘Anyone can kill.'

‘Maybe,' Roger agreed after a while, then his face brightened. ‘How do you fancy some fishing this afternoon? There's a good spot on the river and we'd have it all to ourselves.'

‘I've never fished,' John admitted.

‘Never?' the bailiff asked in disbelief.

But there had never been the chance or the time. He'd always been working or travelling from one place to another and seeking a job. When he had some time, he slept.

‘No,' he answered simply.

‘Then you've missed one of life's great joys, Master.' Roger thought for a moment. ‘You wait here. I have another pole, I'll show you. We can share a jug of ale. We might even catch our supper.' He grinned. ‘And even if we don't, it doesn't matter.'

In the end they went home empty-handed. John came close twice, the fish wriggling off the hook before he could land it. But the bailiff was right. It was a satisfying way to make an afternoon stretch out. To spend an hour or two in the shade, talking about nothing, letting the cares of the world slide away and sipping ale, hoping something would bite.

The heat was slowly fading from the day by the time they left the river. He'd enjoyed the time doing nothing, forgetting all the strains and worries for a few hours. With no fish caught, they ate bread and cheese. Roger lit a tallow candle as darkness came, the fat, acrid stench filling the air.

‘You look tired,' he said.

‘I am,' John agreed with a smile. ‘I had an early start.'

‘Settle down then, lad. You've a long way back tomorrow.'

• • •

He was lucky on the trip back, too, finding a cart that was going to Baslow. From there, though, it was Shank's mare all the way. In the distance he could see the church spire, standing high and proud, like a beacon to the countryside all around.

It was far into the afternoon when he reached the market square. His feet ached and the stitching was beginning to come away on one of his boots. He wanted to be home, to see Katherine, to rest his weary legs. But if he did that, he'd stay there until the morning.

Instead, he walked across to the coroner's yard and knocked on the door. What he found in the hall made him stop in astonishment for a moment.

The coroner had his son on his knee, gently bouncing him up and down and making noises to keep the baby gurgling with pleasure. The wet nurse sat on a stool in the corner, ready to take the child when his father had had enough.

But de Harville showed no sign of tiring. He leaned forward, rubbing noses with the boy and grinning. He looked ten years younger, full of enthusiasm instead of boredom and worry.

‘What do you need, Carpenter?' he asked. ‘I'm busy.'

‘I've just come back from Bakewell, Master.' He watched, finding the change in the man hard to believe. He was doting on the boy.

Would that be him in a few months? Softer, coming fully alive with his son or daughter? The idea made him smile a little.

‘Well?' the coroner said, ‘Get on with it.'

He recounted the little he'd learned. De Harville didn't seem to be listening, still playing with his son, tickling, smiling. But as John finished he turned his head sharply.

‘So this Stephen left suddenly. It seems hasty. What do you make of it, Carpenter?'

‘I don't know, Master.' He'd thought about it on the long walk back into Chesterfield. It could be a coincidence; after all, the man was a salt merchant. But he'd been one of the last to see Julian alive. He could even be the killer. ‘When he returns we need to talk to him.'

‘This Christian interests me.'

‘He's Julian's oldest friend.'

‘Friends have killed each other before,' de Harville said.

‘He's the steward in Dronfield. I've tried to talk to him.'

‘Then he'll need more persuasion. Leave that to me.'

‘Yes, Master.'

‘Is there anything else?'

‘No.'

‘Good. Go home, Carpenter.'

• • •

Home. He was glad to unlock the door and walk into a house full of sound. The girls laughing and screaming playfully, and Katherine trying to calm them down. As soon as he appeared past the screen, everything went quiet for a moment. Then Janette and Eleanor were dashing towards him, grabbing his legs as if he'd been gone for a year, not just a night. Katherine stood with her hands on her hips, looking amused as he was pinned to the spot. Even the kitten came to wind its way around his legs.

Slowly, he freed himself, hugging them both and grinning widely. They'd missed him; he was truly part of the family with them, like the father they'd never really known.

He held his wife, revelling in her warmth and softness.

‘Was it worthwhile?' she asked softly.

‘I think so,' he replied, letting out a weary breath.

‘I'll bring you some ale.'

He sat at the table, the girls filling his ears with their chatter, the kitten rubbing around him and demanding attention. Drinking deep, he closed his eyes, waiting as Katherine shooed the girls outside to play.

‘What's Bakewell like?' she asked eagerly.

‘Small,' he said after a little consideration. ‘Pretty enough, but there's no real life to it. I prefer it here. I saw something you wouldn't believe when I got back.'

‘Oh?' Her fingers traced a pattern around his hand.

‘The coroner cooing around his son. He looked so full of pride I thought he'd burst.'

Her mouth made an O of shock and surprise, then she began to laugh.

‘I can't imagine that.'

‘He kept doing it while I gave him my report.'

‘So he's human after all,' she said as she shook her head. ‘I'll never look at him the same way again.'

‘I kept wondering if I'll be that way.'

She arched her brows. ‘I hope you will.'

‘It seemed to make everything real.' He gazed down at the ale left in the mug. ‘I knew you were going to have a child, but …' He couldn't find the words to say what he felt, everything churning in his head.

‘We'll look after him. Or her.'

John nodded. It suddenly seemed such a big thing, like a mountain waiting in the future. Until now he'd felt some freedom, even with marriage and a family. But this truly was a new responsibility. Someone's life would belong to him. He had to keep them well, safe. Teach them. If it was a boy, pass on his skills.

It scared him. It terrified him.

‘What are you thinking?' Katherine asked.

‘Nothing,' he answered with a quiet smile. ‘Everything. Does it all scare you?'

‘Every minute,' she admitted. ‘I thought you'd seen that.'

‘Maybe I should have.'

He stretched, working out the knots in his back from the long walk.

‘What happened in Bakewell?'

‘I learned how to fish,' he began, then told her the whole story. ‘De Harville said he'd take care of Christian,' he said as he finished.

‘Better him than you. Just be careful, John. There's something about this that feels all wrong.'

‘Nothing bad is going to happen to us,' he promised, and hoped he wasn't tempting fate with his words.

‘What did you manage to find out about Stephen and the other men?' John asked. He leaned against the wall, staring out over the marketplace. It was still early, the light rising in the east as men moved around quickly, setting up their stalls.

‘Stephen comes here often,' Walter replied. His voice was serious as he concentrated on what he'd learned. ‘He sells salt to the bakers and the shops here.'

‘How regularly does he come to Chesterfield?'

‘About every fortnight. That's what I was told.'

A butcher might well need salt to keep his meat. His contact with Julian could be innocent. From the look of Stephen's house in Bakewell he didn't live extravagantly. Someone who once had money and lost it, Roger had said.

‘What else?'

‘He's done business with Julian for years. Edward the Butcher was a customer of his, too. Most of them in the Shambles seem to buy from him.'

‘How did you hear all this?' John asked with a smile.

‘I asked,' Walter answered with a shrug and blushed. ‘It's easier down there now that Edward and Julian have gone.'

‘Were you able to find anything about the other men?'

‘No.' The boy lowered his head. ‘I'm sorry, John, but no one seemed to know them.'

‘That's fine. You tried.' He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. ‘Come on, we'll get something from the cookshop.'

The two mystery men, he thought as he ate the warm oatcakes with butter. Nobody seemed to know anything about them, as if they hadn't really existed. Maybe they weren't even involved; coincidences did happen.

He sighed. This was all too complicated. Little trails that seemed to lead nowhere, or to dead bodies. Timothy, Nicholas, Edward, Gilbert, Julian. Why, he wondered? Did it all start with someone seeing Timothy as an easy victim? Or was there more behind it? And where did the psalter enter into it all?

John wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. The day had started off quite cool, refreshing, and hazy clouds filled the sky.

‘I need to talk to the priest,' he said. ‘Do you want to come with me?'

The indecision was plain on the lad's face.

‘I can't, John. I need to run messages today. The horse traders are coming to the market. I'm sorry.'

‘It's fine,' he assured Walter. ‘Go and do your work. If I discover anything interesting I'll tell you later.'

‘Yes, John.' The boy grinned broadly and scampered off, long legs raising dust.

The priest. But there was another place to visit first.

• • •

Edmund the Shoemaker was sitting on his stool, a shoe half-sewn in front of him. As John entered he looked up, his face breaking into a smile.

‘Master! I was wondering when you'd come.' He turned, fumbling along the shelf for a pair of boots and rubbing the dust off the leather with his sleeve. ‘Try them on and tell me if they're not the most comfortable you've ever worn.'

John slipped off the old, worn shoes, flexing his toes before pulling on the boots. They felt supple, snug without being tight. He took a few tentative steps. The sole was firm but bent freely. Sitting down again, he pulled them off, turning them in his hands and examining them.

‘You won't find better boots anywhere, Master,' the shoemaker told him hopefully. ‘You ask anyone in town, they'll tell you I'm the best.'

He put them on his feet again and paced around the shop. They'd need to be broken in, of course, but that should be easy enough. Finally he nodded his satisfaction.

‘I'll take them,' he said and heard the man's sigh of relief. ‘Can you mend these?' He put the old pair on the trestle. Edmund looked at them.

‘I can, Master. They'll never be as strong as they were, but they'll hold for a long time yet.' He grinned. ‘As second-best, of course.'

His feet felt light as he walked up Soutergate. Each step felt like a pleasure. The shoemaker was good at his craft. He kept glancing down to admire the boots. Maybe he'd have no regrets about spending the money, after all.

Men were working in the churchyard. The tiles on the spire reached almost to the peak now; the work would be finished very soon. Labourers were packing up, putting materials into piles and wooden boxes. All the chores that accompanied the end of a job. It was always the hardest time, knowing it would be over soon, then being paid off and wondering where to go next. He remembered that all too well, glad those days were all in the past.

Chesterfield would miss the men, too. The alehouses would do less business, landlords would have empty beds and no one coming to fill them.

In the church his heels clicked over the tiles as he made his way to the vestry, knocking on the door then opening it. Father Geoffrey was there, his head bent in prayer, holding up a finger; wait until he was done.

His lips moved quickly and silently, then he crossed himself and sat back.

‘Good morning, my son.' His face became quizzical. ‘I saw you at Timothy's house, didn't I?'

‘Yes, Father. I'm John the Carpenter. I work with the coroner.'

‘I remember now. Sit down, sit down. What can I do for you, my son?'

‘It's about the psalter that was stolen,' he asked as he settled on the low joint stool. ‘You said Timothy had shown it to you.'

‘Yes.' The priest nodded. ‘And he promised it to the church as he had no heirs.'

‘How valuable is it?'

‘Valuable?' Geoffrey spoke the word as if it surprised him. ‘Well, it's beautifully illuminated and carefully lettered. I don't know how old it is, but Timothy said it had belonged to his grandfather and maybe further back than that. So it might be worth a good sum if anyone was willing to pay.'

‘And would people pay to own it?'

‘Oh yes,' the priest replied without hesitation. ‘It's beautiful and it's holy.'

‘Who'd buy it, Father?'

‘Rich families.' He paused, thinking, fingers stroking the stole around his neck. ‘Maybe a church or an abbey, if they had money. But I hope they'd want to know where it came from.'

John nodded. But they both knew that many places would ask few questions if they truly wanted something, whether it was a relic or a book.

‘Was there anything on the cover?'

‘A cross in gilt. It was the loveliest thing I've ever seen.' He shook his head to clear the reverie. ‘Do you read?'