Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

The reeve gave an amateur but accurate description. ‘Looks as if someone has dipped two fingers in blackberry juice and drawn them across his back,’ he said.

The coroner and his henchman looked at each other across the corpse, their eyes meeting in silent agreement.

‘Struck with a staff, no doubt about it,’ observed Gwyn, in a satisfied voice.

‘Maybe he did come off his horse, like the reeve says — but he didn’t fall, he was knocked off,’ concluded John. ‘It takes quite a blow to leave a clear track like that.’

The rest of the examination revealed nothing and the coroner stood back while Gwyn and the reeve rolled the body back into its makeshift shroud. De Wolfe gave instructions to the hauliers to deliver it to the castle at Exeter, then he and his officer mounted their horses and trotted away, retracing the route they had taken only a few hours earlier.

As they passed through Dawlish, de Wolfe reined in and looked longingly up the street alongside the creek, where he could just see the arcaded front of Thorgils’ new stone house.

‘Are you stopping here for a rest, Crowner?’ asked Gwyn, with a false air of innocence.

De Wolfe debated with himself as to whether he should call in, even if only to explain why he couldn’t keep his promised assignation with Hilda that night. But he knew he would be tempted to stay with her, then fail to get back to the city before the gates were closed at curfew. With a grunt, he touched Odin reluctantly with his heels and set off again along the coast road.

The return of a leaden sky made the approach of dusk even earlier as the coroner and his officer rode through the West Gate that evening. De Wolfe sent Gwyn ahead up Fore Street, hoping that he would go home to his wife and children rather than to the nearest alehouse, then turned right to follow inside the city wall to the storehouses and dwellings near the Watergate. The narrow lane was congested even at this late hour with handcarts, hawkers’ stalls, beggars and a multitude of gossiping residents, some poring over the wares of the chapmen who trudged the roads of England, selling trifles from the bundles on their backs.

At the bottom of Priest Street, where the overflow of vicars and secondaries from the cathedral lodged, he asked directions from a porter resting on a huge bale of wool he was lugging from the fulling mills on Exe Island. ‘Matthew Knapman, the tin-merchant? You’re right outside it, Crowner.’

Looking up at the corner house, de Wolfe saw a stone building that contrasted with the timber or cob dwellings on either side. Tin was a valuable and portable commodity, so presumably the Knapmans felt the need for a more thief-proof storehouse than the often ramshackle buildings in the lower part of town. His deduction was strengthened when he saw that there were no window openings on the lower floor, only a stout oak door set in the flattened face of the house where the two streets met. Another larger gate was set in an arch around the corner, big enough to admit carts to the yard when tin was being transported.

John slid down from Odin’s high saddle and tied the reins to a ring set in the wall. He went to the door and beat upon it with the hilt of his dagger, regretting that he had such bad tidings to deliver.

Soon he heard feet clattering downstairs, then a voice shouted a challenge from inside. Bending his head to the door, he called in reply, ‘Sir John de Wolfe, the King’s coroner.’

The heavy oak creaked open a short way and a face appeared. The young man was slim and dark, with a black, down-curving moustache that gave him a somewhat Moorish appearance. The coroner remembered seeing him about the city, but had no idea who he was.

‘Does Matthew Knapman live here?’ he asked.

‘He does, sir. I am Peter Jordan, his … his nephew.’

The slight hesitation told de Wolfe that this was a convenient rather than an accurate description of the relationship. The door opened wider, to reveal Jordan as a slim man in his twenties, well but soberly dressed. He wore a leather apron and gauntlets of the same material, and explained, ‘I help Matthew with his trade. We have been shifting bar tin to the warehouse on the quay, to make room for the new coinage from Chagford, due in the next few days.’

‘It is Chagford that brings me here. I need to speak urgently to Matthew — and if you are his nephew, you must also be present.’

Silently, Peter Jordan stood back to allow de Wolfe inside. Already, the coroner felt a tension he recognised from many previous such encounters: the visit of a senior law officer could never mean anything but trouble or sorrow.

The gloomy ground floor was stacked with hundreds of what looked like irregular grey bricks. As the young man led the way to a flight of wide steps to the upper floor, he waved a hand at the piles of dull metal. ‘These are the crude bars, awaiting the second smelting.’ The unnecessary information seemed like a nervous diversion to cover his anxiety at the coroner’s appearance.

Upstairs was a marked contrast to the commercial lower floor. Doors led from a landing into a large living hall on the left and what seemed to be a pair of bedrooms or solars on the right. Presumably the kitchens, laundry and privy were in the yard behind.

Jordan rapped perfunctorily on a draught screen behind the hall door and led de Wolfe into a well-furnished room with a fire burning in a hearth at the further end. ‘Matthew, the crowner has called upon us. He wishes to speak to you.’

He stood aside and John walked forward to meet the tin-merchant, who rose from a settle near the fire. Opposite was the stout lady with the drooping lip he had seen with Matilda at St Olave’s a few days earlier. They both looked apprehensive at his appearance, though after more than six months in the job he was getting used to this reaction to his presence. Immediately Matthew guessed the reason for his visit. ‘You have news of Walter.’ It was a statement rather than a question. The appearance of a coroner, rather than a bailiff or a sheriff’s man, could have only one interpretation. ‘Where did you find him?’ he added flatly.

De Wolfe explained the circumstances in his sonorous voice, and Matthew’s wife began to sniff and cross herself, reminding John of Thomas and his troubles. Matthew said nothing, but sat John down and busied himself with a wine flask and some cups. Jordan remained standing behind them, almost forgotten until the merchant handed him a pewter cup of red wine.

‘Walter was Peter’s stepfather, you know,’ he said, in a strangled voice. ‘He was married before to the widow of one of his tinners. Peter’s father was killed in stream-works when the lad was only eight. Walter married Bridgid, but she passed away from the phthisis three years ago.’

De Wolfe gave one of his throaty noises, which might have meant anything from deepest sympathy to sheer disbelief. He wanted to get back to the nature of the death. ‘You realise that your brother was murdered?’ he said bluntly. ‘He was struck on the back, probably hurled from his horse. Either he fell to his death or might have been hit on the head deliberately. Whatever it was, it was no accident.’

Mistress Knapman’s snivels became louder, but no one took any notice.

‘I rode back from Chagford this morning,’ quavered Matthew. ‘I stayed until dark last night helping to search the roads between there and Dunsford — and again this morning on my way back. All Walter’s house servants and many of his tinners were beating the verges and woods, but there was nothing. No wonder! The poor fellow was floating down the Teign by then.’ He wrung his hands and paced back and forth before his glowing hearth. ‘Who can have done this awful thing? Was it just trail-bastons or chance outlaws? Yet he was big man, able to defend himself, unless he was outnumbered.’