They went through the hall to the little courtyard at the back which was full of pots with winter twigs in them. There were some more pots keeping warm in the stables in which the plants looked less dead.
Then they went into the large smithy which had two separate furnaces and an open fireplace and strangely no fires. The place was empty though there were tools on hooks all along the wall, and some half-made sword blanks in a pile and a stream burbling through a stone channel to a large quenching trough that was half full.
“Now, Mr Allerdyce,” said Carey, wondering why there was nobody there, “could you tell me who found the body?”
“It were his lad,” said Allerdyce. “He ran in to ask his dad to show him something and found him on the floor and couldn’t waken him, so ran back to tell his mam.”
“Where was the body?”
“Lying on his stomach apparently, but quite…er…decent, ye ken. It were his wife and one of the apprentices that saw to it. They took him in and laid him out upstairs, cos they knew he was dead o’ course. Cold as charity, he was.”
“So was the smithy fire still lit?”
“A dinna ken. O’ course, with the blacksmith dead, I expect it was the journeymen put out all the fires.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did the journeymen put out all the fires?”
Allerdyce looked shocked. “Ye canna have the smithy fires lit if the smith is dead, specially if he died in the smithy, t’wouldn’t be right, t’wouldn’t be safe.”
“Why not?”
“It just wouldn’t.”
“Would they have been lit before, when Mr Carleton came in?”
“Ay, or curfewed. He liked to be in the smithy early, the first, he was the master, he liked to make sure it were all stimmel…”
“What?”
“Er…right, tidy, proper for the sun to see. He’d sharpen up one of the fires usually to do some tinkering. Sometimes if the mood was on him he’d be at the smithing all night, making something strange. He made all the different tools and mattocks for the Deutschers, and he made them good and so did his journeymen and ’prentices. He had another forge down at Newlands too to make the parts for the machines and some of the bigger tools.”
“Did he use ore from the mine?”
“Nay.” Allerdyce grinned and Carey got the message he had asked something ignorant. “The rocks is all copper here, green copper with a little si…gold in it, ay, but nae iron, we get that fra Bristol. Copper’s worth more than iron anyways, even now, but it’s not so useful a metal, it’s a little soft though it makes good pots and pans. Ye can make bronze to cast from it wi’ a bit of Cornish tin added in at the smelting.”
“I see.” Carey started poking around the neat shop with its swept floor. “Why isn’t the smithy being worked now?”
“Well…er…they’re afeared of Mr Carleton’s ghost, sir. Once they knew he was killt in his ain smithy, they all left and Mrs Carleton won’t order them back for they won’t go. A blacksmith is…well, they say he can work magic, sir, or his ghost can, and they wouldn’t take the risk. They’ll come back after forty days has passed since he died, but until then, no.”
Was there something eery about the quiet cold place that should have been bustling and hot? The weak sun lit it well, passing through hatches in the roof with sliding shutters to let the heat out in the summer. All of them were open despite the cold.
“How many men worked here?”
“Well now, there was David Butfell and Tom Atkinson and old man Melchior Moser too—he’s a Deutscher and a coppersmith. Still a journeyman, though Herr Moser should have been a Master with his own copperbeating shop, but he didn’t want the responsibility.”
Carey had his notebook out, noting the names. “And the apprentices?”
“Ay, there was Short Jemmie, Matty, Jurgen, Rob, and…”
“And me, sir,” piped up a boy’s voice. “Josef Carleton at your service, sir. I’d only started in the workshop last year so I havena made nothing yet and I wis just sweeping up and I havenae got my growth but…but I’ll be a fine smith, sir, just like Vater.”
Carey smiled at him gravely. “I am certain you will,” he said and sat down carefully on the trough’s edge because his back points were a little tight. “Now Josef, it was you found your father, yes?”
“Ay sir,” said the boy, with his jaw as hard as rock, and his velvet cap crushed in his hand, determined not to cry. Carey signalled with his hand that Tovey was to take notes. Tovey started and fumbled out his pen and ink bottle from his penner on his belt and a new notebook from the breast of his doublet.
“Could you tell me exactly what you saw when you found your father?”
The boy swallowed hard. “Jawohl,” he said. “Yes.”
“Do you speak Dutch?”
“Of course. English und Deutsch together.”
“I speak French, but not Deutsch alas.”
“It’s a beautiful language, sir. You should study it.”
“Perhaps I will. Now, what can you remember?”
“I came running in because I had an idea for a thing we were making together, a special machine like the ones in the mine, but small and of bronze or perhaps steel because bronze is brittle…and I knew my father would be in the smithy as it was dawn already. Then I stopped.”
“Why?”
“Sir?”
“Why did you stop? Did you see your father?”
“No sir, but…I felt frightened.”
“Why? Think back. What was it frightened you?”
The boy’s eyes went vague and then sharpened. “Ay, sir, it were the fire, sir.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“It was…it was in a pitiful condition, sir. The other two were out, the end ones, no curfews on them, just the coals unswept, but my Vater’s favourite, Violet…”
“He named his fires?”
“Of course, ye can’t smith without fire, can ye? That’s Violet and those are Daffodil and Rose.”
“Ah…so what was wrong with…er…Violet?”
“She were sick, sir. Somebody hadna put a curfew on the coals to keep them hot, just left her to burn down so the coals were down to ash grey and dark red, nearly cramoisie. I knew my father would never have neglected her in such a way so I come in more slowly, saying “Vater,” ye ken. Anyway I rounded the trough and peered past Henry…”
“Henry?”
“Me father’s favourite anvil, sir. That one.”
The boy pointed. “Ah, I see. Henry. Yes, a good name for an anvil. Go on…”
“And that’s when I saw him on the floor, wi’ his legs drawn up.”
“Was there any blood?”
“Nay, sir, nowt. It looked like he’d fallen asleep on the floor which he’d never done before though I’ve found him asleep on that bench, there, still in his apron and work clothes when he’d been tinkering with something all night.”
“Did you think he might be drunk?”
“Nay, sir, he only drinks…drank mild ale when he was working.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well, I went to him and shook his shoulder only it felt funny…”
“Did it feel stiff as if it were all of a piece with his whole body?”
“Ay, sir.”
“Go on.”
“I tried really hard to wake him, I got more and more…. afeared and then I saw his eyes staring at me and…I…ran to fetch my mam…”
“Was there any smell?”
“Sort of a burnt smell, like when the charcoal burners burn dung? It was terrible.”
“Thank you, Josef, you’ve spoken bravely to me. Is there anything else you can remember?”
“Nay, I….” He frowned. “Yes.”
“What?”
<
br /> “There were two of our silver cups standing on Henry, with mulled ale in one.”
Carey carefully kept the excitement out of his voice. “Two cups? One for your father and…”
The boy paled even more. “One for the murderer?”
Perhaps. It was very important not to make assumptions, but maybe. “And what does that tell you, Josef?”
The boy scowled, scowled some more and then gasped.
“He knew the murderer, sir, my father knew him.”
Carey nodded. Josef said some explosive words in Deutsch which Carey suspected was swearing. “Please don’t tell anyone or…”
“Ay, or the murderer hisself might hear. Yes sir, I’ll keep stumm.”
“Not even your friends?”
“Ay, sir, I understand. It’s like a smith’s mysteries. Ye dinna spread it all about or everyone will know and then where will ye be?”
“Exactly. Now one more thing. Show me exactly where your father lay. Where was his head? And his feet?” Josef showed him. “And you said he was on his side?”
Josef nodded.
“So how did he get on his stomach.”
“I pushed him over trying to wake him…and so I wouldn’t have his eyes staring at me.” Josef swallowed. “Was that wrong?”
Carey’s heart bled a little for the boy. “No, Josef, I understand. But you know when the eyes set like that, it means his spirit has departed, gone straight to God for Judgement. They can’t see anything anymore.”
The boy ducked his head, said nothing.
Carey stood and went with him to the door, found Allerdyce sitting and waiting patiently on the courtyard bench which had a number of clay pipe fragments swept under it.
“Thank you, Mr Allerdyce,” he said as the boy ran off into the house.
“Think nothing of it. Ah wis curious to hear the lad’s story too. So ye’re reckoning is that Mr Carleton knew his killer.”
“Yes.”
“God’s truth. That’s worse than the idea there were a gang o’ them come fra the Border.”
“Indeed, though a gang would be much easier to track.”
“A friend, ye say? That’s hard. Every man in the town knew Big John Carleton and most of them were his friends.”
“Or perhaps a respected customer. I think for a friend you’d use whatever was usual and to hand, a leather jack or a horn cup or perhaps pewter. But for a customer, you’d get your silver cups out of your locked cupboard. Unless it was some kind of celebration.”
Allerdyce nodded. “Any notion what was in the cups? Wine?”
“No.”
“Pity, there’s only one place ye can buy wine hereaboouts, at the Oak Inn, and then ye might know when Carleton bought the wine.”
“Good thinking, Mr Allerdyce, but according to young Josef it was ale, perhaps mulled.”
“Ay, that’s a friendlier drink than wine.”
“I’m also interested to know why there was no blood apparently.”
“Ay?”
“There’s a possible reason but I need to speak to Mrs Carleton about that.” Carey stood and stretched his back. Having ill-tied points always made his back ache. “Come on, let’s get on,” he said.
They found Mrs Carleton in the parlour with three silver goblets of wine poured for them and a plate of wafers sprinkled with sugar. In the corner was a solid-looking older woman in Netherlandish clothes, knitting away. Most women were busy knitting or spinning like the Fates at the turn of the year. Mrs Carleton and her woman got up to curtsey and Carey waved her down, bowed slightly and sat in the guest chair with the back but no arms. He took the goblet proffered him by Mrs Carleton’s woman but avoided the wafers because of the sugar. He preferred them salted in any case, even if he hadn’t sickened of the sweet spice of sugar since his tooth needed drawing.
Mrs Carleton was pale to her eyebrows, which were pale blond, her German-style cap was not far enough back to show any hair. Would it be thin blond or thick blond, Carey wondered absently as he gestured at Tovey to take notes. Tovey found a place to rest his notebook on a high chest and somehow made himself invisible.
“Mrs Carleton, can you tell me what happened on the unfortunate night when your husband died?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, with dark circles either side, then braced herself.
“That night I went to bed with my husband, he was my usual bedfellow when he was in Keswick and we…” Her pale face coloured a little and then paled again. “We knew each other.”
Carey tilted his head respectfully.
“We slept in each other’s arms. Mr Carleton must have woken long before dawn as was his wont, for though he liked to be in bed betimes, you couldn’t keep him in bed at all after the sky started lightening or earlier if he was excited about something he was making. So I don’t know when he left me but it was probably very early.” She took a deep breath.
“He must have dressed in his work clothes as he usually did and went to say his prayers in the smithy while he got Violet sharpened to work and put his aprons on, for he was wearing them when we…When my son found him. I don’t know what he was working on, there’s nothing in the smithy with a peculiar shape or half-finished.”
Carey nodded.
“Anyway, when I woke up I said my prayers and went to see if the ’prentices were up yet, which they weren’t, the lazy Junges. So I went to fetch fresh bread myself and came back to start to make breakfast which was some sausage and fried onions and the bread, of course.
“And then young Josef came running in, saying…he was stammering about Vater being ill, so I ran into the smithy and found my husband lying, almost on his stomach and…and he was dead.” She took another deep breath and held it, but tears still came to her eyes and she scrubbed them with a white handkerchief. Carey had expected this and waited patiently, looking as sympathetic as he could.
Her lips firmed. “So I sent Josef to get the ’prentices and Rob and Matty came first and we all carried my lord up and Jock helped for he was heavy, and we put him in the parlour on the table on his back.”
“Was there any blood?”
“No, none. His face looked quite peaceful, just as normal, though he favoured his own Vater in death, but he favoured his Mutter in life.”
“Can you tell me anything about his clothes? Were they fastened properly?”
“What?”
Carey gestured apologetically. “Were his points at the back tied?”
“Oh.” She coloured, swallowed. “No, he was wearing his leather working breeches which are held by a thick belt to support his back, his shirt was tucked in the way he liked it, his leather jerkin fastened. He still had his working gloves on. His cap had fallen off though.”
She took a long drink of wine, showing some fortitude since it was white and sour. “Then we said some prayers and I left pennies on his eyes to keep them shut. We went downstairs again, heartsick, heartsick. Do you understand? He was not in his prime but still he was a large healthy man with a big laugh and…and I missed him already. We didn’t know then what had really happened, we thought he had been taken by a fit or imposthume.”
Carey nodded sympathetically again and waited.
“My gossips came that afternoon to help lay him out. Heidi Stamler…” She gestured at the older woman who inclined her head, “Annamaria Steinberger and Alice Bunting. We…we got his clothes off him, jerkin and belt and his shirt and then, when we had his leather breeches off it was Alice who noticed that his…his assze looked strange. I looked and it was odd. There was something…some metal thing stuck there and we couldn’t get it out. Alice ran to the smithy to get a pair of metal pliers and we managed to pull it out a bit.”
“What was it?”
“A half-made sword blank, with a point, what we saw later. It was firmly stuck.” Mrs Carleton paused to swallow
and shut her eyes and open them again. “It was a long sword, a rapier blade. It must have reached to his chest, at least.”
And his heart, Carey thought but only nodded again gravely. “What exactly was strange about his rear?”
“It loooked blackened, as if he had sat on something dirty.”
Carey suddenly had to gulp some wine. Tovey was looking at him with shocked eyes, he prayed the boy wouldn’t throw up, he looked on the verge of it…That was why there was no blood, the sword-blank had been red hot and cauterised as it killed.
“So then we covered him with a sheet and I went personally that evening to tell Mr Allerdyce what we had found and when he had seen it for himself, he said he must immediately call an inquest since he is the Coroner.”
“Ay,” said Allerdyce who had sat respectfully silent through all this, sitting foursquare on the bench. “O’course we convened the inquest jury for the next day and found that Mr Carleton had been unlawfully killed and murdered by person or persons unknown. But we had no one we could even ask about it except the ’prentices and they were in their beds upstairs and the young men, the journeymen, live out.”
“Mr Allerdyce helped. He called a hue and cry through the whole town but because of the snowfall there were no visitors and no strangers.”
“What about the maidservant who said she saw a ghost rider?”
“We questioned her at the inquest,” said Allerdyce, “but she said she saw him from her bedroom window and his horse’s hooves left no print in the snow and he had nae face, just a yellow shape with holes and it frightened her so she want back to bed and hid under the bedclothes and her sister didn’t see it, so we thought it were likely a dream.”
“Hm.”
“We waited a week in case anything else turned up and told us the guilty man, but nothing did and there was more snow and so we had the funeral and buried him in Crossthwaite churchyard. Everyone in town was there, and the Deutschers too, they came, they were right sorry at Mr Carleton’s passing because he was such a clever smith. He made all the tools for mining, see? That’s why he’d done sae well because miners need a powerful lot of funny tools and smelters need more and they wear out quickly.”
A Suspicion of Silver Page 16