Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

‘I had no knife in my hand — I drew that after you assaulted me, to defend myself, you great brute!’

Gwyn burst out laughing, his guffaws echoing through the vault, but de Wolfe’s black brows came together in anxiety. This was no ignorant villager they had to deal with but an intelligent merchant, with two lawyers in his wife’s family. ‘I’m here to take your confession, Jordan,’ he said. ‘You can add anything in your defence, and my clerk will record it all for the King’s justices, when they come to try you at the Assize.’

The captive spat contemptuously into the straw. ‘Confession be damned! I’ve nothing to confess — nor anything else to say to you, unless my father-in-law is here to protect me.’

The coroner sighed. This was going to be more difficult that he had expected. ‘How did you get Oswin to kill for you? Was it just a matter of money?’

Jordan looked straight ahead when he answered. ‘I know nothing of Oswin’s acts. He is Matthew’s man, and you are talking to the wrong person.’

‘It wasn’t Matthew who climbed through the priory window,’ said Gwyn.

‘I was only trying to see how Joan was faring, after her ordeal.’

Both de Wolfe and Gwyn barked in amusement at this remark.

‘Did her room have no door, that you needed to clamber through the window?’ chortled the Cornishman.

‘That damned brother-in-law of mine was sitting outside. I wanted to avoid him.’

De Wolfe nodded. ‘Because he misled you over the testament?’

Peter’s head jerked up. ‘That’s no crime, to want to learn what your rightful inheritance might be.’

‘But killing your stepfather was a crime — and for nothing, as it turned out. Philip’s information about the will was out of date.’

‘I did not kill Walter — I have not killed anyone!’ He dropped his eyes to the floor again. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

De Wolfe folded his arms under his cloak and stood hunched over the figure drooping on the slab. ‘You would do better to talk to me, Peter. There are others who do the sheriff’s bidding who favour more violent methods of extracting confessions.’

The young man remained silent, and from then on refused to say another word. Gwyn offered to ‘persuade’ him, and waved a huge fist under his nose, but de Wolfe pulled him out of the cell and motioned to the wheezing gaoler to lock up again.

On the way out of the undercroft, with Thomas trailing behind, his parchments unsullied, John was philosophical about their wasted visit. ‘There’s nothing I can use at the inquest tomorrow, if he refuses to confess. All we can do is record all that’s known and let Hubert Walter’s judges sort it out when they come.’

‘If they come,’ muttered Gwyn under his breath.

That evening over supper, de Wolfe dutifully told his wife of the day’s events. She seemed moderately interested because a rich widow and the nuns of Polsloe were involved, as well as the city’s most prominent lawyer and his family. As her husband had slept at home the past couple of nights, she had little to nag him about, though he knew that he would pay dearly for a long time over his part in the downfall of Theobald Fitz-Ivo, which reflected badly on Matilda’s brother. She had also lost another weapon from her armoury of abuse now that he had ceased his visits to the Bush Inn, though she could still throw some cynical barbs at him over his rejection by his mistress. ‘And where are we going tonight, husband?’ she asked, with mock sweetness, when he announced that he was taking Brutus for a walk. ‘To the Golden Hind or the Plough? Though I hear the whores are more numerous at the Saracen.’

Without deigning to answer, he whistled to the hound and went out through the screens, slamming the door resoundingly behind him.

As only men were eligible to be members of a jury, Gwyn had trawled around the several small hamlets strung out along the Cullompton road out of Polsloe. To get every man from the four nearest villages, as the law demanded, was patently impossible, so he rounded up twenty-five reluctant men and boys of over twelve years old. These he had shepherded down to the large compound around the priory by noon, when witnesses arrived from Exeter.

The day was fine but breezy, and when Oswin’s bulky corpse was carried out on the chapel bier by two priory servants, a couple of stones had to be laid on the shroud to prevent it blowing away. The morning services were over and the Prioress and Dame Madge, with three of the six nuns, joined the wide circle of jurors and witnesses around the chair placed ready for John de Wolfe.

One other person was sitting: Joan Knapman, a scarf wound around her throat, was considered fragile after her two shocking experiences. Privately, de Wolfe thought she was as tough as her mother, who was fussing ostentatiously over her like a hen with a single chick. He went over to pay his respects before the inquest began and to ask how she fared after the attack. He admitted wryly to himself that he enjoyed being near to such a lovely young woman, and the huskiness of her voice after her ordeal made her sound even more seductive than usual.

‘I am as well as might be expected, thank you, Sir John,’ she said, looking up at him languorously, the close proximity of her glistening violet eyes and full lips causing him to experience fleeting thoughts that had nothing to do with the King’s coronership.

‘Dame Madge informs me that there has been no danger to your unborn child, Madam.’ He let his glance drop to her waist, but the only fullness was delightfully higher.

‘There is no problem, thank God. All I have is this soreness in my throat.’ She held back her head and briefly touched her neck with her slim fingers.

He dragged his mind back to more professional matters and asked her one more question. ‘When you were disturbed in the priory cell, what did you see of the intruder? Was there a knife in his hand? Peter Jordan denies it.’

She moved her head slowly from side to side, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. ‘I cannot help you at all, Crowner, for I was fast asleep, and when I was rudely woken by the crash of that fallen table, the window space was empty. I cannot even say that any intruder was there — apart from the table being tipped — let alone who it was or whether he carried a knife.’

Her voice became weaker and rougher after so many words and de Wolfe abandoned his questions, but patted her shoulder as he thanked her for her help. He walked back to his solitary chair, and nodded to his officer to begin.

As Gwyn got the proceedings under way with his stentorian bellowing for ‘all persons who have anything to do before the King’s coroner, to draw near and give their attendance’, John scanned the people present and cursed under his breath when he saw that Richard de Revelle had just ridden up and had pushed his way to the front to stand alongside Robert Courteman. The lawyer’s son Philip stood sheepishly alongside his father, his head still swathed in a linen bandage, reminding de Wolfe of one of Saladin’s warriors. He rattled through the formalities, knowing that an inquest would never get to the bottom of this tangled conspiracy.

First, there was a successful ‘presentment of Englishry’, which was a relief to the locals as it quashed any fear of a murdrum fine. Gwyn had learned from Matthew that his labourer had a brother in Exeter and he was called forward to swear that Oswin was mainly Saxon, as his name indicated. Then Matthew certified that Oswin had been a labourerin his tin yard for the past five years, with a good record of work. He had been inexplicably absent since yesterday morning, and occasionally lost half a day, mainly through being dead drunk the previous night.