The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER TEN

With Matilda out, the temptation to take Mary’s advice and go down to the Bush became too strong for John. He whistled to Brutus and stepped out into the street with him, thinking that if he happened to meet Matilda, he would tell her he was exercising the hound. A moment later, he cursed himself for a damned fool. Why should a grown man of forty, hardened in a dozen wars, care a clipped penny about an excuse to visit his favourite inn after a hard day’s work? To hell with his wife! She knew well enough that he blessed several women with his favours — she never let him forget it. Matilda knew at least two by name and sight, but he hoped she knew nothing about a certain lady on the coast at Salcombe, though he had not seen her for some time.

The wind had dropped and the rain had held off, but it was cold under a clearing sky as he strode through the darkened Close, cursing as he stumbled over the debris and piles of earth left under the looming mass of the great cathedral. Although the huge house of God was a marvel of the mason’s art, the surroundings were a disgrace. The Close was a cross between a cemetery and a communal refuse dump, where vagrants begged, hooligans romped and urchins played ball-games all day. Along with most of the citizens of Exeter, de Wolfe failed to understand why the cathedral proctors did not impose better control over the area.

At the other side, there were a couple of guttering flares near Bear Gate, which led out of the episcopal precinct into Southgate Street. Though house fires were damped down at dusk, some torches were allowed in safe places, such as these set in iron rings against a stone wall.

There was some faint light in the main street running down to the South Gate, for the curfew was only haphazardly observed within the city, as long as all the gates were barred at nightfall. In the serge-market section of the street, a few cloth stalls were still trading by the light of dim horn lanterns. Higher up at the Shambles, butchers’ boys were still throwing buckets of water on the ground, sluicing the blood from the cobbled area where animals had been slaughtered during the day.

De Wolfe crossed the road and passed the top end of Priest Street, where presumably Matthew, his wife and Peter Jordan were grieving over Knapman’s violent death. Then he strode down the hill to Idle Lane and the Bush, the starlight enough to guide him on this most familiar of routes. Calling Brutus to heel from his erratic sniffing adventures, the coroner reached the door of the tavern and stopped for a moment in the gloom.

What reception would he have tonight, he wondered. How should he behave, if Nesta again gave him the cold shoulder? Should he be soft and loving to her, try to win her back the gentle way? That would be a marathon struggle against his natural inclination.

Annoyed by his indecision, he thrust open the door and ducked into the warm fug of the alehouse, redolent with the smells of woodsmoke, sweat, cooking and spilt ale. The flaming logs on the hearth gave most of the light, weakly supplemented by tallow dips on each table and a few wax candles in sconces around the walls. These were a new feature and, sourly, John wondered if the usurper had persuaded Nesta to foot the expense.

Edwin was nearby, picking up empty ale jars. He raised one in salute and shuffled across to de Wolfe. ‘I’ve kept your table, Cap’n. Threw a couple of youngsters off it in case you came.’ He looked warily towards the back of the big room that occupied all the ground floor of the inn. ‘She’s out in the cook-shed, Crowner. We got fancy new food now — herbs with every bloody thing!’ His disgruntled tone at any kind of change in his settled little world told de Wolfe that he had one ally, ineffectual as the old potman might be.

He sat in his usual seat, staring at the flames, with a pot of ale brought by the one-eyed retainer and Brutus squatting close by his leg. Even the dog seemed to know that all was not well with his master, and he laid his wet chops sympathetically across John’s knee. When de Wolfe heard the loud, cheerful voice of Alan of Lyme chatting to other customers behind him, but he did not give him the satisfaction of turning his head.

After five minutes, there was still no sign of Nesta. Until recently, she had always dropped her tasks to sit with him, if only for a moment, before going back to harass the cook or maids. De Wolfe’s mood swung between annoyance, resignation and black rage as he sat alone by the fire. After the better part of a quarter of an hour, he decided to cut his losses and leave, never to darken the Bush’s door again. But as he drained the last of his quart and banged the pottery jar down on the table, he was aware of someone standing at the end of the table. ‘Good evening, John. Are you well?’ Nesta looked down at him, her heart-shaped face wearing an expression he had not seen before, a mixture of sadness and defiance.

‘The better for seeing you, lady.’ For all his rehearsal of what he was going to say, the words burst out unbidden. Her face did not change, but in the dim light he was not sure whether he glimpsed moisture in her eyes. ‘Sit with me, Nesta,’ he pleaded, in a low voice, but she shook her head, her russet curls this time constrained within a linen coif.

‘I am busy, John. Business is brisk, especially since …’ Her voice trailed away, as she glanced towards the back of the room where the boisterous Alan was changing an empty barrel. She turned back to de Wolfe. ‘But tell me what you have been doing. Out of town again, I expect?’ Her tone hardened slightly as she referred to his frequent absences, but he seized on her words to keep her there.

‘I discovered a murdered man today — killed in Dunsford, yet found in Teignmouth.’ It was something to hold her attention, but she picked up on the last word with a snap in her voice.

‘You rode to Teignmouth today? By the coast road, no doubt!’

Mystified, he nodded.

‘The road that passes through Dawlish! And did you call upon your fair-haired sweetheart?’ Now the voice had the edge of a dagger.

Trapped, he scowled furiously at her. ‘If you think I saw Hilda, you’re mistaken. Not that it’s any of your business,’ he added unwisely.

The redheaded Welshwoman pressed her small fists on the table as she leaned towards him. ‘I know you, Black John. You may not have seen her, but did you go looking for her?’

De Wolfe was a bad liar and, anyway, he rarely deigned to avoid the truth.

Nesta, who could read him better than her own palm, saw him struggling for an evasion and needed no further proof. ‘You lost little time in seeking another bed, damn you,’ she hissed, under her breath. Although they spoke in their usual Welsh, several ears were flapping at nearby tables. ‘I think you’d find the ale more to your liking in other taverns from now on.’

Pink in the face with anger, the landlady flounced away from the discomfited coroner. Brutus gave a little whine and nuzzled his head more closely against his master’s leg.

As soon as the coroner had left Matthew Knapman’s house that afternoon, the tin-merchant had left his wife to sniff away her mild sorrow at their fireside and had taken Peter Jordan with him to the yard of a haulier with whom they did business. They passed through the Watergate in the south-west angle of the city walls and walked in silence along the quayside, where several merchant vessels and barges were aground at low tide. At the yard, Matthew arranged with the carter to move his brother’s body to Chagford after it arrived next day at the castle.

The man normally collected crude tin from the moor and later hauled some of the refined metal to other cities in England, using both ox-carts and his trains of sumpter horses and Poitou mules. ‘I’ll see that it arrives by tomorrow night, with all due reverence,’ he promised, secretly worried that the death of the most prominent tin-master might affect his business.

As they walked back to the house, Matthew gave instructions to his step-nephew. ‘I’ll have to ride to Chagford straight away, to break the news,’ he said, in a hollow voice. ‘You stay until the corpse arrives in the morning and see that everything is done with decorum. Ride with it when it leaves. A light cart should get there before nightfall.’ He looked at the sky, overcast and grey. ‘As I hope to now, if I leave without delay.’

However, Matthew Knapman arrived in Chagford well after dark, although he pushed his horse to the limit over the sixteen miles from Exeter. Leaving the steaming beast to recover in the charge of a stable-boy at the back of the Knapman hall, he walked the few yards to the priest’s house on the edge of the churchyard. Here he recruited Paul Smithson to help him break the news to Walter’s wife, and together they went to the house

The steward, Harold, met them outside the main door, returning from the stable where he had been investigating the arrival of a rider after dark. In the light of a tar flare set in the wall, his face was apprehensive. He immediately guessed the reason for Matthew’s late visit, and wept pitifully when he was told of the violent death of his master, whom he had served for almost twenty years. Then he straightened up, stopped sobbing and led them into the house.

‘The mistress is in there with a visitor — come to offer support at the master’s disappearance, no doubt,’ he added, with a hint of sarcasm. In the main room the old woman, Lucy, sat dozing in a high-backed chair near the fire, while Joan Knapman, her dark hair hanging in two thick plaits over her bosom, sat stiffly at the table, now bare except for a wine flask and two French glasses. On the other side, leaning on the scrubbed boards, was Stephen Acland, his burly figure perched on a stool.

At the sound of footsteps, he turned his head, and when he saw Matthew and Smithson enter, rose to his feet, an almost defiant expression on his face. ‘I came to see if there was any news of Walter,’ he said, before the newcomer could utter a word. ‘We have had our differences, I know, but he’s still a neighbour and a fellow tinner.’

Matthew glanced at him perfunctorily and crossed to stand before Joan, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him calmly. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said, in a low voice.

As Matthew nodded slowly, there was a squeal as Acland’s stool abruptly grated across the flagstones. ‘Christ Almighty, no!’ he cried, waking Lucy, who joined in the clamour as Harold starting sobbing again in the background.

‘Be quiet!’ snapped the new widow, dry-eyed and in control of the situation. ‘What’s happened, Matthew?’

He sank to another stool and leaned his arms on the table as he told them the story as far as he knew it from the coroner. Joan’s mother tottered to her daughter and tried to put a comforting arm around her, but the younger woman shrugged herself free. The parish priest also came near her, but experience warned him to leave his platitudes until later.

‘I’ve arranged for him to be brought home tomorrow,’ continued Matthew sadly. ‘The crowner will be coming and there will another inquest, I’m afraid, before he can be laid to rest.’

Joan laid a slim hand on his arm. ‘It’s hard to believe, Matthew. He was so active, so alive. How can he be gone so quickly from our lives?’

The dead man’s twin stared at her and was almost surprised to see that her eyes were moist in the dim candlelight. He had never approved of his brother’s new marriage and thought Joan a hard, calculating woman, concerned only for her own comfort, but now, for the first time, he saw some vestige of affection, too late for his brother’s solace, for Matthew knew that Walter had had doubts about his new wife’s fidelity. ‘And you, Joan? This must be doubly hard for you, to lose two husbands in such a short time,’ he said.

The new widow accepted a scrap of handkerchief from her mother, who fluttered about her like a demented moth. Dabbing at her eyes, she pulled herself up to her usual stiff-backed posture and gave a deep sigh. ‘I have expected this since yesterday. When he failed to come home, I knew something terrible had happened. And when last night and much of today had passed, the only answer was that he was dead. Yet I thought he must have had a fall from his horse or some other accident — not that he had been murdered and found in a river a score of miles away.’

Matthew had never known her so talkative and wondered again if he had misjudged her. Yet this other man was here in the same room, almost suspiciously solicitous for her welfare. He watched Acland pace restlessly to the hearth and back.

‘What in hell is going on around the moor these days?’ demanded the rival tin-master. ‘First that overman, now Walter himself! Is there some evil spirit battening on us tinners? Some of the old workers believe in Crockern, the pagan god of the moors, and I’m beginning to think that way myself.’

Matthew laughed bitterly. ‘If there is, it’s a spirit that can wield a staff pretty well — and a cleaver in the case of poor Henry.’

The priest nodded in the candlelight. ‘I think we can blame a human presence for these outrages, not some moor phantom. But that’s of little comfort to poor Joan. Is there anything I can do for you, dear lady?’

Walter’s widow sat pale and erect, her hands in the lap of her rich red silk gown, the colour of which matched the braid that was woven into the plaits that reached her waist, their ends encased in thin gilt tubes. ‘Thank you, no. I must take some time to get used to the idea of having no husband once again.’

Lucy was snivelling and trying to hold her daughter’s hand, but Joan rose to her feet and walked around to the saddle-weary tin-merchant.

‘We should be thinking more of you, Matthew. You were his twin, closer to him than any of us. And you are exhausted. You must rest — we will need all our strength for the coming days.’

Seemingly the strongest of all, she gave orders to Harold to settle her brother-in-law in a small room on the upper floor and supply him with food and drink. Then she thanked the priest graciously, virtually dismissing him — and less graciously sent her mother to bed.

When she was left alone with Acland, they moved to sit side by side near the glowing fire. Heads close together, they talked earnestly for a long while, her fingers covered by his powerful hands.

That same night, John de Wolfe had left the Bush with a mixture of emotions. They swung from recrimination with himself for mentioning his journey through Dawlish to despondency that the knot that had tied him to Nesta for over a year seemed now to have been undone. Then anger displaced gloom, as he first cursed the fickleness of women, then contemplated beating Alan of Lyme to a thin pulp.

As his hawkish figure loped rapidly back up the streets towards Rougemont, his mood settled into icy resolve. If Nesta had falsely accused him of a dalliance with Hilda that day, he had nothing more to lose by making that liaison a reality. He ignored the fact that had Hilda been at home when he called he would not have been innocent of Nesta’s charge, but such is the ability of men to be selective in their truths that he easily persuaded himself of Nesta’s unfairness.

He marched past Martin’s Lane and went on up to the castle, partly to have a genuine excuse for Matilda as to his whereabouts that evening, but also to apprise Richard de Revelle of Knapman’s death. The hall of the keep was almost deserted, apart from a few servants sleeping near the fire, and for once the sheriff’s door was locked with no guard outside. Thinking that de Revelle must be away at one of his manors, either Tiverton or Revelstoke, he went in search of his steward to enquire when he would return. A servant scurried off to find the man, who hurried back within a few minutes, with the news that Sir Richard was indeed inside his apartments. ‘He returned from two days in the country only a few hours ago, Crowner, very tired and hungry. Before retiring, he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until morning.’

To hell with that! thought de Wolfe. If I have to work all the hours God made, so shall he. ‘It’s urgent, steward. Knock at his door until he answers.’

Reluctantly, but not daring to defy this bony crow of a man, the servant produced a large key from his belt and opened the door into the outer chamber, which de Revelle used for his official business. Beyond that was another door, leading into his bedchamber. The steward approached this and tapped timidly.

‘Hammer on the thing, blast you!’ said de Wolfe, from the middle of the room. The man knocked more loudly, his ear to the thick panels. There was a long pause and de Wolfe thought he heard scuffling and low voices. Then the sheriff demanded angrily to know who was there.

‘The coroner, sir. He says he has urgent news.’

There was more scuffling and then the key turned from inside and the sheriff slipped out and banged the door shut behind him. He had thrown a long cloak over his shoulders, but de Wolfe sensed he was naked beneath it. ‘I was in bed, damn you! What do you want?’

De Wolfe knew he had not been alone. His brother-in-law’s wife, the icy Lady Eleanor, rarely came to Exeter, preferring the comfort of their manors to the bleak quarters in Rougemont’s keep, which suited Richard very well, and it was not the first time that de Wolfe had caught him in bed with a doxy. ‘I think the recent challenge to you as Lord Warden of the Stannaries can be forgotten for the time being, Richard.’

The sheriff goggled at his brother-in-law. Was this why he had dragged him away from a warm bed and a warm woman at this time of the evening?

‘Walter Knapman is dead. Murdered!’ announced de Wolfe.

The sheriff stood stock still for a second, then pulled the heavy cloak more closely around him and padded on bare feet across the cold stones to sit in his chair behind the parchment-strewn table. He looked up at the coroner, almost fearfully. ‘Well, don’t look at me like that! I didn’t have the damned fellow killed,’ he said.

That possibility had not occurred to de Wolfe until then, but he stored it away in his mind for future consideration. ‘Did I suggest you had?’ he asked evenly.

‘I know the way your mind works, John,’ said Richard bitterly. ‘You’ll leave no stone unturned in seeking sins to lay at my door. Though the fellow irritated me beyond measure with his insolence, I’ve no fear of such as he.’ He glared up at his sister’s husband, his waxed beard as pointed as a lance-head. ‘In any event, I’ve been touring my tax-collectors from Lydford to Crediton to Cullompton, chasing the idle swine before the farm is due.’

De Wolfe filed away the fact that this area was diffuse enough not to be too far from Dunsford, where Knapman vanished — though he did not seriously consider that the sheriff would have carried out any dirty deeds himself when he had so many spies and vassals to act for him. He recounted the facts as far as he knew them, emphasising that it must have been murder, not an accident.

‘Whether he fell on his head or had it smashed with a rock, he was first toppled from his mount by a heavy blow on the back, so the death is still a crime. Then presumably he was dumped in the Teign — the flood waters soon carried him down to the coast.’ He paused, thinking of the corpse tangled in driftwood. ‘Just as well he was seen there. The next tide would have taken him out to sea, and then we would never have known what happened to him.’

Grumpily, with several sidelong glances at his inner door, the sheriff discussed what should be done and de Wolfe told him he was going to Chagford next day to investigate and hold an inquest.

‘The coinage is to be held there in two days’ time. As Warden, I had better attend, given all this trouble that’s blown up,’ muttered de Revelle.

De Wolfe gave a smile that was almost a leer. ‘You’ll be far from popular with the tinners after Crockern Tor. But I suppose you have a duty to be present. Bring a troop of soldiers. You may need them to protect you.’

With that last cheerless remark, de Wolfe left his brother-in-law sitting dolefully behind his trestle, his ardour considerably dampened.

Walter’s corpse was still on its way to Exeter across a pack-horse when John de Wolfe and his two assistants rode out of the city the next morning. Gwyn was his usual boisterous self, but his companions were both subdued. John, never talkative at the best of times, was still torn between sorrow and anger at his rejection by Nesta, while Thomas de Peyne slumped inertly on his pony.

The two men on the bigger horses were hampered by the clerk’s slower speed, and it took them more than two hours to pass through Dunsford and reach the mill on the river beyond the village. Here de Wolfe stopped to inspect the presumed scene of the killing. The Teign swirled down between undulating hills, heavily wooded on both sides. There was a rocky weir diagonally across the river just above the trackway, which forded the water through the shallows below. The mill was downstream from the ford, but took its water through a leat that began above the weir.

‘He couldn’t have been attacked very near here or the millers would have seen or heard something,’ reasoned Gwyn.

De Wolfe agreed and looked up the long slope through the woods, where the track gradually climbed up the side of the valley towards Doccombe, then on to Moretonhampstead and Chagford. ‘But a few hundred paces away, around a bend and into the trees, they’d be out of sight and sound,’ he said. ‘A thwack with a stave and a stone against the head makes little noise.’

Thomas stirred himself out of his doleful silence. ‘What about getting rid of the body, Crowner? He was a big man, as I remember.’

‘There must have been at least two assailants, for sure. One had to distract him somehow, while the other hit him unexpectedly with his staff. Knapman was too strong and alert to let one villain get the better of him.’

‘So two men could easily have carried or dragged him through the woods to the river,’ agreed Gwyn. ‘It would have to have been downstream of the mill or he’d have been caught in the weir.’

‘It’s all wooded down there, no dwellings at all. They’d not be seen or disturbed.’

Leaving Thomas with the horses, the coroner and his officer spent the better part of an hour clambering and squelching through the trees and along the riverbank, but found nothing significant. A tidemark of dead branches and twigs showed where the water level had been a foot higher after the recent storms. ‘A body could be pushed into the water anywhere along here and leave no clue on these muddy banks,’ grumbled the Cornishman.

Frustrated, they returned to their horses and stood in the middle of the track for a few minutes, looking at the river, the forest and the road from Exeter.

‘We may as well have a word with the miller, now that we’re here,’ grunted de Wolfe, with little enthusiasm but unwilling to leave any stone unturned. They remounted and walked their steeds down the path to the mill, which was visible behind a clump of trees near the riverbank. The rumble of the water-wheel grew louder as they approached the yard, where several ox-carts were delivering sacks of grain and loading up with flour for Dunsford and other neighbouring villages. One of the carters yelled for the miller and a dusty man soon clattered down the steps from the wooden building, banging flour from his leather apron as he came.

De Wolfe announced who they were and the miller, a florid, heavy fellow with blackened stumps for teeth, immediately became deferential and almost obsequious. Walter Knapman had been his master since the tin-master had bought the mill from the manor lord and he was eager to help any investigation into his death — not least because his job might depend on who took over from the dead owner. He also had a small item of news for the coroner. ‘Since Knapman’s men from Chagford came to search for him, a lad has said that he saw some men near the track soon after Knapman left here,’ he gabbled, waving an arm vaguely behind him.

De Wolfe’s black brows came together in a fierce expression at the words. ‘Why did we not know of this earlier?’ he demanded.

The miller turned up his whitened hands deprecatingly. ‘The boy is simple, Crowner. It only came out last night, when he was talking to his father. He’s one of my labourers, lives in that hut down on the riverbank.’ He yelled for the fellow, a scrawny, pale man who looked too frail to be lifting full sacks of grain and flour.

Within minutes, he was taking de Wolfe and Gwyn down the footpath behind the mill to a ramshackle cottage made of cob, roofed with turf. A few geese and fowls scratched outside and a thin cow was tied to a post near the hole that served as a doorway. Behind a square of hurdles, half a dozen pigs squealed their way around a mud-patch.

‘My wife keeps a few swine and our youngest son tends them. He was born late in my life and his poor mind is addled — though his three brothers are all well,’ the man said defensively. His Devon accent was so thick that even de Wolfe, a native of the south of the county, had difficulty in following his words.

‘What’s this news he might have about Master Knapman?’ the coroner snapped impatiently.

For answer, the mill-man stuck his head through the doorway and yelled something unintelligible. A moment later, a boy staggered out, helped by a push from a shadowy female figure inside the dwelling. ‘He’s wary of strangers since he was set on for sport by some soldiers passing on the road,’ explained his father, apologetically. He grabbed the lad by the arm and shouted at him, ‘Come now, Arthur, tell these gentlemen what you said to me last night.’

The boy was older than he appeared at first sight, probably thirteen or so, but his round, vacant face suggested that his comprehension was that of a child half his age. The tip of his tongue protruded between loose lips as his small eyes roved fearfully across the strangers’ faces. He muttered something that de Wolfe could not catch. ‘What did he say?’ he snapped.

The father translated and enlarged on his son’s story. ‘On the day the master vanished, Arthur here was herding the pigs in the wood on the other side of the main track, a tidy way up the hill. It must have been some time before noon as he knew he must soon come back here for his dinner.’

John thought testily that the mill-man was as bad as Gwyn for slowness in coming to the point, but with an effort he held his tongue.

‘He says he saw Master Knapman ride up the track from the mill and meet another horseman who came out of the wood. They both stopped then went back into the forest where there is a deer-track.’ He stopped to shake the boy by the shoulder and more indistinct words passed between them. Thomas, a Hampshireman, had not the faintest idea of what they said, so thick was their local accent.

‘Was that all he saw? Who was the other man? Does he know?’ demanded the coroner.

The father shook his head. ‘He knows the master by sight. The other was a stranger.’

‘Was that all he saw?’

‘No. He says another man, on foot with no horse, came out of the trees lower down the road and followed the two riders into the forest. That was the last he saw of them as he wanted his dinner and came home then.’

The lad looked from one man to the other as they spoke, his dull eyes striving to make sense of what was going on.

‘What were the men like, son?’ asked Gwyn, stooping to the boy and speaking kindly.

‘You’ll have to speak up, sir — he’s hard of hearing, too, has been since a babe.’ The father repeated the question in his loud, crude dialect and received some garbled answer from the boy.

‘He say he only knew the master — the others were strangers.’

‘Were they tall or short? What were they wearing? What sort of horse did the first man ride?’ De Wolfe rapped out a string of questions, but the result was disappointing.

‘His eyes are poor too, sir — he was the runt of our litter, as God willed it. He says the man on foot was big, that’s all he knows. The mounted man had a brown horse and wore some brown garment.’

Five more minutes of fruitless questioning brought forth no more information, but reduced the lad to frightened tears.

Gwyn, a lover of dogs and children, wagged his head at de Wolfe. ‘We’ll get nothing more from the poor boy now.’ He led him back to the doorway and placed a halved penny in his hand, before gently pushing him inside to his hovering mother.

‘Can you show us where this deer-track is?’ grunted de Wolfe to the mill-man. A few moments later, the labourer was indicating a narrow path, half hidden by a bramble bush, leading into the sweep of trees that climbed the hill on the southern side of the road.

‘Did the men from Chagford search this path on Tuesday?’ asked Gwyn.

The man shrugged. ‘I wasn’t here — and maybe they did, but there are many such tracks trodden by animals all along these roads.’

Dismounting again and leaving their horses with Thomas, de Wolfe and the other two men pushed their way through the undergrowth into the dimness of the trees. Though the leaf canopy had not yet fully opened, there were enough broken green twigs and plants to show where a passage had recently been forced along the path — and underfoot, the prints of shod horses were visible in muddy patches.

‘It’s not rained much since that storm, not enough to wipe out all these marks,’ observed Gwyn.

A hundred yards into the wood, a rocky outcrop made a small clearing in the beeches and oaks. Around it, a ring of grass and scrub alternated with mud washed down by a small stream from higher up the slope. Here there were more confused hoofmarks and some small bushes had been crushed into the mire. The three men examined the ground carefully, but could make little sense of what might have taken place there.

‘Several horses have done more than just follow the track,’ observed de Wolfe. ‘They must have moved back and forth in this area, but that’s all that can be said.’

‘And there’s nothing special about the hoof-prints — no chance of matching them with any particular beast,’ grumbled Gwyn. He followed the track a little way beyond the clearing, but soon returned to say that there were no signs that horsemen had used it recently. ‘Whoever came here must have returned by the same path,’ he added.

As they returned to the road, de Wolfe considered the significance of what the boy had seen. ‘To leave the road and go to that clearing would be pointless in itself, so it might be it was used only for an ambush.’

Gwyn scratched his crotch vigorously as an aid to thought. ‘If Knapman willingly followed a man into the wood, he must surely have known the fellow. What lone traveller would otherwise risk going into the forest with a stranger, in these days when outlaws and trail-bastons abound?’

De Wolfe agreed with his officer, but neither had any more ideas of what might have happened on that fateful Monday.

They reached the road and dismissed the mill-man with their thanks. As he loped away down the track, de Wolfe cursed the fact that his idiot son had been unable to remember any better details. ‘He couldn’t even tell us whether that last man carried a staff!’

Gwyn tried to placate his master. ‘Yet we have far more information now, thanks to the boy. We had nothing at all before. The time and the place fit, and at least the poor child was definite about Knapman’s identity.’

Frustrated, they abandoned their search and continued their journey, arriving in Chagford in time to hear the noon bell ringing from St Michael’s tower, a reminder of Walter Knapman’s generosity. De Wolfe again battened on the hospitality of the manor lord, Hugh Wibbery, and they went first to his demesne, which was really a large barton rather than a manor house, outside the town on the south-west, where the land rose towards the moor.

Wibbery reminded de Wolfe of his own brother William — not in appearance, for he was a short, thick-set man with a weatherbeaten red face, but for his single-minded interest in his estate. The Wibberys had been in Chagford for half a century, taking over the tenancy from the Bishop of Coutance after Ralph Pagnell’s family had died out. They were sometimes known as the de Chagfords, but Hugh was more concerned with his fields and sheep than with local politics, keeping out of town affairs as much as possible. Indeed, he envied the nearby de Prouz family at Gidleigh Castle, for they owned most of the land around Chagford, though not the town itself. It was true that he reaped much benefit from market dues and the trade brought in by the tinners and their merchants, but he left most of the administration to his bailiff and steward, preferring to walk his fields and pastures, a farmer at heart.

The timber house with a shingled roof had a wide stockade around it but, like John’s own home at Stoke-in-Teignhead, this was more of a stock fence than a defensive fortification. The drawbridge over the encircling ditch had not been raised in years, and as the trio entered, the coroner noticed that its outer end had sunk completely into the turf. Wibbery greeted them civilly enough, considering that manor lords often had cause to groan when official visitors claimed accommodation. However, a knight and two servants posed no problem — unlike a passing baron or bishop with a considerable entourage. Then the disruption and cost in entertainment, food and fodder might be considerable. A visit from an itinerant noble, or even the King, could be ruinous.

The coroner was offered a mattress in a small room off the solar behind the main hall, but graciously declined, saying that he was used to sleeping in far worse places than beside the fire-pit in the hall. Gwyn and Thomas would bed down in the servants’ hut in the bailey outside — but all this was hours hence: de Wolfe had much to do that afternoon and evening.

Risking a worsening of his clerk’s melancholia, he sent Thomas to call upon the parish priest, knowing from experience that the little man had a gift for worming out confidences, especially from the clergy. As an excuse, Thomas was to enquire about the best site for an inquest the next day and to learn what arrangements had been made for burying the murdered tin-master.

Gwyn’s own task might also have been predicted: he was to tour the alehouses and inns of Chagford to see what gossip he could pick up. For a small town, there were many such taverns, at least six — but with the influx of tinners for the coinage ceremonies and the frequent arrival of metal merchants both from England and abroad, food, drink and accommodation were in frequent demand.

As soon as they had eaten at the manor, the three went their separate ways, de Wolfe to Knapman’s house below the church. Harold the steward had already been busy and a large cross of black cloth was nailed to the main door. In the larger room, the shutters were closed and a length of purple velvet was draped over the crucifix hanging on the wall. The maids went on tiptoe and Harold had even ordered the ostlers to muffle the horses’ feet with sacking as they took them across the yard. It seemed to John that this somewhat excessive mourning had been the steward’s idea: none of the family seemed prostrate with grief.

The widow and her brother-in-law received the coroner in the smaller of the two ground-floor rooms. The other was being kept for Walter’s body when it arrived. Joan wore a black kirtle, of obvious expense and modern style. The gold embroidery around the neckline and hem was matched by a gilt cord wound several times around her slim waist. The gold tassels on its ends almost brushed the ground, as did the tippets of her dangling sleeve-cuffs. As another gesture to bereavement, she had hidden her dark hair under a snowy linen cover-chief, secured by a golden band around her forehead. A wimple of white silk concealed her ears and neck. Altogether the effect was alluring rather than poignant, and the impressionable de Wolfe realised again why young widows rarely stayed unmarried for long.

When he entered, Joan was standing near the window opening, staring out into the front garden pensively, but she turned and offered him her hand. De Wolfe, uncomfortably aware that his appreciation of her was out of keeping with the morbid circumstances, took her fingers and gave a stiff bow. He made some stilted expressions of sympathy, amid throat-clearings and grunts, then stepped back to acknowledge her mother, Lucy, who sat near the fire. Matthew had risen from his place at the table, where he had been toying with a cup of wine.

Another man was sitting near Lucy and Joan briefly introduced him. ‘This is my elder brother Roland, a tanner from Ashburton — as was my first husband. He has come to offer our mother and me support in this unhappy time.’ Her voice was low and soft, as her violet eyes looked up at de Wolfe from under long dark lashes. Incongruously he found himself calculating how Chagford compared with Dawlish in the time it would take him to ride from Exeter.

Roland of Ashburton muttered a grudging acknowledgement of his sister’s introduction. He was a stocky man of about thirty, who looked like an artisan, uncomfortably dressed in his Sunday-best tunic and breeches. He glared at everyone except his mother and sister.

‘The carter should be here well before dusk,’ said Matthew, uneasy at the tense atmosphere in the room, which seemed to be due in large part to Roland’s presence. He was unsure how they should start this conversation with the coroner, which he assumed would be some sort of interrogation.

Joan invited de Wolfe to sit and they joined Matthew at the table, leaving the older woman and her grim-looking son near the hearth. The hovering Harold brought more cups and wine with a small basket of fresh wafers, thin sweet discs of pastry straight from the oven.

De Wolfe cleared his throat again. ‘I must hold the formal inquest tomorrow — not that in the circumstances it can achieve much,’ he admitted. He told them of the evidence of the lad from the mill, but emphasised that this was not firm enough proof that the death had occurred there, however suggestive it might be.

‘Strictly speaking, I should be holding this inquest at Teignmouth, where the body was found, but that would be even more pointless.’

Lucy’s mother gave a loud sniff, but de Wolfe felt it was more for appearance’s sake than a true expression of grief. Joan remained impassive, and he felt sure that not a tear had been shed down that calm and lovely face all night.

‘There is no doubt that Walter was deliberately slain?’ she asked, in a low monotone. ‘Could he not have fallen from his horse?’

‘He might have fallen, but he could not have received such a blow across his back. Riding into a low branch would have marked his face or chest but not his back, lady. And the evidence of the boy from the mill strongly suggests that two other men were involved.’

‘Did he suffer at the end?’ she persisted.

John failed to decide whether she was forcing herself to appear concerned or whether she was trying to punish herself from guilt at betraying her late husband. ‘He had a severe injury to the head, madam,’ he answered gruffly, ‘which would have rendered him senseless and unable to feel pain or distress — but I honestly cannot say when that blow was inflicted. It might even have been due to the final fall from his steed on to hard ground.’

Matthew, flushed from the wine he had been supping through most of the day, slapped his palm on the table. ‘Walter was a fine horseman. I do not recollect him coming off his mount since we were children. He must have been attacked — and by more than one person, for he would never have been taken unawares unless he was distracted by someone else.’

De Wolfe thought that this probably excluded Matthew as a suspect. No guilty person would pass up the chance of having his crime mistaken for an accident — unless it was a double bluff.

‘We know roughly how and where he died, for his body had to be taken to the river and his horse was found in the same vicinity. What we have no idea about is why he was killed.’ He stared directly into the beautiful eyes of the dead man’s wife, then swung round to Knapman’s twin brother. ‘He was a rich and active trader, with a forceful manner. No doubt he had rivals and those who envied him — but would that be enough to encourage his murder?’

Matthew’s eyes dropped from de Wolfe’s glare, and for the first time the coroner sensed that the tin-merchant had something to hide.

‘It must be connected with the tinning, Crowner. I heard what happened at the Great Court the other day. There are those who were for Walter, who wanted him to displace the sheriff as Lord Warden, but there were others who coveted his success.’

He paused and his eyes came up to meet de Wolfe’s again. ‘Of course, there were also those who were furious that he wished to lead all the tinners as Warden. Not least Richard de Revelle — but some of the tinners strongly favoured other leaders.’

Lucy cut in from across the room, surprising de Wolfe with her apparent grasp of tinners’ politics: ‘Don’t forget William de Wrotham and Geoffrey Fitz-Peters! They’ve both got their eye on the Wardenship — and William fancies his chances as sheriff, when that rogue de Revelle is dismissed … or hanged, which is more likely.’

At this, de Wolfe warmed a little to the old harridan. He turned again to the brother. ‘Matthew, do you suspect anyone in particular in all this intrigue?’

The man from Exeter glanced warily at Joan. ‘I’d not wish to blacken any man’s character without proof, which seems singularly lacking here. But I’m sure the answer lies among the tinners somewhere, unless this was some stray band of forest outlaws or cutpurses who set upon my brother.’

De Wolfe shook his head abruptly, his thick black hair swinging across his neck. ‘He still had a leather scrip strapped to his belt with ample coin inside. He was not killed for theft.’

Matthew gestured his incomprehension and took a deep draught of his wine.

‘What about this mad old Saxon we heard about at the last inquest, Aethelfrith? Is there any news of him?’ demanded the coroner.

Matthew knew nothing of him and Joan remained silent, but then a voice from the doorway said, ‘I beg your leave, Crowner, but I heard something yesterday.’

It was Harold, who was lurking within earshot, like most veteran servants. ‘A man in the Crown Inn, when I was there, said he had heard that Aethelfrith had been seen up on Scorhill Down a few days ago.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘On the edge of the high moor, only a couple of miles from here, above the North Teign stream,’ offered Matthew, who had been raised in Chagford and knew it as well as his brother.

‘It seems he was trying to smash the furnace in a small blowing-house, but a couple of tinners arrived and he ran away,’ finished Harold.

‘Was it one of ours?’ demanded Matthew, and de Wolfe noted the possessiveness in his tone.

‘No, it belonged to Acland,’ said the steward, with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. His eyes slid to the mistress of the house.

Joan caught the glance and her smooth cheeks reddened, but she took her revenge on the old servant. ‘You may leave us now, Harold. These are private matters. Go and see that some late supper is set out for our guests.’

The Saxon scowled as he turned to leave, all too conscious that a new regime held sway, now that the master he had served for so long had been replaced by this enigmatic beauty.

De Wolfe spent a few more minutes in fruitlessly seeking more information, trying to discover if Knapman had had any specific enemies, but neither Matthew nor Joan could — or would — offer any suggestion. He changed his approach. ‘Did he own the entire business or were you a partner?’ he asked Matthew.

‘We were not exactly partners but were both wholly involved in the tin trade. When we were young we learned the business the hard way, working as ordinary tinners for our father. Then we became overmen. Eventually Walter and I shared in the profits, rather than getting a wage. When our father died about ten years ago, he left his half-dozen tin workings to Walter, but bequeathed me money to set up in Exeter as the outlet for Walter’s production. I dealt with the buyers, in England and abroad, and arranged transport and shipment, taking a share of the sale price for my efforts. It worked well and we were both happy with the arrangement. I handled some tin for others as well, but all Walter’s output goes through my warehouse.’

‘What will happen now that he’s dead?’ asked the coroner.

Matthew Knapman looked anxiously across at his sister-in-law. ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to carry on as we were until something is settled. His stepson Peter Jordan will have to come up here for now and do his best to organise the stream-work gangs and the smelting. I must handle the Exeter end. Peter knows enough about tinning to keep the business afloat, while the overmen can handle the streaming teams and keep the tin coming.’

‘So who will inherit the business?

Matthew turned up his hands in a gesture of dismayed resignation. ‘God knows! Walter was in the prime of life and the best of health. We had made no plans for his sudden departure. I think that, long ago, he went to the lawyer to make a will, and if that’s true, it all depends on what’s in it.’

The serene widow, who had been listening silently to this exchange, decided it was time that she put her stamp of authority on the discussion. ‘Nothing can be settled until I visit Walter’s lawyer in Exeter. He told me some time ago that Robert Courteman handled his affairs, but I have no knowledge of what arrangements he made. We never discussed business matters. Now I have no choice but to seek out this man.’

De Wolfe noticed that she emphasised the ‘I’, subtly but effectively separating her own interests from those of the rest of the family.

Matthew must have noticed it too, for he tried to stake his own claim. ‘Indeed, we must clear these matters up as quickly as possible. Many men’s livelihoods depend upon the Knapman tin-workings.’ He shot another worried look at Joan, who was staring impassively once more at the planks of the oaken table.

De Wolfe wondered if anything could stir her emotions but, from his wide experience of women, decided that anyone who could crack that virgin-like veneer would find seething passion beneath. From the way she was behaving, he doubted that Walter Knapman had ever penetrated the shell that seemed to cocoon his lovely wife.

Her brother spoke for the first time. ‘Whatever a will says, it’s obvious that the bulk of his wealth should go to his wife. If the testament says otherwise, we’ll contest it — in the courts if need be!’

This time, John noticed the ‘we’, and again marvelled at how previously unknown relatives appeared out of the woodwork when there was so much as a whisper about inheritance.

Soon de Wolfe had run out of questions, especially since he had heard virtually no answers of any consequence. Taking his leave, he left the family to await the arrival of the corpse and strode out of the house.

Harold pattered after him, and as de Wolfe took Odin’s reins from a stable-boy, the steward came up close and glanced furtively over his shoulder towards the house. ‘Crowner, maybe it’s not my place to speak out of turn, but I fear that old Aethelfrith will get blamed for this as a scapegoat, whether he was involved or not. Crazy as he is, he’s a fellow Saxon and I can’t stand by to see him hanged by default.’

De Wolfe’s bushy brows came together in puzzlement. What was the man trying to say? ‘Well, what about it?’ he prompted brusquely.

With another backward glance at the closed shutters, Harold came so close that John could smell the onions on his breath. ‘The first person to call when it was known that the master was missing was Stephen Acland — he was even here when Matthew brought the news of his death.’ He paused, as if undecided whether to go the final yard. ‘At the last inquest, you saw the hate between Acland and my master over the tin-works. Well, it was not only streaming that Acland wanted to wrest from him but something more personal. I’m sure you’ll know what I mean, Crowner.’

With that, his nerve failed him and he dodged back to the house, bent almost double as if he was afraid of being seen.

De Wolfe put his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself aboard Odin’s broad back. As he walked the horse away, his long face bore a frown of deep concentration as he digested Harold’s insinuations.