Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

In spite of de Wolfe’s glowering disapproval, it was finally arranged that Fitz-Ivo would deal with all cases in the Hundreds of the northern part of the county above a line that ran roughly east-west from Tiverton to Okehampton. In addition, they would cover each other’s territory if one was absent or indisposed, though de Wolfe vowed to himself that he would never let Fitz-Ivo meddle with his part of the county while he still had breath in his body.

Officially, a coroner could only be appointed by the Shire Court, then ratified by the Justiciar or the Chancellor, so Richard de Revelle promised that Fitz-Ivo would be installed at the fortnightly court, which was due to be held in Rougemont next morning.

As the coroner moved towards the door, the sheriff broached a different matter. ‘The day after tomorrow I have to attend the tinners’ Great Court up on Crockern Tor. I have no option because, as sheriff, I am also Lord Warden of the Stannaries.’

De Wolfe looked at him blankly. ‘What of it, Richard? Are you feared for your own head with this killer on the loose around the moor?’

Though he spoke sarcastically, there may have been an element of truth in what he said, but the sheriff dismissed it impatiently. ‘There will be a hundred or more others there. I need not worry about an assault, especially as I will have Sergeant Gabriel and half a dozen men-at-arms with me. No, I wondered if you thought it wise to attend too. All the current problems of the tinners will be aired and perhaps something useful will arise about this killing.’

De Wolfe considered this. ‘It might be advantageous, I suppose. But why are you concerned with coroner’s business?’

De Revelle put on his pompous voice: ‘As Lord Warden and county sheriff, I have a responsibility to seek out the miscreant. Anything that disturbs the production of tin reduces the revenues from the coinage. When I go to Winchester next week, the Chancellor and the Exchequer will be out of sorts with me if they suspect that less tin is being mined because of these disturbances.’

He stopped and looked craftily at his brother-in-law. ‘Especially as the King is sending it to Normandy by the thousand-weight instead of silver to pay his troops,’ he added, with a sneer.

De Wolfe ignored the jibe against his monarch and left the sheriff to repair the damage done to Fitz-Ivo’s confidence with more wine and reassurance about the simplicity of his duties. As he strode out, he wondered grimly how long the fat knight would last — although he knew that Theobald would be well under de Revelle’s thumb: the sheriff would want to ensure that he was of no hindrance to his underhand dealings.

De Wolfe left the keep and strode across the inner ward of the castle, avoiding ox-wagons, ducks and geese, old men and small urchins, to reach the gatehouse, where he clattered up the stone stairs to his office. He was due for a session with Gwyn and the sad little clerk, to make sure that the rolls were up to date.

After an hour, they heard the cathedral bell tolling in the distance. John rose from his bench and took his mantle from the peg on the bare stone wall. ‘Time for Vespers,’ he grunted, with a rare wink at Gwyn, who grinned back, well aware that his master’s devotions were likely to be social rather than sacred.

De Wolfe strode through the back lanes of Exeter to reach the Bush Inn, avoiding High Street in case his wife was on one of her ceaseless perambulations to the church of St Olave. He skirted the noisome outer ward of Rougemont, where most of the castle garrison lived with their families and animals, then crossed Curre Street and Goldsmith Street to reach the inner side of the North Gate.

From here, he dived into the even meaner passages of Bretayne, the poorest area of the city, named after the original Britons who had been squeezed into this district when, centuries earlier, the Saxons had displaced the Celts. Pushing past cripples, beggars, urchins, pigs and goats in the filthy lanes that lay between tumbledown huts of wattle and thatch, he turned into Friernhay. At its end, he crossed Fore Street to a passage leading into Stepcote, the steep hill dropping down to the city wall.

Directly opposite was Idle Lane, named for the plot of wasteground on which the Bush Inn sat. Its stone walls were barely the height of a man, but a steeply pitched thatched roof gave it a spacious loft under the rafters, where Nesta had a small room to herself, letting the rest of the space as lodgings.

A few horses were tethered to a rail at the side as he walked past to reach the central front door. Stooping to pass under the low lintel, he went into the single drinking-room that occupied all the ground floor. The kitchen shed and brewhouse were in the yard behind the main building. It was dim and the smoke from the large hearth-pit against the left-hand wall stung his eyes. Even in mid-afternoon, several patrons were indulging in drink and business, before they went off for the early-evening meal. The buzz of conversation was broken by bursts of raucous laughter, mainly from a trio of harlots who were entertaining some out-of-town wool traders in one corner.

John’s favourite resting place was vacant, a rough table near the fire. Its bench was backed up against a wattle hurdle, which gave some protection from the draughts that blew in through the open eaves and the four small window openings. He scuffed across to the table through the straw on the earthen floor and pulled off his wolfskin mantle. As he dropped it on to the bench, a bent old man limped up and pulled his forelock. ‘How do, Cap’n? Ale or cider today?’ His toothless mouth leered a welcome at de Wolfe. The aged potman had lost part of a foot and one eye in the Irish wars and the white scar of his collapsed blind eyeball roved horribly as the other glinted cunningly at the coroner. ‘The missus is out the back, sir. With the new man.’

John looked at him sharply. He had come to recognise every nuance of the old man’s voice and knew that Edwin was hinting at something. ‘New man? What new man?’

The potman’s leer grew wider. ‘Why, Alan of Lyme, Cap’n. Didn’t you know about the young fellow?’ he asked, with false innocence.

De Wolfe made a gargling noise in his throat, his habitual defence against having to answer. ‘Get me a quart of ale, old man,’ he demanded brusquely.

Edwin stumped off and returned with a stone jar of ale filled from a barrel at the back of the room.

‘What’s this Alan doing here?’ grunted the coroner, his worried curiosity getting the better of him.

‘Why, the missus has employed him, of course. Finding the work a bit much for her, now that trade is getting so brisk.’

De Wolfe gargled again and waved Edwin away. But the decrepit potman hovered as de Wolfe put the mug to his lips. He looked furtively over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps not for me to say, Crowner,’ he hissed, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but if I was you, I’d tread careful with the missus. She’s been in a funny mood these past days. I think she may have it in for you a bit.’ His blind eye rolled repulsively as he tapped the side of his nose with a dirty forefinger then moved away, leaving de Wolfe more uneasy than ever.

He sat holding his pot and staring into the leaping flames of the log fire, his ears jarred by more shrieks of laughter from one of the whores in the corner. One of the tipsy woolmen had slid a hand down her bodice.

Though he had seen little of Nesta these past few weeks, he had been in here last Sunday for a short while. However, Matilda’s insistence that he go with her for one of his infrequent visits to church had prevented him having a session with the landlady up in the loft. She had said nothing about employing anyone then, though he recollected now that she had been less talkative than usual.