‘Envy me?’ He found that idea impossible to believe. Who could want his problems, he wondered, the constant worries about money? But the man sounded sincere. ‘Why?’
‘You have a family. Your children. I see the way Dame Katherine looks at you. You have a fortune right here. Most men would wish they had that.’
‘Thank you,’ John told him after a moment. It had been too long since he’d thought that way. He’d been swallowed up in the torments. All the problems that every day brought. He never stood back and looked at the pleasures, the joys in his life. Yet they were right here, plenty of them, in front of his eyes, if he’d only open them and look. Exactly as Jeffrey said.
‘Thank you,’ he repeated. Someone from the outside could see things more clearly. Someone who could see the beauty of the forest, not a man lost in the confusion of trees.
‘It’s true,’ Jeffrey said as he stood. ‘I’ll come back with everything I can discover about the brothers.’
• • •
He was as good as his word. It was no more than two hours until he knocked at their door again. Juliana was helping Katherine gather together linen to be washed in the river, with Martha struggling to help. Richard… it was a bad day, he was in his bed. Katherine had given him a weak draught of poppy juice to help him rest. It was all they could do for him.
John sat on one side of the table, Jeffrey on the other, a jug of weak ale between them.
‘Do you know Michael and Gabriel were twins?’
‘No.’ They had the look of brothers, but not the image of each other.
‘They weren’t identical,’ Jeffrey said. ‘But they always did everything together. Their father indulged them.’ He pursed his lips. ‘It’s very likely why they died together.’
‘Go on.’
‘They’re related to most of the families around here.’ He paused for a moment, then added: ‘I suppose that’s true for almost every one of us. We marry each other, if the church allows and the relations aren’t too near. You have to understand, John, we do it for land and power and money.’
‘I know.’ It kept them on top, kept them wealthy and in control.
‘Sometimes I think you’re the lucky ones – you can marry for love.’
‘You don’t have a wife?’
‘She died giving birth. The child died with her.’ Simple, bald words, but they said so much.
‘I’m sorry. God save their souls.’ What more could he say? But it explained why the man seemed comfortable around Katherine and the children. He ached to have a family of his own.
‘Thank you.’ A sigh. ‘The twins’ family are distant relations of l’Honfleur. Their father probably used that to place them with my lord. From what I’ve heard, they’ve been no better or worse than any other young men. They loved to drink and to fight. Plenty of high spirits.’ He shrugged.
‘How long had they been at the manor?’
‘Six months. They’d been at others before that. They probably haven’t spent much time with their father since they were seven or eight, and that’s ten years ago.’
‘They’ll spend it all on their own manor now,’ John said bleakly. A place they’d never leave.
Jeffrey nodded. ‘They tried to kill you. They didn’t even think twice about it. You should be glad they’re dead.’
‘An eye for an eye isn’t always the best solution.’ Certainly not when the corpses held answers, he thought.
‘A man of the Christian testament,’ Jeffrey said with a nod of his head.
‘If you want to think of me that way. What else do you know about them? What obligations did they have? What’s their father’s manor like?’
‘It’s very poor. He owns two others that are better, but there’s nothing he can do with much of the land above Edale. From what I’ve been told, it’s all hills and peat, barely fit for sheep. But he’s always been someone who thinks above his station. He likes the favour of great men.’
John stared into his face. ‘Like my lord?’
‘He is a great man, my friend. I know he spends much of his time here, and you can talk to him. But remember, the king’s mistress will receive him, so will the great earls and the king.’ He paused. ‘You might think about that the next time you talk to him.’
L’Honfleur was a man of greater stature than he’d realised. The coroner had told him, but he’d only seen the grieving father. The gulf had been there between them from the moment my lord appeared in Calow. But there had been something beyond that. My lord he might be, but once he shed the fine clothes he was an ordinary man. Just one who could give a carpenter fifty pounds for discovering who murdered his daughter, he reflected.
‘You make it sound like there’s nothing that can help me.’
Jeffrey shrugged. ‘That’s what I’ve managed to find so far. There might be more if you want me to discover it.’
‘I’d be grateful, Master.’
They grinned at each other. For a moment, the world seemed a lighter place. The mood flickered and passed.
‘What are you going to do now, John?’
‘Back to Calow,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to the people out there once again.’
‘Didn’t they tell you what they saw? That was what the coroner said.’
‘They did. But given a little time, people often remember more, or their thoughts become clearer.’
‘You’re a curious man,’ Jeffrey took a drink. ‘Not like a carpenter at all.’
‘Have you known many?’
‘No, but you… understand this. The questions, the way you look at things.’
‘Don’t believe it. I’m a carpenter.’ He showed the thick calluses on his hands and patted the old leather satchel of tools. ‘I don’t really understand anything but wood. And I’ll be a carpenter again, once this is over.’
‘Whatever I can do to help, let me know. I’m lodging with Dame Judith on Beetwell Street. Do you know her?’
‘By sight.’ Everyone knew the woman with the loud, braying voice and the curiosity about their affairs.
‘Leave a message with her. She’ll pass it to me. I’ll try to find out more for you, too.’
• • •
Rain had passed during the night, leaving the long grass sodden. By the time he reached the turning towards Calow, John’s boots were sodden. They’d dry; they always had before. His hose were damp and clinging to his legs. No matter.
Before going to the small village, he visited the church. The anchorite’s cell had been tumbled. Only a few stones remained; people had already carried the rest away to repair their houses or barns. The poor never wasted anything.
In the church he knelt and said a prayer for Gertrude. He could still feel her here, almost hear her breathing. It would fade; a year from now only the local folk would be able to recall her clearly.
Dame Wilhelmina told him where to find the men. They were firing the stooks in the lord’s fields, plumes of smoke rising into the sky to guide him. At the edge of the field, John stood and watched. The three men worked easily together, tasks they’d likely done together for years. Each one knew his part.
They stopped their labour as he approached, staring at him with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
‘Good day to you, Masters,’ John said. ‘I wish you God’s peace.’
‘And to you,’ Hugo replied. ‘You came asking questions after Gertrude died.’
‘I did. I have a few more.’ John held up his hand. ‘Only one or two, not long enough to interrupt your work.’ He turned to Ralph. ‘You said you saw a piebald horse when the two men in livery came to see the anchoress.’
The man straightened his back. ‘I did. I pointed out the patch of black.’
‘Forgive me, but are you sure of it, Master? It was a fair distance.’
‘I’m certain.’ Ralph didn’t hesitate. ‘My eyes are good.’
‘I have no doubt they are,’ John agreed with a smile. ‘Are you positive it was the same day?’
He’d
come back to this point in his thoughts. It was one thing that had stood out. It didn’t fit. If the horse was a piebald, then the squires hadn’t delivered the food themselves. He’d told l’Honfleur all this. But the more he considered it, the more the idea became awkward and convoluted. Passing their livery to two other men who would have to return it? He couldn’t find the sense in that. The squires knew about the death cap mushroom; he’d proved that. It seemed far more likely that they’d deliver the food themselves. The thing that made no sense was the piebald horse. Neither l’Honfleur nor the Unthanks owned one. That was why he’d come back here, to be certain.
‘Not many people come by here on horseback,’ the man said.
‘Of course.’ Maybe it had happened exactly as the man said and the mystery would remain.
‘No, don’t you remember, there was a rider the day before all that?’ It was Cedric who spoke, reserved and thoughtful. ‘You said something about his horse.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘He’s right.’ Hugo folded his arms and stared at Ralph. ‘That was the horse you said was piebald. You wanted us to look, but we were busy digging out that tree stump. You were gawping like you’d never seen one of the beasts before.’
‘No…’ Ralph began, then his eyes widened and his voice trailed to silence as he realised they might be right. Shamefaced, he turned to John. ‘Master, we’d been drinking the night before Gertrude…’ he didn’t want to say the word. ‘It was the name day of Hugo’s daughter. We celebrate things like that out here.’
He gazed at the expanse of fields as if he’d never seen them before and they were a thing of wonder.
‘You might have been confused?’ John said kindly.
‘I might.’ The man nodded. ‘It happens sometimes after the drink.’ He reddened. ‘I get ideas in my head and nothing can shift them.’
‘Then you might have been wrong about the piebald horse?’
‘Aye, Master. I might. God’s word,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I believed it when I said it. I wouldn’t try to lie or send you after something else. I’d never do that to my lord.’
John believed him. He was scrambling around to apologise, and the amusement of his friends had turned to concern. Ralph might be taken before the coroner and even l’Honfleur. Who knew what men like that might do?
‘At least we know now.’ John smiled and rested his hand on Ralph’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad we reached the truth before any damage had been done.’
‘Thank you, Master.’ The relief spread across the man’s face, and his companions looked a little easier.
‘We all make mistakes.’ He looked from one face to another and the last. ‘But I do need to know, are you certain on this? Would you swear on it if we went into the church?’
‘I would.’ Ralph was the first to speak. ‘I had it fixed in my head. But what Cedric said… he was right.’
John turned to the others. ‘What about you?’
Hugo shook his head. ‘Master, I never saw the horses either day. I daren’t swear to something I didn’t see with my own eyes.’
He understood; swearing on something, taking an oath, was a serious business. A man damned his soul for swearing falsely. If Ralph was willing to go that far, John would believe him.
At least he knew now. Another piece that fell into place. The squires had come and given Gertrude the dish with the death cap mushroom. The truth was simpler than any twisted explanation his mind could devise.
Once, long ago in York, he’d talked with a young priest as he mended a bench in one of the city’s churches. He couldn’t even remember the topic, only the words the priest had spoken in his grave voice: the obvious explanation, the simple one, is usually correct. It made sense to him then. It came into his mind again; it was still true.
One question resolved.
Something else lingered in his mind, from the day the coroner had summoned him out here to see the body.
The first finder.
A friar on his way to Baslow; that was what Strong had told him. One of God’s innocents, those had been his words. But he hadn’t wanted John to talk to the man. He’d pushed him in another direction.
At the time he’d wondered why. Now the question returned as he set off to walk to Baslow. It was far on the other side of Chesterfield. But the weather was warm, the sun darting in and out of high clouds. And he didn’t know where else to take this.
Maybe Jeffrey would be able to bring him something. But for now, he’d try to find the friar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Baslow hadn’t grown since the last time he’d been there. The village was a series of cottages straggling along the road. A short way beyond, another road leading up to the moors crossed it, and a gibbet stood where they met. No body hung from the noose now, but it served as a stark reminder that justice was always waiting.
A branch hanging over the door marked the alehouse. John welcomed the chance to sit and rest his feet and ease his parched throat. It was a good place for gossip and questions. Sometimes a man could simply listen and learn a great deal. At times more than he might from asking questions.
Not today, though. An old man sat in a corner, more asleep than awake, while the alewife moved around in the back room, brewing a fresh batch of small beer.
She told him where the friar was staying, a small camp he’d set up close to the brook.
‘There’s not a drop of harm in him,’ the woman said with a warm smile. ‘He gives us the Lord’s word. We listen and give him food and ale.’
‘It seems like a fair exchange,’ John told her.
‘It is, Master. It is.’
The friar had cut himself a stick and had a line bobbing in the stream as John arrived. The man sat hunched over, staring intently at the water. A Carmelite, by the look of him. He wore a patched brown habit, the white cloak rolled up behind him.
‘God’s peace to you,’ John said.
The friar turned his head slowly, blinking as if he were coming out of a dream or a trance.
‘May His peace rest in you, too.’ He put up the makeshift rod; no catch on the end of it. ‘It’s good to sit here and contemplate the world.’
‘And catch your supper?’
The man smiled. ‘That, too, if God pleases. I’m Friar Gerald.’
‘John the Carpenter. I’ve come from Chesterfield to find you, Father.’
‘Oh?’ Gerald tilted his head. ‘Why might that be, Master?’
‘You were in Calow, you went to visit the anchoress there.’
‘May God rest her,’ Gerald said and crossed himself.
‘You were the first to find her.’
‘I was.’ He described the scene, growing more distressed as he talked, until John finally stopped him. Now he saw why the coroner had let the man leave. There was no cover on his emotions. The friar could no more lie than a bird could stop flying. It wasn’t in him.
After he was calm, once Gerald had run through Latin prayers under his breath, John asked one last question.
‘Is there anything you can remember that you might not have told the coroner? I know you were upset, and that you gave the good sister her last rites. You might have overlooked something.’
Very slowly, the friar shook his head.
‘I told him all I saw. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Father, please, if there’s anything you recall, it would help me find who was responsible. Someone murdered her. It wasn’t an accident.’
The man was silent for a long time, then raised his head.
‘I suspected there was no peace in it,’ he said after a long time. ‘There was a sense of evil around the cell. I could feel it.’
The man was talking now, thinking of the death.
‘You looked through the opening in the wall. What did you see?’
‘Gertrude.’ The friar spoke hesitantly. ‘She was sitting there, with her back against the wall and her eyes open. The flies were crawling over her. Have you seen the dead?�
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‘I have.’
‘Then you know. You can tell.’
‘Yes.’ The friar was right. It wasn’t just the way a corpse looked, it was the sense of something gone, that the soul had left.
‘I prayed for her and ran off to those houses close by.’
‘Calow,’ John said.
‘The women there sent me to Chesterfield. I asked for the coroner. He came back with me and brought some of his men. They broke down some of the wall to the cell. I went in and gave her the last rites.’
‘What was the cell like inside?’
‘It had the smell of death.’ Friar Gerald’s voice was flat and empty. ‘It has its own scent.’
‘I know,’ John said. ‘Was there anything you noticed in the cell?’
‘I went to give her the rites,’ the man answered. ‘I didn’t look at anything else. The poor woman needed to be shrived.’ He cocked his head and looked at John. ‘That was all.’
‘Did the coroner make you pay a fine?’ That was common for a first finder, to bind them close until the inquest.
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘What would I use to pay it?’ He held open his scrip. No glint of coins or anything valuable. He was a friar, a preacher who was meant to live on charity as he roamed. So many didn’t, but it appeared this one really did that. Not one of God’s innocents in quite the way Strong had said; the man’s mind was clear and sharp enough. But he’d had nothing to do with Gertrude’s death.
John rose and stretched.
‘Thank you for talking to me, Father. I’m sorry to stir the memories.’
‘I wish you joy in finding whoever would do that to a holy woman.’
‘With the Lord’s direction.’
A short blessing and he began the walk home. The air was still warm where the day’s heat had clung, and by the time he saw the spire rising above Chesterfield, his feet were weary, feeling the miles he’d covered during the day. John wore good boots and sturdy hose, the clothing of a working man, but after so many hours of tramping, he was tired.
His thoughts were drifting, going over what the friar had told him and fitting it alongside everything else. At first he didn’t see the man coming towards him. Even when he noticed the figure, he paid him no mind.
The Anchoress of Chesterfield Page 9