The Anchoress of Chesterfield Read online

  For an hour it came down heavily enough to bounce off the ground, drenching any man or beast caught out in the weather. John closed the shutters at the front of the house and stood at the back, staring at the garden. In the hall, the girls were using stones to draw on pieces of slate as Katherine watched them. Richard was still asleep upstairs.

  There were people he wanted to see, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. By then this weather would have passed. The roads would still be mud, but they’d have drained enough to be passable.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  He hadn’t heard her approach. John put his arm around Katherine and pulled her close.

  ‘About all the things I need to do.’

  ‘Do you have a plan? This morning you looked lost.’

  ‘I was,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘But now there’s a way forward.’

  ‘And the man who attacked you?’

  ‘I still don’t know about him.’ He’d probably never learn the truth.

  ‘Yesterday…’ she began with hesitation. ‘I still believe what I said. But maybe not the way I said it.’ She looked into his face as she spoke. He stroked her cheek, not knowing how to reply, not wanting to say anything; to do nothing more than to enjoy this moment together. But it couldn’t last. Martha began to shout, complaining about her sister. With a sad, quick smile, Katherine put her fingers over his and pulled away. Not the softness of a gentlewoman’s hands, but the redness and roughness of a life well-lived.

  Night seemed to arrive early, but the rain finally passed. All that remained was the constant drip from the tiles to the ground. John examined the leak in the roof, placing a fresh wooden bucket to catch the water. It was already like this and the rains of autumn and winter hadn’t arrived; a stark reminder that the house needed plenty of attention. And money. If he couldn’t earn the fifty pounds that l’Honfleur was dangling in front of him, he’d have no choice but to sell one of the houses he owned before the bad weather came.

  • • •

  Bernard the scrivener always seemed like a happy man, ready with a joke and a laugh. He was different, using the quill with his left hand instead of his right, and made fun of himself for it. He was a sinister man, he laughed, the devil’s own helper. He’d been a novice in holy orders until he discovered he preferred women and drink to the sacred life. Still, he put his learning to use; there were always men who needed letters written.

  He was working at his desk by the window, sharpening the tip of his quill with the short knife he kept in his right hand, then inspecting it before dipping it back into the ink.

  ‘God’s peace to you,’ John said as he entered.

  ‘And to you, too, Carpenter,’ Bernard replied with a broad grin. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’ He winced as he straightened his back on the stool. ‘Although I hear you have a new job these days.’

  ‘For a short while. Please God, I’ll be back working with wood soon enough.’

  ‘You’re not a man who sends letters, John, and the coroner has a clerk who’d write one for you if you needed it.’ He smiled. ‘That means you’re here to ask me some questions.’

  ‘You should be the one in my shoes.’

  Bernard grinned and shook his head. ‘I prefer sitting on my arse in a warm room. Words will do for me.’

  ‘Have you written any letters that might concern my Lord l’Honfleur or his family at all?’

  ‘No. Families like that, there’s always someone who can write, probably two of three of them.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Sometimes even the women learn. And if there’s nothing else, they’ll all have their own clerks to handle everything relating to their estates and their wealth.’ He sighed. ‘I’d love to have a rich client, but it won’t ever happen.’

  John nodded. It had seemed like a good idea when he left the house this morning. Bernard knew his business. This was another road that went nowhere. If anyone had been sending notes and messages, he hadn’t been the one writing them. He’d trudged along streets heavy with mud for no reason at all.

  ‘I’ll wish you a good day.’

  ‘There was something,’ Bernard said. ‘Somewhere around a fortnight ago a man came in to ask how much I charged to write a letter, and whether I could arrange for delivery to Edale.’

  Edale. That was where the father of the squires held his manor.

  ‘I recommended your Walter to take it there. But once he heard my fee he started grumbling and wanted to haggle me down. A man has to live.’

  He knew it all too well. He’d walked away from jobs before when a householder tried to bargain away his profit. For now, though, it was the destination that set him thinking.

  ‘Did he say who he wanted to send the letter to in Edale?’

  ‘No. We never got that far.’

  He’d never been to the place, but he knew Edale was small; very few people there would know how to read, let alone write.

  ‘No indication who would receive the letter?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, John.’

  ‘What was the man like?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him before.’ Bernard narrowed his eyes, trying to see the man in his mind. ‘Good clothes, a silk surcote and a velvet tunic. They weren’t new, but they were well made, I remember that.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Thirty, perhaps,’ Bernard answered after thinking. ‘But a worn thirty, a man weighed down by cares. I had the sense he’d possessed money once, but he didn’t now.’

  ‘Yet he was still willing to spend some of it to have you write a letter.’

  Bernard chuckled. ‘He just wasn’t willing to spend enough.’

  Perhaps it hadn’t been such a wasted visit, after all. Jeffrey would be back from Edale by evening; he’d be able to tell him about the place. That might help.

  • • •

  By the time the sun was setting, he’d been back to Whittington to see old Adam once more, then across to Calow to talk to the men again. Fruitless journeys. He’d never really expected much, but he had no other ideas, and something else might have sprung from their memories. In the end, though, he walked home weary and with no more knowledge.

  As he opened the door of the house on Knifesmithgate, he saw lights glowing beyond the screens and the sounds of excited voices. His girls, laughing. He stopped for just a moment, long enough to take in the pleasure of it.

  Jeffrey was there, silhouetted in the rushlights, little gifts for the children in front of him. A tiny square of marchpane for each of them, carved into the shape of an animal. A bear, a dog, a rooster. He was teaching them a game with a pack of playing cards. Even Richard was there, a blanket around his shoulders, smiling as he paid attention.

  Katherine stood at the entrance to the buttery. She had her arms folded, looking happy as she watched it all. The children deserved small presents; he just wished he had the money to indulge them that way.

  Jeffrey noticed him and stood, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘John, I was just…’ he gestured.

  ‘You carry on.’ He ruffled Richard’s hair, pleased to see the boy look up and give a warm smile. ‘I need ale and something to eat.’ Jeffrey had a mug and empty plate in front of him.

  A nod and he returned to dealing the cards. Another few moments and the girls were giggling again.

  ‘He came a little while ago,’ Katherine said. ‘I told him I didn’t know when you’d return, but he asked if he could wait.’

  ‘I like him,’ John told her. ‘He’s always welcome here. And the children seem to feel the same way.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The night garden was filled with scents. The dark loam of the earth, the perfumes of the flowers. They became so much stronger after the light fell, John thought as he sat with a mug of ale. He could hear the movement of small creatures through the long grass, and caught the flit of a bat from the corner of his eye.

  ‘You had a long ride today,’ he said.

  ‘Not so far,’ Jeffrey said as he shifte
d on the bench. ‘The problem is that I haven’t been on a horse over rough ground for a while. I can still feel it.’

  ‘Is it bad out here?’

  ‘That Edale manor can’t bring in much of an income,’ Jeffrey said. ‘There’s hardly anything they can farm and most of it’s too steep and rocky for sheep. The land rises up directly behind the hamlet.’

  ‘It must be a sad house, with the sons both dead.’

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘It is, although they know what happened. My lord made certain of that when his men returned the bodies.’

  ‘Did you find anything worthwhile?’

  ‘Nothing that might help you find a murderer.’

  ‘It sounds as if your day wasn’t well spent.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jeffrey said with a sigh. ‘Whatever made the squires kill Gertrude, I don’t believe anyone at the manor knew about it. There’s too much sadness out there, John.’

  ‘What’s the village like?’

  ‘It’s small, hardly worth calling a village. There’s no more than a tiny cluster of houses. The manor house is about a mile away along the valley. Why?’

  John told him what he’d learned from Bernard the scribe.

  ‘From the places I saw, I can’t imagine anyone outside the manor can read,’ Jeffrey answered slowly. ‘And most of those on the manor probably can’t read, either. The family, maybe the reeve. Your scrivener, he has no idea who wanted to send a letter?’

  ‘He claimed he’d never seen him before.’

  ‘A mystery. It doesn’t mean it’s related to this, but the description doesn’t fit anyone I know.’

  ‘No,’ John agreed. ‘But given when it happened, it would be a strange coincidence if it wasn’t.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jeffrey stood and stretched and gave a small groan of pain. There was a wry touch to his voice as he spoke. ‘I’m going to my bed. I ache in places I didn’t even know I possessed.’

  John raised his cup in a toast. ‘Then I hope your pain is mild. Thank you for your help today.’

  ‘You can have more of it tomorrow,’ he replied and took a step before rubbing his thigh. ‘If I can walk by then.’ He sighed. ‘I need to spend more time on horseback.’

  • • •

  Alone, John sat, feeling the coolness gather around him. No light showed through the shutter of the solar; Katherine would be asleep. He tried to fit today’s knowledge into what he already knew about the killing. But it added nothing at all. One question was still unanswered – who was meant to receive the letter which was never written? Perhaps he would never know.

  Time was passing. Another few days and there would be the parade and service in the church to mark the start of this year’s fair. If that happened and he hadn’t found the murderer, he’d lose the chance of the fifty pounds that could change his life. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t afford to let it happen. There had to be something he could use to pry it all open.

  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, lost in his thoughts and trying to see a way forward. The light touch on his shoulder made him reach for the knife on his belt.

  ‘Shhh,’ Katherine whispered. ‘It’s only me.’

  He reached out and gathered her close. Her body was warm and John realised how cold he was out here.

  ‘Jeffrey needs to marry again and become a father,’ she said. ‘The children adore him.’

  ‘I think he’d like that. Let’s hope God is kind to him this time.’

  ‘You should come to bed. You won’t solve anything sitting on your own.’

  ‘I know.’ Suddenly he felt weary, as if all those hours had been toppling over on him. ‘Maybe the answer will come in a dream.’

  • • •

  There was sleep, but no dream he could recall once he opened his eyes, and still no answers at all. He was the first to rise, washing and scrubbing at his teeth before he pulled on his clothes. In the buttery he took bread and cheese, sliding them into his scrip before he left the house.

  A morning of high, pale clouds, and an edge to the air. Autumn was here, and his tunic was more threadbare than it had been a year before. He pulled up the hood and fastened his leather jerkin over the top. Better, but he’d suffer in the bitter days of winter. He needed a new tunic, something padded to keep him warm on those days he worked outside.

  He had time to see Alan before the lad started making the new feed bins for the stables at the inn. Thomas the ostler wanted them lined with tin to keep out the rats. It was a good idea, although Alan was less sure. In a quick series of gestures, he showed the problem. The metal was too soft; the rats would soon gnaw through it. A waste of good tin and the expense of the labour. Something harder might work; sheets of iron, perhaps. But that would take time to forge.

  But when he told the man, Thomas shook his head.

  ‘We’ll go with tin,’ he said, and gestured to a pile in the corner, covered with sacking. ‘I’ve bought it, I’ll not see it go to waste.’

  ‘He’s paying the bill,’ John explained to Alan with a shrug. ‘I agree with you that he’s wrong, but give him what he wants.’

  • • •

  They met on Low Pavement. Jeffrey was walking awkwardly, with bowed legs, looking as if each step brought him pain.

  ‘God’s peace on you,’ John said. ‘And some balm for your aches, too.’

  ‘That will teach me to think I can still ride for miles.’ A rueful smile. ‘Hopefully I’ll remember the lesson. Walking might help. As much as anything can right now. After I left your house last night, I took myself to the alehouse,’ Jeffrey continued as they browsed through the weekday market near the church. Cheeses and potatoes, carrots fresh from the ground, butter from the churn, onions and dry wild garlic.

  ‘A sore head as well as a raw body?’ John grinned at him.

  ‘No, no, just a single mug of ale, I swear. But I did learn something useful. One of the cousins of the Unthank family was there. Happy to be out for the evening.’

  ‘And did he like to talk?’

  ‘To talk, flirt with the girls, play dice… last night Cuthbert couldn’t get enough of life.’ He gave a broad smile. ‘We all need times like that.’

  ‘What did he have to say that was useful?’

  ‘A rumour about Gertrude’s sister.’

  John had forgotten that the dead woman had a sister. She’d been mentioned a few times in passing, but nothing more than that. He’d never given the woman any thought.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘If Cuthbert Unthank is right – and for the love of Jesu, it would be the first time in his life – Lady Gwendolyn and her husband are desperate for money,’ Jeffrey said.

  ‘Plenty of people have nothing,’ John said. They’d strolled further, around the side of the church. He craned his neck to stare up at the scaffolding at the workers on the roof, and for a moment he envied them the order of their lives.

  ‘I know.’ Jeffrey’s voice grew serious. ‘But most people don’t spend their way through dowries and marriage settlements.’

  ‘No.’ It was a world John would never be a part of, one he’d never understand. The way the wealthy and the powerful lived their lives and arranged their marriages made no sense to him. Where was the passion, where was the joy? It all seemed to be duty, keeping a name going, building estates. ‘Does it mean much?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jeffrey pushed his lips together. ‘I heard my Lord l’Honfleur was generous with her, but I was younger when it all happened. I had no interest in how much it was.’

  ‘Some people are spendthrifts.’ He’d seen that often enough in his life.

  ‘Cuthbert said they’ve asked the husband’s father for more money.’

  John sighed. ‘It’s helpful if there’s someone they can ask. Most people don’t have anyone to turn to when they have nothing. But I’m not sure how this helps us.’

  Jeffrey shrugged. ‘It probably doesn’t. It might be nothing more than gossip. But it has to do with
the family, so I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As they walked, he tried to fit the information into the puzzle of murder. But there was nowhere for it; it didn’t have a place there. Gertrude had a very different life from her sister. A much smaller life and a briefer one.

  ‘I wouldn’t give the idea too much time,’ Jeffrey told him. ‘Remember, there’s not much love lost between the Unthanks and the l’Honfleur family. They might be spreading rumours and causing mischief.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ Some delighted in trouble and in grudges. From all he could see, this had nothing to do with the anchoress; it was better to put it out of his mind. ‘We’re missing something.’

  ‘What, though?’ Jeffrey asked. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘If we knew that, we’d have the answer to the problem.’ John was about to say more when someone shouted his name. He turned. It was the captain of the coroner’s men, running along Low Pavement and waving his arms as people stopped to stare at him.

  ‘Carpenter!’ He panted out the word, bending over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. ‘My master wants you.’

  ‘What is it?’ He glanced at Jeffrey. The young man gave a quick shake of his head and quietly slid away; this wasn’t his business.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over Chesterfield for you. Your wife didn’t know where you’d gone.’ He said it like an admonishment. ‘A body.’ The man took a deep breath. ‘Come on, Master.’

  John followed as the guard cut through the tiny streets of the Shambles. He was a big man, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he ordered people aside in the name of the coroner.

  They took the road past the church, down the hill and along the Tapton road that led to Brimington.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not far now, Master.’ He kept his quick pace to where the road turned, then stopped. ‘Down the hillside, Master, down by the water. A pair of serfs from the manor found him this morning.’

  A group of men had gathered at the bottom of the slope. He could pick out Strong, but he didn’t know any of the others. A man’s body lay twisted on the ground, half in the water, his face turned away.