Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

In the three-roomed infirmary of the priory, he found Dame Madge and another Sister of Mercy attending to Philip Courteman, who was slumped on a bench against the whitewashed wall, having a long, but shallow cut on his scalp bathed and bandaged.

‘He has suffered no great harm, thanks be to God,’ announced the brawny Dame Madge, the sleeves of her black gown rolled up and a bloodstained apron wrapped around her waist.

Philip groaned at her ministrations, but he was fully alert, though very sorry for himself.

‘What of the lady?’ asked the coroner anxiously.

‘She, too, is quite well — she has bruises on her throat, but is recovering on a bed next door with her mother beside her,’ said the nun. ‘No harm has befallen the child she carries, as far as I can tell. The good Lord has certainly looked after his own today, though the older lady Lucy gave him stout assistance,’ she added, with one of her rare smiles.

While the other sister wound a long strip of linen around his head, Philip haltingly told de Wolfe his part of the story.

‘We were hardly out of sight of this place, trotting around a bend, when what I took to be a monk in a habit and cowl, carrying a staff, waved us down at the side of the track. I was in front of the ladies and I stopped. I assumed he was in some distress.’ He looked rather sheepish as he added, ‘The distress was to be mine, for that’s the last I recall, until I found myself being carried back here across the back of a groom’s nag. He must have struck me senseless with that staff.’

Frustrated by Philip’s loss of memory, de Wolfe turned away, to be faced by Joan’s mother, who had come from the next room at the sound of voices. Her wrinkled face was relieved by her bright blue eyes and even the hardened Dame Madge seemed impressed by her. ‘The lad was knocked out of his senses,’ she declared, ‘but I can tell you what took place. This fellow, disguised as a Benedictine in his black robe, struck the young fellow here a swinging blow with his staff that felled him from his horse. Then he rushed at my poor daughter, her being with child, and dragged her from her pony.’ Lucy clenched her fists at the memory. ‘Thankfully, she fell into a bush which broke her fall, but then the bastard — begging your pardon, Sister — bent over her and started to throttle her. And I couldn’t be putting up with that, could I?’ she added, in an almost matter-of-fact tone.

Dame Madge put an arm affectionately around Lucy’s shoulders. ‘A real heroine, this woman,’ she said proudly. ‘She attacked the villain herself and drove him off.’

The mother, though still tremulous, beamed. ‘I’m a tanner’s wife, and I’ve seen plenty of rough men and fights in my time. I drove my horse at him and reared her up so that her front hoofs struck him. I was afraid for my daughter, but she was underneath and it was that or let her be strangled.’

John had to admire Lucy’s enterprise and courage — though the thought passed through his mind that she would probably be worse to live with than Matilda and that perhaps the tanner from Ashburton was happier in his grave. ‘So he made a run for it, this man?’ he asked.

‘I think I hurt him grievously,’ said Lucy. ‘I felt a hoof crunch into the side of his chest, for he let out a terrible scream. He dropped Joan and staggered away, then limped off into the forest. I was too concerned with my daughter to bother with him, as long as he fled.’

‘Have you any notion as to who he was?’ asked Gwyn, silent until now.

‘No, he kept this monk’s habit girded tightly around himself and I think he must have tied the cowl under his chin somehow, for his face stayed well hidden.’

‘Was he a big man or small?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Not small, certainly,’ said the old woman, ‘but not a great lump like this ginger man of yours here.’

‘Was your daughter able to recognise him?’

‘She has said nothing, her throat is so sore she can hardly speak.’

Dame Madge interrupted, ‘She is not yet well enough to be questioned, if that is in your mind, Crowner.’

De Wolfe motioned to his officer. ‘We must get back there and see if Gabriel has found anything.’

Minutes later, they returned to the edge of the forest and were met by one of the soldiers who had been left by Gabriel to guard the scene. The man held out something. ‘The sergeant told me to show you this, Crowner. He picked it up where the bushes were flattened.’

John took a shiny grey object into the palm of his hand. It was a charm or amulet hanging on a leather thong, which had snapped. Gwyn looked over his shoulder, curious to see what it was. ‘Made of pure tin, that is,’ he said. ‘Three rabbits with their heads in a circle, sharing only three ears.’

‘The symbol of the tinners,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘Must have been pulled off the attacker when that harridan Lucy stamped him with her pony.’

‘These bloody tinners get everywhere,’ muttered Gwyn, but a shout from the trees diverted him.

Another soldier appeared, pushing his way through the long damp grass to the edge of the road. ‘We’ve got him, Crowner, though he’ll not last long. The sergeant says for you to come quickly.’

They hurried back into the wood, where the lush undergrowth faded beneath the trees into wild garlic and early bluebells. Footprints in the wet earth and an occasional splash of blood marked the trail for several hundred paces to a small clearing where some fallen trees had allowed the bushes and weeds to flourish again. Here Gabriel, two of his men and the pair of servants from the priory were gathered in a circle. At their feet lay a figure almost hidden under a voluminous habit of coarse black wool. The cowl had been pulled back.

De Wolfe bent over a face that was almost blue. Its owner was gasping for breath, his lips were really black and spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. At first the coroner did not recognise the man, but then he realised he had seen him somewhere before.

‘He seems mortally wounded in the chest,’ murmured Gabriel, pulling aside the robe to show a large tear in the rough blue smock, which suggested a labourer of some kind.

Under the rip, a shiny patch of new blood-clot shimmered in the light coming through the trees and de Wolfe noticed the pink-white end of a broken rib sticking through the underlying skin. ‘What’s your name, fellow?’ he rasped.

Gasping was the only reply and, although the man was conscious, the coroner knew from experience that he had little time left to live. ‘You are dying, fellow, so make your peace with God by confessing your sins,’ said John loudly.

‘His chest is punctured — he has little air left in his lungs,’ diagnosed Gwyn who, like his master, considered himself an expert on injuries after two decades of warfare.

A dying declaration, attested by witnesses, was valid evidence in law, so de Wolfe needed to get what he could before the man expired. He had not forgotten that another death had been caused by a blow from a staff that had unhorsed the victim, and wanted to discover if the same hands had inflicted both strokes. ‘If you can’t speak, nod or shake your head! Did you also attack a man a week ago near Dunsford, a man named Walter Knapman?’

The crumpled figure tried to suck in air, his damaged chest heaving ineffectually. His eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, and de Wolfe thought he had died. But then the bloodshot lids flickered and the eyes refocused, but the man made no sign with his head. ‘You are dying. This is your last chance for redemption,’ he snapped, wishing he had Thomas here to coax the man with some religious cant. ‘Once again, did you attack a man near Dunsford Mill in a similar fashion?’

Foam appeared alongside the spittle on his lips but, slowly, the dying man nodded.