The Saltergate Psalter (21 page)

‘Did you find him?'

Arthur nodded. ‘Richard went up to bed early. Said he was weary.'

‘What about you?'

‘I stayed down here. I wasn't tired. I went up an hour or so ago and found …' He didn't need to complete the thought.

‘Were you in here the whole time?'

‘Except when I went to the jakes.'

John turned to the innkeeper. ‘You saw him?'

‘Right enough. It's like he said.'

‘Who was in tonight?'

The man scratched his head. ‘A fair few, on and off.'

‘Any strangers?'

The innkeeper glanced at his wife. ‘One or two faces I didn't know, but that's often the way in this business. No one causing trouble.'

‘Anyone asking questions?

‘No.'

‘Are there any others staying here?'

‘Not tonight, Master,' the goodwife answered in a croaking voice. ‘We only have one room free. So there was just him and …' She raised her eyes towards the ceiling.

‘When did your companion go upstairs?' John asked Arthur.

‘I don't know. Not long after we ate, I remember that.' Several hours earlier, most likely. But Arthur hadn't committed this murder, he felt certain of that. He was too shaken and ashen-faced by the death. The man wasn't play-acting his horror.

‘Do you know who might have done this?' he asked quietly. ‘Have there been any threats?'

‘Why would you think that?' Arthur turned quizzical eyes on him.

‘I'm just asking questions.'

‘No. There's been nothing of that kind.'

‘Can I see your knife?'

‘What?' The man looked astonished. ‘Why?'

‘To examine.' John smiled. ‘Please, Master.'

Slowly, Arthur handed it over. John took it close to the candle, holding it near his face, searching for the slightest trace of blood. But there was nothing. The blade was as clean as if it had never been used. He passed it back and looked at the coroner. The man was standing half in the shadows, paying close attention.

‘It would be helpful to know your business here. What brought you to Chesterfield?'

Arthur was silent for so long that he might have lost the power of speech.

‘I'd need the permission of my Lord to tell you,' he answered finally.

‘God's blood, this is a murder!' de Harville roared. ‘Do you think we're here in the middle of the night for our pleasure? You were the finder. You'll pay your fine and you won't leave the town until we find the killer. If you try to go I'll have you arrested. You'd best think on that and tell us what we need.'

Arthur's stare was hard and angry but he didn't speak.

Finally the coroner clapped his hands together. ‘Anything more you need here, Carpenter?'

‘Not tonight.'

‘Then we'll go.' He pointed at Arthur. ‘Don't try to leave.'

John helped the monk pack his parchment, quills and ink in the desk, securing the catch. He could see the pain on Brother Robert's face and the awkward way he moved his hands, trying to rub some warmth into his fingers.

‘Let me,' he said, hoisting the strap for the portable desk on to his shoulder.

‘Thank you,' Robert said with a slow smile. ‘That's a blessing.' He reached for an old woollen cloak and fastened it clumsily. ‘Even the warm nights have a chill when you're old, John. Remember that for the years to come.'

They ambled back to the High Street. De Harville hadn't waited for them. He wasn't even in sight, striding ahead in his usual manner.

‘What do you make of all this, Brother?'

‘I don't know,' Robert replied, and there was worry in his voice. ‘Six killings and no one caught. People were already growing scared before this happened.'

Were they? He'd seen no panic or heard any fearful words. But the monk could be right. The more the death toll mounted, the more people would begin to look at their neighbours with suspicion and wonder.

‘I can't see any sense in it all,' John admitted. ‘It's like walking in the dark without a light.'

‘The Master's at his wits' end. With this many deaths, powerful people are going to take notice. Especially after this last one.'

That was true. The Bishop of Lincoln held large sway in England. He had the ear of archbishops and kings. The last thing de Harville wanted was some royal official arriving to take over the investigation. It would be a failure, a black mark against his name for the future. No more preferment.

‘Do you have any idea why a pair of bishop's men should be here?'

‘None,' the brother said with a sigh. ‘I just wish he'd let me go back to the monastery.'

‘He's still saying nothing?'

‘No. He's too wrapped up in everything in his own life. He says he needs me here.' After a small cough he asked, ‘How's Dame Martha? I haven't seen her to talk to since your wedding.'

‘She's well. She's teaching the girls to read.' He thought a moment. ‘Growing older, but we all are, Brother.' He clapped Robert very lightly on the shoulder.

‘True enough, John, true enough.' He sounded resigned.

They parted at the gate to the coroner's house. He waited until the door closed behind the monk, the glow of a lantern spearing the night for a moment.

The town was silent as he walked home, his footsteps echoing off the buildings. What to make of this new death? It was linked to the others. It had to be. He didn't know how yet, but there could be no other reason. From Timothy and Nicholas to Edward the Butcher and Gilbert the Shoemaker, then Julian. And now Richard d'Angers. It was a twisted path. It had to be the psalter. For a book of psalms it was turning into a cursed document. And its tale hadn't finished yet. Not until the person behind all this was found.

He needed to know why the bishop's men had come here. Everything might revolve around that. But if they'd already bought the psalter, or if they'd killed to possess it, why would they return? It was tempting fate, and fate could be exceeding cruel.

He unlocked the door and crept in. Nobody else was up. There was no point in going back to bed. His mind was awake and working; he'd only toss and turn till dawn, waking Katherine and everyone else.

In the buttery he poured himself a mug of ale and tore a hunk off a loaf, chewing hungrily. At the moment he had no idea who might have killed d'Angers. The open back stairs and unlocked door made everything too easy. Still, the killer needed to know which room d'Angers occupied and that he'd be alone. Even then he must have been very quiet. Or it had been someone the man knew and trusted.

He stared out of the window at the night. Not even the first notes of dawn yet. A knife … He started, slamming down the cup and spilling some of the drink. D'Angers had worn a knife. It had been on his belt. But John had never looked at it.

As soon as morning arrived he'd return to the inn.

• • •

The innkeeper kept yawning. He looked haggard, as if sleep had been short and hard-won.

‘Is the body still upstairs?'

‘Aye, Master, right enough it is. You know the way.'

‘What did you do with the other man?'

‘There's a room of sorts under the eaves. The servant usually has it.' He shrugged. ‘It's nothing much but it's clean.' The man grimaced. ‘Best I can do since I can't charge him for it.'

The corpse was already beginning to stink. Flies buzzed in the room and over the flesh. They'd have laid their eggs and the maggots would be wriggling.

He threw back the shutters, blinking as the sharp early light flooded in. He drew the sheet back to see the wound once more. But there was nothing he hadn't noticed during the night. Hardly daring to breathe, he drew the knife out of its sheath and held it up. John squinted, looking along the length of the blade.

Someone had tried to wipe it clean, but they'd done a poor, hasty job. In the light he could make out the small stains of blood dried on the metal. They looked like rust, but came away easily under his fingernail.

Another quick search, the body lying there like a sightless accusation, and he found where the blade had been wiped: along the hem of the man's cloak. At least he knew what had killed d'Angers. All he needed to learn now was the who and the why of it.

• • •

The house on Saltergate was bustling with life. Katherine looked harassed and gaunt as she laid out the food to break the fast. The girls were arguing. Kit twined itself around legs, mewling to be fed. Only Walter sat quietly, already eating, a mug of weak ale sitting next to him on the table.

He took the plate from his wife and carried it into the hall, calling the girls to eat.

‘The coroner's business?' Katherine asked reproachfully when they were all seated.

‘Yes. Another body.'

She crossed herself and Walter turned to him, eyes curious.

‘Who was it, John?'

‘One of the men you were following.'

Katherine pecked at her food, a nibble of this, a taste of that, pushing it around until she stood finally and stalked into the buttery. He followed.

‘Why did you go?' she hissed. ‘You could have said no. I thought we were done with all that.'

He knew what he'd promised and hung his head.

‘Is this how it's going to be, John? De Harville whistles and you come running like a dog?' He started to speak but she waved him down. ‘You made a vow to me.' Katherine placed a hand on her belly. ‘You made
us
a vow. I know the husband is the head of the house but I want you here to help with your child. I want him to know his father.'

‘Or her,' John said softly.

She shook her head. ‘Him. I can feel it.'

‘Him.' He put his hand over hers. For a moment he felt something move and looked at her.

‘That's him,' Katherine told him. ‘That's your son.'

He didn't know the words for what he felt. The life in her, growing. The life they'd made, that God had granted them. A fragile, fleeting existence on this earth.

‘The man who was killed,' he tried to explain. ‘It all goes back to Timothy and this psalter of his. I've been in this from the beginning. I
need
to know. Do you understand?'

Very slowly, she nodded. ‘You always will, won't you? You can't refuse a mystery.'

He'd never thought of himself that way, but she was right. Each death was a challenge, a puzzle to try and solve, where he had to use his wits to find the answer. And she was right; he relished it, no matter how much he complained. That was the truth of the matter.

‘Yes,' he admitted.

‘I'll just have to accept it, won't I?' She took hold of his hand.

He breathed slowly. ‘It won't happen often.'

‘I pray not, John,' she said sadly. ‘I truly do.'

• • •

The coroner was parading around his hall, a houpelande of grey silk over his shirt. The sleeves billowed so wide that they touched the floor. A pointless garment, John thought as he watched the man strut. Too thin to be any sort of coat. Just decoration for those with more money than sense.

‘So we know he was murdered with his own knife,' de Harville said. ‘That's useful, but what does it tell us?' He stood by the window, peering through the thick, clouded glass.

‘Nothing too much.'

‘Find out who used that knife, Carpenter.' It wasn't an order so much as a plea. The coroner was feeling crowded, he knew that. Too many deaths with no answers. Enough for his name to be spoken in London and for the authorities to wonder whether he should be replaced.

‘Where's Brother Robert this morning?'

‘I let him sleep after having him up in the night.'

It was the first time the man had shown any compassion for the monk.

‘You should let him go back to the monastery,' John ventured.

‘No.' De Harville shook his head firmly. ‘I trust him. I need people around me that I can trust.'

‘He's old, Master. He's served you well.'

‘I said no, Carpenter.' The coroner dismissed the matter. ‘Remember your place. Use your brain to discover the killer. Maybe then I can let him go.'

The hint of a bargain. Not that he believed a word of it.

‘It would help if we knew why Arthur and d'Angers had come here. Not just this time, but when Julian was killed.'

‘I'll see him again this morning.'

‘I'd like to hear his answers.'

The coroner shook his head. ‘Leave him to me.'

The words brooked no objection.

He left, out into the bright morning sun, and no idea how to start the task ahead. He'd learned all he could at the inn, he couldn't question Arthur of Warwick. What could he do? Nothing until he had more information.

• • •

The boards were a tight fit. Exactly the way he wanted. He took some of the iron nails and hammered the wood into place. Finally he heated a small pot of pitch over the fire until it would spread easily, then used it on the boards to make a seal. No damp would penetrate now. The cut flax at Cutthorpe would stay dry.

He'd stripped off his shirt, leaving it to hang in the shade. He took a piece of linen and wiped the sweat from his body.

Katherine had been surprised to see him return to the house for his tools. He'd kissed her before he left again, watching the girls sitting and spinning while the kitten attempted to play with the wool. Home, with all its pleasures and all its troubles. He was happy here.

John inspected the work once more then began to pack away his tools, making sure everything was clean and carefully coated with a thin film of oil to ward away rust. That was the secret, his father had said. The first thing he'd taught him in those summers before the pestilence arrived and tore England apart.

In his mind he could still see his father's hands. Large, the fingers long and supple, the skin hard from all the years of work. He held up his own. Perhaps he'd become his father. He'd have a difficult task to live up to the man he remembered.