Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘And who did you wish to slay today? The young man you struck?’

This time the head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side.

‘So it was the young woman?’

There was a pause and again John feared that death had forestalled him. But then there was a slow nod, before the eyes rolled up again.

‘He’s going, I reckon,’ observed Gwyn impassively.

‘Who set you to these crimes, fellow?’ shouted de Wolfe, desperately, though all too conscious that the man had no ability left to tell him. With a bubbling rattle, pink-stained froth welled from the false monk’s mouth and his head fell back, the face now almost black for want of air.

‘Dead as mutton. You’ll get no more answers from him,’ rumbled Gwyn, satisfied that his forecast of impending death had been correct.

De Wolfe straightened up and looked down at the now inert assailant. ‘At least we know who killed Knapman — though I’ll wager he was only some hired assassin. But where the hell have I seen him before?’

One of the men-at-arms from Rougemont stepped forward and peered again at the corpse. ‘I think I know him, Crowner. With his face blue and swollen like that it’s difficult, but I’m sure he was a porter who worked in Matthew Knapman’s tin-yard near the quayside. He’s part Saxon, by the name of Oswin.’

De Wolfe’s memory clicked, as he recalled the fellow humping tin bars in the warehouse when he called to tell Matthew of his brother’s death.

‘Come, Gwyn, back to the horses. We’ve urgent business to attend in Priest Street.’

However, once on the back of his borrowed mare, de Wolfe decided to call back at the priory to see if Widow Knapman had recovered sufficiently to say whether her assailant had given any clue as to who had sent him on his murderous mission. They found Philip Courteman still sitting on his bench, holding his aching head in his hands, and Lucy in the guest hall with the sisters, who seemed to have been highly taken by her aggressive courage.

The new knowledge he brought, that she had killed their assailant, seemed only to increase her satisfaction, and de Wolfe arranged for the new corpse to be brought to the tiny mortuary outside the infirmary wall until he could hold his inquest.

His hope of talking to Joan was quashed by Dame Madge, who opened the door of the infirmary cell to show her sleeping peacefully beneath an open window. ‘I gave her a sleeping draught to ease the discomfort of her bruised throat,’ explained the nun. ‘She’ll not be ready to talk until later today.’ With that de Wolfe had to be content, and after a few fruitless words with the lawyer’s son, he and his officer rode away towards the city.

Before he went to Matthew’s house and yard, John felt that a brief appearance at home might insure him later against Matilda’s disapproval. He called at Martin’s Lane and partially thawed her icy indifference with the latest news on the Knapman saga. Anything that involved family feuding, pregnancy and disputed wills was welcome nourishment to her curiosity, especially if she could later retail it to her circle of friends at the cathedral and St Olave’s.

His duty done, de Wolfe rejoined Gwyn, who had been skulking in the farrier’s opposite, and they rode down to Priest Street. Here they found that the sheriff had forestalled them: Gabriel had felt obliged to send a soldier post-haste to tell him of the events in Polsloe Wood. Another had been despatched to Matthew’s yard and then to the lawyer’s office, conveying to Robert Courteman the news about his son.

When de Wolfe arrived, two men-at-arms were holding Richard de Revelle’s horse outside the gate to the yard, from where furious shouting could be heard.

‘How, in God’s name, should I know where Oswin has gone?’ yelled Matthew, as they walked through the back gate. ‘He should be here helping to load these bars. I’m having to do it myself, as you can see.’

‘Perhaps he has gone on a murderous errand for you,’ retorted the sheriff. ‘Just as he did last week in Dunsford.’

Matthew looked blankly at de Revelle, whom he thought had gone insane. ‘Mary, Mother of God, what are you saying? Ask the bloody man yourself when he comes back — just before I tell him he’s lost his job here, leaving me in the lurch on such a busy day.’

John stepped forward, and the pair noticed his arrival for the first time. ‘Oswin won’t be coming back today — or any other day. He’s dead, Matthew,’ he said.

‘Where the devil did you spring from, John?’ exclaimed de Revelle, annoyed at the intrusion of the coroner into what he had hoped was to be a surprise arrest of his own.

Guessing that Gabriel had informed the sheriff of recent events, de Wolfe ignored his brother-in-law and spoke to Matthew, who was red-faced with outrage and confusion at de Revelle’s obscure accusations. ‘Your man Oswin attacked Joan Knapman and Philip Courteman today — and admitted killing your brother last week. Have you anything to say about that?’

Matthew’s colour changed from pink to greenish-white and he sank back weakly for support against a pile of ingots. ‘Oswin? Why should he do that? The man’s a moron! He’s only good for using his muscles to lift tin.’

‘Well, he used them to kill Walter and to try to strangle your sister-in-law today. But who put him up to it, eh? We know that two men were implicated in the killing. The lad at the mill was quite definite, simple as he is.’

The sheriff, strutting impatiently in his bright green cloak, thrust himself back into the fray. ‘This Oswin’s your servant, Knapman. He does what you bid him do. Admit it now, you used him to rid you of those who kept you from an inheritance.’

The tin-merchant goggled at de Revelle. ‘Me? Kill Walter? You’re mad! How could I slay my own twin, with whom I shared my mother’s womb?’

De Revelle smiled nastily at Matthew. ‘No doubt we’ll discover that at the Ordeal or during peine forte et dure ,’ he threatened. He yelled for his men-at-arms to come into the yard. ‘Seize this man and deliver him to the gaoler in the castle keep.’

Exasperated by yet another act of dangerous foolishness on the part of the sheriff, John stepped forward and grabbed de Revelle’s arm. ‘Don’t be so hasty, Richard. You have no evidence that Matthew is involved in this.’

The sheriff sneered at his brother-in-law. ‘Motive and opportunity — isn’t that sufficient? He stood to gain a goodly part of a fortune by disposing of his brother — and of keeping far more of it by disposing of his widow. As for opportunity, whose servant is the confessed killer, eh?’

‘I have been here in this yard all day, with many witnesses to prove it. How could I have been involved?’ quavered Matthew desperately.

‘I don’t give a tinker’s curse for your alibi today. It was the man you paid to do your evil deeds who matters,’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly.

De Wolfe cast about desperately for something to prevent the sheriff persisting with his rash and impetuous prejudice. ‘Where were you on the morning your brother was murdered?’ he snapped.

Matthew drooped pathetically. ‘What’s the point? You’ll only say it doesn’t matter, as Oswin did my bidding, anyway!’

‘Answer me! Can others testify to your presence somewhere?’

‘Of course! That morning, before I rode to Chagford for my regular meeting with my brother, I was negotiating the sale of tin for Germany, with two merchants from Cologne.’

‘Who, no doubt, have now conveniently left England,’ sneered the sheriff.

‘No! As far as I’m aware their vessel still lies in the river, having sprung leaks that need recaulking,’ averred Matthew, with a return of his defiance.