The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson

harried. He had a nervous face, hair cut short, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to show hairy arms. An assortment of his wares was on display across the lowered front shutter. Fashionable shoes with long, pointed toes, lovingly worked in expensive leather. Sturdier, cheaper boots, made for men who laboured and needed something strong.
    John looked down at his feet. He’d worn the same pair of boots for the last three years. New, they’d cost him a pretty penny, but they’d lasted well. Now, though, they looked scuffed and sad. Perhaps it was time to replace them.
    ‘Good day, Master,’ Edmund said with a smile. ‘Looking for anything in particular?’
    He could see the shoemaker assessing him, judging what type of footwear he’d need and how much might be in his purse.
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘What’s your work, Master?’
    ‘I’m a carpenter.’
    ‘You need something that will last, then. But comfortable.’ Edmund moved out from the counter. ‘It looks like those have served you kindly. Doesn’t look like the work of anyone local, though.’ He smiled quickly. ‘We all have our little touches. I don’t recognise these.’
    ‘I bought them in York.’
    ‘York! They have good craftsmen up there. A wonderful place, people say.’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘I could make you a pair like these,’ Edmund said, stroking his chin. ‘Something to last you three years and better. They won’t be cheap, but they’ll still feel good after a day’s labour.’
    ‘How much?’
    The shoemaker named his price. Half the cost of the boots in York.
    ‘As long as they’re strong.’
    ‘The best, Master. I promise you that.’
    ‘I’m surprised you don’t have anyone working with you.’
    Edmund’s face turned sour. ‘I did. A hard worker and he’d been with me a long time. Then he didn’t turn up on Monday and the next thing I know he’s dead out on Tapton Lane.’
    ‘The men everyone’s talking about?’
    Edmund nodded. ‘One of them. Gilbert, his name was. Fine with a needle, too; he could sew a pair of shoes as tight as anyone I’d ever met. But he had his ways.’
    ‘His ways?’ John asked.
    ‘He liked to drink and wager. He could probably have had his own shop if he’d put his mind to it. But that wasn’t Gilbert. You know how some people are. He thought that if he bet cleverly enough, he’d win and life would be easy.’
    ‘Didn’t they find another man out there, too?’
    ‘Edward the Butcher. He was a bad sort. I daresay there won’t be too many honest folk who’ll miss him.’ He looked around and leant closer, lowering his voice. ‘The rumour is that they killed old Timothy and his servant. I wouldn’t put that past Edward. There was something about him.’
    ‘Were they good friends? Gilbert and Edward?’
    ‘Drank together, gambled together.’ Edmund shrugged. ‘Must have been close enough, I suppose. Hand me your boots a minute, Master, so I can make some outlines.’
    In a little while he was back on Soutergate. His purse was lighter, but a man needed stout boots for work. It was an investment, he told himself; they’d serve him for a long time. That was some consolation.
    He spotted Walter at the top of the hill and quickened his pace to catch up. The lad vanished into a little jennel between two houses. John arrived in time to see the menacing presence of Julian at the end of the lane, blocking the way out. The boy stood, clutching a package to his side.
    John drew his knife, walking along calmly. Walter turned in fright at the footsteps, then smiled with relief.
    ‘I thought we could walk together,’ John said.
    Julian didn’t move as they approached. He wore no expression on his face, eyes narrow, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger.
    ‘Good day to you,’ John said. ‘You’ll need to move so we can go past.’
    But Julian stood his ground. ‘You’ve been asking about me in Dronfield.’
    ‘I have,’ John admitted.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I was on the coroner’s