The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Yes, Master.’ He’d have to worm his way in there. Go and ask if they needed any woodwork done. It was all he had for now.

  On the way home, John stopped at the graveyard. No marker, but he knew exactly where old Martha was buried. He couldn’t afford to pay a priest to say a mass for her soul, but he could stand here and offer up a prayer. For her place in eternity, but also that she might look down and give him a blessing, help him in all this. To succeed, to earn that fifty pounds, would make all the difference in his life. In Katherine’s, too, and for Juliana and Richard and young Martha. His entire family.

  Scaffolding had been erected at the side of the church; ash poles lashed together with strips of leather. He paused for a moment and watched a man climb, effortlessly swinging his way upwards to where the masons were working. They were using a windlass to pull up blocks of dressed stone to replace others that were beginning to crumble.

  He sighed, envying a life that was so simple, doing the work and drawing the wages, with a barrel of ale to slake the thirst during the day.

  But he’d chosen his life, John thought as he collected his tools. And no regrets for all he’d done. He had a beautiful wife and children. Perhaps he didn’t have money, but he was blessed, nonetheless.

  ‘Are you working again?’ Katherine asked. ‘Have they let you go?’

  ‘Shouted at, then kept on.’

  ‘Can you find whoever killed his daughter, husband?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘But I’m going to try. I have to. You see that, don’t you? For us.’ His voice faded for a heartbeat. ‘And for her.’

  She gave a reluctant nod. They didn’t have many choices. But so few did in this world.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A pair of dogs barked as he came through the arch and into the yard of the Unthank house. Two men were unloading a cart while the horse stood placidly in its traces.

  A stout woman waited in the doorway to the kitchen, the wimple pinned so tight around her head that there was no danger of a single stray hair escaping. A chemise with a kirtle of homespun cloth covered her ample body. A ring of keys hung from her girdle. The housekeeper, he guessed, in charge until the owner and his wife arrived. She turned to look at him, and he could see her eyes assessing him in a single glance, then dismissing him.

  He removed his hood, squeezing it between his hands.

  ‘Mistress…’ he began, but she cut him off.

  ‘Dame Agatha to you,’ she said, ‘and you’re the carpenter.’

  He bowed. ‘Yes. I’m John, Mistress.’

  ‘I see your wife sometimes at the market by the church. What are you after?’

  ‘To see if there’s any work you need here.’

  Agatha snorted. ‘Times hard, are they? It can’t be easy, keeping up two grand houses.’

  He’d get nothing from her, he could already tell. But perhaps there would be others whose tongues might wag.

  ‘They cost money.’ He tried to grin and make light of it. ‘And I have to earn it.’

  ‘You’d best talk to Wilfred in the stables. If you can get on the good side of him. The master and his wife will be here in two days.’ She nodded towards the cart. ‘They’re sending their goods and we have to prepare the house for them.’

  All except her, John thought. Dame Agatha was quite content to stand in the warm September sun and watch.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Another bow and he hurried across the yard. The dirt was packed down hard, dust rising as he walked. In the stable the air was cooler, heavy with the scent of straw and dung. A man was counting the bales and marking them on a tally stick, turning as he heard the footsteps and frowning at the interruption.

  He was powerfully built, with broad shoulders under his tunic, the sleeves pushed up to show thick, muscled arms. But he moved like a man bowed down by his size, awkward and lumbering. His eyes flashed.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Master, Dame Agatha sent me over. I’m John the Carpenter. Maybe there are jobs in the house that need to be done before the owners arrive.’

  ‘Who told you? Who sent you here?’ His voice was an angry, suspicious bark.

  ‘No one. I live in town and I pass here often, Master.’ Better than a lie; let him make of it what he would.

  ‘There’s a pair of shutters hanging badly in the solar and the door to the buttery is too tight.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Two pennies if you repair them today.’

  John patted his leather satchel. ‘I can start now, Master.’

  ‘Good.’ But he’d already turned away, fingers moving as he re-counted the bales.

  The shutters were a simple job, no more than a few quick minutes all told. But he tried to stretch it out, as servants carried in small chests from the cart. Just a chance to snatch a quick conversation.

  • • •

  The lad was a barrel of curiosity, asking endless questions, eager to do as little work as possible. He was probably fourteen or fifteen, still growing into his body, with a thicket of red hair that didn’t want to be tamed, and a forest of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

  It was easy enough to lead him on, to tease the knowledge out of him. He’d been in service with the Unthank family for five years, starting as a groom and now working in the kitchens. He knew the whole family and how the household ran.

  He pursed his lips and frowned. ‘No, there’s no piebald horse, Master. The family doesn’t own one. They haven’t as long as I’ve been with them.’

  None of the servants had been gone for a few hours lately, he said, except Dame Agatha and Master Wilfred, who’d brought the cart to Chesterfield last market day.

  Innocent, John thought, as he tested the shutter, making sure it swung easily and closed smoothly.

  In the buttery he removed the door and smoothed some wood from the bottom with a file. Straightforward, simple. Then he had to wait as Wilfred inspected the work before reluctantly reaching into his scrip and counting out the money.

  Nothing. The Unthanks might resent l’Honfleur and his daughter, but it seemed that none of their servants had killed her.

  • • •

  ‘Are you satisfied they weren’t involved in the death at all?’ Strong asked. He strolled around the garden behind his house, looking at the twisted boughs of the apple and pear trees, rubbing a hand over a knot of wood as he spoke.

  ‘As much as I can be, Master,’ John replied.

  ‘I’ll tell my lord, but you’d better be absolutely certain.’

  ‘I believe I am.’ He’d considered it as he walked back through the town. The kitchen lad had convinced him. He was guileless, he couldn’t have told a lie to save his life. There was nothing to defend, no reason for anything but God’s truth.

  ‘Then I’ll make sure he knows.’ He paused. ‘There was another death today. Another murder, may the Lord rest him.’ He crossed himself. ‘Have you heard?’

  John shook his head. He’d been too busy to listen to any gossip. Two killings in less than a handful of days? More than two years had passed since the last suspicious death. This was more than odd.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A forager. An old man by the name of Oswald. He lived in Whittington. He’d been a labourer until he hurt his arm. He knew his herbs and plants, used to go out early to gather them and sell them to the people who have their stalls at the weekday market.’

  ‘How did he die?’ John asked.

  ‘Stabbed. It seems he hadn’t been dead more than an hour or two before he was discovered. The jury’s already given a verdict of murder by persons unknown.’

  ‘What about the body, Master?’

  Sir Mark shook his head. ‘Already in the ground. No reason to wait.’ He cocked his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘A forager is the kind of man who would know about mushrooms that could kill.’

  Strong grimaced. ‘I never…’ He banged a fist against the tree trunk in frustration. ‘I should have realised.’

  ‘Who was
the first finder, Master?’

  ‘Another old man, he lives next door to the one who died. He knew his friend always went out before it was light. He’d always bring back a little something tasty that he’d found. When he didn’t appear, the neighbour went searching.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  Strong shook his head. ‘Not according to his friend. He was just a harmless old man who was struggling to survive.’

  ‘I want to see the finder, Master. Do you know if he heard anything? Saw anything? Men on horses?’

  ‘Nothing that he told me. His name’s Adam. Go and ask him questions with my blessing. If this is connected to Dame Gertrude’s killing, we might be able to solve them both in a single swoop.’

  It was too far to walk to Whittington and back today; he’d be travelling home in the pitch darkness. Tomorrow. It would be something to begin his day. Could the second murder be coincidence? That was possible; anything was possible. But everything in his senses screamed no. Not so soon after Gertrude’s death, not a man with that kind of knowledge.

  • • •

  The ground still held a little of the day’s warmth. John lay back and let Martha climb all over him. He lifted her up, the small body so light, then brought her back down as she giggled. He inhaled her smell, the scent of childhood and innocence. Juliana ran around him, singing out a rhyme in some game she’d devised.

  And there, on the bench, his son Richard. Pale but smiling, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, although the evening chill was nowhere near. Freshly washed linen was spread over the bushes as it dried. He heard Katherine in the kitchen, ladling out the pottage into bowls for them to eat.

  If he could find the murderer and earn the fifty pounds, everything would change in their lives. In the meantime, he’d take the four pennies a day the coroner was paying him and be grateful; it meant food on the table for them all.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, setting Martha down on her feet and holding her until she was steady. ‘Inside. It’s time for supper.’

  • • •

  A mild morning. But the night had been warm enough for him to kick off the blanket and enjoy the pleasure of air against his body.

  He’d set off just as the first band of lighter blue appeared on the eastern horizon. Still early enough to have the road to himself on the long hill up to Whittington.

  By the time he reached the village, dawn had broken. Birds were singing, the lark and the sparrow, with blackbirds and magpies calling and fluttering round the trees.

  People were up, smoke rising from the roofs. A man came out of his door carrying a long, sharp scythe. He gave John the directions he needed.

  It was one of two cottages that lay side by side. They seemed to share a small yard and midden, and a jakes set far enough away that the smell couldn’t travel.

  On one of the buildings, the shutters were open to the day. On the other they remained closed. That must have been where Oswald the forager lived. Who’d be living there next, he wondered?

  Adam was a small, spry man. Almost bald, his head shiny, eyes inquisitive, grey hair sprouting from his nostrils and his ears, and his eyebrows thick as a hedge. His tunic was neatly mended with small, even stitches, and his hose snug around his spindly legs. The shoes had been patched many times, squares of leather one over the other until it was impossible to see the original colour.

  All very neat, but an air of sorrow hung around him. Hardly a surprise; the man had lost his closest friend.

  ‘True enough, Master,’ he said as they walked out to the forest that covered the hill going down to Unstone. ‘We were both widowers, so we looked out for each other. I’ve always been good with my hands, and Oswald, he could come out of a wood with a feast. We helped each other and shared.’

  ‘Who bought what he foraged?’

  ‘People who sell at the market in Chesterfield,’ – he made the town sound as if were in another county, not less than an hour’s walk away – ‘goodwives who have no time to go looking themselves, or no skill at finding.’ Adam smiled. ‘It was enough to keep going.’ He stopped and craned his neck. ‘Over there, do you see it? Where the grass has been flattened going off from the track.’

  John followed the old man, coming into a small clearing between some young ash trees.

  ‘He was here,’ Adam said. ‘Right there, Master.’ He pointed at the ground.

  John knelt and ran his fingers through the dirt. The earth was dry, but one patch of ground looked darker than the rest. Even as he looked around, he knew there would be nothing here to guide him. This was isolated. Far enough from the village that no cry would be heard. No one would see; even the track was hidden from view. Still, he’d seen the killing ground for himself now, he had the evidence of his own eyes, for whatever it was worth.

  ‘Did anyone different come to visit Oswald in the last week or two?’ John asked. ‘Someone you haven’t seen before, perhaps?’ He made it sound like a light question, something asked in passing and of no account.

  ‘No,’ Adam replied. But his manner had changed. His body had stiffened and the expression sharpened on his face. ‘I’d have seen if they had. If I hadn’t been there, he’d have told me. His only visitors were his usual customers, Master.’

  The man was talking too much, trying to fill the silence as if he had something to hide. That was interesting, but John wasn’t going to press him on it yet. He’d pick his moment.

  ‘Did he ever pick mushrooms?’

  Adam shook his head. ‘Only for us, Master. A handful of morels to add to a pottage. Nobody buys them. Why would they, when most people know what’s edible and they can just come out and collect for themselves?’

  ‘Yes.’ But that sense was there again; old Adam was hiding something. He stood and they turned back towards the village. ‘Tell me, do you have any idea who might have killed your friend?’

  ‘No, Master, I don’t. That’s the honest truth, as I stand before God.’

  Bold words for a man who might well be lying, John thought. Soon enough, Adam would probably need to confess to the priest and cleanse his soul.

  ‘Then may he rest in the Lord’s peace.’ John crossed himself and started on the road back to town.

  At the brook by the bottom of the hill, he cupped his hands and drank. The water was cold enough to sting his mouth, clear and sweet as he swallowed.

  Someone had come to see Oswald the forager and paid him to find the death cap mushrooms that killed Gertrude. It made sense. Oswald had the knowledge and the skill. Then they’d returned to murder him so he could never reveal the truth.

  He had no proof. Nothing more than a feeling. But the pieces fitted together. And Adam was doing his best not to reveal something. Was he fearful, perhaps? That would be sensible. He’d seen what happened to his close friend. It was all too easy to cut another old man’s throat or make him vanish in the woods. And with no one to search this time, the animals would eat his meat and bones, and no one would ever know what happened.

  All John had was suspicion. Not a scrap of evidence. He’d press Adam on it once he knew a little more. But not yet.

  Bramble bushes grew in the hedgerow and John picked the berries as he walked. Large and dark, with sweet juices. He should bring Juliana and Richard out here, let them gather their fill. The berries were good until Michaelmas, that was what the goodwives always said. He gathered a final handful and trudged on, nibbling as he walked.

  He had pieces, fragments. A few sat well together, like Oswald and the death cap mushroom. Others, though… it was impossible to know yet. Too early for any accusations. But the coroner wanted answers before the fair began, and the sand kept trickling steadily through the hourglass. Time was against him.

  • • •

  ‘But you were certain the Unthanks had nothing to do with Dame Gertrude’s death,’ Strong said in exasperation.

  ‘I know, Master. I still believe that. We need to be sure, though. I’ve been able to talk to the servants, but not
the family. They could have employed somebody else.’

  He was a carpenter. A nobody. The Unthank family had money and land, everything except a title. They’d never open their mouths to offer him the hour of day.

  ‘Very well,’ the man agreed with a grimace. ‘But employing you is proving to be more trouble than it’s worth. If you’re so certain this old man knows something, why didn’t you force it out of him?’

  ‘Simple, Master. I have no proof,’ John said. ‘If he keeps denying it, there’s nothing we can do. It’s better to wait and have a wedge to ease the truth into the light.’

  The coroner raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t wait too long,’ he ordered. ‘I know someone who can fit into the Unthank house. I’ll send him to you this afternoon.’ He leaned an elbow on the table and rubbed his chin with his hand. ‘Tell me, Carpenter, can you find the killer? And I pray the answer is yes, for my sake as well as yours.’

  ‘I will,’ John told him. He had strands of hope. A beginning that he could follow. ‘I’d like to see my Lord l’Honfleur, too.’

  ‘Again? Why?’

  ‘An idea.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him and send word. Just don’t dawdle, Carpenter. He wants answers. People are already starting to arrive for the fair.’

  He knew that; he’d seen the carts on the road as he returned to Chesterfield. Out in the fields beyond the market square, streets of stalls were already beginning to take shape. The eight days that the fair lasted would be a boon, bringing in people and money. Every bed in the inns was already booked. They could fill each one four or five times over. People would be begging anywhere to sleep and offer good coin for a bench or a patch of floor.

  ‘I’m sure it’s busier than last year,’ Katherine said as they settled to their dinner. Richard seemed a little stronger today, taking his place at the table. Juliana played with her food and Martha ate everything on her trencher; she never needed any encouragement. ‘So many people in town and it’s still a while before the fair begins.’