‘I must have drifted away,’ he admitted.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Katherine said. ‘I’ll take over. It’ll be time to put the girls to bed soon, anyway. I think Martha’s ready to go home. Why don’t you escort her.’
The goodwife clung to his arm as they walked along the road. The streets were empty, just noises in the distance to disrupt the peace.
‘You know, don’t you?’ she said. When he glanced at her sharply, Martha continued, ‘The killings. Who hurt Walter.’
‘Not yet,’ he sighed. ‘But I will. I promise.’
He owed it to all those who’d died. It came down to two men. Christian and Arthur of Warwick. One of them was behind it all. How could it be anyone else? One of them had arranged the killings and then tried to hide their tracks. But which it was, he didn’t know. Christian had a reason, if he was truly the bastard son of Timothy. And Arthur? That he didn’t understand. He might never know, either; the man had the bishop’s protection and he could do nothing against that.
‘Do you want some advice?’
‘I’d welcome it,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Anything that can help.’
‘When my husband was trying to sort a problem, he always thought the simple solution was to find out who’d profit most from something.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Does that make sense?’
It did. Whoever had the most to gain might be willing to take the greatest risks. But which one profited? Christian? Arthur?
‘Thank you,’ John said as they approached Martha’s door.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ she told him.
‘Your friendship. That’s beyond gold. Teaching the girls. Being here with us.’
It was impossible to be sure in the gloom, but she seemed to blush.
Walking back, he was concentrating on her words, trying to match them against the men he suspected. At first he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, then turned quickly, the knife in his hand.
‘Peace be with you.’ The man raised his hands as he approached. Father Geoffrey, wearing his surplice and stole.
‘I’m sorry, Father.’ He slid the dagger back into its sheath. ‘You took me by surprise. What brings you out tonight?’
‘Dame Gertrude is dying. They called me to hear her confession and give her the last rites.’
John crossed himself. ‘May God grant her rest.’
‘I heard what happened to Walter,’ the priest continued.
‘He’s woken. He’s going to be fine.’
‘That’s good news.’ Geoffrey sounded relieved. ‘I’ll say a prayer for him.’ He hurried by. ‘I’ll wish you a good night.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
Another one dying. He’d met Gertrude a few times. She lived with her son and his family, a sharp-tongued woman who tried to rule the household. She was a woman with little kindness in her soul, it seemed to him. Always quick to find fault and slow to praise. In truth he doubted that many would miss her. She’d had a long life. But these days there seemed to be too much death and too little life.
At home everything was dark. Just a candle burning in the solar by Walter’s bed. Katherine was sitting here in her shift, a shawl gathered around her shoulders.
‘How is he?’ John whispered.
‘The same. I was just thinking what Walter was like when he was little. He was always running everywhere, even then.’
‘He’ll be doing that again soon.’
‘I hope so.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Do you ever wonder what our child will be like?’
He had, right from the moment Katherine told him she was going to have a baby. He had his hopes, his dreams. A boy, someone to take on his trade, someone to carry his father’s name. And if it was a girl? He didn’t know. Just someone as lovely as her mother. Finally he realised that he’d be happy with a child sound in mind and limb. That was all anyone could pray for. God might grant that; anything more was selfish.
‘Come on,’ he told her, ‘let’s go to bed.’
Light was edging the horizon when he woke. Dressing quickly, he checked Walter, hurried down the stairs and out into the world, pulling on the leather jerkin.
The inn was starting to come alive, a serving girl boiling water over the fire. The owner walked around, yawning wide.
‘Arthur of Warwick?’ John asked. ‘Did he come back last night?’
‘Right enough he did,’ the man answered. ‘Probably still sleeping.’
He took the stairs two at a time, then stood on the landing, fist raised to pound on the door. The back door leading to the outside stair stood ajar, a wedge at the bottom to keep it open. Odd, he thought. Why would anyone offer an invitation to thieves?
He knocked on the wood, watching it open before him. Taking a breath, he walked into the room. It was empty. He knew it would be. Arthur of Warwick hadn’t slept in the bed. The lid of the chest lay open, nothing inside. John threw back the shutters to the early light. Nothing on the floorboards or hidden in the corners.
The stable boy was forking hay into the stalls, back bent and already sweating from the physical work.
‘Is there a horse missing?’
‘Aye, Master. One of the guests came with the dawn.’
‘Arthur of Warwick?’
The lad nodded. At least he hadn’t been gone too long.
‘Did you get a good look at him?’ John asked.
‘Of course.’ He answered as if the question was stupid.
‘Did you see his hands?’
‘No, Master. He was wearing leather gloves.’
‘What about his face?’ he persisted. ‘Were there any marks on it?’
‘His hood was up. I couldn’t see.’ The boy shrugged. It was nothing to him.
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘Not to me.’
Of course. A stable lad would be beneath him, not worth his time or conversation.
‘Thank you.’
In the Guildhall the bailiffs were preparing for work. A Sunday. The Lord’s Day. But crime didn’t stop for the Sabbath. A couple of them looked at John with faint interest before returning to their ale.
‘Who was watching Arthur of Warwick?’ he asked. The men glanced at each other, shaking their heads. The coroner hadn’t ordered it. ‘He was told to remain in Chesterfield. He left about an hour ago.’
The head bailiff shrugged. It wasn’t his responsibility.
‘Can you send men after him?’
‘Was he on horseback?’
‘Yes.’
‘No point,’ the man said. ‘We’d never catch him.’
De Harville had gone to look at a corpse, a servant at his house said. John followed, finding him in a tumbledown cottage close to the river. A simple enough death. Hung from a beam in his own home, the joint stool kicked over. No food, no wood for a fire. A man with nothing left to lose, taking the only road he could see.
‘Nothing for you here, Carpenter,’ the coroner said when he noticed him.
‘Straightforward enough,’ John agreed. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘Then what?’ de Harville asked wearily. Brother Robert righted the stool and settled, opening the portable desk and dipping his quill in a small bottle of ink.
‘Arthur of Warwick.’
The words brought attention. ‘What about him?’
‘He left first thing this morning with his horse.’
The coroner kicked angrily at the packed dirt of the floor. This wasn’t a home that had the luxury of rushes to cover the ground. There was nothing more than necessity here, and not even enough of that.
‘No one was watching him?’
‘The bailiffs said they hadn’t been given any instructions.’
De Harville looked at the monk. ‘Did I give the order?’
‘No, Master,’ Robert replied hesitantly, gazing down at the blank parchment. ‘Not to me, anyway.’
The coroner slapped one of the beams in the house and stalked outside. Off in the distance the ch
urch bell began to ring, drawing the congregation close for service.
‘You ought to go,’ the monk said quietly. ‘You’ll be late if you don’t.’
‘He forgot, didn’t he?’
‘He has too much on his mind, John.’
‘He might have let a killer get away.’
‘Or perhaps Arthur is no murderer.’
‘We’ll never know now, will we?’ John said sharply. ‘He’ll be on his way back to Lincoln and no one’s going to catch him.’
‘Forgiveness is a virtue, John.’
‘He’s the one who wanted me to investigate all this. Remember that, Brother. I’ve been thrown in the river and left for dead because of this. Walter was beaten badly because of this. He can’t have it every way.’
‘He’s human. He makes mistakes.’ The monk stared at him. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he admitted with a nod. ‘You’re right, I’d best get to the church.’
• • •
The girls were waiting outside the porch at St Mary’s, safe in Martha’s care; Katherine was at home, watching over her brother. John escorted them inside. The nave was full, more people than usual at the service. So many praying for a good summer and a strong harvest.
Outside, away from the press of sweaty, stinking bodies, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Maybe the prayers would be answered. Some rain at night and warmth in the day, that was what they wanted.
He took the girls by the hand and walked back to Saltergate, Dame Martha at his side. She looked refreshed by the host, eyes bright, a little stronger, striding out briskly. She’d eat her dinner with them, as much part of the family as if she was a blood relation. But that was what he’d discovered over the years. Family had little to do with being blood and everything to do with trust.
‘You look troubled,’ Martha said when he let Janette and Eleanor run on ahead, skirts flying round their ankles, long hair flowing.
‘Just answers I’ll never know,’ he replied. He explained about Arthur of Warwick.
‘And he never said why they were here, even after his friend was murdered?’
‘No.’
‘Then breaking a coroner’s order … it must have been important. Do you think they were on the bishop’s business?’
‘Very likely,’ John said. But now he’d never be certain. From here he’d be venturing in the dark again. He sighed. ‘Never mind. Let’s forget it all for today.’
He wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or himself.
• • •
Walter had been awake for an hour. Through all the bruises and the swelling he looked alert, carefully holding a wooden spoon and feeding himself pottage from a bowl. It was a good sign that he was recovering. His hand didn’t shake as he ate and he had an appetite.
‘How do you feel?’
‘It hurts, John.’ The words came out awkwardly, hindered by his injuries.
‘That will pass.’ He gave a smile. ‘The pain will go. You’ll be running to deliver messages again soon.’
‘Have you found out …?’
‘Who did it?’ John asked. ‘No. I wish I had. You still don’t remember anything at all?’
The lad shook his head gently. Maybe it was for the best. Who’d want to recall a beating like the one he must have received, to relive the blows and the agony? God was being kind in granting forgetfulness.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll find out one way or another.’
‘What will you do then, John?’
‘You’ll have justice,’ was all he said.
• • •
His eyes opened suddenly, as if something had disturbed his sleep. He lay silent for a few seconds, listening for any sound or scrape, but there was nothing. John eased himself out of bed, dressing quickly and quietly.
In the buttery he stared out of the window. Why had someone tried to set fire to the kitchen? What good would it have done? More questions with no answers. They seemed to pile, one on top of the other, taunting him.
Somewhere among them was the key to all this. Finding it, though, that was the trick.
• • •
He had many things to ask, but nobody to ask them of. There was nothing he could do to push things along, so he gathered up the satchel of tools and began the walk out to Cutthorpe to complete a final job they’d noticed. For once there was a hint of rain in the breeze, light clouds gathering over the hills to the west.
But the air was mild as balm as he strolled, and at the flax barn he set to work, cutting and planing the new boards for an exact fit. He lit a fire to warm the pitch that would seal any gaps, light shimmering and waving above the flames.
Soon enough he was lost in his work, caught in its rhythm and the tasks he knew by heart. There was sweetness in it, a chance to let his hands and his mind labour together. By the middle of the afternoon he’d finished the job. All his repairs were weathertight, he knew that.
At the house he received his pay, the coins jangling in his purse as he began the journey home. Once again he’d pointed out the work that needed to be done still, and what would be coming up in the next year or two. There’d been a promise to consider it; maybe more jobs for the future. He felt a sense of contentment as he walked.
The rain that had been a hint at dawn came through, but nothing more than a heavy shower that passed in a few minutes. Not enough for the farmers, he knew. They needed something that would linger and soak into the soil; this sharpness would simply run off.
Still, it was enough to drench his clothes. At home he stripped off in the solar, changing into his other shirt and hose. They were old, mended more times than he wished to count. But they were dry.
‘You have scars,’ Walter said.
It was true enough. Plenty of them. On his hands, his arms. One on his chest where a beam had slipped and sliced open his skin on a job in York. They were part of the job. It was no more dangerous than working in the fields. There a sickle or a hoe could take off a toe or a hand.
‘I’ve earned them,’ he replied. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Better.’ The boy nodded and smiled. Two of his teeth had been knocked out, leaving the grin awkward and lopsided.
‘You’ll be up and around soon enough.’ But would he ever be quite the same, as carefree as he’d been before. One more question without an answer – yet.
• • •
They’d eaten supper, the light just starting to fade, when he heard the knock on the door. He only opened it a crack, his free hand on his knife. These days it was better to be wary, he thought.
The coroner stood there, alone.
‘Come in, Master. God be with you.’
De Harville stood in the hall, staring around awkwardly. He’d removed his velvet cap and was kneading it in his hands.
‘Come on,’ Katherine told the girls as they stared.
‘No, Mistress, no need to leave on my account.’ His voice was cracked and strained. He turned to John. ‘I owe you an apology, Carpenter.’ For the first time, he sounded humbled.
He could hardly believe what he’d heard. This wasn’t like the man.
‘Brother Robert took me to task,’ de Harville continued. He stared down at the ground, feet rubbing at the rushes like a boy forced to say sorry. ‘And he was right. I should have issued orders to keep a close watch on Arthur. I was distracted by my wife’s illness.’
‘I hope she’s improving, Master.’ It seemed to be the only possible response.
‘Slowly, but pray God, yes she is. But it’s not an excuse. I didn’t do my job and we might have lost a killer. I know you’ve worked hard on this, that you were injured, and your brother-in-law …’
‘He’s mending.’
‘Good.’ He nodded his head slowly. ‘I’ve treated you badly. Robert made me understand that. And I might have ruined the investigation. If you want to go back to … well, you’ve every right.’
John took his time to answer. He glanced at Katherine. She was staring in
disbelief, the girls gathered close around her skirt.
‘I’ll see what there is to find,’ he said eventually. ‘But I can’t give any guarantees.’
‘Of course.’ The coroner shifted his stance, holding himself square and upright. ‘Do what you can, that’s all I ask.’ He bowed quickly to Katherine and her sisters, then left, silence in his wake.
‘I never believed I’d live to see him apologise,’ Katherine said after a minute.
‘I wonder what Robert said to him.’ He poured a mug of ale, surprised to see his hands shaking a little.
‘Whatever it was, it worked.’ She sent Janette and Eleanor outside to play for a few minutes before bed. ‘You agreed to continue.’
‘What else could I do after that?’ She’d heard the man. It was as close to begging as he was ever likely to come.
‘You could have walked away from it, John. He gave you the chance.’
‘He was hoping I wouldn’t take it. After he came here like that, how could I refuse him?’
‘That’s what he wanted. Can’t you see that?’
Maybe she was right and he’d fallen for de Harville’s game. But he’d felt sorry for the man who’d swallowed his pride to come here. Even if it was no more than play-acting, he’d done it convincingly.
‘I don’t know. I believed him.’
Katherine held him close. ‘You always believe the best in people. You have a good soul.’
‘Does that mean I have your approval, wife?’
‘As long as you take no risks, husband.’
‘I won’t,’ he promised. ‘Right now I don’t even know which way to turn.’
• • •
Christian. With Arthur gone, he was the only card left in the deck, and much good it was likely to do him.
All he had was suspicion and hearsay. He’d known Julian, he could well have been Timothy’s bastard son. He’d been one of the last to see Julian alive. He had an edge to his temper. It all weighed against him, but none of it was proof.
Dawn had cut the horizon into a shade of pale blue when John arrived at the Guildhall. Tuesday was the weekday market by the church. A quiet day, not one to tempt Christian into town.
The Saltergate Psalter Page 20