The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Put this in your mouth,’ he ordered, ‘and turn your head away. It’s going to hurt.’

  John did as he was told, biting down hard as the man swiftly manipulated the bone. His eyes teared and then the nauseous wave of pain receded. He watched as the bone-setter gently wrapped the wound in linen, tending it like a baby, working methodically and skilfully until everything was in place, the arm in a clean sling on his chest.

  John paid, for once glad to part with his money.

  ‘Take this,’ the man said, giving him a small bottle of liquid.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just some poppy juice.’ He gave a smile. ‘Put a little in some wine tonight, it’ll help you sleep well. Keep the rest for when you need it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The arm throbbed as he walked to the house on Knifesmithgate. His heart was weary and all he wanted to do was sleep.

  Martha stirred, putting aside her sewing as she entered. Her expression was bright, eyes dancing until she was his face.

  ‘Sweet Jesu,’ she said. ‘What happened to you John? You look like death.’ He told her, watching her blanch and cross herself. Once he’d finished, she asked, ‘Will it heal well?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. With God’s good grace, maybe.’ It was something he didn’t want to think about, what it might mean, what he could do if the worst happened. ‘Do you have any wine? The bone-setter gave me something to help me rest.’

  ‘I’ll bring you a cup. Sit down.’ In the moments it took her, he was lost in bleak thoughts, wondering if he would ever use his father’s satchels of tools again. The worry would haunt him until the weeks passed and he knew the answer. But it was in God’s hands now, far beyond his control. ‘Here,’ Martha said gently, placing the cup beside him.

  He poured in some of the poppy juice, sparingly at first, then a little more, stirring the mixture with his finger. It tasted foul and he grimaced, then forced himself to down the rest in a single swallow.

  ‘You go and lie down,’ Martha advised. ‘You’ll sleep well tonight.’

  ‘I need it,’ he said. His body ached and his head was pounding from the worries and the pain rattling inside.

  • • •

  When he woke it was full day. Through the shutters he could hear the carefree music of the birds calling to each other. Slowly he sat up, looking down at the damaged arm. It still hurt a little, but it was a pain he could live with; the bone-setter had told him it would ache for a few days.

  He’d never slept this late in his life. He was a creature of daybreak. As far back as he could recall that had been his hour, accompanying his father to one job or another or heading off to his own work. Lying abed was for those who had the luxuries of money and time, not for folk like him.

  He washed and dressed as best he could, using water to try and remove the stains of yesterday’s dried blood from his cote. Mark’s killer might have done this, he thought. The colour would never go entirely, but already it was less, the water in the bowl the colour of rusted metal. They’d been looking for something obvious, and they might have been mistaken.

  Walter was waiting in the hall, bouncing to his feet when John entered.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he said. ‘Dame Martha said you needed to sleep so I just sat here.’

  ‘Did she tell you what happened?’

  The boy nodded, his face in a frown. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Yes. I wish you’d been there to help me,’ he said honestly then shook his head. ‘But that’s yesterday. We have work to do, don’t we?’

  ‘Do you think we’ll find him today?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He poured himself ale, washing the tastes of the night from his mouth. ‘I’ve had a few thoughts.’ He explained what he’d discovered. ‘We’ll walk around now. Then we’ll go out again later, near dusk, when men are going home.’

  The streets brought them no joy. There were few men around, most of them richly dressed, bustling about their business, or older folk seeking a way to pass the lingering hours. It was a small frustration. After an hour they returned to the boy’s house on Saltergate, the worry obvious in Walter’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ John assured him. ‘It’s early days yet.’

  ‘But the coroner might be angry.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do about that. We’ll succeed or we won’t. He knows that, whatever he might say.’

  ‘Is that you, John?’ Katherine’s voice came from beyond the screens. ‘Come in, please.’ She was sitting at the spinning wheel, her hands working the wool deftly. Her mother sat on the other side of the small room, staring into space, while the two girls played quietly in the corner. She stood and flexed her fingers. ‘Would you care for some ale?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied.

  ‘Walter,’ she said, ‘can you look after everyone? I’ll sit in the garden with John.’

  It was a neat, ordered plot. Most things had been harvested and the earth hoed. A pair of apple trees hung heavy with fruit, almost ripe for the picking.

  ‘I saw Martha at the baker’s this morning,’ she began slowly, glancing up into his face. ‘She told me about your arm. How bad is it?’

  ‘I won’t know until the cast comes off.’ He took a sip from the mug, looking into the liquid and gently swirling it around.

  ‘Does it scare you?’ Katherine asked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted slowly. ‘I work with my hands. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s the only thing I can do.’

  ‘Then I’ll pray it heals well.’ She put a hand on his good arm. ‘But the world won’t end if it doesn’t.’

  He sighed. ‘It might as well, there’ll be nothing in it for me.’

  ‘God has His plans for us all, you know, even if we can’t see them.’

  ‘It’s hard for me to believe that just now.’ The bitterness in his voice surprised him.

  ‘He’s testing you, John. And there are folk here who care about you. Martha, Walter, me – we know you’re a good man.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he told her and smiled.

  ‘You’ll always be welcome here.’

  He grinned and offered her a small bow. ‘My thanks, Mistress.’

  ‘Walter would do anything you asked, you know.’

  ‘I’ll never put him in any danger, I told you that.’

  ‘He likes working for the coroner,’ Katherine said. ‘It’s the first time he’s ever felt important.’

  He raised his face to the sky, waiting a while before replying.

  ‘There’s nothing special about it. It’s just words.’

  ‘But it makes him happy and that’s important to me.’ She paused. ‘I know there’s no real place for him in the world. He’s not quite like other people.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be. He’s fine as he is. Anyone would be proud of him.’

  ‘I am,’ she assured him. ‘He’s very loving, he’s wonderful with the girls. He looks after our mother, hard as that can be at times.’

  ‘And you care for everyone.’

  ‘I try.’ Her smile was small and tight. ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m carrying everyone’s cares on my shoulders.’

  ‘That’s too much weight for a girl.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing more than other people do. Things are what they are, there’s nothing I can do to change it.’

  ‘Are you trying to teach me a lesson?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No.’ She drew the word out. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve spoken too much and taken your time.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Good,’ she said firmly. ‘So do I. There aren’t many I can talk to.’

  ‘I’m honoured to be one of them.’

  She began to blush, suddenly flustered. ‘We should go back in.’

  He followed her and took his leave, with instructions to Walter to meet in the evening. He rested through the afternoon, surprising himself by sleeping more. But at least he woke refreshed, the pain in his arm dulled
.

  • • •

  The boy was waiting in the market place, his eyes moving intently from person to person as they passed him. He waved as he spotted John.

  ‘Have you seen anyone?’ Walter shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’ They set off towards the church, the shadows growing. ‘We’ll stroll until it is dark and then we’ll look in some of the alehouses,’ he explained. ‘Maybe we’ll have more luck there.’

  It was a curious procession of faces, he thought: the careworn and the hopeful, the hungry and the content, the weary and the excited, but no one with a ruddy stain on his cote, neither dark nor washed out.

  They watched the workers parading out of the churchyard, and he exchanged nods with a few, waiting until the place was empty. Then they drifted along Knifesmithgate, past Martha’s house where a light shone through gaps in the closed shutters. His thoughts were wandering when Walter said, ‘What about him, John?’

  He followed the boy’s gaze. It was impossible to be certain from a distance, but there was certainly something. He didn’t recognise the man, tall and raw boned with a furtive face. He wore an old cote, heavily frayed at the cuffs, ripped here and there with a large patch of discolouration across the chest.

  ‘It could be,’ he admitted. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘That’s Roger,’ Walter told him. ‘He used to work for the smith but he doesn’t anymore.’

  They waited as the man passed. He paid them no attention, his eye drawn by a girl in the distance. The stain could well be blood, John decided.

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Near the bottom of Soutergate, just up from the bridge,’ the lad answered. ‘He lodges there.’

  ‘We’d better go and see the coroner.’

  ‘Now?’ Walter seemed surprised. ‘But it’s almost dark.’

  ‘He wanted an answer, we’ll give him one.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  De Harville was in the parlour, his coffer open on the floor, piles of coins stacked on the table. A long-bladed knife lay close by, the blade glittering in the candlelight. Brother Robert was faithfully copying figures onto the account roll.

  The coroner looked up lazily. ‘Have you found our man, carpenter?’ He was wearing a robe with a dark fur collar that made his hair look even more pale than usual.

  ‘Maybe.’ He nudged Walter, whose eyes were fixed on the money. ‘We saw someone you should talk to.’

  ‘You had my authority to arrest him,’ he said testily.

  ‘I doubt he’d pay much attention to us.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A man called Roger.’ He looked at the boy, urging him to speak.

  ‘The man who used to work for the smith.’ Walter stumbled nervously over the words.

  ‘I know him,’ de Harville said with a curt nod. ‘He’s spent almost as much time in the stocks as Mark did. What makes you think it’s him?’

  ‘There’s a large strain on the front of his cote that could be blood. Walter spotted it.’

  ‘Did he?’ The coroner raised his eyebrows. ‘You’ve done well there, boy. I’ll have the bailiffs bring him in tomorrow and question him. I heard about your mishap,’ he told John.

  ‘Word travels quickly here.’

  ‘Gossip flies on the wind,’ the monk said quietly, ‘the same way it does everywhere. You’ll have my prayers.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He turned to de Harville. ‘I’d like to be with you when you talk to this Roger.’

  ‘Oh?’ the coroner said with curiosity. ‘What can you do that I can’t, carpenter?’

  ‘For a short while you believed I’d killed Mark,’ he reminded the man. ‘Then you charged us with finding whoever did it. I’d like to know if he’s guilty.’

  ‘I can tell you that after I’ve seen him.’

  ‘True enough, Master; but I did find where he’d been killed.’

  ‘Go on then,’ de Harville said wearily with a shake of his head. ‘God’s blood, you’re a thorn in my side. Be here early; I’ll have them roust him at dawn.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  • • •

  ‘Why do you want to be there John?’ Walter wondered as they walked home. ‘Can I come, too?’

  ‘Not this time,’ he explained kindly. ‘You’ve done well finding him – the coroner told you that.’ Walter beamed with pride. ‘There are just a few things I want to ask him, that’s all. And you’ll be able to earn more money if we’re not hunting all over the place.’

  ‘But I like doing things with you.’

  ‘We’ll do things where we’re not looking for murderers. On Sunday again, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I would, please.’ The lad smiled.

  ‘Now you go on home. I need to sleep if my mind’s going to be sharp tomorrow.’

  ‘Good night John. God be with you.’

  ‘And with you Walter. He was right, you know, you did a good job on this.’ He waited until the boy’s running steps had faded round the corner then let himself into the house on Knifesmithgate.

  ‘You look happier,’ Martha told him.

  ‘We found someone who might have killed Mark. The coroner’s arresting him tomorrow.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Roger. Walter says he used to work for the smith.’

  She sighed. ‘That’s no surprise. He’s as bad as Mark was, God rest his soul. All drinking and fighting.’ She cocked her head. ‘The pair of them were close once, if I remember it right.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It was a long time ago now,’ she said, as if the history was of no weight. ‘He had a girl for a while. I saw them together at church with a little baby; don’t know what happened to her. Must be two or three years ago. So he’s the murderer, is he?’

  ‘He might be,’ John told her with a shrug. ‘We’ll know more tomorrow.’

  ‘We?’ she asked sharply, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘I asked if I could be there for the questioning.’

  ‘What makes you so interested in all this?’

  He wasn’t even sure himself why he wanted to be there. The answers he had given before were true enough, but they weren’t the whole tale. Above all he wanted to try to understand why one man could kill another. There was already so much death and destruction in the world. If Roger was guilty, he wanted to hear him say why he had done it to try to make sense of it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered finally.

  ‘What about your arm? Is it giving you much pain?’

  ‘Not today, God be praised.’

  ‘When I told Katherine what had happened, I thought the poor girl was going to faint.’ She gazed at him shrewdly. ‘I told you, she has her eye on you.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m away to my bed.’

  • • •

  He was outside the coroner’s house before dawn came. The stars were clear in the sky and the air was chilly. Before long the autumn gusts would begin and the leaves would change and tumble. He pulled his cote closer around him and drew his head deeper into the hood.

  A full half hour passed before he heard the bailiffs. They were on either side of the man he had seen the evening before, one holding each of his arms as he cursed and swore at them.

  John stood back while they knocked on the door, then followed them into the parlour. The coroner, dressed and groomed, sat in his chair, the monk next to him, ready with his quill and his vellum. He leaned against the wall where he could watch Roger’s face.

  ‘Open the shutters,’ de Harville said. The glass of the windows was thick and uneven, small panes set into lead. The light in the room was milky and pale, but enough to see Roger’s face with its mix of arrogance and fear. He stood tall, his chest puffed out, but his eyes betrayed him, his gaze shifting rapidly around the room. The stink of last night’s ale seeped from his skin.

  The stain on his cote stood out clearly, splashed dark across his chest. The bailiff had taken Roger’s knife, but John glanced down at the man’s boots to see if he ha
d another weapon there; it was a trick he’d seen men use before.

  ‘Your name is Roger?’ the coroner began.

  ‘It is.’ He had a voice that seemed to build in his chest, deep and dark.

  ‘You’ll call me sir or Master when you address me.’ De Harville spoke quietly, but there were generations of authority in his words. ‘Did you know a man named Mark, who was killed in the town?’

  ‘I did … sir.’

  ‘How did you know him?’ the corner asked, sitting back and resting a hand on his chin.

  ‘When we were young. We did our drinking together, and our whoring, too. Sir.’ He grimaced as if there was bile in his mouth.

  ‘Did you remain friends?’

  ‘No.’ He shrugged. ‘I met a girl. She had a baby and I settled down for a while.’ He let the sentence hang for a moment. ‘Sir.’

  ‘What about Mark?’

  ‘He didn’t want to change, Master.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘Maybe two nights before he was killed. I was in the alehouse with some friends and he was there too, sir.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘Just hello and God speed.’ One of the bailiffs prodded him sharply in the back. ‘Sir.’

  De Harville picked up a mug of ale and drank slowly, keeping his eyes on Roger.

  ‘That stain on your cote – what is it?’

  ‘I killed a pig last week, sir.’

  The coroner raised his eyebrows in astonishment. ‘Did you now? You live in lodgings but you kept a pig?’

  ‘It was in the garden behind the house, sir.’ John watched the man shift his balance slightly from foot to foot.

  ‘And if there’s blood on your knife I suppose it came from the slaughter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So you didn’t kill Mark?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Roger gave an emphatic shake of his head.

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  ‘No, sir, only that it wasn’t me.’

  ‘This girl you had a baby with, what happened to her?’ John said.

  Roger turned to face him, his eyes wide at the question. ‘She went back to her mam and dad. Said I beat her.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Roger straightened his back. ‘A man has the right to discipline his woman. Everyone knows that.’