Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

John carefully avoided rising to that bait and, for the time being, forgot about Walter Knapman’s twin brother.

After their midday meal was over, Matilda retired to her bed in the solar and de Wolfe settled by the hearth with another mug of ale to wait until his wife was sound asleep. Then he whistled for his old hound Brutus and went out to the vestibule for his short cloak. As he was pulling open the iron-bound oak door to the street, Mary appeared from the backyard, her handsome face glowing from attending the fire in her cook-shed. A dead goose hung by its neck from one hand and she held a wicked-looking cleaver in the other.

De Wolfe grinned crookedly at her. ‘I trust that weapon is to cut off the bird’s head, not mine!’ he chaffed, slipping an arm around her shoulders. The maid pulled away from his embrace, but not too far. Until a few months ago, de Wolfe had had the occasional romp with Mary in her backyard dwelling, but the arrival of Matilda’s nosy maid had forced the maid to deny him her favours. They still remained firm friends, rather than master and servant, and Mary looked after his material wants far better than most wives.

‘It’s not your head that needs cutting off, Sir Crowner,’ she replied tartly. ‘If the mistress finds out that you called at Dawlish two weeks ago, you’d best wear your chain-mail over your nether regions.’

John gave her a firm squeeze and planted a kiss on her lips. ‘If that other lady down in Idle Lane knew it, I’d need my iron-bound shield as well.’ His smile faded and Mary saw that he was worried. ‘Though lately I doubt that Nesta would take much interest in my escapades.’ In low tones, in case Matilda’s poisonous French acolyte came within earshot, de Wolfe told Mary of the presence in the tavern of the new man.

She sighed and sat on the bench inside the front door, the goose on her lap. ‘I’ve heard the gossip from the Bush, and some weeks ago Nesta told me that she was seeing less of you now, because you were always busy.’ She wagged the cleaver at him, genuine concern on her face. ‘Pay more attention to your inn-keeper, or you’ll surely lose her,’ she advised seriously. ‘It’s up to you, unless you want to do the honourable thing and cleave only to your wife.’

With that wise counsel in his ear, de Wolfe loped off across the cathedral Close, with Brutus close behind. The hound was constantly diverted by the piles of rubbish, dumped offal and open grave-pits that so sadly diminished the grandeur of the huge building, recently completed after old Bishop Warelwast began it eighty years earlier. With many half-annoyed, half-affectionate curses and whistles, the coroner finally got his dog to Idle Lane, some dozen leg-cockings distant.

Again there was no sign of the landlady in the big smoky room of the inn, as John settled himself on his bench. Edwin, the old potman, brought him a quart pot of ale and threw a beef bone on to the rushes beneath the table for Brutus. ‘The missus is out the back, Cap’n, seein’ to the cookin’.’ This time, he made no suggestive hints about her mood or the presence of Alan, who was also absent from the ale-room.

The coroner sat moodily sipping his drink, which seemed below the usual high standard of the Bush’s brewing. He stared into the glowing fire, piled high with beech logs, as the weather had turned unseasonally cold after the first promise of spring the previous week. He thought about his relations with his wife, with Nesta, and of his visit to Dawlish not long before, when he called upon Hilda, wife of Thorgils the Boatman. She was a childhood sweetheart from his boyhood in Stoke-in-Teignhead, a blonde Saxon beauty who had married another during his many years’ absence at the wars. Though the Welsh Nesta was the nearest thing to the love of his life, the gaily sensuous Hilda came a close second.

His reverie was interrupted by a movement at his feet and, looking down, he saw that Brutus had abandoned his bone and was standing under the table, staring intently towards the door, his bushy tail waving in excited welcome. De Wolfe had no need to follow the hound’s gaze, as he knew it would be Gwyn, who had a remarkable rapport with most animals, especially dogs. A heavy lurch alongside him and a quaking of the bench announced the arrival of his massive henchman. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come with news of more work for us?’ groaned the coroner.

The Cornishman shook his head, his usually lugubrious face beaming with good nature. ‘Fear not, Crowner, I felt like a jar or two and a bit of peace. Those offspring of mine are like bluebottles in a box.’ Gwyn lived in a hut with his wife, his mother-in-law and two young sons. Edwin brought him ale, and at the first mouthful, Gwyn made a face. ‘What the hell’s this? Tastes like camel piss, not Nesta’s usual brew.’ He sucked the offending liquid from his moustache, and looked around the room. ‘Where is she, anyway?’

‘In the cook-shed, so Edwin says,’ grunted de Wolfe. His tone warned Gwyn to keep off the subject and he fell silent, but in a moment, his master spoke again. ‘I heard from my wife today that Walter Knapman has a twin brother in the city, also in the tin trade.’

His officer’s heavy brow creased in thought, as he fondled the hound’s ears under the table. ‘Knapman? There’s a few Knapmans here, but only one deals in tin that I know of. Though he looks nothing like Walter, if they’re supposed to be twins.’

‘Yet if he is a tin trader, it seems likely they are related. Matthew is his name.’

Gwyn bobbed his head, his ginger hair flailing like a dozen cat’s tails. ‘Matthew, that’s the one! He has a dwelling and a warehouse just inside the Watergate, close by the quayside. I suppose much of his tin goes out by ship.’

They fell into a companionable silence again, though John was anxiously awaiting the appearance of Nesta, to gauge her mood today. There was still no sign of her and soon he felt the need to dispose of some of the ale he had been drinking since dinner-time. He rose from the bench and threaded his way through the other patrons to the door to the backyard, where there was a privy-pit behind a wattle screen, next to the pig-sty, hen-coop and laundry-shed. On the way back down the yard, he looked into the door of the cook-shed to see if Nesta was there, but only two giggling serving maids were inside, one stirring a large iron pot hanging from a trivet over the fire.

Opposite was the brew-house, a thatched shed the size of the kitchen. The door was closed but he heard Nesta’s voice through the ragged planks. Pulling it open, he stuck his head inside, intending to open their dialogue by mischievously complaining about the quality of her ale.

The tavern-keeper was certainly attending to her brew — she was leaning against a large vat with a long ladle in her hand — but her other hand was around Alan of Lyme’s neck, and both his arms were tightly around her waist.

At the creak of the door their heads snapped round and Nesta’s face crimsoned instantly. De Wolfe’s first thought was to stride forward and throw the young man head first into the vat of mash. Then a sudden vision of an old fool being cuckolded by a callow youth came into his head, followed by an image of a beautiful blonde Saxon. He stepped back, slammed the crude door so hard that one leather hinge ripped away, then marched grimly back into the tavern.

The cold, dry weather broke overnight and John de Wolfe was awakened around dawn by the crash of thunder and the hammering of torrential rain on the stone tiles of the roof above the solar. Gusts of a westerly wind blew drops of water through the gaps around the window shutters and one hit him in the eye as he opened it reluctantly.