The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘And you didn’t know Geoffrey at all?’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was a thin sheen of sweat on the man’s face.

  ‘Yet you know he lives in the Shambles.’

  ‘I’ve seen him back in there. I watched him. People there seemed to know him.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ the coroner interjected, exasperation in his voice.

  ‘I’ve no reason to lie.’

  ‘You’ve every reason to lie if it gets you what you want,’ de Harville said dismissively.

  ‘Why do you want to approve this man?’ John said.

  ‘For what I can get,’ Roger answered. ‘And so I’ll be prepared before God.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘I can see from your faces that you know who I’m talking about. Do we have a bargain … Master?’

  ‘Take him away,’ the coroner ordered the bailiffs. ‘Give him food and see that the gaoler doesn’t water his ale.’ He paced angrily around the stable then stopped in front of John, his face red, fury in his eyes. ‘It seems you were right about this red-head Geoffrey. That should make you happy.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he said simply. Too many things remained unexplained.

  De Harville began to pace again, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What do you think of what he said?’

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ John admitted. ‘I don’t see why anyone would pay Geoffrey to kill Will.’

  ‘An angry husband perhaps?’ Robert offered.

  ‘No,’ de Harville said. ‘Do you believe him?’ he asked John.

  ‘He had no reason to lie, he was right in that,’ he said after a moment then paused. ‘But he had no reason to tell all the truth, either.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ The coroner’s face was red. ‘You weigh one side, then the other and you come down right in the middle. Was he telling the truth or not?’

  ‘I think he was,’ John said. He looked at the monk, and Robert nodded his agreement.

  De Harville blew out a long breath. ‘So now I need to send men into the Shambles to arrest this damned Geoffrey. This spire had better be one of the wonders of God’s creation for all the trouble it’s causing.’ He turned to Brother Robert. ‘You’d better give the bailiffs their orders. Tell them not to be afraid to break heads if they need. I want them back here with this man, and to do it without causing a riot.’

  They watched the monk leave. The coroner shook his head. ‘So you’ve no idea why anyone would want your friend Will dead?’

  ‘No. Geoffrey had threatened to kill him, but that was back in the spring.’ He shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, he couldn’t think of anyone, or any reason.

  ‘We’ll have to make sure he tells us then,’ de Harville continued. ‘I’ll send word when they have him.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  John walked along, hearing the bright prattle-prattle of the goodwives as they darted from shop to shop, their baskets heavy with breads and cheeses. The more he tried to think about the murder, the less sense it all made.

  He prayed that the bailiffs would take Geoffrey easily and that he’d tell them the truth. Right now it all stood before him like a maze. He stopped at a cookshop to buy a pie and took it to the alehouse on Low Pavement. Four men sat in one corner, their heads low, conversing quietly. He paid them no mind, eating and drinking, lost in his thoughts.

  Shouts roused him, the sound of yelling and blows from over in the Shambles. The bailiffs had entered. The other men drained their mugs and left, curious at the violence. The noise grew louder, and he watched through the window as people gathered in the street, keeping a safe distance; the women fearful and the men just relieved not to be part of it.

  It lasted a few minutes and then gradually quiet returned. Slowly he finished the ale, brushed crumbs from his cote and stood.

  ‘Another, Master?’ the alewife asked hopefully, her face falling as he shook his head and left.

  For once, Packer’s Row was empty, the shutters closed tight on the shops for all that it was the middle of the day.

  At the house, Martha was asking questions even before he had closed the door.

  ‘What’s going on? I was out in the garden and I could hear people shouting. I thought war had come here.’

  ‘The bailiffs went into the Shambles to arrest someone,’ he told her.

  ‘Did they find him?’

  ‘I don’t know. It ended soon enough so perhaps they did.’

  ‘Who were they after?’

  He explained it all to her, fetching ale and sitting beside her on the bench.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ Martha said when he had finished.

  ‘If they’ve caught Geoffrey, we may know the truth soon,’ he offered.

  ‘Maybe.’ She sounded doubtful.

  ‘If he confesses then that’s an end to things,’ John said.

  ‘Is it?’ She glanced at him sharply. ‘You don’t look like you think so.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘I don’t. Not if someone really did pay him to kill.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘I do,’ he answered after a while. ‘It seems such an unlikely thing that I can’t imagine Roger putting it in unless it was true.’

  ‘Who’d gain from a murder like that?’

  He shook his head in frustration. ‘That’s it. There’s no one that I can see.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t involved in all this,’ she said.

  ‘I am, though.’ He gave her a tight smile.

  ‘I worry something will happen to you. I’ve come to like having you here, John Carpenter.’

  ‘No one’s interested in me,’ he assured her.

  ‘I pray God that’s true.’

  ‘It is.’

  Before she could say more, someone banged at the door and he was grateful for the distraction. He had come to feel like he could have a home here, a dangerous sentiment for a man who might leave in a few weeks.

  ‘The coroner wants you to come,’ Brother Robert said.

  ‘They caught him?’

  ‘Just come now, Master.’

  He kept slow pace with the monk down Knifesmithgate, seeing the pain on the man’s face with every step.

  ‘Have you asked the apothecary to give you anything?’

  ‘There’s no cure for old age.’ Robert forced a smile. ‘It’s worse when the seasons turn. I talked to the bailiffs. They swore Roger’s purse was empty when they took him.’

  John nodded.

  De Harville was in his parlour, fingers drumming impatiently on the table.

  ‘You wanted me, Master?’ John asked. The monk took his seat quietly.

  ‘I sent in four bailiffs. One has a broken head, one was stabbed in the arm and Geoffrey got clean away.’ His voice was tense. ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘Have you sent men after him?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ the coroner shouted, his anger boiling over. ‘But I want to know what it all means. You tell me that.’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Then find out,’ he ordered. ‘Use that lad with the sharp eyes and bring me some answers.’

  ‘I’ll try, but –’

  De Harville slapped his hand down hard on the wood, the crack of sound filling the room for a moment.

  ‘I don’t want excuses,’ he shouted. ‘If someone paid the man for murder, I want to know who it was and why.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘My men will find Geoffrey. You bring me the reason.’ He sighed as the fire in his eyes burned out and he drank deep from a cup of wine. ‘This whole affair is vexing me. I want it over and done.’ He looked up. ‘Well, carpenter, you have your task.’

  • • •

  How, he wondered. How could he discover what the coroner needed? How did he even begin when he had no idea what to search for? All they had for proof was an overheard conversation in an alehouse.

  De Harville wanted him to use Walter, but he didn’t want the lad involved. If there really was money, then there
was danger and the boy was better away from that. He was too trusting, too open.

  John made his way to the gaol. Holywell Street was quiet; a cart passed carrying stone for the church, the ox weary in its traces, the driver frustrated as he used the whip. The gaoler let him in reluctantly, escorting him to the cell in silence. John held his breath against the stink for as long as he could.

  Roger was as he been before, slumped against the wall, but this time he had a mug of ale at his side and an empty bowl pushed away on the dirt floor.

  ‘I thought someone would come,’ he said with a sly smile.

  ‘The coroner kept his promises.’

  ‘Aye, he did,’ the prisoner acknowledged. ‘I’ll grant him that.’

  ‘Which alehouse were you in when you saw Geoffrey?’

  ‘The one down on Soutergate,’ Roger answered. ‘Why?’

  ‘How did you come to overheard him?’

  Roger shrugged. ‘The place was busy and I was standing close by.’

  ‘What about the other men with him?’

  ‘I told you before, I didn’t know them.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  He thought for a while. ‘Three, perhaps; I was listening to his words, not giving them any mind.’

  ‘If you didn’t know Geoffrey, how did you learn his name?’

  ‘One of the others used it. I told you that.’ He grinned, showing brown, broken teeth. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth.’

  ‘What else did Geoffrey say?’

  ‘Just that he was going to kill the master carpenter and someone was giving him good coin to do it.’

  ‘Did he mention any names?’

  ‘No,’ Roger replied firmly.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ the man said. ‘Just a few snatched words, that’s all. Do you work for the coroner?’ He nodded at the broken arm. ‘Can’t be easy with that.’

  ‘It’s not.’ He yelled for the gaoler. ‘You’d best make your peace with God.’

  ‘Him or the devil, it’ll be one of them.’ He shrugged. ‘As long as I go to the gallows drunk, I don’t really care.’

  Back outside the gaol, he breathed the sweet air deeply. He knew nothing more than he had before, but at least he was convinced that the man was telling the truth. It rang all through his story. A liar would have added more to make an elaborate construct. This lacked detail and that made it real.

  But it still offered him nowhere to start, no thread he might unravel. Come evening he could go to the church and seek out James, the one who’d believed he had seen Geoffrey back in town. He might have something. It was a slender chance, but the only one he had for the moment.

  But that was still hours away. He looked up at the sky, willing the time to pass quickly.

  ‘What are you looking at, John?’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘Nothing, Walter. I’m just idle today.’

  ‘I saw you come out of the gaol. Did you go to see Roger?’

  ‘Yes. I had some questions for him. It wasn’t anything important.’

  ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘It’s dank and it’s dirty, and maybe Hell itself smells like that,’ he said, the sadness strong in his voice. ‘It’s not a place where anyone would choose to spend their time.’

  The boy frowned. ‘Did you hear what happened earlier?’ he asked.

  ‘In the Shambles?’

  Walter nodded. ‘They said the coroner sent in the bailiffs to find Geoffrey but he escaped.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Are you looking for him?’

  John laughed. ‘That’s not my job, praise God. He’s sent men out to do that.’

  ‘I liked working for him.’

  ‘It would be better if he paid you a wage for it, though. Not that he would think of that.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll catch Geoffrey?’

  ‘If they can find out which way he went, they’ll probably be dragging him back here tomorrow. Anyway, don’t you have work to do?’

  ‘I just wanted to stop and talk to you,’ Walter said, hurt in his voice and his eyes.

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ John told him and saw the boy brighten again, his expression changing as quickly as summer weather.

  ‘Do you think he’ll want our help again?’

  ‘He might. Just don’t sell yourself short if he does,’ he advised. ‘Tell him you want paying for it next time.’

  ‘I will.’ With a wave he ran off down the hill towards Beetwell Street.

  For a moment he regretted not saying anything to the lad about the task he had been given. Walter would have loved the importance and the adventure. He knew what Martha would have advised, to ask the lad himself if he wanted to be involved. And Walter would have agreed without a second thought. For now, though, there was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do.

  His arm itched under the cast and he cursed it. If he hadn’t been so clumsy he wouldn’t be standing here now, having to ask himself these questions. He could be working like an honest man.

  • • •

  He waited until the shadows were lengthening before going to the churchyard. The first of the workers were coming out of the building, some with their shoulders hunched against the end of the day, other stretching tall at their freedom. He spotted Stephen already at the ale barrel, draining one mug, then a second as he walked over to join him.

  ‘Thirsty?’

  ‘Drink where it’s free,’ the man laughed and winked. ‘Saves money later.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’ He nodded at the tower. ‘Are they staying busy up there?’

  Stephen shook his head. ‘Too windy today. Did you hear the engineer’s gone?’

  ‘No. What happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea. He was here one day, didn’t show up the next. The master carpenter’s in charge up there now.’

  ‘Do you know where James is?’

  ‘James? He’s gone too.’ He finished a third mug of ale. ‘You’re better off away from here. I think six have left since you broke your arm, and the replacements don’t know anything; these local lads can barely hammer in a nail.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘All I know is that he and the master carpenter ended up in a row that would have woken the devil. I thought they were going to come to blows. Then James took his pay, picked up his tools and went.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Somewhere he’ll find good money, if he has any sense.’

  The night was drawing closer. Half the men had gone from the churchyard, the remainder talking in small groups, their bags of tools slung over their shoulders.

  ‘Who else might remember Geoffrey, do you know?’

  Stephen thought for a moment, chewing the skin at the side of his thumbnail. ‘No one really. He left back in the spring, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There are only a few of us still here from that time. Did you talk to Thomas?’

  ‘I tried,’ John said wryly.

  ‘Aye, he doesn’t have much to say, does he?’ he laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone else who knew him. I heard he’s been accused of Will’s murder.’

  ‘He was living in the Shambles, but ran when the bailiffs went in for him. They’re after him now.’

  Stephen raised his eyebrows. ‘He might as well have said he’s guilty.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who’d pay to have Will killed?’

  ‘Pay?’ He gave a low whistle of astonishment. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ John said. ‘It’s just something I’d been told.’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe it. Even the ones who didn’t like him here respected him.’

  ‘Except Geoffrey.’

  ‘Aye, well, I’d forget it if I were you,’ Stephen said. ‘
How’s the arm? When are you coming back? We need someone with real skills.’

  ‘I keep praying it heals properly.’

  ‘God’s blessing on that.’ He put down the mug. ‘May He go with you, too. If I don’t leave now I’ll still be here in the morning.’

  John stood there long after Stephen had left, until he could no longer make out the base of the spire jutting above the tower, and then turned for home.

  • • •

  In the morning, he walked out along Holywell Road, passing the well where the town ended and the countryside really began. It was no more than ten minutes’ walk to the dwelling that sat alone at the edge of the road.

  It was a tumbledown cottage, but Will had done some work on it, putting up new shutters and a fresh door, cleaning up the thatch and the stonework. It was a place to live, though, not a home, and he could sense the sorrow that lay all around as he knocked on the door.

  ‘Mistress,’ he said, and bowed his head as she answered. ‘We met at your husband’s funeral.’

  ‘I remember,’ she said guardedly, keeping a tight hold on the door. She was a drab woman, her hair gathered close under an old wimple, her eyes washed-out and her cheeks pale.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband if I might?’

  ‘Why? I thought they were already after the man who killed him.’

  ‘The coroner sent out men, but he asked me to look into things, too.’

  ‘You? Why?’ She looked confused. ‘I thought you said you were a carpenter. Now you’re telling me you work for the coroner?’

  He held up the arm in its sling.

  ‘I can’t do much carpentry with this, Mistress.’

  ‘What do you have to do with the coroner?’ Her mouth was a thin line, her voice suspicious and wary.

  ‘He’s ordered me to help.’ It was the simplest explanation he could offer.

  ‘Come in,’ she said finally.

  The room was spotlessly clean, a bed standing in one corner with a small chest at the foot, the rushes fresh on the floor. A table sat by the wall, two chairs pushed against it.

  ‘Sit down,’ she told him. ‘I’ll bring you some ale.’

  He waited until she was seated, then said, ‘I wouldn’t ask you these things if I didn’t have to. I don’t want to bring you more pain.’