The Crooked Spire by Chris Nickson

Author:Chris Nickson [Nickson, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2013-11-01T04:00:00+00:00

He tried to rest in his room, but he felt as if the walls were contracting around him, closing him in. His throat felt tight, and he was restless, pacing the floor, a few steps one way, a few back. Finally he let himself out of the house quietly, pulling his hood up against the rain and holding his cote tight against his chest.

The gaol was up Holywell Street, close to the church and the cross that stood by the weekday market. It was a small stone building, one room with the cells down in the ground, the only light through a small barred window just above the ground.

The gaoler was dozing in his chair, his head snapping up quickly as the door opened.

‘The coroner said I could talk to Roger.’

The man shrugged, standing and stretching lazily as he selected one of the keys from the ring on his belt. He unlocked one door and led the way down the stone steps into the darkness.

The smell was rank, harsh and cloying, a mix of urine, faeces and the stench of all the bodies who had spent time here over the years. He began to cough, feeling the bile rise in his throat.

‘You’ll get used to it after a while,’ the gaoler laughed. ‘Especially if you’re here a few weeks.’ He turned a key in the cell door and winked. ‘Shout when you’re done. If you’re lucky, I might hear you.’

Roger was seated on the floor, his back against a wall where moisture ran down the stone, glistening in the half-light. He had a manacle around one ankle, connected by a chain to an iron staple in the floor.

A few days here had changed him. He was dirty, his face empty of hope, the hair matted against his head.

John stood, waiting until the man looked up and met his gaze.

‘Happy to see me here?’ Roger asked.

‘You killed Mark. Do you think you deserve better?’

‘I did the town a favour when I got rid of him.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you, anyway? You’re not a local man.’

‘I’m the one the coroner first thought had murdered him.’

The man gave a short laugh. ‘You should have. Sooner you here than me. All that’s left is a journey to Derby and a rope.’

‘Pray for forgiveness.’

‘You pray for me.’ Roger turned his head and spat. ‘You helped put me here, it’s the least you can do.’

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘Why?’ Roger shook his head in surprise. ‘He owed me money and he wouldn’t pay.’

‘That’s it?’

‘When you’ve got nothing, it’s enough.’

‘How much was it?’

‘Sixpence,’ the man said wearily. Sixpence: a day and a half’s wages for a skilled man – little enough to die for.

‘Don’t you feel any sorrow for what you did?’ John wondered.

‘I’m sorry I’m here, if that means aught. If you want to do me a good turn, give the gaoler a couple of coins to buy me ale. You’d better watch him, though, he’s a thief.’

‘I’ll do that.’ A little ale for a dying man; it was charity, nothing more.

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