Crowner Royal

CHAPTER TEN

In the late afternoon, de Wolfe made enquiries at the Justiciar’s chambers and was told that Hubert Walter was expected back that evening and would be available for audience next morning.

John had to make do with informing the most senior official he could find in the Exchequer building and he also told the Keeper of the Palace that Simon Basset was dead. He trimmed the truth by saying that the canon had been taken ill in the city and had died at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, where the body was still lying.

Though the Keeper did not seem particularly interested, being swamped with work in anticipation of Queen Eleanor’s visit, the news caused some consternation in the Exchequer. Apart from personal sadness at his death, Simon Basset was an important functionary and his loss appeared to cause problems in their administrative routines. John also had the impression that Simon’s connection with the lost treasure made some of the other officials uneasy.

That evening, de Wolfe decided not to go to the Lesser Hall for supper, as he knew he would be besieged by questions about the death of Simon Basset. The Westminster grapevine would have easily picked up the news from the Exchequer and he knew that Bernard de Montfort and the Lord of Blois and his wife would pester him for details. He would have liked to talk over the matter with Ranulf and William Aubrey, but that could wait until the morning — meanwhile, he would settle for Gwyn’s company and some of Osanna’s cooking in Long Ditch Lane.

The fat Saxon did them well in providing a meal at short notice, for after a mutton broth she produced a pair of grilled trout each, stuffed with almonds. With young carrots and early peas, it was a good meal and the mazer of fresh barley and wheat bread with a new cheese that followed was washed down with ale by the contented coroner and his officer.

They discussed the events of the day until it was apparent that they could not squeeze another ounce of significance from them. Eventually, after another full quart of ale, Gwyn fell asleep at the table and to avoid his gargantuan snores John climbed up to the room above and threw himself down on his mattress to think about Hilda.

Later, as the red evening sun declined to the western horizon, Gwyn woke and called up the steps from below.

‘I’m off to a game of dice in the palace barracks!’ he announced. ‘I’ll be late home, no doubt. In fact, I may not be back at all!’

After he had left, John wondered whether he had found a woman somewhere, though he knew that some of these gambling sessions went on until the early hours of the morning. Games of chance held no attraction for de Wolfe, but it takes all sorts, he thought philosophically. After all, Ranulf and William Aubrey were very keen on gaming and Gwyn had told him that the younger knights and esquires in the palace guard played for large stakes in their quarters.

John dozed on fitfully for a while, his mind slipping in and out of slumber, wrestling with the problems of three unsolved deaths which seemed to have no obvious connection. He suddenly became aware of voices below and heard Osanna speaking to someone in the main room. Then her voice called up through the stair opening.

‘Sir John, there is someone to see you!’ Even at that distance, he could sense the disapproval in his landlady’s voice. Reluctantly, he hauled himself up from the pallet, thrust his feet into his soft house shoes and went to the ladder, raking his dishevelled hair back with his fingers. As he descended, expecting to see some messenger from the palace, he was astonished to find Hawise d’Ayncourt standing in the centre of the room, her silent maid lurking near the door. Osanna had planted herself near the bottom of the steps, in an almost protective stance, looking dubiously at the elegant woman who had invaded her house.

‘Lady d’Ayncourt, this is a surprise!’ growled de Wolfe, emphasising her title to reassure Osanna that this was no local strumpet, though this should have been obvious from her bearing and rich clothing. Hawise had ventured out in the warm evening in a long gown of pale-green silk, tied with a gold cord twisted several times around her waist, the tasselled ends hanging to her knees. Over this she wore a dark-green velvet surcoat with trailing cuffs that reached almost to the ground. A necklace of pearls encircled her slim neck and a snowy linen cover-chief was held in place by a gold band around her forehead.

‘My maid and I were taking a walk on this fine evening,’ she explained in her husky voice. ‘We found ourselves in this neighbourhood and I thought I would call to satisfy my curiosity as to where you lived.’

This was a transparently false excuse, as no one in their right mind would want to come up the dismal deadend that was Long Ditch Lane. Surely the woman had not sought him out just to quiz him about the death of the Treasury canon? The alternative explanation was much more dangerous, though potentially exciting and titillating. Whatever the reason, he had common courtesies to perform.

‘Please be seated, lady. You must take a cup of wine after your long walk,’ he said, unwittingly sarcastic. Motioning to Osanna to put a stool in the doorway for the maid, he pulled forward the one good chair and Hawise lowered herself gracefully upon it.

‘Osanna, can you find some pastries in your cook-shed?’ he asked, but Hawise waved the offer away.

‘Thank you, but I have not long supped in the Lesser Hall. In fact, it was because you were absent that I sought you out.’

John busied himself at the side table with cups and a skin of red wine, thankful that he and Gwyn had not drunk it all with their meal, though they usually quenched most of their thirst with ale or cider. He was not sure whether the new protocol of courtly behaviour which was now all the rage, after being encouraged by Queen Eleanor, extended to offering wine to the maid. As he handed a pewter cup to her mistress, he raised his bushy eyebrows in her direction. Hawise d’Ayncourt shook her head firmly.

‘I have just realised that the evening is cooling quickly,’ she said. ‘I need my red brocade cape from my chamber.’ Turning her head, she gave rapid instructions to her maid to return to the palace and fetch it back to Long Ditch. Silently and rather sullenly, the girl rose and vanished without a word, closing the door behind her to leave Osanna scowling at what was an obvious ploy to get rid of the chaperone.

John was also of the same opinion, but he was not going to let his landlady stand there while he talked to a guest, however uninvited she may be. He dismissed her as gently as he could and the Saxon wife shuffled out with an ill grace.

‘John, don’t stand hovering there like a bottler,’ commanded Hawise. ‘Come and sit near me.’ She patted a bench that stood alongside her chair. As he lowered himself not too reluctantly, he caught the scent of her flowery perfume and came close to her full lips and glowing eyes, framed by exquisitely long lashes. He rocked back out of temptation’s way, sudden images of the Lord of Blois and of Hilda of Dawlish flashing through his mind.

‘Would your husband not accompany you on your walk?’ he rumbled. ‘The streets are not always safe places for ladies on their own.’

She laughed, a low throaty sound with seductive undertones.

‘Westminster is more secure than most towns!’ she countered, conveniently ignoring the fact that there had been several murders recently. ‘And in the daylight, the risk is surely small.’

‘But your husband?’ he persisted.

‘Oh, he is away, visiting some friend’s estate in Surrey,’ Hawise said dismissively. ‘He will be away all night.’

She managed to imbue these last words with heavy invitation.

John felt the hair on his neck prickle with excitement and he raised his wine cup to cover the flushing that spread across his face. He was no stranger to seduction and over several decades had had more women than there were weeks in a year. Yet none, not even the fair Hilda, were as exotic as this raven-haired beauty — and certainly none had exuded such blatant sexuality and availability as Hawise d’Ayncourt.

She put down her cup and placed a slim hand on his knee.

‘Tell me what you have been doing lately, John. We have missed you at our pleasant suppers in the palace.’

Was she angling for information, he wondered? Would her husband burst in just as she had managed to get his breeches off and blackmail him into revealing state secrets? Yet that was a ridiculous notion, he knew nothing of any use to a foreign agent.

As the whole of Westminster would be buzzing with the news of Basset’s death by tomorrow, he decided there was no reason to withhold it from Hawise, as long as he offered no details of the circumstances. He told her briefly of the event, but she did not seem very interested, except to comment that surely he was the official who had received the missing treasure into the Tower, a fact that was common knowledge. Her attitude helped to reassure him that she was there to pillage his body, rather than his mind.

‘You are a famous knight, John,’ she breathed. ‘Tell me of some of your adventures. My husband, dear as he is to me, is a rather dull man, he spends his life in his counting house and patrolling his estates. I never hear tales of murder and battle from him.’

She held her cup for more wine and took the opportunity to pull her chair nearer to his bench until her silk-clad legs were touching his. ‘And you were part of King Richard’s bodyguard when he came back from the Holy Land. Tell me of that and how you tried to save him from capture in Austria!’

It was not an episode of which he was proud, as he had failed his king in Vienna, but he was flattered by having an attractive woman hanging on to his every word. Part of his mind told him that he was a silly old fool and was heading for trouble, but the humours that fuelled his masculinity overrode his common sense. Hawise next wanted to know about his exploits on many battlefields, from Ireland to Normandy and from Sicily to Palestine. Her eyes glistened at his descriptions of mayhem and carnage and when she pressed him to tell her of his work as a coroner in Devon, her pink tongue flickered over her moistened lips as he described morbid scenes of hangings, cut-throats and beheadings.

Perversely, given that he knew it was unwise to encourage her, he could not resist feeding her obvious bloodthirsty fascination with violence. Her face coloured slightly and her prominent bosom rose and fell as her breathing hastened, when he told her of his discovery of a manor-lord crucified in his own forest and his head impaled on the rood screen of Exeter Cathedral.⁴

Suddenly, as John rose to refill their wine-cups, Hawise jumped from her chair and pulled off her cover-chief, releasing a cascade of glossy black hair. She moved towards him and threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him.

‘Oh God, you are a real man, John!’ she gasped, almost with a groan. Although her head reached only to his chin, she stretched upwards and avidly pressed her hot mouth upon his, her tongue snaking between his lips. Surprised, but far from reluctant, de Wolfe abandoned any thoughts of restraint, as desire engulfed him. Images of Renaud de Seigneur and even Hilda of Dawlish vanished in a haze of lust. His own arms came up of their own accord and a wine cup fell uncaringly to the floor as he encircled her shoulders and waist and pulled her hard against him. They returned each other’s kisses as if each was trying to devour the other and he thrilled as he felt her firm breasts pressing into his chest.

‘For pity’s sake, John,’ she whimpered. ‘Take me to your bed!’

With a growl of anticipation, his one hand slid down the waterfall of shining hair, while the other crushed her firm buttocks tightly against him. Hawise kissed him again, her serpentine tongue flickering, then she pulled away and began tugging him towards the steps to the upper floor.

Then the deliciously wanton moment was shattered by a knock on the street door! A very unladylike oath spat from Hawise’s pouting lips and she shrieked a command towards where she assumed her maid was waiting. ‘Adele, go away, damn you! Come back in an hour!’

But she was confounded from another direction, as the inner door opened and Osanna waddled in. ‘I heard a knock, sir,’ she declared, but her response had been so quick that John was sure that her ear, and perhaps an eye, had been pressed against the ill-fitting boards of the inner door.

De Wolfe was inclined to roar at her to clear off, but the intensity of their passion had been spoiled and, flushed in the face, the two would-be lovers pulled apart. Hawise grabbed for her veil, which had fallen on the table and hurriedly pulled it over her head and settled the gilded band in place. Ignoring the scowls of the landlady, she stalked to the door and jerked it open.

Adele was standing on the step, uncertain whether to obey her mistress’s command to vanish for an hour. Her doubts were solved when Hawise snatched the short cloak from her arm and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Come, girl! We are going home.’

Her poise had returned rapidly, and as she left she turned to de Wolfe, who had followed them into the lane.

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Sir John, but I think we have unfinished business!’

The Chief Justiciar of England listened gravely to the coroner’s account of the events of the past few days. He had been away in Canterbury, trying to soothe the complaints of his own clergy, who were not overfond of their bishop, for they felt he was far more concerned with affairs of state than with the welfare of his diocese.

‘So do you think that the murder of Simon Basset is connected with the theft from the Tower?’ he asked, when John had laid all the facts before him.

‘I hesitate to dismiss the possibility,’ replied the coroner. ‘The canon has lived and worked here for years with no problems or stains on his reputation. Then within a few days he becomes a suspect in the crime, as he is one of the only two key-holders — and then he is fatally poisoned! The coincidence is surely too great to be ignored.’

Hubert Walter sat silently for a moment, staring out through a window at the river flowing past Westminster. They sat in his first-floor chamber adjacent to the royal apartments, with the murmur of clerks percolating through the door from the next room.

‘Matters are weighing ever more heavily upon me, John,’ he sighed. ‘The king makes increasing demands for money for his army, which becomes harder and harder to squeeze from resentful barons and merchants. This plays into the hands of the prince, who sees it as justification for his ambition to unseat Richard.’

Walter’s fingers played with the small cross hanging around his neck.

‘Then I have the old queen descending upon us soon, though I am partly thankful for that, as there is no doubt that she is a powerful restraining influence upon her wayward son.’

‘Do you wish me to accompany the court on this journey — or remain here to continue investigating these crimes?’

Hubert shook his greying head. ‘Come with us, I am sure that whoever is behind these acts is part of the court in some capacity or other. I cannot see that your staying behind can accomplish anything.’

De Wolfe was relieved by his answer, as he did not relish being marooned in an almost empty palace — and the perambulation towards the West Country held the possibility of including a quick visit to Exeter. Also, a small roguish voice in his head whispered that Hawise d’Ayncourt would be going with them.

This led his thoughts to another topic and he broached it to Hubert.

‘Your Grace, I hear various rumours about spies seeking secret intelligence from the court. It may well be overimaginative gossip, though that stabbing of the young worker from the guest chambers produced an allegation that he was concerned about something of that nature.’

John explained the fears Basil had, as related by the young novice from the abbey. ‘He claimed that he had overheard some seditious conversation, whatever that might have meant. It might have been something trivial or just an exaggeration by a fertile imagination. But the fact remains that he was stabbed to death a day later for no obvious reason.’

This was the first that Hubert Walter had heard of this and he took it seriously. ‘We are always beset by spies, John. Every embassy that visits us has some agent attached to them whose prime purpose is to gain intelligence to take home — and to be truthful, so do we when we send deputations abroad.’

‘But is there anything they can learn from just residing in the palace for a while?’ said de Wolfe doubtfully.

‘There is always some chance of picking up useful snippets. There are servants to be bribed and I fear that even some members of the Curia or their clerks and esquires can become loquacious after indulging in too much wine.’

‘But what is there to learn?’ persisted John. ‘In matters of warfare, surely all the action is across the Channel, not in Westminster.’

Hubert Walter rose and paced restlessly to the window and back again. ‘Not everything concerns battle, John. Our treaties and agreements with other countries are of great concern to Philip Augustus, as are matters of trade. How much silver and tin we produce relates to Richard’s ability to wage war — and the current mood of potentially rebellious barons reflects on what support the French might expect if the Count of Mortain comes out of his present suspiciously good behaviour to again foster revolt.’

He sat down again and laced his fingers together over his parchment-cluttered table.

‘As I said, I am glad that Eleanor is coming to add her strictures to her younger son’s ambitions. You ask what secrets might be sought? Well, she has advised me privately that Philip and his son Louis favour an attack upon the south coast of England, perhaps to coincide with any move that Prince John might make to seize power. Philip still controls a stretch of coastline below Boulogne which could be a jumping-off point for an invasion, so we are making defensive plans for Kent and Sussex that would certainly be of interest to any French spy.’

He leaned forward in a confidential manner. ‘In fact, that was one reason why I went to Canterbury during these past few days, spending time with various barons and commanders, to the annoyance of my brothers in the cathedral!’

Then leaning back again he abruptly changed the subject, as if he had been too indiscreet. ‘Now, John, what are we going to do about this damned treasure? Is there any hope of getting it back, for I do not relish the king’s temper when he discovers its loss. He covets every half-penny that could go towards financing his campaigns.’

The coroner’s long face darkened into a scowl. ‘At present, it defeats me, sire! But it is a point of honour for me to retrieve it somehow, for it was in my care almost up to the point when it vanished.’ He angrily rasped his fingers across his bristles.

‘Simon Basset is dead and he is inevitably a suspect in the theft. He cannot now be questioned or even tortured — not that the Church would allow it — so the whereabouts of the gold cannot be extracted from him. His house needs to be searched as a matter of urgency to see if there is any sign of it there — though again I am not sure if there would be some ecclesiastical prohibition on that?’

‘Don’t concern yourself about that, John,’ said Hubert grimly. ‘I know that Abbot Postard considers himself the Emperor of Westminster, but theft of the king’s gold is treason and no one in England can be exempt from investigation.’

Relieved at having the Justiciar’s support, John was still dubious of success. ‘I doubt the treasure will be there, but there may be some clue as to his involvement, if he was guilty. But what about the Constable of the Tower, sire?’

Hubert turned up his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘I really cannot see old Herbert de Mandeville as a thief, John! He has been there for many years and could have stolen before, if that was his inclination. But neither does Canon Basset fit the image of a master criminal — yet it looks as if one of them is the culprit.

‘So take whatever measures you think fit to get to the bottom of this — use the king’s name and warrant freely.’

The archbishop stood to indicate that the meeting was over.

‘Do your best, John, I am depending upon you. We live in treacherous times and there are few such as you that the king can trust. You have proved your worth in the past and God knows that we need you again now!’

He remembered his episcopal status sufficiently to give de Wolfe a brief benediction as he left, then yelled for a clerk to come and set about the documents on his table.

With Hubert Walter’s accolade and exhortation ringing in his ears, de Wolfe strode back to his chamber that Tuesday morning, determined to make progress in this apparently insoluble mystery, even if it cost him his reputation or his life.

It even drove from his mind most of the recollection of the previous evening’s seductive fiasco with Hawise d’Ayncourt. He had been both relieved and frustrated, as his common sense told him that cuckolding a foreign nobleman was unwise, to put it mildly — especially as Renaud de Seigneur was living on the spot. Yet the allure of Hawise was so great that his lust was in danger of defeating his usual wisdom. Though a dour, rational man in all other respects, attractive women were John’s Achilles’ heel and had got him into trouble several times.

However, he now had urgent matters to distract him and as he burst into his chamber, he almost shouted at Gwyn and Thomas to get moving. ‘No need for horses, we’re only going up the street! I want to turn the canon’s house inside out to look for that bloody gold!’

Gwyn hurriedly swallowed the last of his ale, washing down the last mouthful of his morning bread and cheese. ‘Do you want me for such a task?’ asked his clerk timidly, hoping to avoid being party to such desecration of a fellow priest’s domicile.

‘Yes, come along and bring your bag of writing contraptions,’ commanded his master. ‘If we find anything, it will need to be recorded — and you are always useful where priests and chaplains are involved.’

Reluctantly, Thomas followed the two bigger men as they left the palace and went across to the gate into King Street. A few hundred yards brought them to the canon’s dwelling and with a rare touch of sensitivity, de Wolfe sent his clerk in ahead to announce diplomatically that they were there to search the premises. After a couple of moments, he followed with Gwyn and was faced with the doleful faces of the chaplain and steward, who were subdued but obviously indignant at this intrusion.

‘My clerk has explained that there are important issues at stake and that it is imperative that we look amongst the canon’s belongings to check on certain matters,’ said John, his discomfiture making him sound a little pompous.

Martin, dressed in a black tunic as a mark of mourning, nodded his understanding. ‘We cannot prevent you, coroner, we were merely servants of our late master and have no status now.’

‘And though nothing has been said openly,’ added the chaplain, ‘we know full well that this must be connected to the loss of that treasure, which is now common knowledge.’

‘You’ll find nothing here, sir, our master was a fine and honest man,’ added the steward defiantly.

De Wolfe applauded their loyalty, but was firm in his resolve.

‘That’s as may be, but there might be some clue here as to what happened and I am charged specifically, in the name of our king, to leave no stone unturned in seeking the truth.’

The steward sighed, but moved back and with a gesture indicated that the house was theirs. ‘I will tell the servants to give you every assistance in showing you whatever you wish to see,’ he said.

John began in the chamber which Simon used as a sitting room and an office, for there was a table with numerous parchments and a sideboard carrying half a dozen books. He called Thomas in to look through all the written material, while Gwyn searched the servants’ quarters, the stables and various outhouses such as the brew-shed, the laundry and the kitchen. The Cornishman poked into the privy and the pigsty, even putting his head inside the fowl-house to make sure there were no gold candlesticks hidden in the nestboxes.

John found nothing at all in the effects of the late canon, though he was again impressed by the quality and indeed opulence of most of the furniture and fittings in the house. All the floors downstairs were paved, rather than having rush-strewn earth, as was usual. The walls had costly hangings and in the bedroom upstairs there was actually glass in one of the smaller windows, an almost unheard-of luxury.

But of treasure there was no sign, apart from Simon Basset’s own possessions. The documents that Thomas scanned revealed nothing suspicious — they were either detailed household accounts or letters on ecclesiastical topics from other priests, especially in Lichfield. Some of the parchments related to his duties in the Exchequer, but there was nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion of involvement in an audacious robbery.

After a last half-hearted scanning of the backyard and paths surrounding the house to see if there was any disturbed soil that might indicate something having been buried, de Wolfe admitted defeat. He made his peace with the chaplain and steward before leaving.

‘There will probably be an inquest in the next day or so,’ he announced. ‘I will require your presence for the formalities.’

‘His poor body was brought back from St Bartholomew’s last evening,’ said Gilbert, crossing himself, which of course set off Thomas in copying his actions. ‘He now lies before a side altar in the abbey until he can be buried. In this weather, it is not practicable to take him home to Lichfield, but we have sent word by courier and in the fullness of time maybe his family or the Chapter there may wish to have his coffin translated there.’

There was nothing more to be done and the coroner’s trio began walking back to the palace. Suddenly, Thomas de Peyne stopped so suddenly that Gwyn, walking behind him, stumbled against the little clerk.

‘Surely there is something odd, Crowner?’ said Thomas, looking quizzically at de Wolfe.

‘Yes, you are bloody odd, stopping in my path like that!’ complained Gwyn, but John silenced him with a gesture. He had learned long ago that any thoughts of his clerk were usually worth listening to. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘We found no keys in the house. The canon still had his normal duties with the Exchequer, so where are his precious keys, including those for any chests still in the Tower?’

There was a silence while the others digested this.

‘Important keys such as those should have been on his person for safe keeping,’ said John. ‘Just as I did when we travelled from Winchester — they never left my pouch, thank St Michael and all his archangels!’

‘So where are Basset’s keys?’ grunted Gwyn.

John punched a fist into his other hand. ‘Damn! He was dressed in a hospital gown when we saw his body. I never thought to ask for his clothing. We must get back there at once and enquire. Let’s hope they’ve not been destroyed or given away to the poor.’

The astute brain of their clerk saw a flaw in this. ‘They would hardly give a priest’s cassock away nor send him back to the abbey dressed in an infirmary shroud. I’m sure the Austin canons would have more respect for one of their own and include his personal belongings when they dispatched the corpse back to Westminster.’

Gwyn slapped his diminutive friend on the back. ‘Clever little sod, aren’t you! Are we to try at the abbey, Crowner?’

De Wolfe had no doubt that they should and in a few minutes they were in the lofty nave of Edward the Confessor’s great church. They found Simon Basset on a bier before a shrine in the north transept, still with the contented expression on his round face, confounding the common misapprehension that those who died an unnatural death had contorted features.

Tall candles burned at his head and feet and a fellow Benedictine knelt in prayer on a prie-dieu nearby.

Thomas gently interrupted him to ask where they might enquire about the canon’s personal belongings and the monk directed them to a deacon who sat in an alcove near the west door. He in turn took them into the wide cloisters south of the church where a side room contained all manner of odds and ends, including broken furniture, processional banners and incense censers. The old man opened a battered chest and lifted out a cloth tied in a knot at the top. It had a scrap of parchment attached which Thomas checked, confirming that it belonged to Simon Basset.

‘We are waiting to hear from his chaplain as to whether it needs to be sent to Lichfield,’ explained the deacon, handing it over. John untied the knot and spread the contents on to the lid of the chest. A belt, a rosary and several kerchiefs were of no interest, but there was a bulky scrip, a leather pouch attached to the belt. John undid the small strap and buckle and tipped out the contents. There were about twenty silver pennies, a medal of St Christopher and two bunches of keys. One of these immediately caught the coroner’s attention, being several large keys on an iron loop.

‘Two of these have got those spots of coloured paint we saw before,’ he said. ‘The codes for the locks on the treasure chests.’

‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they,’ said Gwyn gruffly. ‘He’s one of the key-holders, he should have them.’

‘But he shouldn’t have two, he should only have one,’ squeaked Thomas excitedly.

‘Possibly, but we can’t be sure that these keys relate to the chest from which the objects were stolen.’

De Wolfe gnawed his lip in indecision. ‘I need to make sure! This could either confirm or exonerate Simon Basset as the culprit. We owe it to his memory to clear any suspicion, if he is innocent.’

The other bunch was an assortment without spots and some may have been his house keys. However, John took them along with the two larger ones and left the abbey. It was now approaching noon and surrendering to the rumblings of Gwyn’s stomach, he reluctantly delayed their journey to the city so that they could all eat their dinner at Long Ditch. After swallowing Osanna’s potage of vegetables and shreds of some unidentifiable meat, followed by boiled pork knuckles, they collected their horses from the marshal’s stables and rode to London.

At the Great Tower, the production of his royal warrant, with the impressive seal of the Chief Justiciar dangling from it, immediately gained them admission and they were conducted at once to the Constable’s chamber. Once again, Herbert de Mandeville was not pleased to see them, as a visit from the dark, gaunt Coroner of the Verge was a reminder of the failure of his responsibility as guardian of the Tower. In addition, there was the lingering suspicion of his own involvement, as one of the two key-holders.

After an abrupt greeting, John went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘Have you heard yet of the death of Simon Basset?’

De Mandeville nodded. ‘Only that he had some kind of seizure and died in St Bartholomew’s. I suppose he was too fat and well fed for his own health.’

The coroner saw no reason not to tell the Constable the truth, though he left out the part about the brothel, as it seemed an unnecessary darkening of the canon’s memory.

‘He was murdered — poisoned with foxglove.’ John watched Herbert keenly, to see how he took this news. The Constable’s brows came together in surprise, but he seemed not too dismayed by the canon’s death. ‘And is this connected in any way with the theft of that treasure?’ he asked evenly, giving away nothing in his manner.

The coroner reached into his scrip and produced the two large keys with the painted spots.

‘This is why I am here, de Mandeville. I need to know if these keys found on Basset’s person fit the locks on that damned chest.’

The older man took the keys from him and examined them.

‘They carry coloured marks, like those on that box — but that is not unique, it is often done for other chests.’

‘I want you to check these, either on the locks themselves or by comparing the shapes of the wards with those you keep in that secure cupboard there.’ He pointed to the large flat cabinet on the wall of the chamber.

Herbert de Mandeville glared at the coroner almost triumphantly. ‘Can’t be done!’ he declared complacently. ‘The strongroom below is completely empty, for once. That chest, with what remained of its contents, was yesterday dispatched with the other boxes by ship to Normandy. It was needed to carry some additional coinage that had been in the care of the Templars — and, naturally, its keys went with it, in the care of another Treasury official.’

John glowered at the news. Now how in hell am I ever going to resolve this? he asked himself. Short of going to Rouen, there was now no way of knowing if Simon had been up to no good.

Once again, Thomas’s nimble brain came to the rescue. ‘Sir Herbert, when such chests arrive or depart from your keeping, are the two keys to each box always kept together on one ring?’

The other three men stared at the clerk, unsure of his reasoning.

‘Of course! It would cause great confusion if they were jumbled together,’ replied the puzzled Constable. ‘Sometimes, after the sheriffs have delivered their county farms twice a year, I may get a dozen chests or more brought here.’

‘Then what happens?’ persisted the little priest.

Herbert stared at Thomas in perplexity. ‘Well, after the contents are checked I separate the pair of keys. Simon or whoever it might be, takes one and I lock up the other in that cupboard.’

‘So afterwards neither you nor the Exchequer official has any reason to have two keys paired on a ring?’ asked Thomas.

His reasoning was now apparent to the others, but Gwyn had an objection.

‘The pair of keys might be nothing to do with the same chest. He dealt with many such boxes — maybe he just put them together for convenience.’

De Mandeville held out his hand. ‘Let me see those keys for a moment.’ He turned them over in his hands and peered at them short-sightedly. ‘They certainly look the same size and type as the locks used on those boxes. The locks are supplied by the Treasury and I think they are all made by the same locksmith.’

He handed them back to the coroner. ‘But of course, without the actual locks from that treasure chest, I cannot say if they were the keys for it.’

De Wolfe dropped them back into his scrip. ‘But if the chest has now gone to Rouen, its keys have gone with it, so these cannot be the originals! Presumably you gave your key to the Treasury man who took them, but what about the other key?’

‘Simon Basset handed his over as usual,’ confirmed the Constable. ‘He came here last week before the boxes were removed under guard to be taken down to Queenhithe to a king’s ship.’

It seemed an impasse, but John had one last avenue of enquiry.

‘You said the locks probably all came from the same locksmith. Do you know who he was?’

De Mandeville looked disdainfully at the coroner. ‘I don’t concern myself with such minor matters. But the Treasury keep a few clerks in an office downstairs, who keep records of all the comings and goings of their property. Maybe they might be able to tell you something.’

They left de Mandeville relieved at their departure and a page took them down to a gloomy archway built into the massive walls of a lower floor. Here an old man in minor orders sat with a shaven-headed youth at a couple of tables covered with parchment lists. The senior clerk scratched his scalp with a quill pen, ruining the tip until he recalled who he paid for the last batch of locks, several years earlier.

‘It’s Peter of Farringdon; he has a workshop on the north side of Eastcheap. We use him as he has great discretion, as it would hardly do if he divulged the secrets of the king’s treasure chests. Also, he has been told that if he did, he would be burned at the stake at Smithfield!’

As they rode through the bustling city, John felt that the ramifications of this investigation were becoming too tortuous to bear. The locksmith was the last throw in this gamble to decide whether Simon Basset was or was not a villain. They found him in a small shop on the main east-west thoroughfare of the city. The shutter of the front window hinged down to form a display counter on the street, covered with metal goods such as candlesticks, sconces, hinges, locks and kitchen appliances such as trivets and spigots. These were guarded by two apprentices working at benches in the front room, who took him through to a forge at the back, where a beefy man of middle age was stripped to the waist in the torrid heat of a furnace. A small boy pumped the furnace. The man was bald, but had red whiskers to rival Gwyn’s and arm muscles that were even bigger than the Cornishman’s.

He was about to pull an iron bar from the white-hot coals with a pair of long tongs, but when he saw the calibre of his visitors, he thrust it back and came to meet them. John explained the problem and produced the pair of keys, whereupon Peter took them out into the open backyard, where the light was better.

‘I didn’t make these!’ he said, within seconds of turning the keys over in his hand. ‘And they are less than a few months old, maybe only weeks. I’ve not had an order for this sort of lock for a year or more.’

‘How can you tell they’re not yours?’ asked John, his hopes rising once more.

‘Look here, see the shanks?’ he said, pointing with a finger like a pork sausage. ‘They are straight, from the top right down to the wards. I always braze a ring around the lower part of the shank, to hold the wards more easily in the correct position to turn the tumblers.’

‘You said they were recent?’

‘Very little rust on them, the steel is still shiny. These have not gone through a wet winter like we’ve had this last year.’

De Wolfe nodded his understanding. ‘So given that you definitely didn’t make these, could they be used for opening the type of lock you supply to the Treasury?’

The smith looked closely again at the business ends of the two keys. ‘All locks are generally similar, so I can’t be sure. But the Exchequer was insistent upon the most secure ones they could get, so I made complicated wards and gates in the locks — and these are of that type.’ He handed them back to the coroner with a gesture of finality.

‘I can’t swear that they must be for those locks, as other smiths are just as competent, but there’s no reason why they couldn’t be for the ones I supplied.’

There was no more to be gained from Peter of Farringdon and they rode off through Ludgate and back to Westminster. In their austere chamber, the heat was so intense that de Wolfe pulled off his knee-length grey tunic and sat behind the table in his linen undershirt and long black hose, which were supported by laces tied to a string belt around his waist. The fact that his nether regions were totally exposed did not in the least disconcert him, as the table shielded him from any casual visitor.

Gwyn sat in usual place on the window ledge, trying to catch any breeze from the river and Thomas, who seemed immune from overheating, sat at the end of the table, writing an account of the day’s happenings for the record.

With jugs of cloudy cider before them, John went over the salient facts that they had discovered.

‘The canon was murdered, there seems little doubt of that.’

‘Are you quite sure it wasn’t an accident or felo de se?’ asked Gwyn.

‘A senior member of the clergy like a canon wouldn’t commit suicide,’ retorted Thomas indignantly. ‘Why should he jeopardize his immortal soul?’

‘What about almost dying in a brothel?’ objected Gwyn.

‘That’s not a mortal sin,’ snapped the clerk impatiently. ‘And as for an accident, how can anyone inadvertently swallow enough to be fatal? He wasn’t out in the countryside, chewing a score of foxglove plants!’

De Wolfe held up a hand to stop the bickering. ‘That raises the question, where was he before he went to the brothel? The girl said that he told her he had had a good meal in a decent inn, or words to that effect. That’s where he must have been given the tincture of foxglove, given the timing, according to Brother Philip.’

‘He also mentioned to her something about dining with a friend,’ added Thomas. ‘Given the circumstances, that friend must have been the killer.’

‘With him dead, we haven’t a hope in hell of knowing who it was,’ said John gloomily.

‘Could we discover in which tavern it was he ate his last meal?’ hazarded Thomas. ‘Then we might find what friend accompanied him.’

‘There must be a score of inns within a half-mile of Stinking Lane,’ scoffed Gwyn. ‘What chance have any of them recalling their customers from last week?’

‘The canon seemed a fastidious man, rich and fond of his belly,’ observed the clerk. ‘He would surely go only to the best eating house — that might narrow the search a little.’

De Wolfe was doubtful. ‘Perhaps so, but is that within our capabilities? In a week or so, we’ll be gone away with the court.’

‘What about the sheriff and his men? They would know all the good inns in that part of London. Could they not search for us?’

John made a derisory noise in his throat. ‘They seem ill-disposed towards us. Although fitz Durand told us about the death of Simon, I feel he just wanted to get rid of the problem, it being a royal cleric from Westminster. I can’t see him putting his strong-arm men to work for me.’

He went back to his analysis of the whole situation.

‘If those keys really do fit the locks on the treasure chest, then as they cannot be the original keys, someone must have had them copied,’ he mused. ‘And the only person who could have done that, given that they were in his scrip, is Simon Basset himself.’

‘When could he have had them copied?’ asked Gwyn, to whom this was all getting a little confusing.

‘He had them both in his hands in that strongroom when we delivered the boxes,’ said John.

‘But not before or after,’ objected Thomas, who still seemed inclined to defend the honour of his fellow cleric. ‘You had them until you handed them over to him, and after the checking of the inventory one key was given to the Constable to put in his cupboard. How could he have had copies made with all of us, including two knights from the Tower, watching him?’

There was a thoughtful silence for a long moment. ‘He was often back and forth to the Tower and its strongroom in respect of other chests,’ said de Wolfe, grimly hanging on to some hope of a solution. ‘Perhaps he had the opportunity to borrow the keys then?’

Even as the words left his lips, he recognised the weakness of his argument. As the treasure chest had not been opened again until its contents were rechecked and found to be deficient, there was no way in which the key from de Mandeville’s cupboard could have been handled.

‘Unless the bloody Constable is also involved in the plot!’ suggested Gwyn darkly. He had obviously taken against the supercilious Keeper of the Great Tower. ‘If he and Simon Basset had conspired together, they could easily have taken the keys out to be copied. The city is full of smiths who could oblige for a good fee — anyway, they wouldn’t know they were making keys to rob the king!’

Though John had to admit that this was a possibility, he was dubious about its probability. ‘I just can’t see Herbert de Mandeville risking his neck for a few hundred pounds, even though it’s a great deal of money. His family have been Keepers of the Tower for generations, he surely wouldn’t sully their honour in that way.’

‘And he’s been there for years, he could have stolen long before this,’ admitted Thomas.

‘Perhaps he has!’ grumbled Gwyn, unwilling to abandon his dislike of the Constable.

‘Well, there’s no way we can accuse de Mandeville of complicity with no evidence at all,’ decided John. ‘And for that matter, we’ve no hard evidence against Simon Basset, only a suspicion based on those keys.’

‘So why should someone want to kill him?’ reflected Thomas. ‘And why would he want to hang on to those keys, if he is guilty? Surely he would have thrown them into the Thames once the theft was completed, to get rid of any incriminating evidence.’

De Wolfe threw up his hands in despair. ‘Christ Jesus alone knows! There’s little I can do now, except hold a useless inquest and wait for something else to turn up, if it ever does.’

As the endless hot weather was not conducive to keeping corpses for long, the inquest had to be held early next day, before a funeral in the cemetery reserved for the clergy, which was behind the abbey. He held it in the west porch of the abbey, with the consent of the prior, William Postard’s lieutenant, so that the small jury could proceed inside and view the body which still lay in the transept.

John’s pessimism about the futility of the proceedings was justified, as nothing useful could come out of them. He decided not to call anyone from the brothel, to preserve the canon’s reputation, even though it meant that he could not introduce any evidence about Basset’s claim that he had eaten at a hostelry with a friend. The ‘friend’ was unknown, as was the hostelry, so there was little point in mentioning it, just as he refrained from calling Brother Philip, who he reckoned was better off healing the sick than travelling to Westminster. Instead, he called Gwyn and Thomas to say on oath that they had heard the monk explain that death was certainly due to foxglove poisoning. Martin the steward and Gilbert the chaplain both averred that Simon Basset was in good spirits when they last saw him and that he had never returned home. They vehemently denied any suggestion that he might have taken his own life and within a few minutes, after solemnly filing past the corpse on its bier, the jury of twelve men recruited from the Treasury, plus the servants from Basset’s household, delivered a verdict of murder by persons unknown, which the coroner graciously accepted, though he would have instantly rejected anything else.

They attended the funeral immediately afterwards, filing with many of the abbey monks behind the prior to the large burial plot. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, John could not help wondering whether he was witnessing the final disappearance of a victim or a villain. And if Simon was the culprit, what had he done with the loot?

Walking back towards the palace, de Wolfe went over in his mind the recent cases that had come his way, none of which reflected any glory upon his office of coroner. The guest-room steward, Basil of Reigate, had been stabbed on the river pier.

Osbert Morel, the ironworker, had been bludgeoned to death on the marshes, though it was true that John had no jurisdiction over his murder. Now a high Treasury official had been poisoned — and in none of them was there any clue as to the perpetrator.

There were also hints of espionage and the undoubted theft of a large amount of royal property, yet the Coroner of the Verge seemed impotent to solve any of them. He felt again like getting on his old horse Odin and riding off back to Devon, where at least he felt that he had contributed something to keeping the king’s peace.

At noon he went home with Gwyn to Long Ditch Lane for dinner, where Osanna was still giving him frosty looks after bursting in on his moment of passion with Hawise d’Ayncourt.

Whether it was because she had taken a fancy to Hilda when she had stayed there or whether she took exception to Hawise’s autocratic manner, John could not tell, but from the way she banged a platter in front of him and slopped his ale into a jar, he knew that he was not in favour with her. However, her salt cod with beans, onions and last year’s parsnips was palatable, as was a boiled fowl stuffed with bread and herbs. A bowl of quince and small plums was rounded off with cheese and maslin bread of wheat and rye.

As they finished eating, the sullen heat was suddenly broken by a summer storm. The black clouds that had been threatening for days, decided to accumulate overhead and abruptly unloaded torrential rain upon London, accompanied by rolling thunderclaps and flashes of lightning. Within minutes, the downpour turned the lane outside into a morass, running water even lapping against the stone slab that formed the threshold of the front door. The water began pouring off the wide expanse of marsh and the Long Ditch soon turned into a churning brown torrent.

John decided he would not bother to go back to sit idly in his chamber in the palace and announced that he was going to sleep the afternoon away. Gwyn seemed indifferent to the storm and said that he would go down to the Deacon alehouse to while away the time at dice with his cronies. He marched away through the mud, his old leather jerkin his only protection, the rain cascading off the pointed hood.

When he had gone, John climbed the steps to his room and flopped on his pallet, a lumpy hessian bag stuffed with hay, which Osanna renewed every few weeks, before it went damp and mouldy. For a short while, his mind revisited yet again the mysteries of the three killings. He lay on his back, staring up at the inside of the roof, where the irregular branches forming the rafters supported woven hazel withies holding up the thatch outside. The thunder still rolled and though the drumming of the rain was softened by the thick layer of reeds on the roof, it had a hypnotic quality that soon sent him to sleep, in spite of the drips of water that fell on his bed from above.

It was blessedly cool when he awoke a few hours later. The world seemed fresher and the birds were chirruping again, after having been driven into hiding by the storm. De Wolfe felt better than he had for days in that enervating heat and decided to celebrate by having a shave, two days earlier than his normal weekly scrape. In the backyard, Osanna gave him a few quarts of warm water in a wooden bucket and a lump of grey soap, made from goat fat, soda and wood ash. Stripped to the waist, he managed to get a meagre lather on to his black bristles and scratched at them with a small knife that he kept for the purpose, made of Saracen steel honed to a fine edge.

In his new mood of determined optimism, his thoughts turned to Hawise d’Ayncourt, the siren of Westminster. He was ambivalent about her, knowing full well that he should avoid any involvement with a woman he knew could be dangerous to him. Yet her sultry beauty and obvious availability was both an attraction and a challenge. He decided that if the opportunity was handed to him on a platter, it would be stupid and churlish to turn it down — but he also felt that he should do what he could to avoid such an opportunity arising by staying out of her way and not supping at the Lesser Hall.

This noble thought lasted less than five minutes, for as he wiped the last of the lather from his face with a cloth, he rebelled at such craven behaviour. He enjoyed the company of Ranulf of Abingdon and young William Aubrey, so why should he, a knight, a Crusader and a royal law officer, be frightened off by a woman, attractive though she was.

With a flourish of his towel cloth, he decided to demand a clean tunic from Osanna, who did his washing as part of the bed and board that he paid her for. She was still a little surly, but was coming round and gave him a grey tunic that she had earlier thrown over an elder bush in the yard, where she dried her washing until the rain came. He dressed, then sat with a quart pot in the main room and waited for Gwyn to return. When he arrived, he had some news.

‘The old queen has arrived at Portsmouth. William Aubrey has already rushed off with a troop of men-at-arms to join the escort and help organize the transport. She should be arriving at Westminster in about five days’ time.’

It seemed that Ranulf had remained in the palace, rather than travel to the coast, which reinforced John’s intention to take his supper in the Lesser Hall to hear the latest news. He arrived early enough to stand with a few dozen other patrons and hear a short passage from the Gospels and then a long Latin grace, this night being delivered by Archdeacon Bernard de Montfort. John was somewhat piqued to find that Hawise and her dumpy husband were not present. After having summoned up his bravado to face her after their brief but passionate embrace, he felt rather deflated at being deprived of a challenge.

Ranulf was there, with Sir Martin Stanford, the Deputy Marshal of the palace. When Bernard de Montfort came back from the lectern where he had read the lesson, he slid on to the bench next to John. ‘Have to sing for my supper now and then,’ he said jocularly. ‘Though thank heaven there are enough clerics in this place to make it not too often.’

As they ate their supper and drank their ale and wine, the talk naturally centred around the impending arrival of Eleanor of Aquitaine, as she was still thought of by many of the older folk.

‘Why have you not rushed off to Portsmouth to join her procession?’ asked the archdeacon, addressing the men from the Marshalsea.

‘I’ve just sent almost half of my contingent down there,’ explained Martin Stanford. ‘The rest I need for organising the move to Gloucester, which is a far bigger operation.’

He and Ranulf described the complicated procedure of trundling the whole court across the southern half of England. ‘The Purveyors have already been sent out along the route,’ said Stanford. ‘Unwelcome though they are to the population, they have to arrange accommodation and procure food for the travellers and fodder for the livestock.’

‘It’ll be something to occupy Hugo de Molis — he certainly doesn’t strain himself when we are here in Westminster,’ observed Ranulf cynically.

John turned to the genial priest from the Auvergne. ‘What about you, archdeacon? I take it you won’t be travelling with us, given that you are concerned with researching the abbey’s history here?’

His unfortunate harelip twisted Bernard’s mouth as he smiled.

‘Oh no, I’m going down to Canterbury again. I need to consult some obscure manuscripts said to be held in the scriptorium of the cathedral, so I’ll make a visit there while the queen is engaged with her business at Gloucester.’

‘Travelling alone can be a dangerous business, sir,’ warned Martin Stanford. ‘Best go with a party of pilgrims, they leave from Southwark almost every day.’

De Montfort was benignly reassuring. ‘I will have my servant Raoul with me. No doubt you have noticed that he has a frightening look about him, though in fact he is intelligent and can read and write, as well as handle a sword and mace!’

They ate their way through boiled salmon, roast duck and some slices of venison from the royal forest beyond Twickenham, finishing with a suet pudding studded with French raisins.

‘Where is Renaud de Seigneur and his lovely wife tonight?’ asked Ranulf innocently, as he nudged de Wolfe meaningfully beneath the table.

‘I understand that Lady Hawise is suffering from some slight indisposition today, so they are keeping to their chambers upstairs,’ confided Bernard de Mont-fort.

Is the woman lying low in order to avoid meeting him after their frustrated encounter? thought John. On consideration, he felt it was unlikely, given the brazen nature of Hawise. Relieved, but also disappointed at her absence, he turned the conversation back to the main topic.

‘So, Ranulf, when are we setting off on this crusade to the West Country?’

‘The queen is likely to arrive here at the end of this week. Give her a few days to rest, which will include Hubert Walter’s welcoming feast in the Great Hall, then I expect our wagons will start rolling towards the middle of next week.’

Another week of inaction, sighed de Wolfe, but at least he now had a date to look forward to, which might lead to a quick visit to Exeter — and perhaps even to Dawlish.

John left the Lesser Hall after supper and strolled towards the Deacon tavern, where he was confident of finding Gwyn behind a quart pot. He was surprised to see a small figure in a black cassock lurking uneasily outside the alehouse door.

‘What brings you here, Thomas? Have you taken up drink at last?’

His clerk squirmed with embarrassment, but jerked a finger at the door. ‘I guessed that Cornish barbarian would be in there, Crowner. But it’s you I wanted to find and Gwyn said that you would probably call in after your supper.’

The priest’s pinched face was glowing with suppressed excitement at being able to once again bring his master some information. ‘That secondary, Robin Byard, the one who told us about Basil’s fears of overhearing some conspirators, spoke to me again in the abbey refectory tonight.’

John waited impatiently for Thomas to be more specific.

‘He said that when Basil was in fear of his life, he told him that if anything happened to him, he wanted Robin to have the only book he possessed, a small copy of the Gospel of St Luke.’

De Wolfe scowled at his clerk.

‘What’s this got to do with anything, for God’s sake?’

At the mention of the ultimate name, Thomas jerked automatically into crossing himself, but then ploughed on with his explanation. ‘Robin has just found a scrap of parchment tucked behind the back cover of the book, which has worried him so much that he feels it should be shown to someone in authority.’

‘What does this scrap reveal?’

Thomas turned up his hands in a gesture of ignorance. ‘I’ve not seen it, Crowner. Robin, who is quite solicitous about my welfare, says he doesn’t want to put me in any danger by involving me. But I told him he must show it to you, so he’s bringing it over to our chamber in the palace tomorrow morning after Lauds.’

The expected revelation turned out to be a disappointment.

When the aspiring young priest arrived at their office next day, he was clutching a small, tattered book as if it was the Holy Grail. The illiterate coroner motioned to Thomas to have a look at it and whilst he was doing so de Wolfe had a question for Robin Byard.

‘Did Basil say anything to you about this loose page in the book?’

The young fellow shook his head miserably. ‘Not a word! I feel sure that he came across it after he had told me of overhearing this seditious conversation. In fact, I think he found it shortly before he was so cruelly killed.’ He promptly burst into tears, to John’s profound discomfiture, so the coroner turned back to his clerk.

‘Well, what do you make of it?’ he demanded.

‘It’s a well-used copy of a Gospel, one of a cheap version turned out for sale by the hundred in monastery scriptoria.’

‘I don’t care about the damned Gospel,’ snapped John blasphemously. ‘What about this message?’

Thomas held up a ragged square of parchment, the size of his palm. ‘Not very exciting,’ he said with a crestfallen expression.

‘It has some names and numbers and a date at the top, that’s about all.’

The coroner snatched it from his fingers and though he could not read the words, he could decipher the numerals written on the cured sheepskin. Even to his inexpert eyes, the inked letters seemed fresh and crisp. It was obviously not a letter or a message, the words being scattered about the page almost at random. He handed it back to Thomas.

‘So what do you make of it?’

Thomas peered again at the parchment, moving it up and down until his long nose almost touched the surface.

‘It was recently written, as it starts with a date. The eighteenth day of June in the seventh year of the reign of King Richard.’

John frowned. ‘That suggests that whoever wrote it was not a subject of our Crown. It is usual for words such as “our Sovereign Lord King Richard” to be used.’

Thomas nodded his agreement, though privately he felt that this was not a very safe assumption in informal documents.

‘It then has various words dotted around the page, as if they were written hurriedly or in difficult circumstances. They make little sense to me, but some are placenames. There is Sandwich, Dover, Rye and Saltwood. Some have numbers after them, including one-hundred, two-hundred, and one of five hundred. But after Dover there is only the word “twelve”.’

‘What are the other words?’

‘They seem to be personal names — Arundel, de Montfort, Mowbray, fitz Gilbert.’

There was silence as they all digested these obscure facts.

‘Robin, are those words written in your friend’s hand?’ asked de Wolfe.

The secondary immediately shook his head. Sniffing back his tears, he said, ‘Nothing like it, sir. He had immaculate script, of which he was proud. These are just scribbles compared to his.’

Gwyn, with his maritime knowledge from his time as a fisherman, pointed out the obvious. ‘All those places are on the coast, most of them actual ports.’

‘And on the coast of Kent or Sussex,’ added Thomas, not to be outdone by a Cornish barbarian. ‘And the names sound as if they could be manor-lords.’

De Wolfe rubbed his chin, missing the stubble that he had recently removed. ‘It’s suggestive of some interest in the coast facing France,’ he admitted. ‘But what do the numbers mean?’

‘Could they be ships of war?’ said Gwyn. ‘There are twelve at Dover.’

‘There would hardly be five hundred ships at Rye!’ objected Thomas.

‘Then ships or men-at-arms,’ suggested Gwyn, determined not to be bested by the priest.

The coroner ignored their banter, but agreed that this could be some form of intelligence about coastal defences. ‘But where did this Basil fellow get it? And more importantly, who wrote it?’

‘Given what he said to me about overhearing suspicious conversation, and the fact that he spent almost all his time in the palace guest chambers, that seems the most likely place for him to have found it,’ offered Robin Byard.

As Thomas handed him back the precious Gospel, John carefully folded the piece of parchment into his scrip. ‘I’ll have to show this to Hubert Walter, though I’m sure he has other things on his mind at the moment.’ As he did up the buckle to his pouch, another possibility occurred to him.

‘And maybe I’ll use it as a bluff to flush out the culprits!’