The Medieval Murderers - Sword of Shame

When the man had left, the coroner made the same verbal assault as he had on Christina. ‘I am well aware of your connivance at the crude deception the sheriff tried with the chicken’s blood,’ he grated. ‘I also know about your liaison with your sister-in-law.’

Serlo paled, but his mouth set into an obstinate expression. ‘I deny both your impertinent allegations. The sheriff shall hear of this!’

‘He’ll hear of it from my own lips, as soon as I can find him!’ snarled John. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, I know from Christina that you are lovers!’ This was stretching the truth somewhat, but he was past caring, with Gwyn in such danger. ‘Furthermore, I suspect that both you and she might be directly involved in Walter’s death. You stand to gain the whole fulling business now that your mistress is available as a wife. And is she not revenged upon him, for preferring a whore in Waterbeer Street to herself?’

There was no iron poker available in the office, but Serlo looked as if he would have used one if it had been to hand. His pallor turned to red rage and a quivering finger was pointed at de Wolfe’s face as he began a stinging tirade of denial and outrage at the coroner’s accusations.

As with Christina, John’s faint hopes of his frontal attack causing a breakdown and a confession came to nothing. Although the two men shouted at each other for several more minutes, the coroner knew that he had no more ammunition to throw at Serlo Tyrell and, once again, he was forced to beat a fruitless retreat. Outside the hut, he found Martin Knotte, who although now a few yards from the door, had obviously been listening to the heated exchanges inside.

‘I’ll walk with you to the gate, Sir John,’ he said obsequiously and pattered alongside towards the opening in the fence around the mills.

‘I was mainly Master Walter’s clerk’ he said carefully. ‘So I know quite a lot about his affairs, both business and private.’

De Wolfe stopped in his tracks and stared hard down at Martin’s smooth face. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he demanded.

‘I could hardly help hear a little of what was said in there,’ he said, gesturing back towards his office. ‘As a good citizen, I thought I should confirm that Walter used to frequent the city streets late at night,’ he coughed delicately. ‘In fact, he used to visit a whorehouse very near where he was found dead. I regret to say that his marriage was not a happy one.’

‘I knew all this, fellow,’ said John suspiciously. ‘Why should you be telling me now?’

‘Master Walter often carried large sums of money, when he was either buying or selling. The night he died, I know that he had gone to the New Inn to meet a master-weaver to receive payment for a consignment of best wool. Yet that money was never accounted for in my records and both Mistress Christina and Serlo say they have never seen it.’

‘There was no purse on his body when it was found,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘How much should it have contained?’

‘Four pounds, according to my invoicing-a great sum of money to go astray.’

‘Could this harlot have taken it from him? Yet he was found dead outside, he would not have let her rob him in the brothel.’

Martin Knotte shrugged. ‘Might she not have warned some accomplice that he was carrying such a sum?’ he suggested.

‘I had considered that before, but I did not know then how much coin he was carrying,’ admitted John. ‘I must have some words with this strumpet.’

They had reached the gateway and after Martin had smirked a farewell, John strode off in the direction of the West Gate, deep in thought.

Once back inside the city, he decided to follow up these hints that maybe Walter Tyrell’s fondness for whoring had some connection with his death. He made his way to Waterbeer Street and, careless of who might see him knocking on the door of a house of ill-repute, was admitted by a toothless old crone who looked as if she herself might have been a harlot around the time of Old King Henry’s coronation!

She stared at him in consternation, unsure if the county coroner had come on business or pleasure. He soon cleared up her doubts by demanding to know if there was a girl here named Bernice, his harsh tone indicating that his interest in her was purely professional.

The dingy building had several small chambers downstairs and the upper floor was also divided into rooms that were little more than cubicles. The hag climbed laboriously up a flight of wooden steps and pushed aside one of the hanging sheets of thick leather that served as doors.

‘Bernice, here’s a gentleman to see you,’ cackled the old woman and stood aside to admit de Wolfe, who waved her away before he entered. The dismal cell contained a stool, a straw mattress on the floor and a surprisingly healthy-looking young woman of about eighteen. She was squatting on the stool, biting into a hunk of bread, a large piece of cheese in the other hand. Bernice immediately put the food on the floor, sprang up and smiled ingratiatingly at the visitor, assuming that he was an unexpected client.

‘I am the coroner, girl!’ said John severely, though he had already taken in the fact that the girl was quite pretty, different from the usual sad drabs that worked in these stews. ‘Sit down, lass…I need to talk to you about Walter Tyrell.’

A succession of emotions passed across the young woman’s face, surprise sliding into fear, then settling into wariness. ‘I know nothing about him, sir,’ she said stubbornly, in a thick rural accent. ‘He was just a man who came here.’

‘But he always asked for you, didn’t he?’

‘He did, sir. That’s because I’m cleaner and prettier than the others,’ she added, with a simple honesty that contained no conceit.

‘Did he have to pay more for you, then?’ asked the coroner.

‘Indeed, sir. He always seemed to have plenty of pennies.’

Bernice had a naive directness that John found both touching and rather attractive. He wondered sadly what she would be like after five or ten years in this place. ‘And to whom did he pay those pennies?’ he asked. ‘Was it you or the old woman downstairs?’

The girl shook her head, her brown curls bouncing. ‘Neither, sir. He always came late on certain evenings and my man was always here to take the money.’

‘Your man? What man is that?’

‘Elias Palmer, my protector. He runs three of the girls in this house.’

John nodded his understanding. The premises were used by several pimps and their girls, paying a rent to the owner of the house, who could be anyone, even one of the city burgesses. In some towns, there were brothels owned by senior churchmen. However, this was not getting him anywhere in respect of his investigation.

‘What about the night he was killed nearby? Anything different about that night? Was he alone?’

‘He was always alone, sir. He never talked to me much, he was too busy doing other things.’ She smiled up at de Wolfe innocently.

‘Did you see him paying your man? Did he have a purse on his belt?’

A cloud seemed to pass over the girl’s face and her manner changed. ‘He did have a purse, sir. He always did.’

De Wolfe’s instincts were aroused. There was something here. ‘Come girl, tell me exactly. Was this Elias in the room here with you then?’

She shook her head, looking decidedly evasive now. ‘He never came in, in case the gentleman was still having his pleasure. He always waited at the bottom of the stairs for his money.’

‘This night, did he follow Walter Tyrell out into the street?’

Bernice’s open nature seemed to return, as she felt on safer ground. ‘No sir, he came back up to me as he always did, to give me the two pennies I had earned.’ There was a ring of truth about this, but John still smelt a rat.