Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘We sent down for the bailiff straight away, Crowner. He came up and had a look, then went off to tell Walter Knapman, our master. Then he rode off to Exeter to report it to the sheriff and yourself.’

This was eminently reasonable, de Wolfe decided, and after hearing from one or two of the other gangers, who confirmed the finding of the body but could add nothing else, he turned to the group of town worthies, who stood a little to one side, with a respectful space between them and the common throng.

As well as several men, including the parish priest, there were two women, one young and beautiful, the other old enough to be her mother. One of the men was Hugh Wibbery, lord of Chagford, with whom he had lodged overnight, but the others were strangers to John.

‘Walter Knapman?’ he hazarded, guessing that the tall, fair man standing next to the doe-eyed siren was Yeo’s master.

Knapman stepped forward and nodded perfunctorily. Alhough he had no knight’s spurs like the coroner, he could probably have bought him out ten times over and felt in no particularawe of de Wolfe’s ennoblement. ‘Yes, this poor fellow was one of my men, Sir John,’ he said, before de Wolfe could open his mouth. ‘He worked faithfully for me over a dozen years. His widow will not go short, I promise you.’

A stifled sob came from behind the jury, where the dead man’s wife was being comforted by her sisters and son. De Wolfe scowled. He had taken an instant, if illogical, dislike to Knapman. ‘Have you any reason to think that someone would wish one of your men dead?’

The big, bland face looked back calmly at him. ‘None at all. The fellow was an old and trusted worker. I find it hard to believe he had any enemies.’

‘Then might this have been an attack on your tinning operation, an attempt to disrupt your business?’

Knapman’s outwardly calm expression darkened a little. ‘It certainly did that — I have lost many marks’ worth of production.’

‘And who might benefit from that?’ persisted de Wolfe.

‘Those who are jealous of my success, perhaps.’ Knapman’s amiability was melting like snow in the sunlight and de Wolfe noticed him throw a malicious glance across the crowd. Following the tin-master’s gaze, he saw a younger man glaring back at him.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing. I spoke out of turn.’

‘I’ll not let you leave it like that. This is a royal enquiry and you must answer my questions, if the answer may have any bearing on the death,’ snapped the coroner.

Suddenly the man on the other side of the jury pushed his way to the front. He was another large fellow, under thirty years of age, handsome in a beefy way. His strong-featured, tanned face bore a narrow rim of beard, which ran round his jaw-line, and his hair was cut short on his muscular neck up to a circular shelf of thick dark brown thatch. He wore a good tunic of green linen over brown serge breeches, with a new-looking short leather cape around his shoulders.

‘I’ll tell you what he means, Crowner,’ he shouted, in a bass voice. ‘The bastard is insinuating that I killed his man to damage his stream-working up there on the Teign. And it’s a damned lie, as he well knows!’

Walter Knapman, his face purpling with anger, took a step forward and the younger fellow squared up to him, like a pair of cockerels in a farmyard challenge. Gwyn stepped forward, placed a huge hand on each chest and pushed them apart.

‘Who are you? And what’s all this about?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘I’ll tell you who he is!’ snarled Knapman. ‘He’s Stephen Acland, the biggest troublemaker on the eastern moor. This young upstart thinks he can displace me as the chief tin-master here.’

Acland, now red in the face, leaned sideways to shout at his rival past Gwyn’s massive bulk. ‘I can do that without slaying your men, Knapman. You’ve had your way for too long, but I’ll unseat you by fair means. Don’t try blaming me for the death of your overman.’

‘And what about the damage to my sluices and troughs up at Scorhill last month?’ yelled Knapman. ‘You had nothing to do with that either, I suppose — two days after I threw you out for having the impudence to want to buy half my holdings.’

De Wolfe had allowed this angry exchange to go on in case something useful came of it. Now he decided that enough was enough. ‘Stop, you two! Has this anything at all to do with my enquiries into this death?’

Stephen Acland swung around to face the coroner. ‘Of course not, sir. This is a business matter, which should be aired at the Great Court this week.’

‘Then I suggest you pursue it there, rather than screaming at each other like fish-wives before half the town!’ De Wolfe glared at both combatants, who rapidly cooled down in his forbidding presence. He noticed that the attractive woman he had taken to be Mistress Knapman was staring fixedly at Acland, her full lips slightly apart, her face pale and her eyes wide. He could not decide whether her expression was one of apprehension or enrapturement, but he also saw that her husband was now watching her intently and following her gaze across to the younger tin-master.

Before de Wolfe had a chance to restart his inquest, Walter Knapman grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her away, almost violently, through the crowd towards the churchyard gate.

Acland stood stock still, his eyes pinned on the woman, and de Wolfe needed no second sight to decide that Knapman’s antipathy to Acland was not wholly concerned with the tin trade. ‘Acland, have you anything to tell me about this matter?’ he called out, to bring the man’s attention back to the proceedings.

Slowly the tinner turned to face him, his chin jutting forward obstinately. ‘Nothing useful, Crowner. I knew Henry of Tunnaford well enough, even though he didn’t work for me. He was a good man. Surely his death must have been the work of a madman.’

‘But which madman? Have you any suggestions?’

A wave of whispering rippled through the front ranks of the crowd, especially the jurors, as if they were willing Acland to say something.

‘If it’s a madman you’re seeking, then Aethelfrith comes first to mind, Crowner. I would easily believe that he damaged Knapman’s equipment the other day, but I doubt he would kill. Though even murderers have to begin sometime.’

‘Tell me about this Aethelfrith — I’ve heard mention of him before.’

Acland rubbed a hand around his beard, as if delaying an answer. ‘There are other people better able to tell you than I, Crowner — the bailiff and the constable for a start. But I can give you the common knowledge, that he is an old Saxon, of at least three score years, who has a crazy hatred of everything Norman.’

Now one of the jurors cut in, a tinner, though not one of Henry’s team: ‘He attacked me once, sir, nearly a year past. I was on my own up past Gidleigh, clearing out a fall of mud above the workings. Suddenly this old madman appeared and set about with his staff, screaming that I was stealing a Saxon’s birthright. I clouted him with my shovel and he ran away.’

There were sniggers from the crowd, which earned them a ferocious glare from de Wolfe. ‘This is no laughing matter. A man is dead.’ He turned back to Stephen Acland. ‘Where can this Aethelfrith be found?’

The brawny tin-master shrugged. ‘He comes and goes like the mist, sir. I hear he lives somewhere on the high moor, but how he finds food and shelter, I cannot tell. Maybe the bailiff can.’

The dark head swung slowly to Justin Green, who stood to one side.

‘He seems to move around a great deal, Crowner,’ supplied Justin. ‘There are plenty of outlaws up on the moor and they shelter him, I’m sure. Sometimes we have found traces of his living in disused tinners’ huts. So far he’s been more of a nuisance than a danger. We had him for a few months in the Stannary gaol, convicted by their court of damaging a blowing-house one night.’