Bernard Knight: The Grim Reaper

Again Thomas was the fount of knowledge. ‘It can happen, especially to those clerks in minor orders who can read but who are not yet ordained. The usual test is to give them the Vulgate and see if they can read the first sentence of the fifty-first Psalm — “Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy loving kindness — according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my transgressions.” ’

‘That bit of the Psalms is famous,’ observed the coroner. ‘It’s known as the “neck verse” because it’s saved many a cleric from the rope — and some who weren’t even in Orders of any kind!’

Gwyn snorted his disdain. ‘I could learn that off by heart, without being able to read.’

‘Maybe you better had — it might come in useful, in case you tumble any more priests out of their bell-towers,’ said de Wolfe, with a grin.

Nesta, having been further from the dramatic events of the past week or so, had a wider perspective of the whole affair and could see gaps in the story.

‘Why did Adam start on this mad crusade — and why at this particular time?’ she wondered aloud.

John shrugged, as the same question had bothered him. ‘Who can fathom the mind of someone as possessed as he was? As to the timing, I think the imminent arrival of the Justices triggered it. Maybe he wanted to show that his own brand of God-given retribution was more effective than man-made laws.’

‘Did he kill at random, d’you think?’ asked the Welshwoman.

‘He must have chosen his victims in advance,’ de Wolfe replied, ‘as he had to find appropriate texts. He seems to have put their faces on the wall of his church later, as he hadn’t got around to mine, unless he was about to add it when we caught him up that ladder.’

The others were silent for a moment, then Thomas asked, ‘How did he manage never to be seen at any of his killings? He was hardly a skinny wraith like me,’ he added.

‘Apart from the attack on Justice Serlo, they were all at dead of night and this city is hardly well lit,’ replied John. ‘A priest with his black robe and cowl is virtually invisible after dark, and if he’s challenged by the constables, he always has the excuse that he’s going to some church for Matins or to give the Last Offices to the dying.’

Gwyn agreed. ‘He’s lived in Exeter for years, and must know every lane and alleyway. I suppose he stalked his victims and struck when the best opportunity arose.’

‘He certainly stalked me to good effect!’ said John, pointing ruefully to his head. His turban-like bandage was gone, but he still had a very sore spot on his scalp.

Swallowing the last of his ale, de Wolfe prepared to leave. He had spent precious little time at home this past week and wished to avoid damaging Matilda’s fairly benign mood. She had been relieved that events had concealed her brother’s folly in Waterbeer Street and also that her own niggling doubts about Julian Fulk had been dispelled. In addition, the public acclamation of her husband’s success in unmasking the Gospel killer had significantly notched up her standing within her social circle — especially since another feast for the Justices, this time at Rougemont, had given her another opportunity to display both her finery and her famous husband.

As John stood up, he put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. ‘I spoke to your uncle when he was at the court today. He’ll no doubt talk to you himself, but it seems that the Bishop is a little conscience-stricken at refusing you Benefit of Clergy when you were in such dire trouble and then proved innocent. He has hinted that he might withdraw his objections to your eventual return to Holy Orders.’

The clerk’s face lit up as if a shaft of sunlight had struck it. Tears appeared in his eyes and he clutched at the sleeve of his master’s tunic. ‘God preserve you, Crowner! But even if I am restored, I will remain your clerk for a long while yet. You may again need someone who can interpret the scriptures for you!’

Next morning, de Wolfe ambled up to his chamber above the gatehouse of Rougemont, partly to get out of the house on a Sunday and also to give Brutus some exercise: the old hound’s joints were getting stiff.

With the dog resting by his feet under the table, he spent a few minutes studying his reading lessons, badly neglected during the recent busy weeks. Soon bored and thirsty, he rose to look for Gwyn’s store of cider, which he kept in a large jar in the corner of the barren room. The Cornishman’s frayed leather jerkin, discarded in the warmer weather, was draped over the two-gallon pot and when John pulled it off, something fell out of the large poacher’s pocket inside. It was one of Thomas’s little pottery jars of ink, a curious thing for the illiterate Gwyn to be carrying. Intrigued, de Wolfe dipped his hand into the pocket and pulled out a quill pen and a ragged piece of blank parchment.

Sitting back at the trestle, he felt in the pouch on his belt and pulled out the folded note with the text from Ecclesiastes that had been left at the scene of his own assault. When he put the irregular margins of the two fragments of parchment together, they fitted exactly. Staring at them with slowly dawning comprehension, John now knew why Gwyn had chosen to make his own private visit to the clerk on the last evening before he was due to be hanged. The Cornishman must have overcome Thomas’s resignation to a welcome release from this world and persuaded him to use his accomplishments with a pen to forge a note in a disguised hand, similar to that left with the dead Jew.

Slowly, de Wolfe sat back on his stool. A lopsided grin creased his face as he put up a hand to feel the still-tender swelling on the back of his head.

‘Thank you, Gwyn,’ he said quietly. ‘But now I owe you one!’