Free The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson Page A

better once it’s day.’
    ‘What do you want us to do with the body, sir?’ one of the bailiffs asked.
    ‘Leave him here and keep a guard on him,’ he decided. ‘I’ll send a cart in the morning.’
    Brother Robert started to limp after his master, the portable desk weighing heavy on one shoulder.
    ‘Let me carry that for you,’ John offered, hoisting the strap on to his good shoulder.
    ‘Thank you, John.’ The monk smiled with relief.
    ‘What do you make of it, Brother?’
    ‘It looks simple enough. They fell out and fought.’ He gave a brief, tired smile. ‘Thieves do that. They’re with God now, ready to be judged. May He have mercy on their souls.’
    ‘Do you think they deserve it?’
    ‘I’m not the one who sees their sins.’
    John let his thoughts wander as they trudged towards town.
    ‘Where’s the other body?’
    ‘At the jail,’ the monk told him. ‘We’ll see he’s buried tomorrow. You should be glad it’s over.’
    ‘I’m not so sure it is.’
    ‘Sometimes the obvious explanation is the real one, John,’ Robert cautioned.
    ‘Sometimes,’ he agreed slowly. ‘I’m just not sure it is here. Where’s the psalter?’ He stayed silent for a while, then asked, ‘Do you know who Julian is? The butcher.’
    ‘Don’t mention his name around the master,’ Robert warned quietly.
    ‘Is he as bad as people say?’
    ‘The talk is that he’s murdered at least four.’
    ‘Why not put him on trial for it?’
    ‘No one will ever testify against him. And we’ve never been able to find any evidence. But we’re certain it was him.’
    ‘Who were the victims?’
    Robert shook his head. ‘Ask me in the morning, please, John. I’m too old to be sharp after a broken sleep.’
    At the foot of Saltergate, close to the stone cross, they parted company.
    • • •
    The jailer was asleep at his desk, loud snores filling the room. John had to slam the door to make him stir.
    ‘What do you want?’ He was a heavy, jowly man who reeked of ale and sweat, not happy at having his rest disturbed.
    ‘I want to see the body that was brought in tonight.’
    ‘And who are you?’ He turned his head and spat on the dirt floor.
    ‘I’m looking into the killings for the coroner.’ He paused. ‘Go and ask him if you don’t believe me. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’
    They stared at each other until the jailer finally reached for his set of keys. Grumbling, he unlocked the door.
    ‘I’ll need some light down there.’
    Slowly, the man took out his flint and tinder, striking the spark and blowing it into a flame. He picked up a torch coated with pitch and soon there was light. Without a word he handed it over.
    It was Gilbert. The bald spot at the top of his head, The body which reeked of leather. The corpse had been thrown against the wall in an untidy tangle of limbs.
    Wincing, he turned the man, holding up the smoking, stinking brand. Five wounds that he could see. One on the face, down the cheek, another three on the forearms, the last, the one that killed him, on his belly. It looked as if he’d been trying to defend himself. They could have come from a knife fight; it was impossible to be certain.
    Gilbert’s purse strings had been cut; just two small leather thongs dangled from his belt.
    ‘Did you steal his purse?’ John asked after he’d climbed from the cell.
    The jailer spat again. ‘No. I haven’t even looked at him.’
    He was telling the truth. It glittered in his hard eyes.
    • • •
    John unlocked the door to the house, moving lightly inside. Everyone still seemed to be asleep up in the solar. He found some bread and cheese in the buttery and half a mug of weak ale to drink with it.
    Four dead now. Too many, far too many. And all for the contents of Timothy’s house and a book the killers probably hadn’t even known existed. One they very likely couldn’t read.
    Greed.
    He sighed, feeling the weariness of a broken night climbing around him. His arm ached. There