The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson Page A

round the lord’s fields. Have business with him, do you?’ It was a natural villager’s curiosity.
    ‘Someone mentioned his name, and we’re passing.’ John shrugged. ‘Did you ever know someone called Julian? Lives in Chesterfield now?’
    ‘Him.’ Her face turned hard. ‘I wouldn’t give you a farthing for him. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone here who would. Dronfield’s a lot better since he left.’
    ‘Why does everyone hate him?’
    ‘He stole anything that wasn’t locked up. Nothing anyone could prove, mind you. He was sly enough for that, but we all knew. Finally we decided to give him a warning: leave or pay the price. He went.’
    ‘All the way to Chesterfield,’ John said.
    ‘It’s far enough.’ She shrugged. ‘As long as he’s not coming around here, I don’t care.’
    The food was good, heavily spiced and tasty. He finished the bowl, wiping it clean with a slice of bread, then washed everything down with the last of the ale. But even with the meal in him, Walter still looked hungry. He could wait for more; they had work to do.
    The stone of the manor house was still bright, the windows glazed. Some lord’s rich statement. The building looked no more than a few years old, but solid and ready to stand for the ages. Two men were working close by, turning over the soil. They stopped as they noticed the approach of two strangers.
    ‘God go with you.’ John raised a hand in greeting.
    ‘And with you,’ the older of the men said warily, a large hand resting on his shovel. ‘Are you looking for someone?’
    ‘Christian, if he’s here.’
    A shadow seemed to cross the man’s face. It only lasted a moment then his expression was empty again.
    ‘The steward’s down in the bottoms, along the Sheffield Road.’ He pointed north. ‘They’re draining a ditch.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Just follow the road by the stream and you’ll find him.’
    ‘What do you want with Christian?’ the younger of the pair asked. He was thin, the hose baggy on his legs, arms no thicker than twigs.
    John smiled. ‘Just a little business. Good day to you, Masters.’
    ‘Did you notice that?’ he asked as they went back down the hill. ‘The way that man’s look changed when I mentioned Christian’s name.’
    ‘I don’t think he likes him. You should have asked him why.’
    ‘He wouldn’t have told me.’ It wasn’t something to share with complete strangers. ‘There’s someone else I want to see while we’re here.’
    At the church he swung the door open. The air felt cooler, fragrant with the faint scent of incense. The priest was standing by the altar, lost in prayer. John put a finger to his lips as they entered.
    As their soles rang out on the tile floor the man turned in alarm, his mouth still open. He peered with old eyes.
    ‘I know you, don’t I?’
    ‘You do, Father.’ John grinned. ‘You gave me shelter for a night last summer.’
    ‘You’re a … carpenter?’ He tried to remember.
    ‘I am, Father. John the Carpenter. And settled in Chesterfield now, married with a child due.’ The priest crossed himself with his hope for the baby. ‘This is Walter, my wife’s brother.’
    ‘What brings you back here, my son?’
    ‘Questions, Father. I’m doing work for the coroner.’
    The priest raised an eyebrow.
    ‘If you want to talk we should go outside,’ he said after a small hesitation. ‘There’s a bench in the shade. It’s a pleasant place to sit.’
    Indeed it was. By the north wall of the church, in the shadow of the building, catching the small wisps of breeze that fluttered down the hill.
    ‘Questions, you said?’ the priest asked as he settled.
    ‘That’s right. I’d like to know about two people,’ John told him. ‘Christian the steward and someone who used to live here.’
    The Father chuckled. ‘If you’re asking about Christian, then the other person must be Julian.’
    ‘They were close?’
    ‘They’re cousins,’ the priest told him. ‘Their