‘No, I’ve never talked to him before. I needed to ask him a few questions.’ He stopped and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You know I do some work for the coroner, don’t you? It was about that. We’ll go back out to Cutthorpe tomorrow; it’s too late today. By the time we got there we’d have to turn around and come home.’
He watched as Alan ran off, satisfied. They’d have ample chance to deal with the byre in the morning. For a moment he thought about going straight home. Katherine would be surprised to see him so soon. Instead, duty won. He wandered across the empty market square and down the road towards Brampton.
Richard the Salter’s house stood by itself, a squat, windowless stone building set behind it. Probably his warehouse. There was no sign of life in the yard but he knocked on the heavy door. No answer.
Never mind. He’d return and try again later. It meant that he had the afternoon to enjoy his family.
• • •
Juliana was sleeping when he returned. Dame Martha was giving the girls their lessons, making them write on their pieces of slate. At first he’d thought it was pointless – what need would a woman ever have of writing? But he’d come to see sense in it. She taught Walter too, when he was at home and had the time.
Knowledge gave freedom. If they could read and write, they could learn. He’d considered asking Martha to teach him, but he was too old; he’d survived well enough without it.
Instead he left them to their task, took Katherine by the hand and climbed quietly to the solar. Later, as they lay in bed, the soft breeze blowing from outside, he held her close, praying that moments like these would never end.
But these chances for indulgence were so rare. They weren’t lords, able to rest on their money. There were always things to be done. Reluctantly, John dressed, taking pleasure in watching his wife. Then he was on his way to the salter’s house again with a smile on his face.
This time the door was open to the stone building behind the house. A cart stood in the yard, drawn by an ox, two pack horses behind it.
He tapped on the wood, waiting until a heavy, sweating man emerged. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘If you’re looking for work, you’re too late. We’ve just unloaded the shipment.’ Somewhere inside John could hear another man moving around.
‘Thank you, but I have plenty of work. I’m John the Carpenter.’
‘There’s nothing for you here if you’re touting for jobs.’ He was stripped to his linen and hose, dark, damp patches under his arms. He had a bristly, brusque manner.
‘Not that either, Master.’ The words caught the salter’s attention.
‘What do you want, then?’
‘You heard about the priest being murdered?’
‘Priest?’ Richard looked astonished, reaching out a hand and resting it against the door jamb. ‘When?’
John gave him the details of both murders.
‘Why?’ The salter asked. ‘Do you know?’
‘Not yet. I’m working for the coroner on this. I’ve done it before.’
That brought a raised eyebrow, a question that went unasked.
‘Did you know Father Crispin at all?’ John asked.
The man pursed his mouth. ‘I never spoke to the man. I know he came here a little before I did, but that’s all.’
‘Then I’ll wish you good day, Master. And may God save us all from the plague.’
‘I’d heard about that, right enough.’ He crossed himself. ‘The first case came just before I left. I took my wife and children over to Cheshire to keep them safe. How bad is it?’
Richard was old enough. He would remember the power of the first visitation.
‘Not as bad as it was the first time. But it’s lingering.’
‘I’ll pray for them. No plague in Cheshire yet, thanks be to God.’
• • •
‘I’d swear on it,’ John said. ‘None of the three I’ve talked to had anything to do with the deaths.’
‘What about the fourth?’ de Harville asked sharply.
‘William the Merchant. He’s still not returned. I’ve spoken to the others, they’re just trying to make a living.’
The coroner had been eating one of last autumn’s wrinkled apples. He looked at it then threw it into a corner of the hall, down among the rushes.
‘What now, Carpenter? We’re back where we began. We don’t have anyone for the crimes.’
‘I know.’
John turned to leave. They could do nothing more, and he wouldn’t be sorry to see the back of it. This was flirting too close to powerful men for his liking.
• • •
Brother Robert was at the house on Saltergate when he arrived home. The old man’s face was heavily lined, his eyes lightly clouded, but somehow he looked more carefree, as if a heavy weight that he’d carried for too long had been lifted from his body.
Dame Martha sat beside him, her bony hand covering his.
‘You’re leaving tomorrow then, Brother.’
‘Yes, John.’ He smiled. ‘And thank you again.’
‘You ought to thank Martha. She’s the one who pushed me to ask again. By the bye, I met the carter who’ll be taking you there. His name’s Hugh. A good man.’
The girls were sitting, obediently listening. Katherine played with Juliana. The child saw her father, beamed, and toddled towards him with the tentative, tip-toed walk of the very young. John bent, opened him arms, and scooped her up, making her squeal with delight.
‘We’ll miss you,’ he said.
The monk nodded. ‘I’ll miss all of you.’ He chuckled. ‘It seems as if Chesterfield has been my life for too long. I’ll even miss Coroner de Harville. I know he has his faults, but I’ve lived in his house for so many years now that I know his ways.’ He gave a contented sigh. ‘But I can’t deny that it’ll be good to go back to Calke.’
When he finally left, Martha insisted on walking back to the High Street with him. They’d be the last moments the two would ever spend together. She took hold of her stick and put her other arm through the monk’s.
‘They look like a pair of lovers,’ Katherine said as she watched them amble slowly away.
‘Maybe they would have been in another life.’
She sighed. ‘Maybe.’
‘We have what God gives us,’ John said. ‘Good and bad.’
‘As long as you think I’m part of the good,’ she said with a smile.
‘None better, ever.’
• • •
They were out early to wave their farewells. Brother Robert was a small, shrunken figure on the seat next to Hugh. He had a tiny bundle on his lap, and the portable desk was stacked behind on top of the peat. Fifty or so had come to see him depart; the monk was well-liked and respected in Chesterfield. De Harville had gathered his family and servants at the gate.
Just before the corner of the street, Robert turned and lifted his hand once. Then the cart was out of sight. Katherine put her arms around Martha as the old woman began to sob.
‘I know how much he needs this, but I’m sorry to see him go. I feel I’ve just said goodbye to my past.’
John was glad to shoulder his satchel of tools and leave. The sun was bright, warmth in the air as he collected Alan and they walked out to Cutthorpe. The byre was waiting for him. He examined it again, deciding it would need even more work than he’d estimated before. The owner was a fool for letting it go so long. If he’d done something a few years earlier, many of these boards would never have rotted.
He worked with the boy, starting the preparations. Cut and shape the boards, fit them as snugly as possible, then warm some pitch to seal the cracks between them. The work would take days, but that was fine. With each nightfall he’d have earned five more pennies.
By the time they stopped for dinner he realised he hadn’t thought once about the murders. Good riddance to them. Instead, his mind had dwelt on the monk. He’d grown to feel real affection for the old man, his
ways and his quiet wisdom. He wished the man peace and hoped that the coroner’s new clerk would be as thoughtful.
At day’s end John examined his work. They’d made a fair start. Already some of the new boards were in place, flush and even. He could see the shape of it. The byre would look reasonable when they finished. Not new, because you could never find gold in a midden, but it would hold and last a while.
The walk back to Chesterfield felt wearying. His arms ached. Alan wasn’t even trying to communicate; the boy looked almost asleep on his feet. The church spire rose in the distance, for so long just tantalisingly out of reach.
Then they were in the town. Alan seemed to find his strength again, small legs striding out as he neared home. John smiled. At that age, with his father dead, no relatives, there had been no home for him. No safety, no security. Nothing beyond work and survival. A time he wouldn’t wish on anyone. Learning, always moving, discovering how to stay alive from one day to the next.
He’d just turned on to Saltergate when he saw the bailiff. The man was saying goodbye to Katherine and turning.
‘Master,’ he called. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
Behind him, John saw Katherine’s face, mouth downturned.
‘Then you can look a little longer. What is it?’
‘The coroner wants you, Master. A body, just like the others.’
‘If someone’s dead, he can wait two more minutes.’
John left the satchel of tools in a corner of the hall, kissed his wife and daughter, then washed. The sting of cold water on his face roused him.
‘John...’
He shook his head, letting water cascade around. ‘If it’s another of the same, we won’t be able to do anything,’ he told her. He didn’t want to go, to end up mired deeper in this mess.
‘You have a daughter now,’ Katherine told him. ‘You have responsibilities here.’
‘I know.’ He took hold of her hand. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
• • •
The bailiff was pacing in a tight circle outside the door.
‘Where are we going?’ John asked.
‘Out near the lepers,’ the man answered with distaste. The fear was natural. People kept their distance from the lazar hospital. No one knew about leprosy, how a man might catch it. All that was certain was that it became a lingering, horrible death sentence. The leper colony lay out beyond the River Hipper, set out and away from everything. Sometimes, when John passed, one of the inmates would be sitting by the gate, head covered in a cowl, ringing his bell and begging for alms.
Now, though, with the plague in Chesterfield starting by the river, most folk took care to avoid the area.
The bailiff hurried down Soutergate and across the bridge as if he’d been holding his breath the whole way. He only slowed once they’d passed the last houses. Fields stretched as far as the eye could see, only a thin strip of road running between them.
They turned along a track, moving towards a copse at the top of a rise. John could see the coroner’s horse tethered to a tree, and the man himself, colourful in a green tunic and blue hose, leaning against a tree.
Down in the long, coarse grass of a clearing lay a body carefully wrapped in a shroud. Exactly the same as the other two.
CHAPTER NINE
‘An inmate from the lazar house was out gathering wood,’ de Harville said. His mouth twisted for a moment. ‘He found the body. The priest in charge sent someone to find me.’
John knelt and cut through the thick fabric of the shroud. Slowly, he pulled it apart until he could see the face.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ he said as he rose. He was looking at the body of Richard the Salter.
‘It would seem you were wrong about him.’
John sliced through the rest of the sheet, looking for blood, wounds, anything. Then he turned the corpse and saw the small hole from the nalbinding needle.
‘I must have been. I only spoke to him yesterday.’ He felt shaken. The other dead men were remote figures, even Father Crispin. This struck close to home. He’d met the man, talked to him. He could still hear Richard’s gruff voice in his head. He’d felt so certain that the salter hadn’t been involved in anything.
‘Did anyone see a cart or a man out here, or hear anything? It must have happened during the night.’
‘Ask at the leper colony if you like, Carpenter. They’re the only ones close. I’ve raised the hue and cry, for all the good it will do.’
‘We need to search Richard’s house. I saw him unloading salt. I could smell it. He was definitely a merchant, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘And Crispin was a priest,’ the coroner pointed out. ‘But who was Richard before he began selling salt?’
A liar, it appeared. And a good one. He already knew there was nothing he could learn from this body. Instead, he walked over the grassy edge of the fields to the road and the lazar house beyond.
The walls cut the lepers off from the world, some small safety for those inside and out. By the gate a figure sat with a cup at its feet, shapeless in a worn habit, the cowl pulled low to hide the face. As John approached, the figure began to ring a bell.
‘Alms, master, for the love of God.’ The voice was a croak, sexless and gaunt. John dropped a coin into the cup. ‘Thank you. May God give those you love life and peace.’
He’d pray for that.
‘I need to see the priest here about the body that was found.’
‘You’re welcome to go in. Few want to, though.’ The laugh sounded like a bark.
‘I’ll take my chances. What’s your name?’
There was a wait before the answer. ‘Alison, Master.’
‘Then God be with you, Alison.’
John opened the gate and entered. It felt like a calm, restful place. Lepers tended rows of crops, bent over with their hoes. All of them covered from head to toe, their bodies somehow less than substantial, as if they were gradually transforming themselves into ghosts.
Only the priest had his head bare, his tonsure glinting in the sun. He came hurrying, a short man with clear, merry eyes.
‘You came here a few years ago,’ he said. ‘I remember you.’
‘Yes, Father.’ He was right; it wasn’t his first visit to this place in the coroner’s service. ‘I’m sure you can guess why I’m here again.’
‘The body isn’t plague, is it?’ he asked worriedly.
‘No.’ He saw the worry begin to leave the man’s face. ‘It’s murder.’
The priest crossed himself and whispered a prayer under his breath. ‘Should I go there?’
‘No need. They’ll be taking his body away very soon. How was he found?’
‘One of the lepers was searching for firewood. It’s hard to find at this time of year, and they prefer to stay out of sight. He was in the wood and saw it. When he told me, I sent someone to town.’
Just as the coroner had said.
‘Did anyone hear anything during the night? A cart, perhaps, maybe a horse?’ The body might have been slung over the back of an animal.
‘I can ask,’ the priest said and paused. ‘This seems an odd thing for a carpenter to be doing.’
‘We can’t always choose how we live our lives,’ John answered with a rueful smile. ‘If anyone heard or saw something I’ll need to talk to them. It could be important.’
‘If there’s any word to send, I’ll let you know. Go in peace, my son.’
• • •
The coroner was already inside the salter’s house, marching through, picking things up and putting them down again.
‘Anything from the lazar house, Carpenter?’
‘Not yet, Master. There may be something if we have luck.’ But only a small chance of that. He glanced around the hall. A tapestry hung on the wall. Poor work, but a sign that the man had money to spend. A settle, a bench at the table.
‘There’s a servant. She’s out in the kitchen.’
John walked through th
e buttery and into the garden. Herbs were growing, some other plants he didn’t recognise. Like all houses, the kitchen was built away from the house for safety: if a fire broke out, the home would be spared.
She was just a girl, perhaps fifteen summers on her. He’d seen her in the marketplace; Walter seemed to know her. She was shaking, scared. Of course she was; death had touched her and men with authority were here. That would terrify anyone.
‘What’s your name, Mistress?’
‘Cecilia, Master.’ A quiet, nervous voice.
‘Don’t worry, no one believes you have anything to do with Richard’s death.’ He smiled at her. ‘Truly. When did you see him last?’
‘Yesterday evening before I went home. I fetched him supper. He wasn’t here when I came this morning, but he’s often gone.’
‘Did he say he’d be away again?’
She shook her head. ‘He only tells me if he’s going on a journey. But he’d barely returned.’
‘I know. I talked to him. When he’s here, is he often out at night?’
‘I don’t know, Master.’ She kept her eyes downcast. ‘Once or twice he hasn’t been here in the morning when I came to work.’
‘What about friends?’ John asked. ‘Did Richard have many visitors?’
‘Men,’ she replied. ‘They’d come to talk business with him.’
‘Did you know any of them? Maybe two on horseback, richly dressed, with weapons, a month or so ago?’
‘Not that I saw, Master.’
‘The priest, Father Crispin. Did he ever come here?’
‘Twice,’ she answered. ‘He didn’t stay long, but the master told me I wasn’t to disturb them.’
That was a connection. The salter had been definitely been lying when he said he didn’t know Crispin. He thought for a moment.
‘The other men who came. Were they local?’
‘No, Master. I didn’t know them.’
‘Who else did Richard employ?’ He saw her wince at the past tense.
‘Just a boy to help sometimes in the warehouse.’
‘Who travelled with him?’
‘He met up with people, that’s how he explained it to me,’ she said. ‘Safer in groups, he said, what with all the masterless men on the roads these days.’
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