Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘As I told you before, this is not a matter for our diocese of Devon and Cornwall, but for the Winchester Consistory Court — although a good recommendation from senior members of the Chapter here would undoubtedly carry weight in Hampshire.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘Unfortunately, the reverse is also true, in that a denial of his merits from here would ruin any hope of reinstatement. And that is all I got from my dear brothers — a round condemnation of Thomas’s conduct, even though they know little or nothing of the real facts.’

‘Why should they blacken some poor fellow who means little to them?’ demanded the coroner.

‘Because he is your clerk and my nephew! Neither of us is popular in the Chapter House or the Bishop’s palace. Since that affair a few months ago, when the sheriff was disgraced over his affection for Prince John, mud stuck to a number of ecclesiastics — especially the precentor and, of course, to Bishop Henry Marshal. They have no love for people like me or you, or for our friend the treasurer, as we are all avowed King’s men.’

De Wolfe, at heart a bluff and perhaps rather naïve soldier, found it hard to believe that educated, professional men of God would be so vindictive. ‘You mean they would block a minor clerk’s career — indeed his happiness and even his life — just to get back at us spitefully for some political difference?’

The Archdeacon shook his head in wonder at his friend’s apparent trust in human nature. ‘Without blinking an eye, John. When I put the matter to them, their vehemence told me straight away that they relished the chance to confound us.’

By now they had reached Martin’s Lane and the priest left de Wolfe at his door, with a promise to call at St John’s in the morning to see how his nephew was progressing.

De Wolfe watched him go, his hand on the latch. For a moment, he contemplated going to the Bush, to see whether there was any truth in Matilda’s jibe about Nesta and Alan, but a stubborn streak of pride won the day and, with a deep sigh, he opened the door and went in.

While the drama was being played out at the cathedral, Matthew Knapman and his assistant Peter Jordan were seeking legal advice. They were visiting Peter’s father-in-law, Robert Courteman, at his house in Goldsmith Street, which was off the high street near the Guildhall.

Courteman was the lawyer who handled the affairs of the Knapman tin business, including Matthew’s sale and transport operations. He was a gloomy-looking man of fifty, with a pate as bald as any monk’s tonsure on top, but rimmed with bushy iron-grey hair. His narrow face was lined and two deep furrows on each side of his mouth and folds of lax skin under his chin gave him the appearance of a hound with permanent indigestion.

Courteman received his visitors in his office chamber, a cubicle partitioned from the living hall of his narrow house, appropriately as gloomy as his humourless self. A table was scattered with rolls of parchment and vellum, tied with tapes of plaited wool or leather. Shelves were loaded with dusty documents and a few books. The lawyer sat on a stool behind his table and the other two men perched on a short bench opposite. At Robert’s side stood his son and junior partner, Philip Courteman, a younger version of his father, with the same sombre look on his pallid face.

The lawyers had already heard of the death of their client Walter Knapman, and the lengthy commiseration had been completed, though Matthew suspected that the sorrow they expressed was for the potential loss of his business.

‘As you might guess,’ said Matthew, ‘the suddenness of his demise has greatly disturbed our business activities. Tin is being produced as usual, but we need to know who it belongs to, for purposes of sale and disposal. We are like a ship without a rudder at present.’

‘And we want to be reassured that the workings will remain together, not be broken up,’ cut in Peter Jordan. ‘There are people waiting like wolves around a sheepfold to seize any opportunity to ravage us — Stephen Acland for one, though others would like to bid piecemeal for the dozen or so stream-works and blowing-houses.’

The older lawyer steepled his fingers against his lips and managed to look more miserable than usual. ‘What do you want from me? There’s little enough I can do at this early stage.’ He looked up at his pasty-faced son, as if to seek his agreement to their legal impotency.

‘There may be difficult problems in this situation,’ said the younger man obscurely.

Matthew sounded impatient: ‘Every day’s uncertainty makes trading more difficult,’ he complained. ‘There has just been a new coinage in Chagford, and I have a large quantity of metal ready for the second smelting and sale. I need to know for whom I am selling.’

Robert Courteman spread his hands as if in benediction. ‘I can appreciate the problems, Matthew, but it is too soon for answers.’

‘But we need to know what is in his will as soon as possible,’ said Peter, impatient at the lawyer’s torpid attitude.

‘And even if there is a will,’ snapped Matthew in frustration.

Courteman shook his head slowly. ‘I cannot divulge the contents of a last testament, not until the proper circumstances arrive.’

‘And what might they be, for God’s sake?’ asked the dead man’s twin.

‘All the family together, everyone who might benefit. They are entitled to hear it from the lawyer’s own lips, not second-hand after it has been divulged piecemeal to all and sundry.’

Matthew grunted in disgust. ‘We’re not all and sundry, Robert. I’m his twin brother, and Peter is the nearest thing to a son that Walter had. At least you can confirm that there is a will — and when it was last altered, if it has been?’

The elder Courteman pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure I can even do that, Matthew. The relations between a lawyer and his client are as sacred as those between a priest and sinner, you know.’

‘God’s bones, Robert, we are all one family here! Your own daughter is married to Peter, so what affects his future affects hers too.’

Courteman wagged his head slowly from side to side, his wattles swaying under his chin. ‘One cannot let personal issues sway the sacred trust of our profession, Matthew,’ he uttered sententiously. ‘However, I will venture so far as to tell you that there is indeed a last will and testament to which Walter Knapman appended his mark in front of me as a witness, and that I will be disclosing its contents to the assembled family, principally his lawful wife Joan, in the very near future.’

‘How near?’ demanded Peter Jordan. ‘Does this mean another journey to Chagford?’

‘No, I have had a message that the widow is coming to Exeter very shortly, together with her mother and brother. I will inform you when the testament will be read, so that you can arrange to be present. If the widow wishes it, it may even be tomorrow.’

And with that the impatient pair had to be content.

Friday, the fifteenth of April, dawned grey and cold on Dartmoor, as if the spring was making up for the relatively mild winter by being spitefully unseasonable. Snow covered the moors, and even in the greener valleys around the edges of the huge wasteland the new buds and peeping flowers were powdered with white. The lowering grey clouds threatened more snow to come, and as Gwyn of Polruan rode his mare down from Wibbery’s manor barton to the town, a few flakes fluttered on the wind that moaned softly around him. The big Cornishman pulled up the hood of his tattered leather shoulder cape and plodded on philosophically, inured to the weather of a dozen countries after years of campaigning.