Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

De Wolfe stood indecisively in the infirmary, having sent Gwyn to scout around the grounds to see if there was any sign of Peter Jordan, who was now a suspect. While he waited for his officer to return, he conversed with the gaunt nun, for whom he had considerable regard. They reminisced about the previous case in which she had been so helpful, and in turn, the nun enquired after the state of body and mind of Christina Rifford, the portreeve’s daughter who had been so sorely ravished a few months earlier.

Suddenly their amiable conversation was rent by a scream from beyond the door of the adjacent cell where Joan was resting, followed by a crash, roars and yelling from a distance. The coroner rushed to the door, Dame Madge at his shoulder, and burst into the small, bare room.

Joan was sitting up on the low bed, clutching a blanket across her bosom. Muzzy from the sleeping potion, she croaked through her bruised throat. ‘A man was there!’ She pointed shakily with her free hand to the unshuttered window. Below it, a table that had carried a wooden crucifix and a jug of water lay overturned on the floor. The window opening was empty, and when de Wolfe peered out he could see nothing but the open garden around the priory buildings — but fading shouts and thudding feet told of something amiss out there. He ran out of the room and through the outer door, turning right to follow the sounds of pursuit. Among the indistinct shouts, the only word he caught was ‘Sanctuary!’

The stone chapel lay across the garden and he ran as fast as his long legs would carry him, outstripping the nun, whose long skirts hampered her muscular legs. Once round the corner of the chapel, he skidded to a halt at a remarkable sight. Gwyn was in the process of hurling a writhing body over the drystone wall that formed the boundary of the priory on to some wasteground lying between it and the surrounding trees. His officer then vaulted the wall in a single leap, with one hand on the top, and dropped from sight, though his roars and another’s yells rose from behind the stone barrier. As de Wolfe ran across, he heard Gwyn snarl, ‘This is the only sanctuary you’ll get, you evil little bastard!’

Peering over the wall, he saw the tousle-haired Cornishman sitting astride a smaller figure, his massive hands pinning the wrists to the ground. Near the trapped fingers of the right hand, a naked dagger lay in the coarse grass. Gwyn’s body obscured the captive’s face, but on moving along the wall, de Wolfe saw, without surprise, that it was Peter Jordan. His face was twisted into a mask of hate as he struggled ineffectually to free himself, spitting oaths and invective.

Hearing a rustle alongside him, John turned to find Dame Madge also peering over the wall. He took her arm gently and pulled her away. ‘I fear his language is hardly suitable for your ears, Sister.’

She smiled at him, and her stern face lit with an almost mischievous radiance. ‘I am no recluse, Crowner, but a working sister who goes among the people every day. I doubt there is a single new oath you could teach me.’ Her smile faded as she pointed towards the wall, where Gwyn could be heard hauling the prisoner to his feet amid a barrage of curses. ‘I have no idea what this is about, Sir John, but was that man trying to harm the young lady?’

De Wolfe nodded, as several other sisters, Lucy and a couple of priory menservants came running towards them.

‘I think he had climbed half through that window when Gwyn caught him just in time. He had a knife in his hand and was trying to finish what his paid assassin had failed to do in the forest this morning.’

Dame Madge grimaced in despair at the vileness of men, then became her usual efficient self, sending the others about their business and telling Lucy to attend to her frightened daughter. De Wolfe walked back to a gate in the wall and hurried after Gwyn, who was frog-marching Peter Jordan around the perimeter to the front of the priory. ‘Best keep this young swine clear of the chapel, Crowner. He might make another break for sanctuary.’

De Wolfe knew that, strictly speaking, sanctuary could have been claimed anywhere within the priory grounds: it was not necessary to enter a church — and certainly not to be at the altar, as some mistakenly believed. But he held his tongue, trusting that Jordan was unaware of this. Also, he did not want to deflate Gwyn’s pride in having cornered the villain.

The villain in question had fallen silent, perhaps thinking that the less he said, the less could be held against him. His face was ghastly white against his drooping black moustache and his eyes held a hint of madness, which de Wolfe felt must be genuine, as no one in their right mind would hope to get away with openly knifing the only person who stood between him and Knapman’s fortune.

‘Now, what do we do with this creature?’ asked Gwyn, as they reached the road at the front of the priory.

‘You take him back to Rougemont and give him into Stigand’s tender care.’

De Wolfe helped Gwyn to tie the wrists of the now silent captive with a length of rope, the other end being lashed to the saddle of his officer’s horse. He watched as they set off for Exeter at a walking pace, Jordan half dragged, half stumbling behind the mare on the mile-long journey, which John expected to be his last sight of the outside world until he was taken to the gallows beyond Magdalen Street.

He saw them vanish through the trees, then went back into the infirmary to check on Mistress Knapman’s condition after her fright, and to offer a final apology to Dame Madge for the disturbance of the normally placid life of Polsloe Priory. At the same time, he craved the permission of the amiable prioress to hold an inquest in the yard next day, as the body of Oswin still lay in the shed that was their tiny mortuary.

Late that afternoon, John de Wolfe marched across the drying mud of Rougemont’s inner ward towards the undercroft of the keep. Gwyn and Thomas were at his heels, the clerk carrying his shapeless bag containing parchments, ink and quill.

They went down the few steps and under the forbidding archway that led into the gloomy cavern, half below ground, that extended under the whole keep. One part was open, with a filthy floor of packed earth that acted as store-room, torture chamber and lodging for the gaoler. The other half was partitioned by a wall, in which a gate of rusty iron bars gave access to half a dozen cells of indescribable squalor.

Gwyn went across to an archway screened by a wattle hurdle and woke the gaoler with a none-too-gentle prod of his boot. Muttering and swearing, Stigand staggered to his feet and waddled over to the gate, jangling some keys on a ring at his belt. Inside, the cells led off a short passage and the surly custodian unlocked the first door on the left, then stood aside to let them enter.

In the semi-darkness, it took de Wolfe a moment to make out the occupant, sitting dejectedly on the slate slab that served as a bed. A cracked earthenware jug and a stinking leather bucket stood on the soiled straw of the floor, through which a rat rustled its way to a corner.

Although Peter Jordan had been incarcerated for only a few hours, he was already filthy from his surroundings: every surface in the cell was coated with a mixture of oozing damp, mould and the excretions of previous tenants.

He looked up, and in the gloom de Wolfe could see that his dejection had turned to defiance. ‘You’ll regret this mistake, Crowner!’ he hissed, his voice trembling with emotion.

‘Not nearly as much as you will, lad, when you’re standing on a ladder with a rope around your neck,’ replied John evenly.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong — and you can’t prove that I have.’

Gwyn prodded Jordan’s shoulder with a finger, jerking him backwards. ‘What about climbing in at your stepmother’s window with a knife in your hand?’