Bernard Knight - Crowner Royal

‘Well, a novitiate that I know slightly, took me aside and said that he was very distressed, as Basil had been a close friend.’ Thomas hesitated and looked a little embarrassed. ‘In fact, I rather think that they might have been more than good friends, may God forgive them.’

The coroner was not interested in the morals of Westminster clerics. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Thomas?’ he snapped.

‘This young man knew I was the coroner’s clerk and said he wanted to do all he could to bring his friend’s killer to justice. He told me that a few days ago, Basil had confided in him that his life might be in danger because he had overheard a seditious conversation in the palace.’

Gwyn stared at him through the ginger frizz on his lumpy face.

‘What in hell is a “seditious conversation”?’ he grunted.

‘And why should it put this Basil in mortal danger?’ added de Wolfe.

The little clerk wriggled uncomfortably. ‘He was quite vague about this, Crowner,’ he said apologetically. ‘It seems Basil was not very forthcoming about the matter — and then the novitiate, Robin Byard by name, was also quite furtive when he told me.’

‘You must know more that that!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Or why bother to tell us at all?’

Thomas almost twitched with nervousness at his master’s impatience. ‘It seems that during his duties in the guest chambers, Basil was behind a screen in one of the rooms, checking blankets in a chest. Two people came in and were unaware of him, but started speaking of something that would get them hanged if it was made known!’

‘So what was this something?’ demanded Gwyn, before John could get out the same words.

‘That’s the problem, Basil wouldn’t tell Robin, for fear of putting him in similar jeopardy,’ gabbled Thomas. ‘Neither would he say who the people were.’

‘So why did he bother to mention it at all?’ rasped the coroner.

‘He wanted help and advice, for it seems that in his anxiety to hear what was said, he tipped over the screen and the two persons saw that he had been listening,’ explained the clerk. ‘Basil gabbled some excuse and ran away, but they obviously knew who he was — and ever since he had been expecting to be silenced — which seems to have happened, for this killing was no robbery.’

John and Gwyn looked at each other over the rims of their ale mugs. ‘Sounds a tall story, but the fact is that the fellow was stabbed!’ said Gwyn. ‘And you’ve no idea what this secret conversation was about?’

‘We’d better have a word with this fellow Byard,’ rumbled John. ‘But why did Basil tell this apprentice monk, rather than someone in authority?’

‘He was seeking advice, as he was his best friend,’ said Thomas carefully. ‘Robin Byard told him he must tell either the Guest-Master or the Purveyor — or even the Keeper of the Palace. But Basil said he was afraid he would either be disbelieved or be disciplined for eavesdropping on guests.’

‘How did a clerk in the guest house come to be so friendly with a Benedictine novitiate?’ asked John suspiciously.

‘It seems they are both of an age and come from the same village in Surrey. This Basil had decided he wanted to enter the abbey as a novice — perhaps to be with his best friend,’ Thomas added with a blush.

‘What sort of secrets might justify the risks of stabbing a man in broad daylight?’ queried Gwyn.

De Wolfe chewed this over in his mind for a moment. ‘Unless this is all a figment of the fellow’s imagination, there’s some palace intrigue behind this. I’ve heard that the place is a hotbed of corruption, embezzlement, theft, adultery, fornication and God knows what else!’

‘What about spying?’ added Thomas. ‘I know the king’s directing his war against Philip from Rouen, but it’s from here that England has to defend its coast against invasion. And the French are always trying to stir up the Scots and Welsh against us.’

‘Perhaps they were planning to steal the Crown Jewels!’ offered Gwyn facetiously.

‘They should be safe enough in the crypt of the abbey,’ replied John seriously, impervious to his officer’s humour. ‘Thomas, tell this new friend of yours that I want to talk to him tomorrow, before I hold the inquest. And Gwyn, in future I think I had better forsake Osanna’s cooking in the evenings and eat in the palace. You never know what we might pick up there.’

With a picture of a certain lady in mind, an obvious answer came to him, but he managed to convince himself that dining in the Lesser Hall was now part of his duty.

The next day, though the sun was already warming the lanes, it was still early when the coroner and his officer walked from their house to the palace. As they went from Tothill Street through the rear gate of the abbey precinct and strode across Broad Sanctuary, the sounds of chanting came from the chancel, as the monks celebrated Prime, the first office of the day.

‘I suppose our clerk is amongst that lot,’ said Gwyn gruffly, jerking a thumb towards Edward the Confessor’s great building.

John had never managed to discover the cause of the Cornishman’s disenchantment with the Church. He himself was a reluctant worshipper, especially since he no longer had his wife to drag him to devotions, but compared to his officer he was an ardent believer.

‘Let him enjoy it, poor fellow,’ he advised. ‘There’s nothing for him to do until the inquest an hour before noon.’

They passed the small church of St Margaret, built by the monks for the use of the local population, to avoid interruption of their endless devotions in the abbey. A small gate in the wall between the monastic and secular areas, led them into New Palace Yard, where already clerks, men-at-arms and members of the public were criss-crossing the wide area, dodging ox-carts and mounted men coming and going from the main gate on King Street.

Up in their chamber, Gwyn threw open the window shutter and leaned out to study the strip of scrubby grass between the base of the wall and the river’s edge. Feet had worn a path of dusty earth along it, the same one along which he had chased the killer two days before. The tide was dropping now and the sullen brown water swirled downstream. Across the wide expanse, he could see more marshes and some farmland visible on the opposite bank at Lambeth, now disfigured by some large building activity.

‘Too bloody flat around here for my liking,’ he grumbled, determined to find fault with everywhere that was not his native West Country. Coming from the steep fishing village of Polruan in Cornwall, he missed the slopes and cliffs of his youth.

He raised his eye to the sky and frowned. ‘I reckon this weather is soon going to end in a storm,’ he added. ‘Instead of dust, we’ll have mud everywhere!’

‘Jonah had nothing on you, Gwyn,’ growled John, sitting behind his table. ‘I think you’ll soon need a trip back home to see your wife and family. I might come with you, to try to discover what this bloody wife of mine intends to do.’

His officer left the window and sat on a milking stool, which creaked ominously under his weight. ‘If this whole court is going to shift itself to Gloucester when the old queen comes, maybe we’ll have a chance to slip off to Exeter from there — it’s nearer than this place.’

De Wolfe shrugged, doubtful if the distance would make much difference, but not wanting to dishearten Gwyn. They had spent over twenty years together away from Devon, on campaigns in Ireland, France and the Holy Land, without being too bothered by homesickness. However, three years back in England seemed to have softened them up. He decided to shake off this morbid mood and changed the subject.