Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

De Revelle shrugged indifferently. ‘As you said yourself, it matters not. This Oswin did your dirty work for you.’

De Wolfe had his opportunity. ‘Not so, Richard! We well know that another person, apart from the self-confessed Oswin, was involved. Walter was struck from behind. He would never have suffered that had not another person been engaging his attention from the front, the one who led him off the road into the trees. It was almost certainly someone he knew, who would arouse no suspicion of attack. And it could not have been Matthew, who can prove that he was in Exeter until it was too late for him to be in Dunsford at the time Walter was attacked.’

But nothing would dissuade the stubborn de Revelle from his first conclusion and he beckoned again to the two bemused men-at-arms to advance on Matthew. The tin-merchant backed away behind de Wolfe, whom he saw as the more even-handed of the law officers. ‘Wait, I tell you!’ he shouted. ‘What about that damned brother of Joan’s, who can’t wait to get his hands on her money? He declined to go with his sister to Polsloe today, claiming he had urgent business in Ashburton — which I doubt.’ Emboldened by his theory, Matthew’s voice became more confident. ‘If he could get rid of her, after ensuring that Walter’s death and her pregnancy made her the heir, then as her nearest relative he could claim all the eight-tenths for himself. So why not discover where he was today — and on the day my brother met his death?’

This novel idea stopped both the sheriff and the coroner in their tracks. De Wolfe admitted to himself that since Joan had been attacked, the possibility of her brother’s involvement had not occurred to him.

As usual, Gwyn had remained silent while his superiors argued around him, but his ponderous body hid an astute brain. ‘No one has asked where Peter Jordan is today,’ he pointed out.

John stared at the hairy Cornishman, then at Matthew. ‘So where is he?’

The tin-merchant looked mystified. ‘He’s been here all morning, helping me since that damned Oswin failed to appear.’

‘Then where is he now?’ demanded de Revelle, shifting the target of his suspicion.

‘When that messenger came with news of the attack at Polsloe, he said he’d better go home to tell his wife that her brother had been injured. That was a few minutes before you arrived.’

De Revelle gave a shrug of indifference, but John felt a sudden frisson of worry.

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Rack Lane, not two minutes from here.’

Without a word of explanation to the sheriff or Matthew, de Wolfe hurried out with his officer. Minutes later they were rapping on the door that a water-seller had pointed out to them.

A serving-girl ushered them into a small but well-furnished hall and a puzzled-looking Martha Courteman came in from the yard at the back of the house. She was a plain woman, several years older than her husband. A downturned mouth above a receding chin suggested a sour disposition, and John found it easy to accept that she was the daughter of the dour lawyer. ‘We need to speak urgently to your husband, Mistress Jordan,’ he began, hovering over her like a thin black eagle.

Martha looked bewildered. ‘But Peter is at his work down at the warehouse.’

‘Matthew told us that he had hurried home to tell you of the injury to your brother.’

The young wife threw a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, her eyes as large as eggs. ‘Philip injured? I know nothing of it!’ she howled.

It took a few minutes to explain and calm her down, the maid fussing over her with a reviving glass of mead. De Wolfe was impatient to discover where her husband might have gone, but Martha had no idea. She began to cry, rocking back and forth on a stool.

‘I told him not to meddle in that testament. Nothing but ill could come of it!’ she wailed. De Wolfe seized on this, and prised the story from her. When Walter had remarried, Peter had been concerned naturally that his expectations from the inheritance were in danger, especially if Joan bore a child. His stepfather had refused to give him any hint of his intentions, either before or after the marriage, and Peter eventually persuaded Martha to approach her father, Walter’s lawyer. Robert Courteman refused outright, indignant at her attempt to undermine his professional ethics, so Martha went to work on the weaker party, her brother.

Reluctantly, he eventually agreed to ferret out what he could and secretly searched among his father’s rolls. He reported that the testament he discovered still gave Peter and Matthew virtually half-shares in the estate, but another parchment indicated that Walter had demanded a new will be drafted, giving Joan a similar share. There was no mention of the eight-tenths, should she conceive a child, but she was to share equally with Peter and Matthew.

‘Philip told me only two weeks ago that the revised testament had not been signed,’ whimpered Martha tearfully, ‘but he knew that it soon would be, after Walter had made some further amendments. But now it seems clear that he knew much less about his father’s business than he thought, for another version of the will must already have been signed.’

De Wolfe looked down gravely at her. ‘Is there anything else you should tell me?’

Now that the dam had been breached, she seemed resigned to letting slip other matters. ‘There has been ill-feeling between Matthew and Peter these past weeks, as my husband has long suspected that Matthew has been indulgingin sharp practices with Walter’s business. Peter has been checking secretly on the commissions that Matthew has been taking on the finished tin — especially that sent abroad, to Flanders and the Rhine. It became clear that, for years now, Matthew has been persistently robbing his brother.’

John wondered if this had much to do with the main problem, but felt he should probe further. ‘What was your man going to do about it?’

‘He confronted Matthew a couple of weeks ago, telling him he knew of the embezzlement. Matthew tried to deny it, but Peter said that unless it stopped straight away he would have to tell Walter. For one thing, the loss of income reflected on Peter, who might be accused of being party to the deception — and also we were losing money ourselves, as Peter lives on a small proportion of the remaining profits after Matthew had squeezed out his extra commission.’

‘Did he tell Walter?

She shook her head, tears slowly dribbling down her cheeks. ‘Walter died before Peter’s ultimatum to Matthew ran out. Then, of course, we began to worry in case Matthew was behind Walter’s death, in order to prevent the scandal from being revealed.’

De Wolfe digested this and saw there was a faint possibility of a yet unsuspected motive for Knapman’s murder. But he returned to the matter of the testament. ‘Did your husband say that he intended taking action over this situation?’

She looked up fearfully and shook her head, but John felt that she was refusing to admit, even to herself, what she feared deep down. ‘And you have no idea where he is now?’

She shook her head again, wordlessly, and de Wolfe tapped Gwyn on the arm, jerking his head towards the door.

Outside, as they swung themselves into their saddles, de Wolfe was grim-faced as he spoke. ‘I’ve a bad feeling about this. Let’s get ourselves back to Polsloe as quickly as we can.’

When they returned to the priory, everything seemed as they had left it. Philip Courteman was still slumped on his bench in the infirmary, holding his sore, bandaged head in his hands, half asleep from a potion they had given him to ease the pain.

Dame Madge, somewhat puzzled by the coroner’s speedy reappearance, assured him that Mistress Knapman was still sleeping peacefully. Hermotherhad been sitting with her, but had just gone to the refectory to eat, the excitements of the day being insufficient to affect her appetite.