Bernard Knight - Crowner's Quest

A soldier, wearing a thick leather jerkin and a round helmet with a nose-guard, stood at the foot of the staircase to the keep. Like the man at the gatehouse, he stiffened and saluted the King’s law officer.

In the hall above, there was a scattering of people, fewer than on a normal working day. Most were castle servants, clerks and squires, who were clustered around the great fireplace as the morning was raw and frosty. De Wolfe ignored them and marched across to a small door where yet another man-at-arms stood: Richard de Revelle liked to display his importance with a full contingent of largely unnecessary guards.

Nodding absently to the soldier, de Wolfe pushed open the heavy studded door and walked into the sheriff’s chamber. This was the room de Revelle used for his official duties, and beyond it were his living quarters. He spent most of his time here, going home at intervals to Lady Eleanor at either Tavistock or Revelstoke near Plympton. His wife rarely deigned to stay in Rougemont’s bleak accommodation, but at the moment was reluctantly in residence for the festival of Christ’s birth.

When the coroner entered, the sheriff was seated behind a large table near the fireplace, reading a parchment roll. A clerk was hovering at his shoulder, murmuring and pointing out something on the document. Richard ignored de Wolfe’s arrival, took a quill pen from the table, impatiently scratched out a word and wrote something alongside. John felt a stab of jealousy at the casual literacy of his brother-in-law, who in his youth had attended the cathedral school at Wells. The clerk took the corrected roll, bowed and scurried out, leaving his master to acknowledge the coroner’s presence. ‘No more dead prebendaries this morning, John?’

‘It’s no matter for levity, Richard,’ snapped the coroner. ‘That nest of churchmen down there has a great deal of power.’ He pulled up a stool to the opposite side of the table and sat glowering at his brother-in-law. ‘I’m going down to the Close shortly to hold an inquest, not that it’s going to advance us much.’

De Revelle smoothed his pointed beard with a heavily ringed hand. ‘The deceased seems an unlikely candidate for murder. Are you quite sure it wasn’t a felo de se?’

De Wolfe groaned silently at the sheriff’s persistence in pursuing the suicide theory. ‘And strangled himself first and gripped his own arms enough to bruise them?’ he reminded his brother-in-law.

The sheriff was silent. He would have had little interest in the death except that he was a close friend of Bishop Henry Marshal and Thomas de Boterellis, the Precentor, whose job it was to organise all the services at the cathedral. They would want a full investigation of this sudden demise of one of their canonical brethren.

‘Do you know anything of the man, Richard?’

‘Nothing at all. To my knowledge, I never saw him alive. He sounded a very retiring man of God.’ He looked across at the dark, bony man opposite. ‘Have you any idea why he should have been killed? If, in fact, he didn’t die by his own hand.’

The coroner shrugged. ‘God knows — presumably! Have any of the town watch or your men-at-arms heard of any undesirables in the city at this holiday time?’

De Revelle laughed derisively. ‘Undesirables? Half the bloody population of Exeter is undesirable! Just go around the taverns or take a walk at night into Bretayne, if you doubt me.’ Bretayne was the poorest district, down towards the river, named after the original British who had been pushed there centuries before when the Saxons invaded Exeter. ‘But I’ll ask Ralph Morin if he has any recent intelligence.’ He yelled for his guard.

A few moments later the constable of Rougemont entered the chamber. He was a large, powerful man, with a weatherbeaten face above a forked grey beard and moustache. They discussed the killing for a time with this Viking-like figure, but the constable had nothing to suggest. ‘The usual riff-raff are in the town, but no one who is likely to strangle a respectable priest. Nothing was stolen, as far as you can make out?’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘He lived a modest life, unlike some of his fellow canons. There seemed nothing worth stealing in his house.’

De Revelle stood up and paced restlessly to one of the narrow slits that did service as a window. He looked down at the inner ward, where two oxen were laboriously hauling a large-wheeled cart through the mire. ‘Personally I don’t give a clipped penny for the life of some idle old cleric, but the Bishop is going to want answers when he gets back from Gloucester in a few days’ time.’

Morin pushed himself away from the fireplace on which he had been leaning, the huge sword that hung from his baldric clanking against a bucket of logs. ‘I’ll send Sergeant Gabriel out with a couple of men to twist a few arms — but if nothing was stolen, it’s useless making the usual search for men overspending in the taverns and brothels.’

John uncoiled himself from his stool and moved to the door. ‘I’ll talk to as many of the holy men as I can today, before the inquest. And my sharp little clerk is trying to ferret out any episcopal gossip for me — he’s picked up a few hints already.’ The coroner looked pointedly at the sheriff, but de Revelle met his eye without a flicker.

De Wolfe and his two acolytes stood at the great west end of the cathedral as the crowd streamed out after the high mass on this special morning of the year. Matilda had returned to St Olave’s for her devotions. John sometimes wondered if she fancied the parish priest there, even though he was a fat, unctuous creature.

After the worshippers had dispersed from the cathedral steps along the many muddy paths of the Close, the clergy came out, eager for their late-morning lunch. With black cloaks over their vestments, they walked in small groups back to their various dwellings. Some went towards Canons’ Row, others to houses and lodgings scattered throughout the precinct. Many of the vicars and secondaries walked down to Priest Street 1on the other side of South Gate Street, not far from de Wolfe’s favourite haunt, the Bush tavern, whose landlady, Nesta, was his mistress.

The coroner was lying in wait for several of the senior clerics, to question them about last night’s events. The Archdeacon had promised to collect those canons who had best known Robert de Hane and deliver them to him before they vanished for their midday meal.

‘What about the inquest?’ demanded Gwyn, whose duty it was to round up a jury, whose members would include anyone who might have information about the sudden departure of the canon from this earthly plane.

‘Better let them eat first — half have disappeared already,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Catch them before the next service begins. That’ll be vespers.’

The priestly staff of the cathedral were supposed to attend no less than seven services every day, beginning at midnight matins. The longest period free of devotions was between late morning and mid-afternoon.

‘There he is, with a few canons in tow,’ piped up Thomas, quickly making the sign of the Cross at such a concentration of senior clerics. Although he had been ejected from the priesthood, he ached to remain accepted as one of the brethren and he never missed an opportunity to be in their company and included in their conversations.

The Archdeacon came out on to the wide steps, his spare figure enveloped in a hooded cloak, which hid the rich alb and chasuble underneath. As he moved towards the coroner, a trio of cloaked men sailed behind him. First was the Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, then two other canons talking together, whom de Wolfe recognised as Jordan de Brent and Roger de Limesi. They were all residents of the row of houses where the death had taken place the previous evening.