Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

Peter Jordan spoke for the first time since de Wolfe had broken the news. ‘What of the killing of Henry of Tunnaford? Is this not likely to be connected? There have been many incidents lately, damage to the workings and now two deaths.’

John turned to face the younger man, who had been standing behind him. ‘Did you see your stepfather often, lad?’

Jordan shook his head. ‘Not lately, sir. Three years ago, after my mother died, I came to Exeter to work with Matthew here. It was a convenient arrangement between all of us. I was to learn the trade of selling what my stepfather produced.’

John peered at him from under his black brows. ‘Did you get on well with him?’

‘I did indeed. He was good to me after my real father died. He cared for my mother when she was widowed and much regretted her death, I am sure.’

To the coroner’s suspicious ear, he had left something unsaid. ‘What about his second wife? Did you approve of the marriage?’

Peter Jordan shrugged indifferently. ‘It was none of my business. Walter was not my natural father, so what he did was his affair. I admit I am not fond of her, for I think she is a selfish woman who married him only for his wealth — but as I rarely see her, it is of no consequence.’

He seemed to have a maturity beyond his years, and what he said seemed reasonable enough. De Wolfe turned back to Matthew and his wife, whose sniffing had subsided, although she still stared at him from watery eyes. ‘Your brother’s body should arrive in the city in the morning.’ He thought it kinder not to add that it was being brought on a sumpter train, slung over a pony like a dead sheep. ‘I will have it rested in St Mary’s Chapel in Rougement, but I presume you and your family will require its burial in Chagford, Walter’s home.’

Matthew nodded. His normally ruddy face was pale. He rapidly refilled the wine cups and drained his at a gulp. ‘I will have to talk to Joan, his wife, but no doubt he will be buried at St Michael’s, which he largely built with his own money.’

De Wolfe finished his wine and stood up, hovering over Matthew and Peter like a black crane. ‘There will have to be an inquest, but I will hold that in Chagford when the body gets there, a day or two hence. You will no doubt arrange for some conveyance for it as soon as possible.’

He made for the door, followed by the two men. As he descended the steps, he turned for a last question. ‘Has either of you any notion why someone should have wanted Walter Knapman dead?’

There was a momentary silence, then Matthew spoke. ‘In the tin trade there is intense rivalry. This business of the headless overman and now Walter’s death must surely be connected. There is at least one other tin-master who envied Walter his success. And Walter made some enemies in his campaign to have a Lord Warden elected by the tinners themselves.’

Peter, his face stony, was more forthright. ‘Let us not beat about the bush, Matthew. Everyone knows Stephen Acland had his eyes not only on my stepfather’s trade but also on his new wife. He’s welcome to her, as far as I’m concerned, but maybe he is not too displeased that Walter is dead.’

John de Wolfe went home with a mild sensation of self-righteousness, twisted logic persuading him that his conscience was clear.

First, he had told Matilda that morning that he would be away for yet another night, ostensibly visiting his family in Stoke, yet here he was, back early, yearning for her company. It would be too much to ask that he might surprise her in the arms of another man — even the fat priest of St Olave’s — but now she could hardly scold him for not being away from home.

Second, he almost convinced himself that he had resisted the charms of Hilda, rather than having had his adulterous assignation cancelled by circumstances. It was a pity that he could not let Nesta know about it, though he could hardly gain credit for having to miss a passionate session with her rival.

In Martin’s Lane, he found that his wife was not entertaining a lover — indeed, she greeted him with a sour face and the immediate announcement that she was going out to visit her cousin in Goldsmith Street. As Lucille smirked in the background, holding Matilda’s mantle, de Wolfe managed to grab his wife’s attention with the story of Knapman’s murder and his visit to Matthew’s house.

‘I must go in the morning and comfort his poor wife,’ Matilda announced firmly. For a moment, de Wolfe thought she meant she would travel to Chagford to see Joan, but it was her fellow churchwoman, the wife of Matthew, whom she would visit.

‘It will give me an opportunity to see their house,’ Matilda went on. ‘I hear that Matthew Knapman lavishes his wealth on his furnishings and his wife.’ She bestowed a poisonous look on her parsimonious husband, before she swept out with the French maid in her wake.

It was now almost dark and de Wolfe sat by his fire for a while, with a quart of ale and the adoring Brutus for company, until Mary bustled in with a meal for him. She brought thick slices of lean bacon, called ‘collops’, with four hen’s eggs fried in butter and a small loaf, half of which he ate after the meat, smeared with honey still brittle with the wax of the comb.

Secure in the knowledge that Matilda was away for an hour or two, Mary sat on the bench opposite while he ate, keeping out of range of his searching fingers under the table. However, she was still quite willing to gossip and was always intrigued by John’s latest cases. After he had recounted the dramatic events around Chagford, she added a few snippets of her own concerning some of the participants. Like Nesta — and, indeed, Matilda — she picked up much intelligence about Exeter’s citizens from other house-servants and stallholders in the markets.

‘That Matthew, the tin-merchant, he keeps the vintners rich, they say. His nose tells you what his staple food must be! A good job he can afford it.’

‘Matilda was goading me about how much he spends on his house and his wife — not that I noticed it when I was in there.’

He tucked into his collops as she answered. ‘Plenty of money there — though some tap their noses when you mention it and say that he’s almost the equal of the sheriff when it comes to embezzlement.’

De Wolfe’s dagger paused midway to his mouth, a boiled onion skewered to its tip. ‘He has a reputation for that, has he? I thought he was in partnership with his brother, the dead Walter.’

Mary shrugged her robust shoulders. ‘It’s just gossip — but usually, where there’s smoke there’s fire. That nephew of his who assists him seems honest enough — a good-looking boy, too,’ she added appreciatively.

‘Peter Jordan — I met him tonight. No doubt you’ve also got some tittle-tattle about him?’

Mary wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Not at all, though I wonder where he got that swarthy complexion if his father was a local tanner. Maybe his mother met a Crusader one dark night.’

De Wolfe made a sarcastic catcall, then recalled that the brunette Mary was herself the offspring of a Saxon serving-woman and an unknown soldier who had remained only for the conception.

She took no offence and went on with her chatter. ‘But I don’t know how a good-looking young man like him came to marry Martha Courteman. She’s like the mistress, only much younger, begging your pardon, Sir John. A stuck-up, miserable snob. Her father is that lawyer, Robert Courteman.’

De Wolfe was not interested in the further ramifications of the Knapman family, though he knew the lawyer, who had been the unenthusiastic advocate in the Appeal that week.

Sensing his lack of interest, Mary changed the subject. ‘I’m worried about Thomas, poor little man,’ she said forcefully. ‘He comes round to my hut now and then for some decent food. He’s half starved on the pittance you pay him.’