The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

‘With what consequences?’ demanded John.

The clerk rather dramatically looked over each shoulder before answering in the empty hut. ‘Serlo has repeatedly offered to buy out Walter’s share, suggesting that the older man could retire-or at least use the time and money to expand his other interests, such as buying and renting out dwelling-houses. I think Serlo badly wanted to rise amongst the city burgesses and even had ambitions to become a portreeve.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Master Walter should have taken the offer, for now it’s too late.’

‘Did their dispute become acrimonious-or even violent?

Martin shrugged dismissively. ‘Some harsh words were spoken, but nothing more.’

John had the impression that he was considerably understating the truth here. He cleared his throat, one of the mannerisms he used to cover awkward moments. ‘And what of Serlo’s relations with his brother’s wife?’

Again Martin’s pale eyebrows climbed up his forehead in surprise. ‘Mistress Tyrell? I don’t know what you can mean.’

John sighed at the tedious fidelity of the clerk. ‘I’m not blind, nor are the citizens of Exeter! Serlo Tyrell, an unmarried man, seems overly fond of his sister-in-law.’

Martin’s eyes again cautiously roved the empty room, before he answered in a quite unnecessary whisper. ‘It is true that he was devoted to Mistress Christina, but I’m sure there was no impropriety between them. Since the death, he has been most supportive and if they eventually tie the bond, then I’d not be surprised-and most happy about it.’

De Wolfe was irritated by the clerk’s pedantic manner, but further questions produced nothing of substance. When he left, he felt that the man’s grudging admissions meant that the city gossips were almost certainly correct. Serlo had coveted his brother’s business and his status, as well as his handsome wife. He now had all three in his grasp, but had it been a sufficient motive to have hacked through Walter’s neck?

Not only did the sheriff continue to harangue de Wolfe about the escape of Gwyn from the gaol, but John’s wife joined in the condemnation.

‘It is glaringly obvious that you connived at it, husband!’ she grated yet again, this time as they sat at dinner. ‘No doubt you used our money to bribe that gaoler.’

De Wolfe waited while he picked a fish-bone from his teeth, as it was a Friday and they had the usual salt haddock instead of meat. ‘I was nowhere near the South Gate that night, Matilda-as you well know,’ he said calmly, knowing that it would irritate her all the more.

‘My brother says you organized the whole shameful affair,’ she snapped, her square face scowling across the table.

‘Just as he organized the far more shameful deception that put my officer there in the first place!’ countered John. ‘So let’s just say that God evened up the score by letting those five men escape, one of whom happened to be Gwyn.’

Matilda angrily thrust back her chair, the legs scraping noisily on the flagstones. ‘How dare you blaspheme, taking the name of God in defence of that Cornish savage!’ she ranted. ‘You’ve already desecrated St Martin’s by housing him there! I’m going to St Olave’s to pray for your soul, for it seems in dire need of salvation.’ With that, she lifted up the hem of her heavy brocade kirtle and stalked out of the hall, yelling for her timid French maid to come and help her dress for her devotions.

John took his time finishing his dinner, then sat at his hearth with a pot of cider, looking into the fire while he fondled the head of his old dog. The flaming logs reminded him of the destruction of Gwyn’s cottage, which had started this sorry chain of events. Though his officer claimed that his recent ill-fortune was due to the acquisition of his new sword, the fire had occurred before that, as had the sickness of his sons.

He churned the matter around in his head, but saw no way of pushing ahead with his suspicions of Serlo Tyrell. He intended confronting him as soon as he returned from Buckfast, though the man was hardly likely to admit his guilt, short of extracting a confession by torture. For a moment, John contemplated Christina as a possible suspect, given her apparent lack of genuine emotion at the sight of her husband’s corpse and the patently false hysteria at the sight of the sheriff’s stained handkerchief. But though he did not subscribe to the common notion that frail women could not inflict such serious wounds-and Mistress Tyrell was by no means frail-he doubted that she would risk a hanging just to exchange one brother for another.

He heard the street door slam behind Matilda as she stormed off to pray for his soul at St Olave’s, the maid Lucille pattering apprehensively behind her. As he rose from his chair, their cook-maid bustled in to clear the debris of the meal and John put an affectionate hand on her bottom as she leaned over the table. She removed it rather reluctantly and turned to him with a reproving smile.

‘That’s enough of that, Sir Crowner! Keep that for the ale-house in Idle Lane!’

Mary knew all about his having a mistress, as did most of Exeter, and John suspected she was a little jealous, even though it had been she who had kept him at arm’s length these past few months.

Facing him with empty ale jars in her hand, she became more serious. ‘This murder that’s got poor Gwyn into such trouble-I was talking to a girl I know when I was at the fish stall this morning. She lives in Waterbeer Street and told me something about this Walter Tyrell.’

John’s attention was gripped at once. Just as Nesta sometimes picked up useful information from her patrons at the tavern, so Mary passed on gossip from the house-servants that formed an effective grapevine across the city. He waited for more, though Mary looked slightly embarrassed.

‘To be frank, she’s a whore who works in one of the stews there-but a pleasant woman, with two babes to support,’ she said defensively. ‘Anyway, she said that the dead man was a regular customer. Not one of hers, but he frequently visited a girl called Bernice. It seems he was always very furtive about going there, muffled in a hooded cloak and using a back alley instead of the street. In fact, the alley where he was found dead, for it’s only a few dozen paces from the brothel.’

Mary had no more details to offer, but as John thoughtfully made his way up towards his chamber in the castle, he wondered if the information might be put to any use. Did it strengthen the case against Serlo or perhaps even Christina? If Walter had to resort to harlots, when he had a young, attractive wife at home, did this point to greater marital disharmony than his chief clerk admitted? Could his wife or his brother-or both of them in concert-have followed him to this house of ill-repute and killed two birds with one stone? Removing an unfaithful husband who stood in the way of their own passion and at the same time, gaining the rest of a flourishing business?

His garret at the top of the gatehouse was empty. Thomas was nowhere to be seen and the window-sill where Gwyn always sat was poignantly bare.

John sat at his table and reluctantly picked up a parchment covered with simple words and phrases in Latin, as he was painfully learning to read and write, being coached by both Thomas and a vicar from the cathedral.

His mind kept wandering from the manuscript and after a while, he was glad to hear footsteps on the stairs as a welcome diversion. It was Thomas de Peyne, breathless and agitated.

‘Crowner, I have heard disturbing news at the cathedral!’ He leaned on the table to gabble at his master. ‘A deacon I know told me that this morning, the sheriff arrived seeking an audience with the bishop, but when he learnt that His Grace was in Coventry, he fell into a temper, then sought out the Precentor instead. They had their heads together for some time, calling in two other canons into the Chapter House.’