Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

De Wolfe noticed that she emphasised the ‘I’, subtly but effectively separating her own interests from those of the rest of the family.

Matthew must have noticed it too, for he tried to stake his own claim. ‘Indeed, we must clear these matters up as quickly as possible. Many men’s livelihoods depend upon the Knapman tin-workings.’ He shot another worried look at Joan, who was staring impassively once more at the planks of the oaken table.

De Wolfe wondered if anything could stir her emotions but, from his wide experience of women, decided that anyone who could crack that virgin-like veneer would find seething passion beneath. From the way she was behaving, he doubted that Walter Knapman had ever penetrated the shell that seemed to cocoon his lovely wife.

Her brother spoke for the first time. ‘Whatever a will says, it’s obvious that the bulk of his wealth should go to his wife. If the testament says otherwise, we’ll contest it — in the courts if need be!’

This time, John noticed the ‘we’, and again marvelled at how previously unknown relatives appeared out of the woodwork when there was so much as a whisper about inheritance.

Soon de Wolfe had run out of questions, especially since he had heard virtually no answers of any consequence. Taking his leave, he left the family to await the arrival of the corpse and strode out of the house.

Harold pattered after him, and as de Wolfe took Odin’s reins from a stable-boy, the steward came up close and glanced furtively over his shoulder towards the house. ‘Crowner, maybe it’s not my place to speak out of turn, but I fear that old Aethelfrith will get blamed for this as a scapegoat, whether he was involved or not. Crazy as he is, he’s a fellow Saxon and I can’t stand by to see him hanged by default.’

De Wolfe’s bushy brows came together in puzzlement. What was the man trying to say? ‘Well, what about it?’ he prompted brusquely.

With another backward glance at the closed shutters, Harold came so close that John could smell the onions on his breath. ‘The first person to call when it was known that the master was missing was Stephen Acland — he was even here when Matthew brought the news of his death.’ He paused, as if undecided whether to go the final yard. ‘At the last inquest, you saw the hate between Acland and my master over the tin-works. Well, it was not only streaming that Acland wanted to wrest from him but something more personal. I’m sure you’ll know what I mean, Crowner.’

With that, his nerve failed him and he dodged back to the house, bent almost double as if he was afraid of being seen.

De Wolfe put his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself aboard Odin’s broad back. As he walked the horse away, his long face bore a frown of deep concentration as he digested Harold’s insinuations.

De Wolfe jogged up past Chagford’s church and along the fronts of several taverns to the small square, which was a hive of activity. Apart from the usual stalls and booths around the edge, a large temporary shelter was being erected in the centre, ready for the coinage ceremony, which was due to start the next day. A series of poles was being hammered into the packed earth, to support a flimsy roof of tightly woven reed panels to keep off the rain, should it sweep in from the moor.

The coinage would bring a great increase in trade apart from tin to Chagford: chapmen, hawkers, whores and other opportunists would arrive to take advantage of the hundreds of tinners who swelled the population for a couple of days, usually four times a year. The other Stannary towns of Tavistock and Ashburton experienced a similar periodic boom. Their coinage ceremonies took place at other times so that tinners who missed one occasion could travel further afield for their bars to be stamped and taxed.

However, de Wolfe had other things on his mind than coinage, and walked Odin sedately across the top of the square to reach the road that forked right then went downhill towards the small wooden bridge over the Teign, almost half a mile further on. He had asked directions near the square, and a few minutes later had left the straggle of houses and was passing between strip-fields and some common pasture leading into the river valley. The land all around was a random maze of hills and dells, deeply cut by streams. It was glowing with the pale green of spring, though in the distance the menacing grey-brown of the high moor was always visible.

A few hundred yards before the bridge, the track forked again and in the angle stood a long-house, with a substantial piece of land occupying much of the triangle between the two roads. Two cow byres and a couple of outhouses lay beyond the main building, which was of limewashed cob with a well-thatched roof. Long and low, there was a door and shuttered windows towards one end, indicating the living quarters, while the other half was for animals, with a large barn door in the pine end. A vegetable garden surrounded the house, and beyond a fence there was a paddock with some sheep, new lambs and a pen for swine. Though not on the same grand scale as the Knapman household, this looked a comfortable, prosperous dwelling.

There was a drystone wall around the land, with a loose hurdle acting as a gate across a gap in front of the house. John slid down from Odin and tied the stallion to a nearby sapling. He pulled aside the hurdle, and as he walked towards the door he heard voices at the back. Going round the stable end of the long-house, he saw three men sitting on a rough bench fashioned from a tree-trunk, each with a quart pot in his hand. They rose abruptly at his appearance and stood scowling at him suspiciously, until one recognised him. ‘Surely you’re the crowner, sir.’

De Wolfe walked along the back wall of the house towards them. ‘And you’re Stephen Acland — I saw you at my inquest and again at Crockern Tor last week.’

The powerful-looking man waved him to a place on the bench, and the other two, their suspicions allayed, waited until he was seated, then resumed their own places on the rough-hewn log.

Acland poured cider from a large crock into a spare mug and handed it to de Wolfe. ‘No need to ask why you’re here, Crowner. We were just chewing over the tragedy ourselves. These are are two of my overmen, upon whom I rely as much as I do on breathing and eating.’

The tough-looking pair nodded a greeting to the law officer, but said nothing.

‘You knew of the death very quickly,’ observed de Wolfe.

‘I happened to be in Knapman’s house last night when his brother arrived with the evil tidings. I was there to enquire whether anything had been heard of him since he vanished. By misfortune, I was there to hear the worst possible news.’

De Wolfe stared at Acland with disconcerting frankness. ‘You were very solicitous for his welfare, considering that the antagonism between you was common knowledge.’

Acland smiled thinly. ‘In times of peril and distress, neighbours in a small town like Chagford — especially fellow tinners — forget their rivalries and draw together for support, Crowner.’

‘It was just disputes over the tinning, then, nothing else?’ de Wolfe asked provocatively.

Acland refused to be drawn. ‘Of course! What else could it have been?’ he snapped, in a voice that was part-innocent, part-annoyed.

‘It is rumoured that you have a more than passing friendship with Mistress Knapman,’ de Wolfe said gently, only too conscious of his own problems where women were concerned.

‘This damned town thrives on rumour, Crowner! It’s true I have a great regard for Joan Knapman, more than her husband showed. She was lonely. Walter only married her to possess a beautiful ornament, to show off his wealth. I was sorry for her, stuck in that big house with only her feckless mother for company.’