Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘Your stepfather was certainly not a Saxon, though these days the distinction between Norman and English is becoming so blurred as to be often impossible to determine.’

‘It’s just another way to squeeze money from us. It should be abolished,’ complained Matthew. ‘The King uses every device to raise more cash for his wars in France. We still haven’t paid all the ransom money to the bloody Germans.’

De Wolfe ignored this valid but mildly treasonable remark and answered Jordan’s question. ‘I will have my clerk record that no presentment of Englishry was made, but in my discretion I will ignore the matter of the murdrum fine, as the inquest is not being held at Teignmouth.’ He hunched his shoulders and stuck his head out towards Matthew Knapman. ‘What is the situation about Walter’s tin-workings? My officer tells me that there is concern among his tinners for the security of their employment.’

‘I can look after the stream-workings, until things are settled,’ said Roland, harshly and unexpectedly. ‘I did some tinning once, as a prospector, before I became a tanner.’

There was a silence, but everyone ignored his offer. Matthew returned to the coroner’s question. ‘It depends on what’s contained in his will, if there is one. We have to consult the lawyer in Exeter to see if Walter made such provision.’

Lucy piped up from her corner by the fire. ‘If there’s any justice, his widow should inherit. That’s surely the law.’ Her son nodded vigorously, glaring around at the others.

Peter Jordan, his face suddenly flushed, shook his head. ‘It certainly is not, and if a will has been made, that decides the matter. If there is no will, the laws of intestacy hold.’

John had picked up a smattering of the law since he had been obliged to attend most of the court sittings in Exeter in all manner of issues. ‘It will be complicated, then,’ he ruminated. ‘Walter had no natural children, but had a brother, a stepson and a wife?’

‘And I am the nearest to being his child, by custom if not by blood,’ cut in Peter Jordan, to the accompaniment of a sneer from Roland.

De Wolfe shrugged, but before he could speak, Matthew thrust into the conversation. ‘I am his only blood relation and a closer one would be impossible to find — not only a brother but a twin, sharing the same womb.’

The coroner noted once again how the prospect of wealth made the silent garrulous and argumentative, rapidly thrusting mourning into the background. Perhaps Joan Knapman had the same impression, for she spoke for the first time. In spite of the softness of her voice, it held something that gripped the attention of the others.

‘Let us not soil the moment with concern about money. The men will work as they work every other day, until we know whether there is a will and what it contains. Let us put Walter in the earth before we begin fighting over his possessions.’

This sensible advice silenced the other claimants and the conversation was diverted by the arrival of the priest from the other room. He wore a long black tunic, carried a leatherbound missal and wore a narrow brocade stole around his neck as a concession to the occasion. For a few moments he discussed with them the nature of the service in St Michael’s. Then de Wolfe confirmed that the body must be moved from the house to the square, as the jury had to inspect it; immediately afterwards it could return to the church. ‘I shall hold the inquest two hours after dawn. It will last but a few minutes so we can clear from the square before the coinage begins.’

Matthew sighed. ‘It seems appropriate that Walter’s last appearance should coincide with a ceremony that he attended scores of times, central to the whole business of being a tinner. There will be many there to mark and regret his passing.’

De Wolfe hoped privately that the faction who were not so well disposed to the Knapman empire would behave themselves on the morrow.

Rolled in his cloak and lying on a hessian bag filled with straw, de Wolfe spent a comfortable night by the fire-pit in Hugh Wibbery’s hall.

He awoke as dawn was breaking, disturbed by a servant who brought sycamore logs to liven the peat fire that had smouldered all night.

Sitting up, he saw that all around the central hearth men were lying like the spokes of a wheel. Many were stirring, and gradually all clambered to their feet and made their way either outside to their tasks or to the trestles set against the walls, where bread, oatmeal porridge, cold meat, boiled salt fish and ale were provided to break their fast. There was no chapel in the manor house and John saw no sign of morning devotions, although Thomas was mumbling and crossing himself in a corner. When he had finished, he came to the table to pick listlessly at some bread and cheese.

Gwyn was his usual genial self, looking even more crumpled and dishevelled in his frayed leather jerkin and serge breeches, his wild auburn hair tangled from a night on the floor. ‘Are we going straight home after the inquest, Crowner?’ he enquired between mouthfuls of porridge, which he ladled from a wooden bowl with a spoon carved from a cow’s horn.

‘I want to stay awhile to see this coinage and to cast an eye over some of the tinners,’ replied de Wolfe. He omitted to say that he was interested to see how the sheriff fared with such ill-feeling against him. His abiding contempt for his brother-in-law made him always hopeful for the sheriff’s downfall.

Gwyn might have read his thoughts, for he asked why de Revelle was not staying overnight with Hugh Wibbery.

‘It’s not grand enough for him here,’ replied de Wolfe sarcastically. ‘I heard that he was going to lodge with de Prouz at Gidleigh Castle. They are bigger landowners than Wibbery and their place is more to Richard’s elevated tastes than this glorified farmhouse.’

‘Safer for him in a castle, too, if the tinners turn nasty against him,’ added the Cornishman perceptively.

‘Well, he’ll have to run the gauntlet of them in Chagford today. No doubt he’ll have brought plenty of his garrison to protect himself.’

And so it proved, for when they rode down to the town a little later, the square reminded the former Crusader of the plain before Acre. Not only had the sheriff brought troops under their sergeant, but someone told Gwyn that he also had the constable of Rougemont with him, the statuesque Ralph Morin, who was in charge of all military activity in the King’s castle of Exeter.

The small square was packed with people, and men-at-arms were strategically placed at intervals all around the margins, close to the stalls and booths, whose owners were hoping for a roaring trade all day. Carts and pack-horses pushed their way through the milling throng, and although it had been daylight for only a little over an hour, buying and selling was going on apace. De Wolfe and his officer left their horses with the morose Thomas in a side lane, and when they emerged, the coroner noticed that one thing was different from a usual market-day or fair in a country town: crude tin stood everywhere, each stack closely guarded by a couple of men. Some was piled into ox-carts or in panniers on sumpter horses, more was in hand-barrows, pushed by independent tinners, and yet more had already been off-loaded on to the edges of the square, where the dirty grey lumps of poorly smelted metal were stacked like misshapen bricks.

John stopped by one small heap, protected by a rough-looking old man who sat on the ground alongside his bars, chewing gummily at pieces of bread that he had torn off a loaf. As the old tinner stared up suspiciously at the coroner, de Wolfe picked up one of the lumps and inspected it with some curiosity. ‘This is the stuff that gives rise to all this trouble? It looks a pretty dull product to me.’ He weighed it experimentally in his hand. ‘But very heavy for its size. And dark grey and dirty.’