The Grim Reaper

CHAPTER TEN

De Wolfe’s visit that day to the tavern in Idle Lane was more gustatory than amorous. With a meeting at the Bishop’s Palace in mid-afternoon, as well as an increase in the Bush’s business with the imminent arrival in the city of the Justices in Eyre, there was no time for dalliance in the big French bed. However, he was more than content to be back in favour with his mistress and settled happily for a large bowl of onion soup, boiled salmon, half a loaf and cheese, all washed down with a brew of ale that exceeded even Nesta’s usual excellence.

The auburn-haired Welshwoman came to sit with him in between harassing her serving maids and potman. She had recovered now from the shock of tripping over the corpse of Joanna of London and was eager to hear details of the latest bizarre slaying in St Mary Arches, word of which had flashed all over the city. When John had described the weird event, Nesta astutely seized on one aspect that he had not so far considered. ‘I wonder why these killings have started now?’ she pondered. ‘They seem to be getting more frequent. Is he going to kill every day?’

‘I hope to God not, though we cannot prevent it until we get some clue as to who is responsible,’ he said fervently. ‘But what you say is interesting, my love. The man must have been here in Exeter for some time so why did they start now? No new priests have arrived lately, according to John de Alençon, apart from Brother Rufus, the castle chaplain.’

‘The only thing that is soon to happen is the arrival of the judges,’ she mused. ‘Could that be connected in any way?’

De Wolfe broke the last chunk of bread in half and used his dagger to hack a thick slice of hard cheese to go with it. ‘Perhaps he’s trying to point out that his type of justice is better than that of the country,’ he grunted. ‘Though his victims so far have been offenders against the scriptures, rather than against the King’s Peace.’

Nesta picked up a jug of ale and slid along the bench to refill his pot. John took the opportunity to slip an arm around her waist and knead her breast gently through her green gown. In the shelter of the wattle screen that backed on to his table, she gave him a quick peck on his stubbly cheek. ‘Can you come down tonight, John? Since I’ve got you back, I want you more than ever,’ she whispered into his ear.

He gave one of the lopsided grins that lit up his usually grim features and dropped his hand to caress her smooth bottom. ‘I’m so out of favour with Matilda that she’ll not care where I am until next week, when she’ll be desperate to get invited to these bloody banquets that I’ll have to attend. So I’ll be down here, bonny woman, as long as our resident murderer doesn’t get up to his tricks again tonight.’

A crash from the other side of the room as a quart pot hit the floor and a babble of abuse from one of the maids, abruptly took Nesta away to pacify the girl and to throw out a drunken customer. John looked around to see if his help was needed, but the landlady was well in control, jabbing at the staggering patron with the handle of a broom, urging him out with a stream of invective in mixed English and Welsh. As soon as the door slammed behind the bemused drunk, she propped the besom against the wall and calmly walked back to John, accompanied by a chorus of laughing approval from the other customers.

‘Damned fool, he shouldn’t drink so much in the middle of the day if he can’t hold it,’ she observed equably, sitting down again alongside John. He looked at her admiringly. This really was a woman to be treasured, he thought happily, regretting even more the months that had been wasted when they were at odds with each other.

‘Will this meeting today with the priests be of any use?’ she asked, taking a drink from his clay tankard.

‘I doubt it. They stick together like horse droppings, each guarding the others’ backs against the unordained,’ he answered cynically. ‘But we need the consent of Henry Marshal to question his precious priests.’

‘Do you think the Archdeacon’s plea for information will yield up anything?’

John shrugged. ‘Maybe a couple of clerks will use the chance to vent their spite on the brother they hate most. It will be a good opportunity for old scores to be settled, denouncing a colleague as a pervert or rogue. We need some names, that’s for sure, but whether any we get are anything other than the victims of petty spite and jealousy remains to be seen.’

‘Who’s going with you to see the Bishop, then?’ Nesta’s curiosity seemed unbounded.

‘De Alençon, of course, and my old friend the Treasurer.’ He scowled at the lump of cheese in his hand, thinking of the other men he disliked.

‘Then there’s the bloody Precentor, together with my damned brother-in-law, who won’t be able to resist fawning over Henry Marshal.’

Both the sheriff and Precentor Thomas de Boterellis had been involved with the Bishop in the last abortive attempt by Prince John to seize power from the Lionheart during his absence abroad. As fervent supporters of the King, the three Johns — the coroner, the Archdeacon and John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer — were at permanent odds with the others and regarded them with suspicion. However, in this matter of multiple murders, de Wolfe had to admit that politics was unlikely to cause dissent between them.

As he finished his meal, a distant bell sounded for afternoon Vespers, so he knew he still had some time before the meeting to be held immediately after Compline, the last of the canonical hours. He began to think about the room upstairs, but at that moment Nesta dashed away again to settle some new shouting match between one of the serving-girls and a customer. Then the door opened and the light was momentarily blocked by the huge frame of Gwyn of Polruan, who ambled in and sat himself down opposite his master.

The coroner glared at him suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me there’s been another killing?’

Gwyn shrugged off his cracked leather jerkin, dropped it on to the floor rushes and signalled to Edwin for a pot of ale. ‘No, Crowner — just an assault in the Crown tavern up at Eastgate. A cutpurse tried it on with a pig-herder from Clyst St George and got his skull cracked for his trouble.’

‘Will he die?’

‘I doubt it — the skin’s not breached and he was already getting his wits back when I left. The pig-herder was dragged up to Rougemont by a constable for Stigand to lodge in his cells, though he was pretty indignant about being arrested for whacking the thief who tried to rob him.’

‘Do I need to see this fellow now?’

‘No, after the meeting at the palace will be soon enough.’ The Cornishman smacked his lips at the arrival of a quart jug of ale. ‘Everyone’s sympathies are with the pigman, so you can probably let him go home.’

In such a case, de Wolfe usually felt inclined to commit the injured man to the care of the assailant, as the latter had a vested interest in keeping the victim alive to avoid a murder charge.

Nesta came back and punched Gwyn’s shoulder affectionately as she sat down. Gwyn beamed at them like some benevolent uncle, delighted that his master and the Welsh woman had made up their differences.

‘Has he told you all the news, cariad?’ he asked, using the language that the three always spoke when together.

‘Yes, we’re all on the look-out for a malignant priest now — though whether he has two heads and horns, John hasn’t yet confirmed.’

For once, her light-hearted manner failed to strike a similar response from the Cornishman. ‘Talking of strange priests, I’m getting increasingly worried about our Thomas,’ he said soberly. ‘I fear he may do something rash, like trying to jump off the cathedral roof again.’

Nesta, who pitied the scrawny clerk as she would a stray dog, was instantly concerned. ‘He looked sadder than ever when I last saw him. Is there something new about his low spirits?’

‘The fellow mutters to himself all the time and he’s even stopped insulting me, so there must be something radically wrong with him,’ said Gwyn. He sucked down almost a pint of Nesta’s best ale before continuing. ‘And I heard a couple of comments among those damned vicars when I was waiting for you outside St Mary Arches today — they were saying that the crowner should look nearest to home for a wayward priest. And that’s not the first time I’ve heard the name Thomas de Peyne mentioned in that direction, God blast them!’

Nesta protested vehemently at the idea that the clerk could be involved. ‘The poor man is too frail to be the killer, anyway,’ she concluded, nudging de Wolfe to prompt him into joining their denials.

‘Of course the little turd has nothing to do with it,’ he agreed, ‘but that won’t stop tongues wagging, especially those of certain persons who would delight in using any means to discredit or discomfort me.’ He crumbled some bread absently between his long fingers. ‘The awkward fact remains that Thomas was out of sight during each of the three occasions when the deaths occurred — and it takes little strength to crack an unsuspecting victim on the head with a rock.’

‘And he, above all people, knows the Gospel inside out,’ added Gwyn, reluctantly acting as devil’s advocate.

However, Nesta was robust in Thomas’s defence. ‘What nonsense you talk, both of you!’ she snapped. ‘He’s a sad, disillusioned young man who deserves our help and sympathy, not stupid remarks like that, which could do him even more harm if they were overheard.’

Chastened, the coroner and his officer mumbled some excuses, but privately both felt a niggle of concern deep in their minds.

Later that afternoon a line of priests and their juniors straggled out of the cathedral after Compline and went their various ways, free of any more services until the midnight Matins. As arranged, de Wolfe met the Archdeacon and his colleagues outside the Chapter House, where the sheriff was already deep in conversation with his crony the Precentor. The latter was responsible for the order of services, the music and much of the other ecclesiastical rigmarole that de Wolfe found so tedious. The other canons were John of Exeter, the Treasurer and Jordan de Brent, the library archivist.

John de Alençon led the way through an arched gate into the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace, set on the south side of the cathedral. This time, Thomas de Peyne was unable to infiltrate the meeting, much to his chagrin.

The palace was a two-storeyed building of a stone that matched the massive cathedral that overshadowed it. Apart from the several chambers that housed the prelate, there were guest rooms for visiting dignitaries, which might range from other senior churchmen to the monarch. The place was underused, as Henry Marshal was rarely in residence, preferring to live in one of his many manors dotted around England when he was not dabbling in state affairs in Winchester or London. His brother was William, the Marshal of England, who, after Hubert Walter, was probably the most powerful statesman and soldier in the land. He had already served two kings faithfully and perhaps would serve another, if Prince John’s fortunes improved.

As the deputation filed into the audience chamber on the ground floor, the Bishop of Devon and Cornwall was already seated in a large high-backed chair on a podium at one end of the room. The other churchmen filed past him, bending their knee to kiss his ring. Richard de Revelle followed suit with an obsequious flourish and an even deeper bow, with de Wolfe bringing up a reluctant rear. Grudgingly, he bobbed his head and knee and brought his face near to Henry Marshal’s hand without actually touching the ring with his lips. He disliked these sycophantic gestures, but was obliged to go through the motions, albeit with an ill grace.

Servants had placed a row of stools in front of the Bishop’s dais and after paying homage to their prelate, the six men sat awkwardly before him, like pupils in a classroom. Henry Marshal, who was clothed in a sombre cassock of dark red, had a sallow young priest at his shoulder, presumably his personal chaplain. The Bishop had an unusually long face, his clean-shaven jaw adding to the smooth sweep of his features. A fringe of grey hair peeped from under his skull-cap and a large silver cross hung from a chain around his neck. He opened the meeting without any preamble, his mellow voice directed at the Archdeacon.

‘Brother John, you appear to have the most profound involvement with this sorry affair, so please begin.’

De Alençon stood to outline the circumstances of the death of the priest at St Mary Arches. Then he related the details of the earlier killings, emphasising the common factors. ‘So the intimate knowledge of appropriate texts from the Bible — and the ability to write — can only mean that the culprit is an educated man, inevitably one in Holy Orders,’ he concluded.

Bishop Henry digested the facts for a moment, his chin cupped in a hand gloved in soft leather. His grey eyes scanned the row of men before him and stopped at the sheriff. ‘Sir Richard, how do you think we can assist you?’

De Wolfe suppressed a snort of derision: de Revelle had taken not the slightest interest until a priest was killed, giving him the chance to parade his importance before the Bishop, a potentially powerful political force if and when the Lionheart’s brother took the throne.

‘I fear more killings of the same pattern, my lord, unless we find the miscreant very soon,’ he brayed sententiously, as if the matter occupied all his waking hours. ‘If indeed it is a clerk in Orders, then we urgently need to know whom we should interrogate.’

De Wolfe wondered who the ‘we’ might be and charitably hoped that the sheriff included the coroner in the description.

Henry Marshal’s brow furrowed. ‘I must admit that my duties, both in such a large diocese and especially elsewhere in England and Normandy, have given me little time to know all my labourers in the vineyard of this city. My canons and their assistants will have a far more intimate knowledge of them.’

De Revelle’s foxy face slid into an obsequious smile. ‘Your Grace’s heavy burden is well known to us all, but your assent to my using the wide knowledge of your senior priests would be of inestimable value.’

The coroner, who sat next to his slimy brother-in-law, felt like ramming his elbow violently into Richard’s ribs, but managed to control himself as the Bishop spoke again. ‘We most certainly will do all we can to bring this killer to book. If it is a priest, then only his speedy apprehension can help reduce the shame it brings upon the ministry of Christ in this diocese.’ He ran his piercing gaze along the row of canons, sitting like magpies on a branch. ‘Let us see what suggestions each of you can offer. I think you have all had time to seek other opinions among your fellow prebendaries and your vicars?’ His eye stopped at Thomas de Boterellis, a podgy man with a pale waxy-complexioned face and small piggy eyes. ‘Precentor, have you any suggestions?’

De Boterellis was a favourite of Henry Marshal and he launched into an opinion with no hesitation. ‘My Lord Bishop, among our devout and hard-working brothers, there are a few who have somewhat strange personalities. I hesitate to name them, but in these urgent circumstances, some enquiries seem justified.’

For the Virgin’s sake, get on with it, you crawler, thought de Wolfe savagely.

Thankfully, the Bishop expressed the same sentiment, if more politely, and de Boterellis hauled a small sheet of parchment from his pouch and consulted it.

‘There is Ralph de Capra, the incumbent of All-Hallows-on-the-Wall, who is a strange man, to say the least! He is solitary, even in a calling where many are withdrawn and not given to socialising. He does his job, but his flock complain that he is unapproachable and aloof. He seems to spend much of his time staring into space, talking to himself, and appears to be getting worse by the week.’

John thought that was also a fair description of Thomas de Peyne, but listened as the Precentor continued. ‘My brother John de Alençon can confirm this, I know, as he has had parishioners petition him on the matter.’

‘Is there nothing more specific, Precentor?’ asked the Bishop. ‘Being surly or disinterested is hardly suspicion of homicide.’

De Boterellis turned up his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘I agree, my Lord, but we are grasping at straws, suggesting any man who varies from the norm. Another might be Henry de Feugères of St Petroc, who is well known to have a flaring temper when crossed. Two weeks ago, it seems he was involved in a brawl with one of his flock over some minor dispute about money.’

‘But these well-planned crimes seem at odds with such eruptions of anger, however reprehensible they may be.’

‘Indeed, Bishop, but again I say we are stabbing in the dark, if that is not too crude a phrase in the circumstances.’

‘So far we have not had a stabbing, thanks be to God,’ commented Henry Marshal wryly, seemingly determined to have the last word.

He turned to John de Alençon. ‘What about you, Archdeacon?’

The gaunt priest rose again to speak. ‘I concur with the Precentor’s choice, but have several other suggestions. The incumbent of St Mary Steps, Adam of Dol, is also a peculiar person. He proclaims and preaches an extreme version of hell-fire and damnation, which terrifies some of his flock, though I admit he attracts a large congregation.’

‘There is nothing wrong with reminding people of the penalties of sin,’ objected Thomas de Boterellis, anxious to claim the high moral ground before his bishop.

‘Certainly, but with Adam it has become an obsession. One has only to look at the murals he has painted on the walls of his nave to appreciate that he has a very morbid view indeed of life and death.’

John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer, broke in to offer support to the Archdeacon. He was an amiablelooking man, rather florid of face and with a shock of curly brown hair. ‘I have had several complaints from residents at the lower end of town about Adam’s style of curacy. Of course, we should always keep the wages of sin before our congregations, but with him punishment and retribution seem to be the only issues in his religious teachings.’

Henry Marshal, who had also received communications about the situation at St Mary Steps, let the matter pass for now. ‘You said you had several suggestions, Archdeacon?’

‘Yes, my Lord, I also feel uneasy about Walter le Bai, who is a vicar to our brother Canon Hugh de Wilton. He is older than many others of that rank in the clergy, probably because he has not been given preferment on account of his fondness for wine and ale. He has been absent from many of his duties and the canon informs me that he is seriously considering discharging him from his service.’

‘Does being a drunkard have any relevance to multiple murder?’ asked the Bishop, rather testily.

‘Not in itself, my Lord — but it seems that Walter le Bai is taking this prospect of discharge badly and when in his cups has been heard to utter threats against Canon de Wilton and indeed the diocesan powers generally.’

In turn, the remaining prebendaries offered their suggestions. John of Exeter rose again to point out Edwin of Frome, the priest of St Martins. ‘As we all know, Edwin is one of the few Saxons to have the cure of souls in this city and I am afraid that he feels this distinction adversely. He fails to blend well with his fellow priests and, perhaps from some unjustified conviction of persecution, has been heard to utter disparaging remarks about we Norman conquerors, even to the point of suggesting that another Saxon rebellion might be a good thing.’

There were contemptuous snorts and cluckings from the Precentor and the sheriff at this, but the Treasurer was undaunted. ‘Of course we know it is nonsense, but Edwin slides these ideas into his preaching. As it happens, the congregation at St Martin’s is small, but it points to a man who has other matters than the care of his parishioners in his mind, which divert him from his true vocation. He also has an obsession, like Adam of Dol — only Edwin’s is the literal accuracy of the Vulgate, which thesis he rams down the throat of almost everyone he meets.’

The Bishop nodded, though his face showed he thought little of Edwin of Frome as a murderer.

‘Finally you, Jordan. What have you unearthed from your rolls and manuscripts?’ His attempt at jocularity fell flat.

Canon de Brent lumbered to his feet. ‘I would point out that there is one priest in Exeter whose living is not in the gift of this diocese. Along with the priory of St Nicholas, St Olave’s is a daughter establishment of Battle Abbey. I know that its incumbent, Julian Fulk, is another disappointed man — indeed, an embittered man. He thought himself ready for far higher things than curator of a small church in the city. He has been to the archives several times, searching for all the details of the exclusion of St Olave’s from the general run of Church affairs in Exeter — our own copy of the Exon Domesday Book, kept here in this building, even mentions it as “Battle Church”, granted personally by King William.’

He caught the Bishop’s cold eye and realised he had wandered too far into his passion for history. He returned hastily to his story. ‘On those occasions, he has waxed angrily to me — indeed, once working himself up to a frenzy — about the iniquity of the Church authorities in denying him the high status to which he feels his education and character entitle him.’

He sat down again and the Bishop spent another moment or two musing on their suggestions, before passing his opinion.

‘It seems to me that the grounds for suspecting any of these men of crimes of violence are sparse indeed. It is true that, like any profession or calling, there will be a proportion of drunkards, libertines, disgruntled and disaffected men among our brethren, but from what you have just told me, I see no realistic suspicion of the sin of Cain among them.’ He paused and looked directly at the coroner and then the sheriff. ‘But we must do all we can to support our law officers, so I have no hesitation in consenting to whatever questioning they think fit. The royal judges are due here in a day or two, and let us hope that some resolution of this unhappy affair can be found before then. It would be a sad reflection on our city and county if the Justices in Eyre discovered a series of unsolved murders on their doorstep.’

He made as if to rise from his chair and the chaplain jerked forward to help him — but Henry Marshal sank back on to his red velvet cushion to make one last appeal. ‘Are we certain that there is no more to be said? Is there any last-minute thought in the minds of any of you?’

There was a short silent pause, then Thomas de Boterellis got to his feet again, with a show of reluctance. ‘My Lord Bishop, your final appeal causes me to speak again, for previously some embarrassment concerning the crowner here kept my tongue still.’ He half turned to give John de Wolfe a false smile of apology. ‘But it has to be said, no matter what offence I might give. You asked for names of priests whose behaviour might lead to suspicion. Perhaps we should cast our net a little wider to include former priests, those who have been ejected by our Mother Church for scandalous behaviour.’

There was a dead silence, as everyone knew what was coming.

‘It is no secret that the clerk to the coroner falls into that category and not only has a shameful history of indecent assault but since then is well known both to have attempted the mortal sin of self-destruction and for acting in a most abnormal manner. As reported to me by junior clerks who share his company in the cathedral precinct, he constantly mutters to himself and is in an unstable frame of mind, almost as if he is possessed by some unclean spirit.’

John de Wolfe hauled himself up to counter this blatant antagonism to himself, using his servant as the means. The only problem was that the Precentor was telling the bald truth, but John felt honour bound to defend his clerk.

‘Your Grace, it is true that Thomas de Peyne has suffered much recently, in that his deepest desire to be reinstated into Holy Orders has been peremptorily rejected. It is not relevant here to record that he claims his original ejection was ill-founded — but there is no possibility at all that he is involved in these crimes. Indeed, it has been his expertise in Latin and scripture that speedily explained the cryptic messages left by this cunning murderer.’

As he sat down, the Bishop turned his stern gaze upon de Wolfe. ‘That’s as may be, Sir John — but can you swear that he was within your sight at the time of every one of these deaths?’

There was another profound silence, during which de Wolfe realised that this was a trap, primed by the Precentor, who must have told the Bishop previously that Thomas had no alibi for any of the killings.

‘If you cannot so prove, Crowner, then I see no reason to exclude your clerk from the list of potential suspects. What is good for the parish priests of this city must also be good for your servant.’

At this he rose and swept away rapidly to a door behind the platform, leaving his audience to rise and bow after his departing figure.