Bernard Knight - The Tinner's corpse

Richard de Revelle pulled on the gloves he had been playing with and turned to leave the priory garden. ‘Matthew’s your man, John — take my word for it,’ he said airily, and strode off to find his horse.

The lawyer stared bleakly at de Wolfe before following the sheriff. ‘Be careful how you handle this, Crowner. You’re not dealing with tavern brawlers or a bunch of peasants here.’

De Wolfe’s face darkened in anger and he was determined to have the last word. ‘Peter Jordan will have to answer before the King’s justices at the next Assize — I will attach him to appear, never fear.’

Robert Courteman smiled enigmatically at the coroner as he left, knowing that before the day was out his daughter and her husband would be aboard ship at Exmouth, en route for an extended stay with relatives in Normandy.

The next afternoon, the Devon county coroner was in a foul mood as he sat in his chamber above the gatehouse. Thomas sat quietly at his corner of the table, trying to look inconspicuous as he penned copies of this morning’s execution records. Gwyn, after failing to get a civil response from his surly master, had wisely gone in search of a hot pie and a quart of ale, leaving de Wolfe to mutter under his breath as he scratched around among the parchments before him, most of which he could not read.

The day had started badly at the gallows field outside the city, where John had had to attend four hangings. Two of the felons had had sufficient property to make it worthwhile recording what was to be seized for the Treasury. One of the others, a sheep-stealer from Alphington, was so fat that he could hardly climb the ladder set against the gallows-frame. The assembled crowd, mainly old men, wives and children, who always came out of the city to enjoy the twice-weekly hangings, tittered at the sorry spectacle. When the weakened rope snapped as the unfortunate man was pushed off the ladder by the hangman, their mirth knew no bounds and they hissed and jeered at the executioner, until he went mad with rage and flew at the crowd, flailing with his fists.

Gwyn and the only man-at-arms on duty had had to restrain him and calm him down. The fact that the victim had died instantly of a broken neck did little to soothe the hangman’s injured pride.

But what had really exasperated de Wolfe had taken place an hour or two later, when he sent his officer to serve an attachment on Peter Jordan. This was a warrant to appear before the Justices at the next Eyre of Assize and to find sureties in the sum of twenty marks to ensure his appearance.

Gwyn came back and announced grumpily that neither Jordan nor his wife were to be found, either at home, at Matthew’s yard or in the lawyer’s office. At first, no one had admitted to knowing where they were, reported Gwyn. ‘But then that son of Courteman, who had the whack on the head and who now seems to hate Jordan, whispered to me on the doorstep that they had already taken ship for France, so they’re out of our reach, even to serve this writ upon.’

As the sheriff had been legally entitled to open the prison door for Jordan — and he had not been arraigned for any serious crime — there was nothing de Wolfe could do about it, at least until he returned to England. Even then, with such tenuous evidence and a wily lawyer and sheriff working against him, the coroner was realistic enough to know that he had little chance of bringing Jordan to trial. However, this knowledge did nothing to sweeten his mood and it worsened when Gwyn returned from the next errand upon which de Wolfe sent him.

‘Get down to the lower quayside and find that ship that is being repaired for its return to the Rhine,’ he had ordered.

In his endless campaign to defeat his brother-in-law’s efforts to discredit him, de Wolfe decided to counter Richard’s claim that Matthew, not Peter Jordan, was the villain. His alibi for the day that his twin brother had been killed was his presence in Exeter at a meeting in the morning with tin-importers from Cologne, whose ship was said to be still in the river.

When Gwyn returned at noon with the news that the vessel had sailed three days before, de Wolfe kicked over his stool in a fit of frustrated temper. ‘Only the day before yesterday, Matthew said it was still there, being caulked!’ he shouted, as his clerk cowered.

‘Well, it’s gone now,’ said Gwyn stoically. ‘The point is, did Matthew know it had sailed when he claimed the Germans could have confirmed he was with them that day? We’ll probably never know.’ Now Gwyn had gone out, leaving de Wolfe to fret about who had really employed Oswin as an assassin, and to fume at being outwitted by Robert Courteman and the sheriff.

He felt sure that money had changed hands to secure Peter Jordan’s rapid release from Stigand’s prison cell. Not only had the older lawyer wished to save his son-in-law’s neck, but the part of the legacy from the Knapman tin empire due to Peter would greatly improve the security of Courteman’s daughter. It would be well worth passing a heavy purse to de Revelle for the lad’s release: a hanged felon’s family could never benefit under the will of his victim. The more he thought about it, the more the coroner came to believe that de Revelle was up to his corrupt tricks again — but the realisation that he could prove nothing made de Wolfe’s sullen anger all the more intense.

He sat glowering in the dank chamber with Thomas, who hardly dared to breathe and tried to make his quill scratch less loudly as he wrote. After a time, they heard Gwyn’s heavy feet tramping up the stairs towards them, and de Wolfe prepared to vent his bad temper on the Cornishman for his prolonged absence.

When Gwyn pushed through the sacking curtain over the doorway, his beefy face wore a wide smile. ‘What are you grinning at?’ snapped de Wolfe peevishly.

Undaunted by the cool reception, Gwyn continued to beam and the clerk slid down further on his stool in anticipation of a grand row between the pair. ‘I’ve just come from the Black Cock,’ announced the officer.

‘So? I can find some work for you, if all you’ve to do is drink ale.’

‘From the gossip I heard there, I think you should stop supping at the Plough or the Golden Hind and go back to drinking at the Bush.’

The coroner looked up suspiciously at his henchman from under his beetling brows.

‘If I was you, Crowner, I’d take a stroll down to Idle Lane — you may find things have changed a bit there.’

Before the Compline bell had tolled, de Wolfe was in the Bush Inn, hunched at his favourite table with Nesta sitting opposite. An empty ale pot stood in front him, but old Edwin stayed well out of earshot, thanks to a glare from the landlady that would have soured milk.

‘Did the bastard take much?’ John asked fiercely.

‘About five marks’ worth of silver pennies — and Molly, the second cook-maid,’ said Nesta grimly.

De Wolfe resisted his need to discover if Alan of Lyme had also stolen the landlady’s honour. Cautiously, he looked across at Nesta, unsure of her mood. He had hurried down to the inn after Gwyn had relayed the tavern gossip, eager for Nesta to fall across his breast and sob out her repentance. But he realised now, knowing her as he did, that he should have had different expectations. Instead, he found her dry-eyed and sad-faced, with a grim determination about her that made her remaining staff wary of what they said in her presence.

‘Am I welcome to return here for my ale and victuals?’ he asked gently.

Nesta stared back at him, her crossed arms gripping her shoulders, as if protecting her bosom from the evils of the world, which came mainly in the shape of men.

‘You are a Norman knight, sir. You can do what you wish in this city,’ she replied — rather incongruously, as they were speaking Welsh, the language of the Normans’, major adversaries in these islands.