Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

Thus it was that on this early morning, many men and some of their wives and children were able to attend the inquest more easily than if they had been bondsmen. Jurors were primarily witnesses, rather than a judging panel, so theoretically every male over the age of twelve years from the four nearest villages was supposed to join the jury with the aim of increasing the chances of finding someone who had personal knowledge of the event. This law was soon found to be impracticable: the summons could not be circulated quickly enough, and it would have denuded the fields of workers and left the animals untended. A compromise was soon reached whereby a score was considered an acceptable quorum.

This number, and many more besides, now trooped through the gap in the drystone wall around the churchyard and formed a large circle centred on the old Saxon altar that sat in the grass a few yards north of the church itself. This ancient stone table had been moved out of the church at the rebuilding because a new one with a marble slab had been given by the tinners. The crowd was scattered among the many low grassy mounds that marked grave sites, a few bearing small wooden crosses, usually bereft of any inscription. This was the background to the first inquest ever held in Chagford and the size of the crowd was more an index of curiosity than any burning desire to assist the course of justice.

Some of the older men, who had survived service in the Irish or French wars — and even one or two who had taken the Cross — knew of Sir John de Wolfe by repute; there had been few campaigns over the past twenty years in which he had not been involved. As they shuffled and stamped in the cold morning air, they regaled their neighbours with tales of Black John’s prowess, with the constant theme that he was to be trusted, but not trifled with — and that he was, first and foremost, King Richard’s man, through hell and high water.

Soon, a small procession appeared around the further corner of the church where a lean-to shed acted as the mortuary. First came Gwyn of Polruan, whose huge, untidy figure marched cheerfully ahead of the coroner, who loped along behind, his hawk-like face as impassive as usual. De Wolfe was followed by the sexton and a gravedigger, who between them carried the handles of a wooden bier on which lay an ominously shortened shape covered with a shroud. Behind the corpse walked what at first sight seemed to be a pair of priests: beside the plump Smithson was a smaller figure, dressed in a similar long black tunic of clerical appearance. Thomas de Peyne carried his breviary in his clasped hands and his peaky face wore a suitably doleful expression. To those who did not know him, he was just another priest, which was exactly the impression he strove to give. The main difference between him and Smithson was that Thomas also carried a sagging shoulder pouch containing his writing materials. As soon as the bier had been slid on top of the old altar, he scuttled to sit on a nearby grave mound and pulled out parchment, pens and ink.

De Wolfe’s large henchman now stood alongside the cadaver, with one hand resting on the bier, and opened the proceedings by bellowing the coroner’s summons at the top of his voice: ‘All persons who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon, draw near and give your attendance!’ Gwyn always enjoyed this duty as, a militant Cornishman, he relished being able to command Normans and Saxons to do his bidding, however fleeting the opportunity. Then he stepped forward and jostled about twenty-five men and boys into a ragged line.

‘These here are the jurors, Crowner,’ he growled in his deep bass voice. ‘All the rest are those with an interest or just sightseers,’ he added dismissively.

The persons with an interest, whom Gwyn had indicated with a stab of his finger, were a well-dressed group with the air of burgesses or merchants, and John guessed correctly that they were the tin-masters. The previous evening, after he had arrived at his lodging in the manor house and paid his respects to the lord of Chagford, it had been too late to call on Knapman, the dead man’s employer.

De Wolfe stood at the other end of the old altar to begin the inquisition. ‘As you all know, this is an inquest into the death of Henry of Tunnaford. First, there is the matter of identity. In spite of the loss of his head, which has not been recovered, I am satisfied from clothing and the depositions of his work-fellows that this corpse is indeed that of Henry. Does anyone here dispute that?’ He glared around the jury, as if defying anyone to disagree with him.

The men all nodded hastily, the late Henry’s gang amongst them.

‘Next, we need to settle any presentment of Englishry,’ barked the coroner, the fringe of black hair swinging across his forehead as he raked his gaze along the line of jurors. ‘We all know that Henry was of Norman lineage, so I presume that no one here is going to claim that he was anything else.’ Again he glowered at the crowd, giving the impression that he would personally fell anyone who had the temerity to dispute his opinion.

This time, a more sullen silence indicated that no one was going to object, but the ill-grace of their acceptance was almost palpable in the churchyard. Everyone was afraid that this was going to cost them dear: a failure to ‘present Englishry’ exposed them to the murdrum fine, established by the Norman conquerors over a century ago when the few thousand invaders had to keep several million Saxons under subjugation. Repeated rebellions and many covert assassinations had led to the introduction of a law that any violent death was assumed to be that of a Norman, unless the community could prove that the corpse had been Saxon or Celt. If this failed, the village, town or Hundred was penalised by the ‘murdrum’ fine, levied on the whole community. While it had been a valid deterrent in the early years after the Conquest, it had now become a cynical means of extra taxation, for racial boundaries were blurred by intermarriage.

Although John de Wolfe was still bound by the law to require presentment, he interpreted the application of the murdrum in a reasonable way: ‘I therefore declare the decedent to have been Norman and that the Hundred is amerced in the sum of twenty marks. However, this stands in abeyance until the matter is heard before the Justices in Eyre. If the culprit is found before then, I doubt the fine will be levied.’

A collective sigh of relief whispered around the churchyard and the birds seemed to sing again in the dark branches of the yew trees that encircled them. De Wolfe made a sign with his forefinger to Gwyn, who stepped forward to jerk a young man from the line of jurors.

‘You were the First Finder, boy?’

It was the youth who had shown de Wolfe where the corpse had lain under the trestles of the sluice. Awed by the proceedings, and with one eye on the still shape under the shroud, the young man told again of how he had found the body. After he had stepped back thankfully into the line, Yeo, the acting overman, came to report what little he knew of the matter.

De Wolfe was somewhat at a loss to fit this case into the usual routine of a suspicious death. The law prescribed that when a body was found, the First Finder must raise the hue and cry by rousing the four nearest households and starting a hunt for the killer. Most murders were impulsive acts, arising out of sudden, often drunken fights, where in the closed communities of village or town, they were often witnessed. Here though, the body had been discovered the next day, in a remote spot at least a mile from the nearest habitation. Theoretically, he could amerce the Hundred yet again for failing to carry out the letter of the law, but it would be ridiculous to expect the tinners to have careered around the moor a day later, seeking the slayer.