The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘The pain’s there every morning when I wake up without him and it’s still there when I go to sleep,’ she said, her voice dull and empty. ‘How can you bring me more than that?’

  ‘He was a good man.’

  ‘Aye, he was,’ she agreed, her eyes beginning to glisten with tears.

  ‘I feel guilty, Mistress. I’ve come to ask you questions and I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Alice,’ she replied softly.

  ‘Had he had any arguments with people at work? Did he say anything?’

  ‘Will never said much about what happened there. There’s man’s work and there’s family. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t his way; never had been as long as I knew him. I respected that. We were happy together, he earned a good wage.’

  ‘Did he have friends in the town?’

  ‘A few to say “God speed” to when we went to church on Sunday,’ she said after some thought, ‘maybe some he drank with on a Saturday night, I don’t know.’

  ‘How was he in the days before he died?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes looked down and her hands were locked together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

  ‘Did he seem worried about anything?’

  ‘Will never carried his cares lightly,’ Alice told him. ‘There was always something pressing on him, no matter where he worked.’ She paused. ‘But maybe a little more before he died.’

  ‘And he said nothing to you about it?’

  She shook her head again quickly, her mouth tight.

  ‘Mistress, I’m just trying to uncover the truth about what happened to your husband.’ He kept his voice low and gentle, wanting her trust. ‘He never confided in you at all?’

  ‘No. He said it would be wrong to burden me, that it would only make me unhappy.’ Her eyes widened. ‘But he talked in his sleep sometimes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just little words, mostly.’ She began kneading her fingers against each other. ‘Mostly I couldn’t even make them out.’

  ‘But there was something you heard?’

  She nodded sadly. ‘About a week before …’ She paused, not wanting to say the words and invoke the memory. He let the silence lie until she cleared her throat. ‘He sat up in the middle of the night and said, “I can’t do what they want”, as clear as you speaking to me. Then he lay down again. I asked him in the morning and he didn’t remember it. He said the nightmare must have come calling.’

  ‘And nothing else?’

  ‘No.’ The word was just a whisper.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress,’ he said. ‘What will you do now?’

  She sighed. ‘I have a sister in Lincoln. I’ll go to her; she’s a widow too. The carter is coming for all this next Monday.’

  ‘God speed you on your journey.’

  ‘It’s one I’d sooner not have to make.’ Her voice was bleak and her eyes distant. ‘But there’s nothing for me here.’

  He stood. She’d told him the little he knew. The memories of her husband might torment her now, but soon her mind would polish them into comforts for the long evenings.

  ‘Your arm,’ she said, ‘will it heal enough for you to return to work?’

  ‘If God’s willing.’

  ‘I’ll offer my prayers,’ Alice told him. ‘You’re like Will, I can tell, you like to work with wood.’

  He gave a small bow of thanks. ‘It’s what I was born to do.’

  ‘It’s a pity you never had chance to know him. I think you’d have made good friends. I hope you find the man who took him from me, Master. I hope that with all my heart.’

  • • •

  I can’t do what they want. He gnawed at the words as he walked back into town, trying to find some reason in them, to unlock them. But they could be anyone, and he had no idea what they might have wanted of Will.

  It might have been exactly what he claimed, a nightmare that visited and claimed him for a while. By the time he reached the market square his mind felt frustrated and tangled. He bought a pie at the cookshop, eating it slowly as he tried to find something to follow in his thoughts.

  But there was no path to take, no landmark he could see. He was dragged away from his thoughts by a hubbub of voices, a group of men walking down the High Street, one of them leading a pack horse with a corpse slung over his back, a gaggle of men and women in their wake. He stuffed the rest of the pie in his mouth and hurried off to the coroner’s house.

  They were gathered outside, the questions and rumours flying through the air. John pushed his way through the small crowd and caught Brother Robert’s eye. The monk gestured and he went into the yard.

  The men were dirty, their hose stained and boots sodden. One held a dog on a rope, the animal contentedly working at a bone, the meat still red and raw where it clung. Another man was sawing through the bonds that had held the body to the horse before pushing it off to land heavily on the cobbles.

  The red hair was wild, matted with small twigs, and the eyes stared sightlessly towards heaven.

  ‘Who found him?’ de Harville asked, his voice raised to make himself heard. The man with the dog came forward, dragging the hound behind him.

  ‘I did, sir.’ He sketched a small bow. ‘This one did, anyway.’

  ‘Who killed him? I wanted him brought back alive.’

  ‘He was already dead, sir.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The men started to all talk at once, a welter of words that wound around each other. Finally, the coroner raised his hand for silence.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing to the man with the dog. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  The man looked at the others, nodding at one, then at a second face.

  ‘He had a good start on us, sir. It wasn’t until last evening someone said they’d spotted him on the road to Bolsover. A couple of us went to the village, but they hadn’t had any sign of him there, and we thought he might be in all those woods over that way.’ He glanced at de Harville, who nodded for him to continue. ‘When it was light we could start looking properly.’ He jerked on the rope to bring the dog to heel. ‘It was this ‘un who found him. Smelled the body. Then we brought him back here. Killed himself rather than be taken.’ He smiled proudly.

  John glanced at the coroner. The man was frowning, chewing on his lower lip.

  ‘How did he die?’

  The man pushed at Geoffrey’s head with the toe of his boot. ‘Cut his own throat.’

  The gash was wide and deep, most of the blood drained away from it.

  ‘Where was the knife?’ John asked, and the men turned to him in surprise.

  ‘I see this drew you, carpenter,’ de Harville said with a nod. ‘You can answer him,’ he told the man.

  ‘Right by him. Jacob brought it.’

  Another man, taller and thinner than the rest, dressed in the old style with a knee-length patched tunic, took a dagger from the horse’s pack and held it up. The blood had dried on the blade, a deep, rusted red that coated the steel. He placed it next to the body.

  John opened his mouth to speak, but de Harville quieted him with a sharp look.

  ‘You’ve done your duty well, men,’ the coroner said. ‘I thank you all. Go to your beds and rest.’ He waited until they’d dispersed and the yard was empty. Brother Robert closed the gates and joined them, making the sign of the cross over Geoffrey and mouthing a prayer. ‘You don’t need to say it, carpenter, but he’s dead. Let that be the end of it.’

  ‘He’s dead right enough, but he wasn’t the one who did it. You know that as well as I do. Men don’t cut their own throats.’

  De Harville shook his head and paced. ‘Does it matter? Maybe one of the men killed him and they’re saying nothing.’ He nodded at the corpse. ‘There’s Will’s murderer and justice has been done.’ John knelt by the body, picked up the knife by the handle and tried to fit it in the empty sheath. It was too long and too thin, not t
he one that belonged there. ‘What of it?’ the coroner asked in frustration when John looked up. ‘Does anyone care if he was murdered? Call it retribution. What do you say, Brother?’

  The monk kept his head low, his lips moving silently. John stayed on his knees, the fingers of his good hand tracing Geoffrey’s flesh.

  ‘From the feel of him, he’s been dead quite a few hours,’ he said. ‘Do you think they would have waited until now to bring him in if they’d killed him yesterday evening? They could have been home in their beds and not missing another day of work.’

  ‘Leave it, carpenter. We have our man.’ He began to walk towards the house.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to find out the reason. We still don’t know who paid him to kill Will.’

  ‘If anyone ever did,’ the coroner answered over his shoulder. ‘You told me yourself that they had an old grievance. The only person saying your corpse was paid to kill is a murderer himself. I know what I said before, carpenter, but it’s time to leave this be.’ He closed the door behind him.

  Jesu, John thought, the man was as changeable as the weather. ‘What do you think, Brother?’

  Robert looked down at the body pityingly, then lowered himself slowly and painfully to close the man’s eyes. ‘Have you found any reason someone would pay to have your master carpenter killed?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maybe the master’s right.’ He pushed himself up with his arms, wincing as he straightened. ‘All you have is Roger’s word that someone was paying Geoffrey. We’ve found our murderers, justice has been done.’

  John shook his head. ‘There’s more here. I can feel it.’

  ‘God sees the truth of everything,’ the monk told him. ‘He doesn’t always reveal it to us. I need to see to this man’s burial.’

  Alone, he looked at Geoffrey one last time. Whatever secrets he kept had gone with him. He closed the gate behind him.

  • • •

  The men had gathered in the alehouse on Low Pavement. John guessed that they’d celebrate before resting, washing down the dust of the hunt. He paid for a flagon of ale and took it over to the bench.

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ said the man with the dog. The animal was lying among the rushes, still concentrating on its bone.

  ‘I’d just like to know, and please tell me the truth,’ John asked them, ‘was he truly dead when you found him or did you kill him? The coroner doesn’t care either way, he’s just glad it’s done.’

  The men look at each other with no guile in their eyes.

  ‘It’s exactly the way Alan said,’ another told him. ‘He was there with his throat slashed and the knife at his side.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he said with a nod. ‘Can you tell me where you found him?’

  Between them they gave him directions. It had been about two miles short of Bolsover, off along a charcoal burner’s track into the woods. He asked enough questions to ensure he would find the right spot, before he thanked them, leaving the ale behind for them to share.

  The coroner and the monk seemed content to leave it with Geoffrey’s death, but John wasn’t ready to stop worrying at it yet. There were too many questions without answers – the knife that didn’t fit the sheath, the way Geoffrey had died … the man had run, but someone had known where to find him. This murder could well have been to prevent the man ever saying who’d paid him to do his killing.

  He wanted to walk out there, to look at the place himself, but he didn’t want to go alone. The memory of falling and breaking his arm was too fresh, too painful, for him to choose to be out that far by himself. It was no more than a few miles, but the thought brought a chill to his spine. He needed a companion.

  At the house on Saltergate, Katherine answered the door, smiling to him and quickly pushing the long hair back over her shoulders and smoothing down her skirts.

  ‘This is a pleasant surprise, John.’ A flush rose on her neck and into her cheeks.

  ‘The pleasure of seeing you is all mine,’ he said with a gallant flourish, watching her colour deepen. ‘I’m looking for your brother today, though.’

  ‘He’s off delivering messages. I doubt he’ll be home before dark. He’ll be somewhere in town if you want to find him.’

  ‘It can wait. Could you ask him to come in the morning? I’d like his help, if he’s free.’

  ‘You know he’ll make time for you,’ she told him merrily. ‘Please, come in and have some ale.’ In the hall the young girls were carding and combing well, concentrating on their tasks as the woman in the chair stared blankly ahead, the wimple tight around her empty face. Katherine led him through to the garden. ‘They’ll be fine without me for a few minutes. Now,’ she said eagerly, ‘tell me the news. I heard they brought a body into town this morning.’

  He gave her the truth of it, better than all the tittle-tattle she had hear from the goodwives, explaining why he wanted Walter to go with him.

  ‘What do you think you can learn by going out there?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ he answered with a bemused laugh. ‘But all I have right now is time.’

  ‘John,’ she began tentatively, ‘what will you do if you can’t continue as a carpenter?’

  He sat still, toying with the ale she had given him. However much he tried to banish the question it returned every time his arm itched or ached under the cast. And he didn’t have an answer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She reached out and took his good hand, watching under her lashes to see if he pulled away. He curled his fingers lightly around hers.

  ‘I pray for you, John.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The girlish voices inside erupted into loud argument and Katherine marched into the house. Just her presence quieted her sisters.

  ‘I should go,’ he said. The brief magic had gone. She looked up at him, sadness in her eyes. ‘Can you ask Walter to come after first light?’

  ‘I will.’

  She showed him to the door. Beyond the screens, where no one else could see, he kissed her gently on the forehead and the cheek. He bent his mouth to her ear. ‘Thank you once more, Mistress.’

  • • •

  The day felt like bright autumn. Light clouds skittered across the sky and the sun shone pale. Walter had arrived with the dawn, staying for ale before they took the road east, down into the valley, over the ford and up the hill beyond.

  He found a stout branch and gripped it between his legs before smoothing it into a staff with his knife while the boy watched every movement of his hand.

  ‘How do you do that, John?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Work the wood like that.’

  ‘It’s like I told you, it talks to me.’

  ‘I didn’t hear it.’ Walter laughed loud at his own joke, pleased with his wit, and they strolled on.

  The path was exactly where the men had said, a thin snake of bare earth that wound between two fields to the woods at the top of the hill. In the distance he could hear the rhythmic chopping of a pair of axes.

  ‘Up there,’ he said, letting the boy lead the way. He lost his bearings between the trees, casting around for anything to help him. Eventually he could see where the grass had been trampled down and followed it through to a clearing

  ‘Here.’ There was a stain in the earth that still felt sticky to his fingers. When he brought them to his nose he could smell the iron tang of blood. He walked around the area slowly, but too many had been here for it to tell him anything useful.

  ‘Move around and keep your eyes open for a knife,’ he instructed the boy, but after ten minutes they’d found nothing. Finally he had to admit that the journey had been wasted.

  ‘Do you want to go back, John?’ Walter asked.

  ‘Not just yet.’ The sound of the axes returned. ‘Let’s go over and ask them if they saw anything.’

  The two men had a flagon of ale, working for five hard minutes, then taking a short break to drink, le
aving their axes embedded in the thick trunk of the oak.

  ‘God’s blessing on you,’ John cried from a distance, making sure not to startle them, watching as they nodded their wary greeting to him. ‘Were you out here yesterday?’

  ‘Aye.’ One of them glanced over his shoulder at the tree lying on the ground. ‘Takes a good day to fell one of them. More for some of ‘em. Why?’

  ‘Did you see the men out here?’

  The man took a drink and passed the bottle to his companion. Small chips of wood were scattered across his chest and in his hair. He had stripped off his hose, standing in just his braies and boots, sweat running freely down his face.

  ‘Heard them,’ he answered. ‘Not our business. Sounded like they found who they wanted anyway.’

  ‘Had you seen him? A short man, with red hair?’

  The man pursed his lips, looked at the other man and they both shook their heads.

  ‘Was there anyone else around?’

  ‘Just us. And the steward, evening afore last. He come up to check we was working hard. Daft bugger. What does he think, these fall over by themselves?’

  ‘What’s the wood for?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know. They never tell us. We just chop it down and get some beasts up here to haul it away. It’s Sir Henry’s wood, he arranges the sale. It’s just folk like us who do the work. I’ll tell you something though, it’s the best oak in the manor up here.’ He reached out and patted the tree affectionately. ‘Brings in good money: you know wood?’ he asked.

  ‘John’s a carpenter,’ Walter said proudly.

  ‘Oh aye?’ the man said. ‘Not much use like that, though, are you? Accident?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied without explanation, and stroked the tree trunk lightly, feeling the roughness of the bark against his fingertips, the grain and the life in the wood. ‘You’re right, it’s good oak.’

  ‘I’d offer you a drink afore you go, but there’s only enough for the pair of us,’ the man apologised. ‘Don’t expect to see strangers up here.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he smiled. ‘It’s not far back. Thank you. God give you good day.’

  ‘Aye, I hope you find what you need.’ He rubbed his hands and pulled his axe out of the wood as easily as plucking a flower. The constant, even rhythm of the blades accompanied them through the woods and down the track.