Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘Are you well accommodated in Exeter, Mistress Knapman?’ began Robert Courteman, in his high-pitched voice, after he had shuffled enough parchments on his table to establish his legal credentials.

‘My mother and I are well housed with Matthew, thank you, through the kindness of his good wife. My brother is lodged in the Bush Inn, and Vicar Smithson has a bed in the cathedral precinct.’ Her quiet tones were firm, but devoid of expression. They seemed to imply that the lawyer should leave the niceties and get down to business. Perhaps Courteman took the hint, for he untied a leather thong from around a small parchment and unrolled it between his bony hands.

After clearing his throat a few times, he stared bleakly around the expectant group and began to speak. ‘This is the final testament of Walter Knapman, tin-master of Chagford in the County of Devon,’ he intoned unnecessarily. ‘It is dated the second day of April in the year of Christ eleven hundred and ninety-five.’

There was a sudden grating noise as the foot of Peter Jordan skidded on the stone floor. ‘What date did you say, sir?’

The dried-up features of the elder lawyer stared testily at the young man who had interrupted him. ‘The second of April, this year.’

‘But that can’t be right,’ began Peter, but he stopped short as his wife jabbed him in the ribs and hissed something fiercely into his ear.

After another disapproving glare at his son-in-law, Robert Courteman continued, staring at the parchment, though not reading it verbatim. ‘The roll has been sealed by myself as certifying that Walter Knapman assented to the contents on that day and his own seal has been appended in wax.’ He held up the curled skin briefly, to display two embossed blobs hanging from tape tags at the bottom of the roll, in lieu of signatures; less than one in three hundred people was literate. ‘The sealing was witnessed by two of my clerks, their signatures being here.’ Courteman jabbed at the document with a long forefinger and laid the roll down again.

‘The substance of the testament is this. The beneficence of Walter Knapman to the Holy Church leads him to donate twenty-five pounds to St Michael the Archangel, Chagford, to be used as the incumbent sees fit, as long as the use is approved by the Prebendary and Bishop.’

Smithson smiled broadly — twenty-five pounds was a large sum of money, and although it was not specifically earmarked for his stipend, it ensured the security of parish finances for a long time to come.

‘After this pious bequest is paid, the residue of his property and possessions is to be distributed thus, assuming his wife Joan survives him — as she thankfully does.’ The lawyer gave a humourless grin, exposing his yellowed teeth in the direction of the widow. His attempt at levity was met with stony silence.

‘The freehold demesne in Chagford is granted absolutely, without let or hindrance, to her, with all its goods and chattels.’ Courteman peered again at Joan and clarified his legal jargon. ‘In other words, the house, its contents and the land on which it stands are yours, Mistress Knapman.’

Joan gave a slight nod, as if to convey that she had expected nothing less.

He returned to his parchment. ‘All the residue, which includes his dozen tin-workings, including all stream-works, blowing-houses and boundings registered under Stannary Law but not yet worked, three freehold farms and mills and all other possessions such as horses, cattle and any other livestock, together with the contents of his treasure chest and all debts due to him yet unpaid, are to be divided into three equal parts between his widow Joan, his brother Matthew and his stepson Peter Jordan.’

There was an outbreak of whispering and muttering and heads closing together, as the audience tried to work out if they were pleased, satisfied or disgruntled, but the lawyer’s voice cut harshly across the murmuring. ‘There are two conditions upon this dispensation. First, the apportionment of his estate is dependent upon the agreement of all beneficiaries not to allow the break-up of the tin-workings by selling any part of them for at least five years.’ He stopped again to gaze around the room, as if seeking any opposition to this clause. ‘The testament provides that any beneficiary wishing to sell their share within those five years will forfeit it and it will then be shared between the other legatees.’

This provoked a babble of protest from Matthew, Peter Jordan and Joan’s brother. Peter sprang to his feet, almost upsetting his wife seated on the other end of the bench. ‘How, then, can we benefit for at least five years, if we are unable to sell our holdings?’ he demanded.

The lawyer sighed, a veteran of many other testaments and family squabbles. ‘You should be rejoicing at your good fortune, not complaining, Peter. You have a third share in whatever is in his personal treasure chest, coin, jewellery or whatever, which is yet to be accounted. And you will have a third of the income from his extensive business, which wisely — and on my own advice to Walter — will be kept intact for five years, and far longer if you heed my counsel.’

Peter remained on his feet, pale but determined. ‘This is not the will that my stepfather told me about, sir.’

Robert Courteman scowled at the young man. His face conveyed annoyance and suspicion. ‘And how would you know that, boy? Walter demanded that I kept his affairs absolutely secret, especially from his family.’

At the back of the room, the priest noticed that Philip Courteman’s face had reddened, and that Peter Jordan had shifted his angry glare from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law.

Robert Courteman might also have recognised Peter’s switch of hostility, had not Matthew, with a perturbed expression on his fleshy face, interrupted, ‘You said there were two conditions attached to the bequests and you’ve given us only one. What’s the other?’

The elder lawyer aimed his gaze at the tinner’s agent. ‘Whereas, apart from the house, Mistress Joan shares equally with you and Peter in the present circumstances, Walter had made provision for future circumstances, when her share would increase from one-third to eight-tenths of the substantial fortune, leaving you and his stepson one-tenth each.’

Matthew’s jaw dropped, and Peter went white above his dark moustache. ‘What possibility could that be?’ said Matthew, in a strangled voice.

‘If Mistress Knapman had had a child before Walter’s death.’

There was an audible sigh of relief from the other two beneficiaries and a snarl of disapproval from Lucy and her aggressive-looking son.

Matthew murmured to his spouse that he thanked God that his brother had remarried only five months before his death.

But the lawyer had not yet finished. ‘Or if she was found to be with child at the time of Walter’s death.’

There was a sense of anticlimax at this and both Matthew’s and Peter’s heartbeat had begun to subside to normal.

Until Joan spoke up from her seat in front of the table. ‘But I am with child — and have been these past three months!’

That evening, the coroner and his two assistants met together for the first time in several days. When Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn called at the narrow house in Martin’s Lane, they timed their arrival to avoid meeting Matilda, who detested them. She considered one a Celtic savage and the other an irreligious pervert. They knew she always attended the Sunday evening service at St Olave’s, which took place after the rigid series of Offices at the cathedral had finished. The two men, today sharing a common bond of aches and pains from their recent injuries, made doubly sure of her departure by skulking behind the corner of St Martin’s Church until they saw her leave the house.