Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘Is it his diet that concerns you, then?’ he asked facetiously.

‘It’s his mind that worries me. He’s getting more and more miserable, turning in on himself these past weeks. What’s wrong with him?’

John explained the problem and related how he had interceded with the Archdeacon on his clerk’s behalf. Mary smiled as she rose and planted a quick kiss on his rough cheek. ‘You’re a good-hearted man, Sir Crowner. Finish your victuals and get yourself down to the Bush while you’ve got the chance. I hear that you’re in bad odour down there, so make your peace before it’s too late.’

After she had left with the empty platters, he reflected that the gossip grapevine must reach into every house and tavern in the city. He touched his cheek where Mary had kissed him and mused on how the master-servant relationship was altered by a few tumbles in the kitchen-shed.

With Matilda out, the temptation to take Mary’s advice and go down to the Bush became too strong for John. He whistled to Brutus and stepped out into the street with him, thinking that if he happened to meet Matilda, he would tell her he was exercising the hound. A moment later, he cursed himself for a damned fool. Why should a grown man of forty, hardened in a dozen wars, care a clipped penny about an excuse to visit his favourite inn after a hard day’s work? To hell with his wife! She knew well enough that he blessed several women with his favours — she never let him forget it. Matilda knew at least two by name and sight, but he hoped she knew nothing about a certain lady on the coast at Salcombe, though he had not seen her for some time.

The wind had dropped and the rain had held off, but it was cold under a clearing sky as he strode through the darkened Close, cursing as he stumbled over the debris and piles of earth left under the looming mass of the great cathedral. Although the huge house of God was a marvel of the mason’s art, the surroundings were a disgrace. The Close was a cross between a cemetery and a communal refuse dump, where vagrants begged, hooligans romped and urchins played ball-games all day. Along with most of the citizens of Exeter, de Wolfe failed to understand why the cathedral proctors did not impose better control over the area.

At the other side, there were a couple of guttering flares near Bear Gate, which led out of the episcopal precinct into Southgate Street. Though house fires were damped down at dusk, some torches were allowed in safe places, such as these set in iron rings against a stone wall.

There was some faint light in the main street running down to the South Gate, for the curfew was only haphazardly observed within the city, as long as all the gates were barred at nightfall. In the serge-market section of the street, a few cloth stalls were still trading by the light of dim horn lanterns. Higher up at the Shambles, butchers’ boys were still throwing buckets of water on the ground, sluicing the blood from the cobbled area where animals had been slaughtered during the day.

De Wolfe crossed the road and passed the top end of Priest Street, where presumably Matthew, his wife and Peter Jordan were grieving over Knapman’s violent death. Then he strode down the hill to Idle Lane and the Bush, the starlight enough to guide him on this most familiar of routes. Calling Brutus to heel from his erratic sniffing adventures, the coroner reached the door of the tavern and stopped for a moment in the gloom.

What reception would he have tonight, he wondered. How should he behave, if Nesta again gave him the cold shoulder? Should he be soft and loving to her, try to win her back the gentle way? That would be a marathon struggle against his natural inclination.

Annoyed by his indecision, he thrust open the door and ducked into the warm fug of the alehouse, redolent with the smells of woodsmoke, sweat, cooking and spilt ale. The flaming logs on the hearth gave most of the light, weakly supplemented by tallow dips on each table and a few wax candles in sconces around the walls. These were a new feature and, sourly, John wondered if the usurper had persuaded Nesta to foot the expense.

Edwin was nearby, picking up empty ale jars. He raised one in salute and shuffled across to de Wolfe. ‘I’ve kept your table, Cap’n. Threw a couple of youngsters off it in case you came.’ He looked warily towards the back of the big room that occupied all the ground floor of the inn. ‘She’s out in the cook-shed, Crowner. We got fancy new food now — herbs with every bloody thing!’ His disgruntled tone at any kind of change in his settled little world told de Wolfe that he had one ally, ineffectual as the old potman might be.

He sat in his usual seat, staring at the flames, with a pot of ale brought by the one-eyed retainer and Brutus squatting close by his leg. Even the dog seemed to know that all was not well with his master, and he laid his wet chops sympathetically across John’s knee. When de Wolfe heard the loud, cheerful voice of Alan of Lyme chatting to other customers behind him, but he did not give him the satisfaction of turning his head.

After five minutes, there was still no sign of Nesta. Until recently, she had always dropped her tasks to sit with him, if only for a moment, before going back to harass the cook or maids. De Wolfe’s mood swung between annoyance, resignation and black rage as he sat alone by the fire. After the better part of a quarter of an hour, he decided to cut his losses and leave, never to darken the Bush’s door again. But as he drained the last of his quart and banged the pottery jar down on the table, he was aware of someone standing at the end of the table. ‘Good evening, John. Are you well?’ Nesta looked down at him, her heart-shaped face wearing an expression he had not seen before, a mixture of sadness and defiance.

‘The better for seeing you, lady.’ For all his rehearsal of what he was going to say, the words burst out unbidden. Her face did not change, but in the dim light he was not sure whether he glimpsed moisture in her eyes. ‘Sit with me, Nesta,’ he pleaded, in a low voice, but she shook her head, her russet curls this time constrained within a linen coif.

‘I am busy, John. Business is brisk, especially since …’ Her voice trailed away, as she glanced towards the back of the room where the boisterous Alan was changing an empty barrel. She turned back to de Wolfe. ‘But tell me what you have been doing. Out of town again, I expect?’ Her tone hardened slightly as she referred to his frequent absences, but he seized on her words to keep her there.

‘I discovered a murdered man today — killed in Dunsford, yet found in Teignmouth.’ It was something to hold her attention, but she picked up on the last word with a snap in her voice.

‘You rode to Teignmouth today? By the coast road, no doubt!’

Mystified, he nodded.

‘The road that passes through Dawlish! And did you call upon your fair-haired sweetheart?’ Now the voice had the edge of a dagger.

Trapped, he scowled furiously at her. ‘If you think I saw Hilda, you’re mistaken. Not that it’s any of your business,’ he added unwisely.

The redheaded Welshwoman pressed her small fists on the table as she leaned towards him. ‘I know you, Black John. You may not have seen her, but did you go looking for her?’

De Wolfe was a bad liar and, anyway, he rarely deigned to avoid the truth.

Nesta, who could read him better than her own palm, saw him struggling for an evasion and needed no further proof. ‘You lost little time in seeking another bed, damn you,’ she hissed, under her breath. Although they spoke in their usual Welsh, several ears were flapping at nearby tables. ‘I think you’d find the ale more to your liking in other taverns from now on.’