The Saltergate Psalter (25 page)

‘What does it matter? She couldn't read. What use would she have for a book?' She poured the last of the ale into a cracked mug. ‘She said it had jewels on the front. But she always liked to make things up.'

‘Who showed her the book? Did she tell you?'

‘Someone and no one, most like. She probably pulled the idea out of the air.'

‘Did she say anything more about it?'

‘Oh aye. The most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, she told me, with pictures and gold.'

It could have been the psalter, John thought. All too easily. Books were rare enough outside churches. Only the rich could afford them.

‘What else?' he asked.

‘Isn't that enough?' She tapped her skull. ‘All in her head.'

‘Thank you,' he said again as he left.

More than anything else he'd heard, the book pointed to Timothy. It all fitted. But he'd never know for certain. The man had been careful. He'd covered all the tracks he left.

He sighed as he walked back to Chesterfield. No marks on Christian, if everyone was to be believed. That ruled him out as Walter's attacker.

But Timothy as Christian's father? That was interesting. It offered up plenty of possibilities. There was even sense to it, a connection between him and the old man. And a reason for murder. Yet why would he wait so long for revenge on a father who'd cast him aside before he was born?

Too many questions that would never be answered. Christian wasn't going to tell him. Mysteries within mysteries and he was still none the wiser as he unlatched his front door on Saltergate.

He could hear voices from the solar. Katherine, Martha, and the girls gathered around Walter's bed. The lad had his eyes open but he looked stunned, surprised.

‘It's good to see you back,' John said to him, taking his wife's hand and squeezing it lightly.

‘You found me. That's what they've been telling me.' The words struggled out in stammers.

‘And a right job it was getting you back here, too,' he answered with a smile. ‘What happened to you, Walter?'

‘I don't remember, John. My head's empty there.'

He understood. The boy couldn't summon it up. He'd seen it before when men woke from an accident; they had no recollection of what had happened. Sometimes it returned. Often it didn't, as if the mind was determined to forget the pain.

‘It doesn't matter. We just have to make sure you're well again.'

‘Listen to him,' Katherine told her brother. Her eyes glistened with tears and she bit her lip. She ushered the girls back down the stairs.

‘Do you remember anything about the day it happened?' John asked. Dame Martha gave him a sharp look for the question.

‘I went to work,' Walter replied brightly. ‘I remember that.' His face clouded and he shook his head. Nothing more.

‘Leave it, John,' Martha said quietly and he nodded. He couldn't force memory where there was none. ‘I'll sit with him.'

‘What would we do without you?'

She waved his words away into the air. ‘You're family as much as any of my kin,' she said, smoothing down the front of her apron and easing herself slowly down on to the joint stool. ‘Now go,' she said. ‘Shoo.'

Katherine was in the garden, supervising Janette and Eleanor as they weeded between the plants. The kitten dashed after each stalk they tossed, pouncing and making a game of it all.

John squatted and looked at his wife. Her face was flushed with joy.

‘He's going to be fine. It'll take time, that's all.'

‘I know.' She gave a small, tight nod, as if she couldn't trust herself to do more.

‘I'll be back soon.'

• • •

At the inn the owner looked fretful when he entered.

‘Arthur of Warwick.' John said and the man shook his head.

‘He hasn't come back yet, Master.'

He could feel a tingle at the back of his neck. ‘Send word to the coroner as soon as he returns.' It was an order, not a request.

‘Yes, Master.'

He found de Harville on a bench in the long garden behind his house. His wife was seated beside him, caught in the long shadows of evening. Her face was very pale, cheeks sunk, but she was carefully groomed, her veil a brilliant white, her gown simple but expensive.

‘Carpenter,' the coroner said, but he was clearly annoyed at the disturbance. ‘What do you want?'

‘I was just at the inn to see Arthur.'

‘And?'

‘He's not there. Hasn't been all day.'

‘I see.' De Harville frowned. ‘I'll have the bailiffs scour the town for him. God help him if he's left.'

‘If he went first thing this morning he could have covered plenty of ground.' Halfway back to Lincoln and the safety of the bishop's protection.

‘I'm aware of that,' the coroner said brusquely. ‘What else?'

‘Walter's awake.' He waited for a reaction. Nothing. ‘He's going to need a few weeks to recover but he'll be fine,' John told him. The man didn't even care. ‘He just doesn't remember what happened.'

‘Pity. We could solve this. Tell me the rest after church tomorrow.' He glanced at his wife with a look of concern.

Dismissed like a servant. He strode away from the house angrily, across the market square, to the alehouse on Low Pavement. He needed some time before he went home. A chance to let the anger fall away.

He drank the first mug quickly, trying to put everything out of his mind. Not that he managed it. Shards of this and that refused to leave. The way Walter looked, so helpless in his bed, face discoloured by bruises. The fact that Arthur was missing. All the questions about Christian. The other questions: who'd beaten Walter that way? Why had someone tried to set a fire by his kitchen? And who could have attacked him on the riverbank all that time ago?

The second cup lasted longer. He felt himself slowly calming, the flush of anger leaving his face, his breath slowing. Never mind the coroner. There was plenty to be thankful for this day. Walter would be well. That was the most important thing. Always.

Walter spent the evening falling in and out of sleep. Tiredness would suddenly overwhelm him and he'd turn his head away, closing his eyes. John sat by the bed, taking his turn with the others.

Wilhelmina, the wise woman, had come by to examine him, more than satisfied with his progress.

‘Time,' she told them. ‘That's all it takes now. His mind's sound, none of his limbs are broken, and there's no damage inside his body.'

He heard the words with relief. A full recovery. Katherine was smiling, close to tears again, Martha's arm around her shoulder.

And now he sat patiently, waiting for the boy to surface again. Maybe when he woke this time something would have changed and he'd be able to recall it all. He was going to discover who'd done it and make them pay. The beating had been brutal. Only God's mercy had stopped the damage being permanent.

Walter started to slowly move his head from side to side. A dream, with his eyelids moving rapidly.

Evening was slipping away. He went to the window and closed the shutters, watching in case the noise woke the boy. But sleep still held him fast. He'd spent another half-hour on the joint stool, watching and waiting, when a hand touched his shoulder.

‘I must have drifted away,' he admitted.

‘It doesn't matter,' Katherine said. ‘I'll take over. It'll be time to put the girls to bed soon, anyway. I think Martha's ready to go home. Why don't you escort her.'

The goodwife clung to his arm as they walked along the road. The streets were empty, just noises in the distance to disrupt the peace.

‘You know, don't you?' she said. When he glanced at her sharply, Martha continued, ‘The killings. Who hurt Walter.'

‘Not yet,' he sighed. ‘But I will. I promise.'

He owed it to all those who'd died. It came down to two men. Christian and Arthur of Warwick. One of them was behind it all. How could it be anyone else? One of them had arranged the killings and then tried to hide their tracks. But which it was, he didn't know. Christian had a reason, if he was truly the bastard son of Timothy. And Arthur? That he didn't understand. He might never know, either; the man had the bishop's protection and he could do nothing against that.

‘Do you want some advice?'

‘I'd welcome it,' he said with a chuckle. ‘Anything that can help.'

‘When my husband was trying to sort a problem, he always thought the simple solution was to find out who'd profit most from something.' She glanced up at him. ‘Does that make sense?'

It did. Whoever had the most to gain might be willing to take the greatest risks. But which one profited? Christian? Arthur?

‘Thank you,' John said as they approached Martha's door.

‘I haven't done anything,' she told him.

‘Your friendship. That's beyond gold. Teaching the girls. Being here with us.'

It was impossible to be sure in the gloom, but she seemed to blush.

Walking back, he was concentrating on her words, trying to match them against the men he suspected. At first he didn't hear the footsteps behind him, then turned quickly, the knife in his hand.

‘Peace be with you.' The man raised his hands as he approached. Father Geoffrey, wearing his surplice and stole.

‘I'm sorry, Father.' He slid the dagger back into its sheath. ‘You took me by surprise. What brings you out tonight?'

‘Dame Gertrude is dying. They called me to hear her confession and give her the last rites.'

John crossed himself. ‘May God grant her rest.'

‘I heard what happened to Walter,' the priest continued.

‘He's woken. He's going to be fine.'

‘That's good news.' Geoffrey sounded relieved. ‘I'll say a prayer for him.' He hurried by. ‘I'll wish you a good night.'

‘Thank you, Father.'

Another one dying. He'd met Gertrude a few times. She lived with her son and his family, a sharp-tongued woman who tried to rule the household. She was a woman with little kindness in her soul, it seemed to him. Always quick to find fault and slow to praise. In truth he doubted that many would miss her. She'd had a long life. But these days there seemed to be too much death and too little life.

At home everything was dark. Just a candle burning in the solar by Walter's bed. Katherine was sitting here in her shift, a shawl gathered around her shoulders.

‘How is he?' John whispered.

‘The same. I was just thinking what Walter was like when he was little. He was always running everywhere, even then.'

‘He'll be doing that again soon.'

‘I hope so.' He heard her sigh. ‘Do you ever wonder what our child will be like?'

He had, right from the moment Katherine told him she was going to have a baby. He had his hopes, his dreams. A boy, someone to take on his trade, someone to carry his father's name. And if it was a girl? He didn't know. Just someone as lovely as her mother. Finally he realised that he'd be happy with a child sound in mind and limb. That was all anyone could pray for. God might grant that; anything more was selfish.

‘Come on,' he told her, ‘let's go to bed.'

Light was edging the horizon when he woke. Dressing quickly, he checked Walter, hurried down the stairs and out into the world, pulling on the leather jerkin.

The inn was starting to come alive, a serving girl boiling water over the fire. The owner walked around, yawning wide.

‘Arthur of Warwick?' John asked. ‘Did he come back last night?'

‘Right enough he did,' the man answered. ‘Probably still sleeping.'

He took the stairs two at a time, then stood on the landing, fist raised to pound on the door. The back door leading to the outside stair stood ajar, a wedge at the bottom to keep it open. Odd, he thought. Why would anyone offer an invitation to thieves?

He knocked on the wood, watching it open before him. Taking a breath, he walked into the room. It was empty. He knew it would be. Arthur of Warwick hadn't slept in the bed. The lid of the chest lay open, nothing inside. John threw back the shutters to the early light. Nothing on the floorboards or hidden in the corners.

The stable boy was forking hay into the stalls, back bent and already sweating from the physical work.

‘Is there a horse missing?'

‘Aye, Master. One of the guests came with the dawn.'

‘Arthur of Warwick?'

The lad nodded. At least he hadn't been gone too long.

‘Did you get a good look at him?' John asked.

‘Of course.' He answered as if the question was stupid.

‘Did you see his hands?'

‘No, Master. He was wearing leather gloves.'

‘What about his face?' he persisted. ‘Were there any marks on it?'

‘His hood was up. I couldn't see.' The boy shrugged. It was nothing to him.

‘Did he say where he was going?'

‘Not to me.'

Of course. A stable lad would be beneath him, not worth his time or conversation.

‘Thank you.'

In the Guildhall the bailiffs were preparing for work. A Sunday. The Lord's Day. But crime didn't stop for the Sabbath. A couple of them looked at John with faint interest before returning to their ale.

‘Who was watching Arthur of Warwick?' he asked. The men glanced at each other, shaking their heads. The coroner hadn't ordered it. ‘He was told to remain in Chesterfield. He left about an hour ago.'

The head bailiff shrugged. It wasn't his responsibility.

‘Can you send men after him?'

‘Was he on horseback?'

‘Yes.'

‘No point,' the man said. ‘We'd never catch him.'

De Harville had gone to look at a corpse, a servant at his house said. John followed, finding him in a tumbledown cottage close to the river. A simple enough death. Hung from a beam in his own home, the joint stool kicked over. No food, no wood for a fire. A man with nothing left to lose, taking the only road he could see.