Bernard Knight - Figure of Hate

'These men are lodging in Curre Street, you say?'

'Yes, they're dossing in a cheap room behind a brothel. I've arranged the inquest in the Shire Hall for the tenth hour. Gabriel is sending a couple of men down to the Watergate to fetch the corpse up on a barrow.'

'What about a jury?'

For all that he looked like a huge ginger Barbary ape, Gwyn of Polruan was an efficient organiser. 'All fixed, Crowner. The porters and stevedores from the wharf make up most of them, but I've got a few stallholders from the fair as well, men who were near the silversmith's booth.'

This Thursday was the third and last day of the fair and the last chance John had of spotting the men who had killed August Scrope, if they were still around.

They collected the two craftsmen from a squalid room in the narrow street that ran from High Street towards the north wall and marched them down to Southernhay, giving Terrus of Totnes strict orders to keep his eyes peeled as they went. He had recovered well, and the previous day's weakness seemed to have passed, though he still had livid bruising and crusted scratches on his face.

The fair was still in full swing, though a few stalls had closed up, their owners having either sold all their wares or started on a long journey home. There was no rival attraction on Bull Mead today so the crowds were thronging the booths as thickly as on the two previous days.

Terrus and his fellow craftsman, Alfred, walked behind the coroner and his officer as they slowly paraded up and down the lanes between the stalls, the survivor of the assault swinging his head from side to side as he peered at faces in the press of people. They completed two circuits without result, and John began to wonder whether they were wasting their time. Going back up the centre again, they came to the stage and stopped to watch a performance of Moses ascending the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments. The onlookers were mightily amused when the false-bearded prophet slipped and put his foot through the lath-and-plaster simulation of Mount Sinai, giving vent to some colourful unbiblical oaths that drew cries of outrage from the vicar, who was chanting the appropriate commentary from the Old Testament.

John grinned and Gwyn added his belly-laugh to the jeers of derision from the crowd, but suddenly the coroner felt an urgent tugging at his sleeve.

'That's one of the bastards, I'm sure,' hissed Terrus.

He half hid behind de Wolfe as he covertly pointed across the front of the platform at the crowd clustered on the other side. 'That thick set fellow with the leather cape!'

John saw a heavily built man of about thirty with a narrow rim of mousy beard running around his face, which bore a surly expression, even though he was watching the hilarious fiasco on the stage. His clothing was plain but of fair quality, a short, tightly belted tunic under a black shoulder cape that had a dagged lower edge and a pointed hood hanging behind his thick neck. To the coroner, he looked like a retainer in a household, either a bailiff or a manor-reeve.

'Are you sure? No sign of the other one?' Terrus scanned the crowd almost fearfully, painfully reminded of the beating he had already suffered, then shook his head. 'No, just that one. But I'm certain it's him, even his garments are the same.'

'Right, you stay here until we call you.' He nudged Gwyn and together they walked behind the crowd to reach the other side of the stage where the man stood.

They moved into position, one on either side of him.

'We want a word with you, fellow.'

Surprised, the man turned around, his square face creased into a scowl. He had short, bristly hair the same colour as his beard, and his small dark eyes were deeply set under heavy brows.

'And who the hell might you be?' he rasped, showing a set of uneven brown teeth.

'The King's coroner — and this is my officer. Come over here where we can talk.' John waved a hand at an empty booth a few yards away, where there was no one to overhear them.

The man's scowl deepened. 'I'm coming nowhere! State your business here.'

For reply, Gwyn grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, shoving him across the lane to the place his master had indicated. Though the man was burly and tough looking, he was no match for the Cornishman's strength and, cursing and wriggling, he was propelled under the striped awning of the deserted booth.

The coroner regarded him coldly. 'You can talk here — or in the gaol in Rougemont, it's your choice.'

'Holy Mary, what's the world coming to that a man can't watch a mystery play without being set upon by law officers?' he seethed, but John noticed a shifty look in his eyes which might suggest a lurking anxiety. Gwyn loosened his grip, but watched for any signs of escape.

'What's your name and where are you from?' was de Wolfe's first demand.

'It's none of your bloody business, but I'm Robert Longus, an armourer.' There were many such men about the town this week — they came either as freelances or as retainers to their knights, attending to the weapons and armour used in the tournament.

'Where are you from, armourer?' asked Gwyn gruffly.

'Again, it's not your concern, but I come from near Tiverton. What in hell is all this about?'

For reply, John beckoned to Terrus, and hesitantly the man approached, but stopped a few feet away from them, out of range of Robert's fist.

'This man claims you were one of pair who attacked him and killed his partner near Topsham on Monday morning,' snapped the coroner. 'Do you deny it?' The upshot of his reply, peppered with oaths as foul as any that the two hardened campaigners had heard in two decades of soldiering, was to the effect that it was pack of lies and that he had never been near Topsham in his life.

John turned to the silversmith, who was cringing like a rabbit before a ferret. 'What do you say to that, Terrus?' he demanded.

'It's him, I'm certain of it!' babbled the man. 'I'll remember his face for the rest of my life.' He dodged behind Gwyn's large bulk as Robert Longus made a sudden movement towards him, but the Cornishman held out a hand the size of a salted ham to hold him back.

'Calm down, fellow! Just pay attention to the coroner.'

'So where were you early on Monday?' demanded de Wolfe. Something about this man didn't ring true, for all his protestations.

'I was working for my master and minding my own damned business!' cried Robert furiously. 'Ask him yourself, if you don't believe me.'

'We'll do just that, Longus. Where can we find him?' The armourer hesitated for a moment. 'He should be at his lodging, no doubt breaking his fast at this hour.' It was late for most people's morning meal, but that was no concern of de Wolfe.

'Where's he staying? We'll go there now and settle this once and for all.'

Robert grudgingly told them that it was in High Street, and they set off up to the East Gate, which was the nearest entrance into the city from where they were.

With Terrus following reluctantly behind, keeping his distance, they marched off, John and Gwyn staying close behind the man, to see that he didn't give them the slip. Once through the gate, de Wolfe was somewhat surprised to see the armourer making for the left side of the street, where the New Inn was situated. This was the largest and most expensive of the hostelries in Exeter, where the judges and other visiting dignitaries stayed.

'Who is your master, anyway?' John called out to the fellow's back.

'There he is — you can ask him yourself!' retorted Robert, rudely. He pointed to two figures standing outside the door of the inn, wearing riding cloaks and seemingly waiting for an ostler to bring their horses around from the yard at the back.

'It's that bastard Peverel!' muttered Gwyn in surprise. 'Who's that with him?'