The Grim Reaper

CHAPTER ELEVEN

That Saturday evening was surprisingly peaceful for de Wolfe, as Matilda was again visiting her cousin in the town — more from a desire to ignore him, he suspected, than from any feeling of familial affection. He spent his time in the Bush, some of it eating, drinking and yarning with some of the locals — the rest upstairs in Nesta’s closet. He was tempted to risk spending the whole night there but caution got the better of him and by midnight he wound his way unsteadily back to Martin’s Lane. He undressed in the dark and crept on to his side of the wide palliasse, thankful that the loud snores from his wife removed the need for attempted explanations and the inevitable recriminations.

In the morning, he was not so fortunate: when he awoke, Matilda was sitting bolt upright. Her head was swathed in a cloth that concealed wooden pegs put there by the rabbit-toothed Lucille, intended to torture her hair into the ringlets alleged to be the latest fashion in France. Her husband was reminded of a turbaned Saracen warrior, the impression reinforced by the fierce look on her face.

However, after the usual sarcastic jousting, her manner moderated a little and John, reading the signs from years of practice, knew she wanted news of his meeting with the Bishop, who to Matilda was only a finger’s breadth below the Almighty Himself.

He avoided any reference to Thomas de Peyne, whom she hated like hemlock, because he was, as she thought, a renegade and perverted priest. However, he unwisely forgot also to censor the reference to Julian Fulk as one of the suspects. To his wife, the priest of St Olave’s was but a shade less saintly than the Bishop and she took umbrage at the slur on his character. De Wolfe lay patiently under the sheepskins, waiting for this latest squall to blow over. It subsided quite rapidly and he correctly guessed the reason.

‘When you were at the Bishop’s Palace, did you learn anything of the festivities laid on for the royal Justices this week?’ she demanded.

‘There will be a feast on Tuesday, given by Henry Marshal in their honour.’

‘We will be invited, of course?’ It was an aggressive statement rather than a question.

‘I have little doubt of that, wife, though I am not in the Bishop’s best favour, these days.’

‘That’s because you’re a fool, John de Wolfe. Why you antagonise persons of stature and influence, I cannot imagine.’

Her condemnation was of necessity muted: she knew that Henry Marshal trod the same dangerous political path as her brother, whose reputation, and possibly his neck, depended upon her husband’s forbearance in proclaiming his treachery. ‘And what of the burgesses — and the castle? What are they putting on?’

‘The Portreeves are entertaining them next Thursday — and your brother will have them at Rougemont on the following Saturday. No doubt we will be there, as your dear brother could hardly disappoint you,’ he added sarcastically.

The prospect of three grand occasions in one week mollified Matilda and diverted her into concern for which gowns, wimples and mantles to wear. Thankful for the distraction, de Wolfe crept out of bed and dressed. Under her cold gaze, he took a bone comb from a wall ledge and dragged it perfunctorily through his tangled black hair, then with his boots in his hand, he opened the solar door and padded down the stairs. He had had his weekly wash and shave the day before, so went straight to Mary’s kitchen-hut to eat the oat porridge, salt bacon, butter-fried eggs and fresh bread that she put before him.

‘And what mischief is the king’s crowner up to today?’ she asked, with blunt affection.

‘Chasing around after these bloody priests, I suppose,’ he growled, washing his food down with murky cider. ‘It’s Sunday, so at least they should all be at their duties. Though what good it is likely to do, I can’t imagine. No assassin as clever as this one is going to break down and confess to us. And we can’t even drag them to Stigand’s dungeon for a little persuasion, as the Bishop has made it clear that he’s doing us a favour by even letting us talk to them.’

‘I suppose Gwyn will be with you — but what about Thomas?

De Wolfe champed down a slice of bread running with egg yolk before replying. ‘That’s a difficult one, given that my enemies have deliberately thrown suspicion upon him. But I need him, he has such a knowledge of the Church and the scriptures that he might spot some slip of the tongue that would be lost on myself or Gwyn. Yes, he must come with us and be damned to the consequences!’ he ended with a snarl.

When he had finished eating, he pulled on the boots that Mary had just cleaned and marched off to the vestibule, telling the disappointed Brutus to stay behind. It was a fine May morning, the yard and the street were dry, so John decided to leave his wolfskin on its peg. He looked at his broadsword, but decided that he was unlikely to have to fight any of the Exeter priests and settled for his dagger.

As the coroner stepped out into the lane, the cathedral bells were ringing for the Matins and Lauds of Our Lady, which preceded Prime, the first major service of the day. Apart from the more devout going to worship, the streets were quiet so early on a Sunday, and within a few minutes he had walked through the pale sunshine to the castle gatehouse. Gwyn had come into the city from St Sidwells as soon as the East Gate was opened after curfew and was waiting for him in the guardroom. His master told him the plan for the day, then added, ‘Last night, I told our little fellow to be at All-Hallows by Prime. If we are going to see these priests, I thought we may as well start furthest away and work back up the hill.’

As they walked down through the outer ward of Rougement, redolent with the smoke from fire-pits and the aroma of cooking from the huts of soldiers’ families and camp-followers, Gwyn echoed Mary’s concerns by raising the problem of Thomas’s presence. ‘Are we wise to have him at these interrogations, Crowner? I know he’s perfectly innocent, poor little sod,’ he added hastily, ‘but can it be held against us, if we have an alleged suspect as part of the inquisition?’

‘We need his knowledge, Gwyn,’ said de Wolfe wearily. ‘How is he, d’you think? Is his mind still unstrung?’

The officer shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘He still mumbles to himself all the time — and when he thinks I’m not watching him, I sometimes see tears running down his face. Thomas is in the depths of despair and I see no way of shaking him out of it, other than making him a priest again.’

There was no answer to this and they trudged on in silence until they reached the bottom of Fore Street and turned right by the West Gate, inside the wall.

‘We’ll call there next,’ said de Wolfe, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at St Mary Steps, behind them at the bottom of Stepcote Hill.

Ahead, he could see their clerk, standing forlornly outside the small church built into the city wall. His shabby black cassock, which reached his ankles, emphasised the slight hump over his left shoulder, weighed down by the strap of his bag of writing materials. He was oblivious of their presence, staring at the open church door, from which the final phrases of the Mass could be heard, chanted in a reedy voice by the priest they had come to interview.

As they came up behind Thomas, they heard a ragged response from the small congregation inside and as the last muttered ‘Amens’ were heard, Thomas joined in, crossing himself repeatedly as he stood in the dusty street.

He became aware of his master and Gwyn just as the first of the score or so parishioners came out of the simple building, most of them poorly dressed inhabitants of Bretayne.

‘Just the right moment, Thomas,’ said de Wolfe, with a brusqueness that tried to conceal his concern for his clerk. ‘The devotions are over, so he’ll be free. Do you know this fellow at all?’

Thomas pulled himself together with an effort. ‘Ralph de Capra? Yes, I’ve met him, Crowner. A strange man — like me, I think he is tired of life. He is a local fellow, his father was a silversmith who put Ralph to the priesthood as he was a poor specimen, with a hare-lip and some ailment of the skin.’

‘Why has the cathedral pointed a finger at him, then?’ asked Gwyn.

‘Only because he was said to be surly and unapproachable, not the ideal qualities for a parish priest,’ replied John, advancing towards the steps that led into the church.

Inside, the last of the few worshippers had left and the bare nave was silent. Gwyn followed with his usual reluctance to enter any religious premises but contrarily, Thomas bobbed his knees and crossed himself as enthusiastically as if he was entering St Peter’s in Rome.

De Wolfe peered around until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He saw a figure up at the altar, pulling a white surplice up over his head, leaving a long black tunic similar to that worn by Thomas. As they made their way towards him, de Capra swung around, the discarded vestment dangling from his hand. He stared at them, then his gaze focused on John. ‘You are the crowner, sir. What brings you here?’

‘We are seeking the killer of three victims in the city this week. I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Why me? Why have you come here?’ The hare-lip slightly distorted his speech, which was high-pitched and querulous. He looked annoyed and apprehensive, so the coroner decided to temper his own tone, to avoid antagonising the priest.

‘The Bishop has given us leave to make enquiries among priests in various parts of the city, to see if any clues can be gained as to the identity of the killer. I’m sure everyone in Exeter knows by now that the perpetrator must be literate and have a sound knowledge of the scriptures.’

De Capra’s tense features relaxed a little. ‘I had heard something of the kind, though I do not indulge in common gossip. But I cannot help you, I know nothing of these tragedies.’

Gwyn moved to stand at the priest’s shoulder, as if his great bulk might intimidate the man into some indiscretion.

‘Did you know any of the victims?’ he boomed, almost into Ralph’s ear.

‘Of course I knew Arnulf de Mowbray, he was a fellow priest — though he was likely not to have been one for much longer, when the Consistory Court caught up with him.’ The sarcastic tone was quickly replaced by anger. ‘But why should you think I knew anything of a Jewish money-lender and a painted whore, eh?’

For several more minutes, the interchange continued in the same vein, with de Capra indignantly responding to questions concerning his whereabouts at the periods in which the murders took place. He knew nothing, he was always at his church or at his lodging in Priest Street. There was no one to vouch for this, but why should there be? He was a celibate priest! Agitated and outraged, he stalked up and down the chancel step, waving his arms, the surplice flapping like a battle flag. ‘I resent you pestering me like this, sir! I am charged with the care of my flock in this part of the city, God-forsaken area that it is, and I do my best to try to teach them about goodness and sin, the saints and martyrs, the Holy Virgin, the Blessed Son and God himself — if He exists.’

With this peculiar finale, he turned his back on them, dropped to his knees before the altar and burst into tears. Thomas involuntarily went to him and laid a consoling hand on his bent shoulder, whispering some calming words into his ear. As always, strong emotion embarrassed de Wolfe, who preferred to clash swords with a man rather than see him cry. Rolling his eyes at Gwyn in despair, he accepted that there was nothing useful to be got from the priest and waited impatiently until his clerk had coaxed the man back to his feet. Then he beckoned to Thomas and muttered into his ear. The clerk nodded, fumbled in his bag and produced a quill, an ink-bottle and a torn scrap of parchment pinned to a small square of thick leather for a support.

‘Father Ralph, we need a short note from you, for the records,’ lied John. ‘Just a few words to include with my inquest roll, to say that you have no knowledge of any of the circumstances of these deaths.’

Suspiciously and with bad grace, Ralph de Capra sniffed back his tears and went to the stone ledge that ran around the nave for the aged and infirm to rest on during services. He sat down, and when Thomas proffered the writing materials, irritably scratched a few sentences. De Wolfe noticed that he wrote with his left hand. When he had finished, he thrust the leather back at the clerk. ‘Is that all you want of me? I trust you will leave me in peace now.’

De Wolfe grunted some words of thanks and led his team out into the street, leaving the incumbent to glare after them.

‘That was no great victory for us,’ snorted Gwyn in disgust, as they walked back towards the West Gate. ‘I suspect that’s the kind of reception we’ll get from them all.’

The coroner was not so despondent — he had expected nothing more. ‘This is just the start. We need to get a feel for these priests one by one. Probably none of the names given to us is our man, but someone might let fall something useful.’

Gwyn looked less optimistic. ‘The only way we’ll find this bastard is by catching him red-handed or discovering an eye-witness.’

Thomas was pattering along behind the two longstriding men and now his voice piped up. ‘His script is nothing like the handwriting on the note left with the moneylender.’

They stopped and he showed them the pieces of parchment. Even though neither could read the words, it was obvious that the script was totally different.

‘He did that with his left hand,’ observed de Wolfe.

Thomas lifted his humped shoulder in a gesture of indifference. ‘That means nothing — if he is truly left-handed, he could have disguised his script by using his right. The note found on the Jew is much less regular than the usual quality of writing, so it was almost certainly disguised.’

Gwyn looked at the coroner. ‘Then we’re wasting our time trying to compare it with our suspect’s hand,’ he complained.

Thomas shook his head. The challenge of this hunt had lifted his spirits somewhat, by distracting him from his own problems for a while.

‘There might just be some particular thing that gives it away. Even if a man tries hard to disguise his writing, the way he makes some stroke or line may unconsciously be repeated.’

They were approaching the next church now. St Mary Steps stood behind the West Gate, at the foot of the hill leading towards the Saracen Inn and the Bush. When they entered, there was no sign of the priest. Gwyn and de Wolfe stood in the nave, gazing with astonishment at the lurid murals painted along the high walls, some not yet completed and partly obscured by sacking draped from nails in the roof-beams. Thomas scuttled off to the sacristy to see if Adam of Dol was lurking there.

‘What sort of priest wants these hell-fire pictures in his church?’ murmured John, gazing at the graphic illustrations of sinners being disembowelled and tormented by devils with tridents. Some female victims were suffering agonising indignities that seemed grossly out of place in a house of worship.

‘Must be a madman, Crowner. Do you think we might have found him already?’ asked Gwyn, scowling at the sadistic promises of the after-life for those who failed to tread the straight and narrow path of righteousness.

There was a slam behind them and they turned to see a thick-set priest dropping the hasp of the big door to the street. He strode towards them, his long robe swishing across the bare flagstones, the expression on his ruddy face anything but welcoming. Short-necked and bull-chested, he was an aggressive-looking man of middle age, his brown hair cut strangely into a thick circular shelf below his shaven tonsure.

‘I know who you are — and what you want!’ he shouted, still yards away.

Gwyn sighed. ‘Is this bloody man going to behave himself or am I going to have to break his neck?’ he growled under his breath.

Adam of Dol marched up to them and stood with his fists aggressively planted on his hips. ‘I’ve heard what went on in Chapter yesterday! You’ve come to persecute any priest who doesn’t fit in with the milk-sop notions of those gutless canons down in the cathedral Close!’ Almost purple in the face now, he swept Thomas aside with his brawny arm and advanced so that his fleshy nose was within a hand’s breadth of de Wolfe’s chin. ‘Well, you will leave my church now, d’you hear? I’ve nothing to say to you, except to tell you that, alone in this God-forsaken city, I have the courage to tell the people the truth about the wages of sin!’

John looked back calmly at the irate priest, holding up a hand to restrain Gwyn from the violence that he could see building up in his officer.

‘I care nothing for your religious beliefs or methods, priest. I am here as an officer of King Richard, to uphold his peace through the office of coroner.’ He paused and looked intently into Adam’s protuberent eyes, which reminded John of an angry bull surrounded by baiting dogs.

‘I can take it, I trust, that whatever your views on theology, you revere the name of your king, as well as that of your God?’ He had hoped that this invitation to reject treason would cool the man’s temper, but Adam seemed impervious to such an approach.

‘All you law men — crowners, sheriffs and those pompous asses of judges who come tomorrow — are misled by Satan!’ he snarled. ‘Your efforts at punishing the evildoer are futile. The only way is to convince the weak-minded people of this world that sin leads to eternal damnation!’

The coroner sighed, resigning himself to another wasted visit. Men like this were deaf to argument, steeped in obsession and unwavering in their delusions, but he had to try to make some progress. ‘Where were you last night, after Matins?’ he snapped.

‘In my bed, gathering strength for the never-ending battle against the legions of Lucifer! And alone, not with a wench or a young boy, like some of the vermin who call themselves priests!’ screeched Adam, a dribble of froth appearing at the corner of his mouth.

De Wolfe tried to pursue his questions, asking about the other nights on which a killing had occurred, but it was in vain. The burly priest became more and more agitated and abusive, almost dancing with rage and throwing his arms about. One of his fists swung back against Thomas as the little man was getting out his pen and ink for another sample of writing. The bottle flew across the nave and smashed on the floor, a spray of ink blackening the flagstones. The clerk screeched in fright, though he was not hurt, but Gwyn, ever-protective of his feeble friend, gave a roar of anger, grabbed the priest by the collar of his robe and shook him.

Though physically no match for the huge Cornishman, the raging Adam promptly smashed his fist into Gwyn’s prominent belly and a full-scale brawl erupted before the chancel steps. As the two men rolled about on the cold stones, Thomas was jumping up and down in horror at this desecration of God’s house, crossing himself frantically and squeaking at his master to do something to stop the blasphemy.

Groaning with frustration at the way the interview had turned out, John yelled at the two men and gave them a few random kicks, but to no avail. Looking around, he saw a large stone ewer against the foot of the chancel arch, for replenishing the holy water in the piscina. He picked it up and threw the contents over the heads of the combatants, like dousing a pair of dogs fighting in the street.

The two men fell apart, spluttering at the impact of the cold fluid, while Thomas looked on aghast, for once bereft of his twittering protests at the enormity of this sacrilegious misuse of holy water.

Gwyn sat up on the flagstones, his red hair plastered to his face, and laughed uproariously. ‘I’ll be purified for at least month after that lot, Crowner!’ he crowed, climbing to his feet and dragging the priest up with him.

Where Adam had been puce with rage, he was now white with anger, and shaking as if he was about to explode. With water dribbling down his face and neck, he held up an arm and pointed his forefinger at the door. ‘Get out, damn you! I shall pray tonight that you roast in hell for all eternity!’

De Wolfe ignored him and turned to the clerk. ‘Thomas, it is pointless to try to get this man to write for us. It occurs to me that there must surely be parish records of some sort, so look now in the sacristy for your samples of writing.’

Reluctantly, Thomas made a wide circle around the gibbering priest and tiptoed towards the small door where books might be kept along with vestments and the materials for the Host.

Adam of Dol screamed in protest and began to follow the clerk, who scuttled away with squeaks of terror — but Gwyn grabbed the priest again and this time held him fast in an armlock around his neck until Thomas reappeared. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the clerk gave the three men a wide berth and hurried towards the door.

‘Leave him be, Gwyn,’ commanded the coroner, signalling his officer to release the almost apoplectic cleric. ‘Priest, you have resisted the lawful enquiries of the King’s officers — and even assaulted one,’ he said sternly. ‘We are here with the full permission of the Bishop, who has authority over you and every other priest in the diocese, so spare me your righteous indignation! I will be back if necessary — with the sheriff’s men-at-arms, if I so decide. You are an intolerant, violent man, Adam of Dol, and I advise you to watch your step.’

With this admonition, he stalked to the door and left, followed by Gwyn, who covertly raised two fingers at the furious priest, the derisory gesture of archers who had evaded having their bow-string fingers amputated by the enemy.

The next on the list was Julian Fulk at St Olave’s, both priest and church all too well known to de Wolfe. It was his own church, in the sense that on the infrequent occasions that he attended any place of worship, it was to St Olave’s that he was dragged by Matilda. Unlike his officer, he had no strong views on religion. He believed in God, Jesus Christ and all the pantheon of saints and prophets that had been accepted as part of everyday life since childhood. When it did happen to cross his mind, he found the rituals and ceremonies of the Church curiously redundant. What had embroidered vestments, tinkling bells, swinging incense-burners, droning chants and wealthy bishops to do with a humble carpenter who lived a millennium ago in a barren land far away? But the panoply of organised religion was so familiar that he lost no sleep over this paradox — he had spent two years fighting to try to eject the Saracen heathen from Palestine, without any real conviction that this was a Holy Crusade. It was just another campaign, in which he had followed his king and fought whatever enemies were put in front of him.

None of this bothered him now as he led the way into the small church, named after the first Christian king of Norway. It was between services and the incumbent was busy at the aumbry, a wooden locker on the north wall of the chancel for storing the paraphernalia of the Mass. Julian Fulk was a fat middle-aged man. His head was bald and shiny, his face round and smooth, with a waxy complexion. To de Wolfe, the man’s smile was benign, until he looked at the cold, blue eyes, which gave the lie to the man’s amiability.

This smile was turned on as the trio advanced across the floor to where Fulk was placing the cruet, a vessel for the communion wine, alongside the pyx, which held the bread for the Host. He closed the lid of the aumbry and turned to them.

‘The word spreads, rapidly, Sir John. I am well aware of why you pay me the honour of a visit.’ There was a slightly mocking tone to his words.

‘We are working our way through the more prominent parish priests, Father,’ said the coroner, bending the truth a little.

Fulk’s fixed smile stayed in place. ‘Thank you, Crowner, but I also know the names on your list and why they were chosen. We are the trouble-makers, as far as the Chapter House and the Palace are concerned.’

De Wolfe marvelled at the accuracy of the underground signal system in the city, but made no attempt to contradict the priest. ‘Is there any aid you can give us? Anything that might help us make this city a safer place? The last victim, after all, was one of your own brethren.’

Julian Fulk spent ten minutes being overtly helpful, but his information amounted to nothing. He knew of no fellow priest whom he could even suspect of harming a fly, he said. The only chink in his amiable armour appeared when the coroner brought the questions round to the cathedral clergy. Fulk’s smile slipped a fraction and he was caustic about the worth of some of the upper ranks of the hierarchy in the Close — but hastened to add that none could be imagined as party to any evil works.

Hoping to provoke him to some indiscretion, de Wolfe led him on to the difference in status between St Olave’s and other city churches, which induced strong words about the lack of preferment that outsiders could expect in the biased organisation of this diocese. But none of this had any relevance to the coroner’s quest and soon he tired of the bland replies. ‘Could we see your church records?’ he asked innocently, implying that this was a matter of mere personal interest.

Father Julian’s smile became positively sardonic. ‘You want to compare my ability with the quill with your murderous note, no doubt?’ he said, with barbed directness. He went to his aumbry again, for there was no sacristy in the tiny building, took out a heavy book bound between wooden boards and laid it on the lid. ‘This is for the eyes of your clerk, no doubt,’ he said, with a sly dig at John’s inability to read it himself. Thomas had no need to pull out the note left at the Jew’s death scene, as by now he knew by heart every stroke of the pen.

A few seconds’ looking at entries of births and marriages was enough for him to be able to tell the coroner later that, as with Adam of Dol’s records, he could match up nothing between the disguised script and the writing in the book.

There was no more to be gained so they took their leave of the priest of St Olave’s, who seemed mildly amused. No doubt he would delight in telling Matilda about the visit, which was why John had been keen not to upset the man too much, for it would undoubtedly rebound upon him via his wife. After leaving the church, he took the opportunity to go down to the Bush for some more breakfast and to see Nesta. Gwyn was naturally enthusiastic about the prospect of food and drink, and only Thomas saw little merit in calling at a tavern at the ninth hour of a Sunday morning. However, he sat quietly at the end of the table, taking a bowl of meat broth that Nesta pressed on him, with her usual concern for the morose little clerk.

John and Gwyn ate bread and cheese and drank ale while they discussed their lack of success.

‘Ralph de Capra was strange and indignant — and Adam of Dol mad and just plain bloody violent,’ observed Gwyn, after de Wolfe had outlined their activities to Nesta, who hovered over the table, avid for their news.

‘At least we now have a better method of comparing their penmanship,’ grunted John. ‘I should have thought of the church registers before this. It means they don’t get a chance to alter their writing style further, if that was in their mind.’

‘Will all of them keep such records?’ asked Nesta.

John raised his eyebrows at Thomas, to get his expert opinion.

‘All those who can write,’ answered the clerk. ‘The town priests are mostly literate, or they wouldn’t have been given the living. The ignorant ones are shunted out into the countryside.’

‘But does every church keep these books?’ she persisted.

‘In some degree, yes. Many never keep full lists of everything, but they have to record baptisms and marriages. Burials come to the cathedral ground, of course.’

‘As long as each of these suspect priests has written only a few lines somewhere, that’s good enough for our purposes — though almost certainly the killer’s writing will have been heavily disguised. We have only the one note left with the money-lender to compare with the registers,’ said John.

Nesta topped up their pots from a jug of her best ale. ‘Why do you have to do all this work?’ she pouted. ‘I thought it was the responsibility of the sheriff and his merry men to enforce the law in Devon.’

De Wolfe snorted in derision. ‘Dear Richard says he is too busy with the arrival of the justices tomorrow to be diverted by mere multiple murders. And he says that all of his men at the castle are preparing for the ceremonial escort that he hopes will impress them enough to take tales of his prowess back to Winchester and London.’ He took a long drink and wiped his mouth on his hand. ‘Anyway, I prefer to do this my way, however futile it seems. I’ll have three inquests with unresolved verdicts and the only way these will be settled is by finding the bastard responsible.’

Gwyn ran fingers through his unruly hair. ‘What are we to do next, Crowner? There are another five on the cathedral list, but I’ll wager none of them gives us anything worthwhile, other than a punch in the belly.’ He grinned at the memory of the fracas in St Mary Steps, which he had quite enjoyed. Since he had finished campaigning at de Wolfe’s side, a good scuffle rarely came his way.

The coroner rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘Carry on with the rest, I suppose. Thomas has the list from the Archdeacon. The fellow in St Petroc is the nearest, so let’s go there.’

For the next few hours, they walked the city, visiting the other priests whose names had been suggested by the canons. As it was Sunday, they had to wait for some to finish their devotions before they could waylay them.

The result was just as Gwyn had gloomily suggested: all they met with was hostility, annoyance and indignation. Late in the morning, they climbed the gatehouse stairs to the upper chamber to take some liquid refreshment before going off for their noonday meal. De Wolfe slumped behind his trestle table, with Thomas perched on a stool at one end, while Gwyn sat on his favourite window-ledge. The clerk refused any drink, but the other two supped cider from the stone jar in the corner.

‘So, we’re none the wiser, Crowner,’ grumbled his officer. ‘That Robert Cheever was the least obnoxious — too drunk to care what we wanted with him.’ The incumbent of St Petroc was undoubtedly an enthusiastic drinker.

‘I would like it to have been that oily swine Fulk,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘I’ve had to suffer several years of his prancing and preaching when my wife drags me to St Olave’s. But I can hardly arrest him for being pompous.’

They went over the other futile interviews, including that with Ranulph Burnell at Holy Trinity near the South Gate, who was alleged, on rather tenuous gossip, to have a liking for small boys. Peter Tyler at St Bartholomew’s on the edge of Bretayne was a rather sad individual who openly lived in sin with a woman who looked old enough to be his mother, but he displayed no homicidal tendencies.

De Wolfe was already familiar with his neighbour Edwin of Frome at St Martin’s, but given the nature of his peculiarity, the coroner doubted that either a Jew or a whore had provoked him to murder by disputing the true origin of the Scriptures. Peter de Clancy at St Lawrence, towards the East Gate, was the priest who shouted every word of the Mass and his sermons, but used a normal voice when they interrogated him and showed not a trace of any other idiosyncrasy, apart from resentment at their presence. This also applied to Henry de Feugères at St Paul’s in Goldsmith Street, known far and wide for his violent temper. He was extremely annoyed at their visit and, like Adam of Dol, shouted and raved at the indignity. But de Wolfe felt that these manifestations were of no help at all in eliminating or strengthening any suspicions about any of the priests.

‘What about this one we couldn’t find — Walter le Bai?’ asked Gwyn.

‘He was the only one who isn’t a parish priest,’ ruminated the coroner. ‘A useless vicar to one of the prebendaries — who was it? Hugh de Wilton?’

The Cornishman nodded and kicked the leg of Thomas’s stool. ‘We’ll have to send the ferret here into the cathedral precinct to flush him out like a rabbit.’

‘He lives down in Priest Street with most of the others,’ replied Thomas dully. He had relapsed into his sombre mood again, after the excitements of the morning.

‘Well, dig him out later today and send him up to us. You can tell him that it’s on the orders of the Bishop — that’s not too far from the truth.’

There was another hiatus in the conversation: Gwyn was sucking at his cider-pot and Thomas stared glumly at the bare boards of the table, his lips moving in some silent monologue.

‘D’you have any feeling about any of this morning’s rascals?’ asked Gwyn, when he came up for air.

De Wolfe shook his head slowly. ‘None of them took my fancy as a killer. But whoever he is, he’s a cunning devil, not likely to make a slip easily. All we got from that lot was bluster and outrage, a good enough cover for any guilty manner.’ He turned to his clerk. ‘You say there was nothing in their writing to give you any cause for suspicion?’

Thomas pulled himself back to reality from whatever scenario had been playing within his head and shook his head. ‘The script on that note was heavily disguised, master. Nothing in the registers or on de Capra’s note matched in any way.’

‘So what now, Crowner?’ asked Gwyn.

‘There’s little we can do, other than watch and wait.’

As it turned out, they had not long to wait.