Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

The coroner gave one of his noncommittal throat clearings and reined in his horse at the top of the further bank of the creek. Gwyn knew what to expect next: it was a routine they had played out several times before.

‘We’ll have a short break from our journey, Gwyn,’ he muttered. ‘I have an errand to carry out, so get yourself to that alehouse and refresh yourself. I’ll call for you there when I’m finished.’

Both knew exactly what was going on, but nothing was put into words.

Gwyn was surprised, therefore, when less than a quarter of an hour later his eating and drinking were interrupted by de Wolfe, who stalked into the primitive single room of the alehouse and demanded a quart, a hunk of bread and some cheese. The ginger giant made no comment but waited for some explanation from his master.

‘We’ll carry on to Stoke straight away, Gwyn. We’ll leave there early this evening.’ He hesitated and made another rumble in his throat. ‘It may be that we will have to break our return journey and stop somewhere overnight.’

Gwyn dipped his face into his ale-jar to hide a grin. He could wager confidently that their overnight stay would be in Dawlish on the way back. Hilda, the beautiful blonde, was the daughter of the reeve at Holcombe, just down the coast. When much younger, de Wolfe had had a long love-affair with her, but as she was both a Saxon and the child of a manor servant, there had been no question of a permanent relationship between them, let alone a marriage. When de Wolfe had gone to the wars, Hilda had married an older man, but kept an ember glowing in her heart for the lover of her youth, which was fanned into fire at intervals when Thorgils was away on the high seas.

The two men continued along the coast road, keeping up a good pace on the dry track. The weather was dull but dry, with a persistent cold breeze. The trees and bushes were well into leaf and bud, and primroses brightened the verges. Patches of scrub and woodland alternated with hamlets nestling in their strip-fields, and more ground was constantly brought under cultivation by cutting assarts from the surviving forest.

De Wolfe rode immersed in his own problems, but Gwyn, in his contented, easy-going way, had time to contrast this mellow coastal strip with the bleak harshness of Dartmoor, which they had visited a few days earlier. One such prosperous village was Holcombe, the second of the de Wolfe manors and Hilda’s original home.

John deviated a little from the main track to visit the manor farm, in case his brother was there, but the bailiff told him that William had returned to Stoke-in-Teignhead the previous evening. The elder brother, though also tall and dark, was quite different in nature from the warrior John. He was devoted to managing the two estates and improving the farming. This suited de Wolfe, as he had been left a share of the profits by their father Simon. He was content that the land had been given to William, who cared so much for its welfare. A lesser share of the income had been bequeathed to his spinster sister Evelyn, their sprightly mother Enyd also having a life interest in the estate.

‘The whole family will be at Stoke, Gwyn. I’ll be happy to see them all together — and no doubt you’ll get your usual welcome from the maids in the kitchen, who’ll fill you to bursting point.’

As they rejoined the track to Teignmouth, where they could cross the river, he felt happier at the thought of a pleasant afternoon and a dalliance with Hilda on the return journey that night, after his disappointment earlier. Having made sure that Thorgils’ boat was away from Dawlish, he had called at the fine stone house in the middle of the village. His first setback was being told by a giggling maidservant that Mistress Hilda had been in Exeter for the past two days, shopping for a new gown and cloak to attend her younger sister’s wedding next week. She was expected back that afternoon and de Wolfe left a discreet message that he would call upon her that evening.

But ‘Man proposes and God disposes’, as the devout Matilda could no doubt have told him. De Wolfe’s anticipation of a family reunion followed by an evening of passion was dashed within minutes of their leaving Holcombe. Two riders came towards them, trotting so purposefully that Gwyn instinctively felt for the handle of his mace, which hung from a loop on his saddle. ‘Careful, Crowner, these fellows are coming at too fast a clip to be out for some morning exercise.’

His caution proved unnecessary, for de Wolfe soon recognised one of the horsemen as they came nearer. ‘It’s the reeve from Teignmouth. I’ve known him since we were lads — we fished together in the river there.’ The coroner’s boyhood home of Stoke was within walking distance of the reeve’s village.

The recognition was mutual, and a moment later the village headman from Teignmouth reined up alongside them, astonishment written on his broad face. ‘Have you dropped from the sky, Sir John? We were on our way to Exeter to find you or the sheriff’s men.’

Their story was soon told, the other man being an armed companion for the messenger: lone horsemen were easy targets for trail-bastons.

‘A body was found washed up at the mouth of the river early this morning, though he probably came downstream during the night. Our bailiff says that strange corpses must be notified to the sheriff or the crowner without delay these days.’

‘Or else the village gets stuck with a big fine,’ added the other man wryly.

‘Any knowledge of who it might be?’ asked de Wolfe.

The reeve shook his head. ‘No one local, that’s for sure. And by his clothes he’s no peasant.’

These words caused the first niggle of concern to rise in de Wolfe’s mind. ‘You’d better lead us to this mystery man,’ he grunted. ‘Is he still where he was found?’

‘Indeed he is, Crowner. The bailiff said that, these days, on no account must we interfere with corpses.’

It was less than two miles to the river and the four horsemen spurred their mounts to a canter, covering the remaining distance in a short time. As they jogged down the slope to the Teign, John looked ahead to gauge the state of the tide. It had been ebbing at Dawlish, so should be nearing low water now. The river had a broad estuary about two miles long running straight inland, but at the seaward end a sand bar cut across much of the outflow, leaving a narrow gap that could be forded at low tide.

As they moved on to this grass-grown spit, they could see that a dozen or more people, some leading sumpter horses, were clustered at the edge of the water, slightly inside the tip of the sand spit, where debris washed down by the river had been beached by the falling tide. A tangled mass of broken branches, reeds and even a length of wattle fencing was strewn along the foreshore where the crowd was gathered.

‘A train of pack-horses has arrived, by the look of it,’ said the reeve, sliding off his mare and walking her across to the group. De Wolfe and the other two followed him across the coarse grass. There were some local people with the hauliers, one a sailor by his cloth breeches and short tunic, and a couple of villeins holding mattocks. The inevitable flock of urchins was running around, and Gwyn called to one to hold their horses while they pushed through the small crowd. Then he bellowed at the onlookers to make way for the King’s coroner.

They stood aside and let John through to look down at a bedraggled body, lying under a heap of twisted branches and part of a holly tree.

‘Washed down with all this heavy rain,’ volunteered the reeve. ‘Yesterday, the river was in spate far more than this.’

The corpse was lying face down on the muddy sand, its tunic washed up over its head, exposing breeches and one riding boot; the other foot was bare. The saturated clothing was soiled and badly torn from snagging on obstructions in the river.