Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

As the son of a tinner, Gwyn was able to explain, ‘They often call this crude metal “black tin”, for it’s full of impurities. It’s smelted in those blowing-houses by stacking tin shode in layers with charcoal and blasting it white-hot with bellows. Some of the charcoal and slag stays in each bar. That’s why it looks so dull and grimy.’

As they walked away, de Wolfe asked his oracle a further question: ‘I expected the ingots to be neat and regular, not those rough lumps.’

‘The moulds they’re made in are crude, that’s why. The furnaces in the blowing-houses are tapped off into cavities hacked into slabs of rock with a chisel, so the bar can only be as regular as the hole it’s poured into.’

Having exhausted the technicalities of tin production, de Wolfe led the way across to the temporary shelter that had been put up in the middle of the square. There were more stacks of tin piled around the edges, but the centre was kept clear by ropes stretched at knee height between the dozen supporting poles. Two of the sheriff’s soldiers patrolled the barrier, to prevent both tinkers and urchins from sneaking inside.

As they reached the rope, they were joined by a harassed-looking Sergeant Gabriel, who raised his hand in a stiff salute. ‘God’s breath, Crowner, this place is a cross between the May Fair and the battle of Arsuf!’ He was an old Crusader, too, and a strong bond of mutual respect had formed between the three men. De Wolfe gave the flustered soldier one of his rare grins. ‘What’s the problem, sergeant?’

‘The traders and hawkers want to sell anything to anybody. You — begging your pardon, sir — want to hold an inquest. Half the tinners want their bars coined and the other half want to attack the sheriff.’

Gwyn gave his friend a playful punch on the shoulder, which sent him staggering. ‘You should be happy, then, lad! Especially with the last part.’

Gabriel, a devoted royalist like de Wolfe, had no time for Richard de Revelle, but as the sheriff was his master, he had to keep his feelings well hidden.

‘Then the sooner we get this inquest out of the way the better,’ said the coroner.

Gabriel nodded. ‘The bailiff has rounded up a score of men for the jury — you said it was pointless fetching any from outside Chagford so they’re all locals, a few tinners among them.’

Gwyn went off to shepherd the jurymen into the enclosure, as John spotted a wedge of men-at-arms pushing through the crowd at the top of the square, making a way for two figures on horseback. They were Richard de Revelle and his constable, Ralph Morin, who alighted alongside him, leaving their steeds to be taken away by a soldier. Already the noise in the marketplace had changed in quality, with a growling tone and frank catcalls as the many tinners noticed the sheriff’s arrival.

‘Good day, brother-in-law,’ greeted the coroner. ‘I see you’ve not worn your chain-mail … Let’s hope that was not a mistake!’

The sheriff glowered at him and looked apprehensively around at the crowd. Many were staring at him aggressively and a few shook their fists at him, before melting away behind their fellows.

‘Damned rabble!’ muttered de Revelle, under his breath. ‘I trust you’ll not be holding up the start of my coinage too long, with this inquest of yours.’

‘Here’s the corpse now,’ reported Gabriel, as again his men forced a path through the throng, this time for a procession coming from the church. Four of Knapman’s overmen were carrying a bier, a device of dark oak that resembled a short wide ladder. Normally, it hung from the rafters at the back of the church, to remind folk of their mortality, but today it bore the shrouded body of Walter. Walking behind were the widow Joan, her mother and brother, Paul Smithson, Matthew Knapman and Peter Jordan, followed by Harold the steward and most of Knapman’s other servants.

At the enclosure, the bier was set down on a pair of trestles and the jury filed behind it, stepping over the surrounding ropes. Thomas de Peyne, who had handed over the horses to one of Gabriel’s men, came in with his writing bag and set up his pen and parchment on an empty cask, though there was little enough to be recorded in this particular case. As the crowd pressed in all around the temporary shelter, some sad, many angry and yet more indifferently curious, Gwyn yelled out his customary summons to attend the King’s coroner.

The sheriff and Ralph Morin stood to one side as de Wolfe went through a routine similar to that he had conducted over the headless body of Henry of Tunnaford. He dispensed with presentment of Englishry and again relieved the townsfolk by disregarding the murdrum fine. This time, the duty of the jury to examine the fatal wounds was less gory than before: they had only to file past the bier and look at the head wound and the back. Gwyn hauled the body on to its side, displaying the double-tracked bruise, which was now more prominent after death, though somewhat blurred by the staining where the blood in the body had sunk to the lowest level of the back. The two women were standing at one end of the bier and were spared this, as well as the sight of a tinge of green in the flanks.

There was little else to be said, and ten minutes later de Wolfe stood in front of the now covered corpse to give his views to the jurymen.

‘The purpose of this inquisition is to determine who the deceased was, and where, when and by what means he came to his death. His brother Matthew has identified the cadaver to spare his widow, and we all know it is that of Walter Knapman, tin-master of this town. Where he met his death is unknown, but from the presence of his horse near Stepford Mill, it must have taken place somewhere near there. However, I think it futile to bring the nearest vill, Dunsford, into the enquiry. Neither is it sensible to involve Teignmouth, where my officer, Gwyn of Polruan, has sworn it was found, in the presence of myself.’

He paused to sweep his eyes sternly over the jury. ‘The means of death is clear, in that the severe wound on the head, which you have all seen, either killed him directly or rendered him insensible, so that when he was cast into the river, he drowned. Either way it led to his death. You may then ask, was it caused by an accident, a fall from his horse on to stony ground?’

De Wolfe again glared around at his jury, as was his habit, defying them to contradict him.

‘If that was so, it cannot explain how he came to be in the river, instead of on the earth. The chance of falling from a horse directly into deep water and hitting his head seems remote.’

He scowled again along the line of faces. ‘Such a chance is abolished when you look at his back, where undoubtedly he has been smitten heavily by a staff or pike handle — the reason for his fall from his horse.’

Folding his arms under his wolfskin cloak, he walked along the line of jurors, his great beak of a nose thrust out towards them, shoulders hunched and lank black hair twisting over his collar in the cold breeze. ‘We have no club, no knife, no axe. Nothing as an instrument of death for me to declare deodand. But it is obvious that this was murder. Now deliver me your verdict, so that the facts, sparse though they are, may be recorded for the King’s justices — for that is why I am here, the custos placitorum coronae , keeper of the pleas of the Crown. If we discover the perpetrator of this evil deed, he will face the royal judges and be dealt with accordingly.’

As de Wolfe said this, he cast a sidelong glance at the sheriff, who scowled back, well aware that the coroner was taunting him with their endless dispute about jurisdiction over serious crimes.

At Gwyn’s prompting, the jury had a hurried consultation among themselves, and within a minute or two, the one Gwyn had ‘volunteered’ as foreman stepped forward. ‘We agree that he was murdered, Crowner,’ he said shortly.