The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the journey back to Exeter, de Wolfe learned little that was new, but was intrigued by the vehemence with which Matthew aired his suspicions about his brother’s likely killers. Away from Joan and her mother, his tongue seemed more ready to wag, though Peter Jordan remained relatively silent. As the pair rode at each side of the coroner, with Thomas plodding forlornly behind, the tin merchant seemed eager to voice his theories about the murder. He appeared to have changed his mind about the likely culprits. ‘I now think more strongly than ever that trail-bastons are to blame,’ he said, as they trotteda long the track towards Moretonhampstead. ‘The countryside is plagued by outlaws, especially since there are so many unemployed soldiers about, and many men destitute after that bad harvest eighteen months back.’ He paused and added, ‘These crippling taxes to pay for the King’s damned wars have also driven many men into poverty and outlawry.’

De Wolfe grunted, unsure whether to censure Matthew for another slur on the monarch, but decided to correct him instead. ‘It would be a strange footpad who carried out robbery with violence, then left the victim’s purse on his belt,’ he said. ‘I think you must look elsewhere for your killers.’

Matthew produced his other ideas with equal conviction. ‘Then the sheriff is involved, to defeat poor Walter’s ambition to run the Stannaries properly. You saw how feelings run high against him — but he’s a crafty one, is de Revelle, and ruthless into the bargain. He’d have little compunction in arranging a convenient murder.’

At this, Matthew’s step-nephew spoke: ‘I find it hard to believe the sheriff would need to take such drastic action. Walter had little chance of unseating him as Lord Warden, unless this threatened commission from London or Winchester was to recommend it. The tinners themselves couldn’t do it, however much noise and trouble they caused.’

Matthew shook his head doubtfully.

‘They could stop producing tin! The royal court — and the King himself — would take notice if the coinage taxes stopped coming in!’

‘But the tinners wouldn’t go on strike! They’d starve in a month, without pay coming in or metal to trade,’ protested Peter.

‘Then I wouldn’t put it past Joan’s brother, damn him. That Roland’s an evil fellow, you can see it in his face, coveting the good things Walter had in his house. He hopes to benefit from Joan’s inheritance and has his eye on the tin-works. That’s why he was so keen to take over their running as a temporary measure. Once he was in, we’d never get rid of him.’

De Wolfe wanted to keep the debate going to see what else came out. ‘So do you rate him as a serious possibility for the slaying?’ he asked.

‘He’s as ruthless as the sheriff. He saw a good chance for himself when his sister married Walter. I’d be loath to say that she was in collusion with him, but it’s not impossible. And certainly that old dame Lucy is single-minded about getting every penny for her children. She’d cut anyone’s throat for a prize like Walter’s property and business.’

‘What about the inheritance, then? When will that be settled?’ asked John.

‘We must find out what Walter’s testament says — everything depends on that. Joan says that she and her damned brother are coming to Exeter tomorrow to see the lawyer.’

‘Who happens to be my wife’s father,’ added Peter drily. ‘Not that it’s of any advantage to us.’

De Wolfe had his doubts about that, but kept them to himself.

The talk during the rest of the journey was only elaboration and repetition of the same themes, and de Wolfe was glad when they reached the city, where they parted company inside the West Gate.

As they walked their tired horses up the slope to Cairfax, Thomas moved alongside his master, plucking up courage to ask a favour.

‘You were good enough to speak to my uncle John of Alençon, Crowner. I wondered if you had any answer yet.’

De Wolfe looked down at the diminutive clerk slumped awkwardly on his pony. ‘As you know, Thomas, I’ve hardly been in Exeter lately, with all these problems.’ He said this kindly, but with a bitter undertone as he recalled the difficulties his absences had caused him, especially in his love-life.

‘Do you think you could ask the Archdeacon fairly soon, Crowner? I am consumed with longing and worry, sir.’

The quaver of suppressed emotion in Thomas’s voice reached even de Wolfe’s tough heart. ‘Then no time like the present. We’ll call upon him on the way home — he should be there at this time. Compline must be over by now.’

They left their steeds with Andrew the farrier in Martin’s Lane, but instead of crossing the narrow street to his front door, de Wolfe led the clerk into Canons’ Row. Half-way along, under the shadow of the north tower, the coroner turned into the door of one of the narrow-fronted houses, bidding Thomas to wait outside.

A few moments later, he emerged, his face betraying nothing. ‘Your uncle wishes you to attend upon him inside,’ he said flatly. ‘He wishes to talk to you himself. This is your private business, Thomas, so I’ll leave you to it.’

Deathly pale, the clerk scurried into the house and de Wolfe stood for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought. Then, with a deep sigh, he turned and walked home to face Matilda.

A couple of hours later, the coroner sat alone in the Golden Hind, a tavern in the high street, with a pewter tankard on the table in front of him. He had found the Saracen a rough, noisome place, with indifferent ale and a foul-mouthed, surly landlord. Willem the Fleming ran a crude establishment, with too many of his customers on the wrong side of the law, and de Wolfe had been to that inn several times professionally. Apart from its insalubrious atmosphere, he felt that it was not a place for a senior law-officer to patronise.

The Golden Hind had been one of his local watering-places before he had taken up with the landlady of the Bush. His appearance there after such a long absence caused a few eyebrows to be lifted and a few comments were muttered behind hands: his rift with Nesta was now common knowledge throughout the close community of the city. It had certainly reached the ears of his wife, which was one reason why John had left the house so soon after their evening meal.

As soon as he had arrived at home after leaving Thomas, he knew that Matilda had something up her sleeve. She greeted him tersely, and he could tell from her tight-lipped half-smile and her smugness that she was about to come out with something to his disadvantage.

She kept it bottled up until almost the end of the meal, as if savouring the anticipation. Mary had brought in a dish of dried fruit, imported at considerable cost from southern France, and as she left with the remains of the trenchers, Matilda pounced. ‘Not going to your favourite drinking den tonight, John?’ she asked, with acid innocence.

‘I’ve travelled enough today,’ he responded sourly.

‘I hear that your Welsh whore has thrown you over for a younger man,’ she taunted, picking up an apricot. ‘What will you do now, I wonder. Trawl about the county for some other doxy, I suppose. Or will you be content to slink off to Dawlish? No doubt your dutiful visits to your mother will increase — the road to Stoke is convenient, I remember.’

John stayed sullenly mute: he knew that anything he said would be twisted against him.

Matilda carried on in the same vein for a time, her pug face almost gleeful as she squeezed the last drop of malicious pleasure from baiting him. ‘They say there’s no fool like an old fool! You’re long past acting the romantic lover, John — just as you’re past rushing around playing at soldiers. You’re forty, for goodness’ sake, and it’s time for you to behave sensibly and cease shaming me in the eyes of my respectable friends.’

Patience and forbearance were not prominent among de Wolfe’s virtues, and his bench squealed on the flagstones as he pushed it back abruptly to stand up. ‘Yes, your damned friends! The stuck-up merchant’s wives of Exeter! All you care about is your pride and showing off as the sheriff’s sister and the coroner’s wife! You don’t give a damn about me. I’d starve and go around in rags if it was left to you — thank Christ we’ve got Mary!’ He stamped towards the hall door, beckoning the expectant Brutus to follow him.

As he left, Matilda still wore the smug expression of a satisfied winner. ‘You’d better browse among the hawker’s stalls while you’re out. From what I hear, you’ll soon need to buy a wedding present for your alehouse wench!’ she shouted after him.

Furious at himself for being so easily incensed by his wife’s baiting, de Wolfe stalked blindly out into the lane and then the few yards to the high street, hardly caring where he was going. He stopped and looked up and down the crowded thoroughfare, bemused about what to do next. Matilda’s last remark had been particularly unsettling. He did not know whether it was embroidery to humiliate him or whether she had really heard that Nesta and Alan were betrothed. He could hardly storm into the Bush and demand to be told — and both of his usual sources of gossip were out of action: Gwyn was still in Chagford and Thomas preoccupied with his own misfortunes.

For want of anywhere else to go, he entered the Golden Hind, his dog close at his heels. The walls of the big room were lined with benches and there were a few tables and stools around the central fire-pit, where a heap of logs and peat burned slowly to keep the unseasonable April weather at bay.

De Wolfe sat at a table towards the back of the room, near the row of casks, wanting to be as far from the small street windows as possible, to remain inconspicuous in the dim light of evening. A serving wench brought him a quart jar of ale unasked: that or cider was all that was on offer. He sat for a long time in the shadows — Brutus lying patiently under the table — his mind churning over a series of problems, from Nesta’s infidelity to Fitz-Ivo’s incompetence, from Knapman’s murder to Thomas’s misery.

For a time, de Wolfe wondered whether he should abandon the coroner’s appointment and take off again with Gwyn to find some campaign they could join, well away from Exeter and its problems. He was getting old for fighting, but perhaps he had one more battle left in him. Few barons would hire a middle-aged mercenary, but he was sure that the King would welcome him. Richard was over the Channel, where he was fighting Philip of France, trying to repair the damage caused by Prince John’s incompetence and treachery.

But de Wolfe had to admit grudgingly that he enjoyed the coroner’s work, much against his first expectations. He had come to relish the freedom it gave him to ride the countryside with Gwyn and to uphold his sovereign’s interests against such scoundrels as his brother-in-law. However, this last week had soured his appetite for it, though he had insight enough to know that losing Nesta, Matilda’s venom and the depressing presence of Thomas were the root causes of his present disenchantment.

He sat brooding as the light failed outside, drinking a whole pennyworth of ale over an hour or so until he began to feel sleepy. The landlord, who, like every citizen of Exeter, knew Sir John de Wolfe by sight, began to wonder why his house had been favoured by the coroner after all this time. As his customer dozed over his mug, he wondered if he should offer to help him home, as he often did many of his other patrons who imbibed not wisely but too well.

However, his dilemma was resolved by an unexpected messenger to the Golden Hind. The door opened and a young man appeared in clerical garb, a long black tunic tied with a cord at the waist and a small wooden cross hanging from a leather thong around his neck. He stared around the room, squinting in the uneven dim light from the windows and the fire.

The landlord advanced on him: although many priests were fond of the drink and even more dubious pleasures to be found in alehouses, it was unusual to see one in a hostelry just round the corner from the cathedral precinct, especially without even a cloak to disguise his vestments.

‘What brings you here, vicar?’ he asked, correctly guessing that this was some canon’s vicar-choral.

‘I am urgently seeking the crowner. Someone in the street told me that they saw him come in here not long ago.’

The tavern-keeper indicated the gloomy corner and the young priest hurried over. ‘Crowner John? I come from my master, the Archdeacon. He sent me to find you and to bring you to him urgently.’

De Wolfe raised his head and gazed blearily at the eager young face. Though he had a head almost as hard as Gwyn’s when it came to drink, the fatigue of travelling and the emotion of the evening had left him a little fuddled. But the youthful vicar’s next words rapidly cleared his head.

‘Your clerk, the little man with the humped shoulder, he’s tried to kill himself!’

Brother Saulf bent solicitously over the pallet that lay on the floor of the infirmary cell. He pulled up the coarse woollen blanket and tucked it gently under Thomas’s shoulders against the chill night air of the dank room. It was in the tiny priory of St John, in a side lane just within the East Gate. The five brothers there were dedicated to treating the sick and the few pallets they had were the only hospital in Exeter, the next nearest being the nunnery of St Katherine’s at Polsloe, a mile outside the city, which catered mainly for women.

Thomas de Peyne had been carried there by two of John of Alençon’s servants. They bore him on an unhinged door, with the coroner and the Archdeacon stalking alongside. During the five-minute journey, the little clerk groaned pitifully, which de Wolfe took as a good sign — at least he was not unconscious.

‘He should be fully recovered by tomorrow,’ said Saulf, a tall Saxon who was the most experienced of the healing monks at St John’s. ‘He’ll be black and blue with bruises and have some nasty grazes that will weep and maybe turn purulent but, thank God, he’s no broken bones and his head seems sound.’ He ushered them out of the room into a cramped corridor, dimly lit by a tallow dip on a ledge. ‘How did he come by these injuries, sirs? I was told only that he had a fall.’

The Archdeacon looked at de Wolfe, hoping that he would reply.

‘He certainly fell! About forty feet from the parapet of the cathedral,’ explained the coroner grimly.

The gaunt monk looked amazed. ‘Forty feet? It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed!’

‘It’s not a wonder, it’s a miracle,’ said the senior canon gently. ‘It seems his tunic caught on a projecting waterspout half-way down the wall. A beggar in the Close saw him hanging there for a moment, then the cloth ripped and he fell the rest of the way on to a pile of soft earth dug from a new grave.’

Saulf crossed himself, which reminded de Wolfe of Thomas. Suddenly a lump came to his throat, as he realised that he would have sorely missed the little man if he had died, in spite of the scorn that he and Gwyn habitually heaped on him.

‘How came he to fall from the cathedral? Is he a priest? He always looked like one when I saw him in your company, Crowner — and he had a flair for pen and ink.’

Again the other two men exchanged glances — they did not want to spread this abroad more than they could avoid, even though Saulf had the double obligation to secrecy of a priest and a healer.

‘He was once,’ said de Wolfe evasively. ‘When will he be in a fit state to tell us what happened?’

The monk shrugged. ‘He’s not too bad now. I’ve other patients to attend, but you can go back in and see if he’s ready to talk, if you wish.’

The two friends entered the cell again, and by the light of a candle burning below a wooden cross on the wall, squatted one on each side of the straw mattress.

‘Thomas, can you hear me?’ asked the coroner.

The clerk opened one eye. His cheek and forehead were grazed. ‘Yes, Crowner, miserable sinner that I am.’

John de Alençon laid a hand gently on his other shoulder and Thomas winced with pain. ‘Thomas, tell us what happened,’ he said. ‘This is not the confessional, just your uncle and a good friend wanting to help you.’

De Peyne opened his other eye and swivelled both towards the Archdeacon. ‘I have committed a mortal sin, Father. I tried to end my life — but I am so useless that I could not even make a success of that.’

Tears welled up in the bloodshot eyes, and the kindly Archdeacon was moved to pity for his unhappy nephew. ‘I have just told Brother Saulf that your deliverance was a sign from the Almighty that he needs your life on this earth now and not yet in the next.’

A glimmer of hope appeared on Thomas’s battered features. For such a senior member of the Church to believe that even a minor miracle had been wrought was a life-raft for him in the sea of despair in which he floundered.

‘How came this to happen, Thomas?’ asked the coroner, gruffly enough to cover his own emotion.

The clerk moved slightly in the bed and grimaced as his bruised body screamed in protest. ‘After the Archdeacon called me in and told me that there seemed no hope of my being received back into Holy Orders, I went out thinking that my life was now meaningless and without purpose. I should have let myself perish from starvation when I left Winchester two winters ago.’

John de Alençon’s ascetic face moved closer to Thomas’s. ‘I had no choice but to tell you the truth as its stands now here in Exeter. That does not mean that elsewhere, in the future, matters might change. Take your deliverance as a sign, Thomas.’

De Wolfe was more keen to discover what had occurred that evening. ‘Where did you go when you left the canon’s house?’

‘I wandered along, then went into St Martin’s to pray.’ This was the tiny church almost opposite the coroner’s house. ‘But I felt nothing, as if my prayers were hitting a stone wall. I felt that God himself had rejected me as a useless, misshapen creature.’ Tears sprang up again and trickled down his damaged cheeks. ‘I ran from there and went into the cathedral. I intended prostrating myself on the chancel steps, to try to seek some sign from our Saviour, but as I neared the quire screen, I saw another sign — an open door in the gloom.’

‘A door?’ queried the canon.

‘I thought it led into the north tower and I felt the desire to fling myself into oblivion. I ran up the stairs in the thickness of the wall, but after a few turns I came to a locked door, which must have gone further up the tower. An arch to the side of it led on to an outside gallery along the nave.’

‘That’s one the builders use,’ confirmed Alençon.

‘I looked down, and though the tower rose far above me, it still seemed a long way to the ground, surely sufficient for my purpose. Without further thought, except a plea to God to save my soul, I threw myself off the edge.’

He made a move as if to cross himself, but the tight blanket and the pain in his arms made him give up the attempt.

‘I fell, then there was a great jerk and I slammed against the wall. I thought that was death, but then there was a rending sound and I fell again, into a heap of mud.’ He sobbed and struggled to hide his face in the hard pillow.

The Archdeacon patted his shoulder, and as Thomas’s eyes turned back to him, the priest made the Sign of the Cross over him and murmured the Latin words of a blessing.

The clerk seemed to calm himself and closed his eyes, as the canon motioned to de Wolfe to come out of the room.

‘We’ll see you in the morning, Thomas,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Get some sleep to help mend your body and your mind.’

As they walked together back to the cathedral Close, de Wolfe asked his friend what had transpired from their efforts to have the clerk taken back into the Church.

‘I fear it was hopeless — and I also grieve to think that maybe it would have been better for him if neither of us was involved.’

John was puzzled by his companion’s words. ‘How so?’ he asked.

‘As I told you before, this is not a matter for our diocese of Devon and Cornwall, but for the Winchester Consistory Court — although a good recommendation from senior members of the Chapter here would undoubtedly carry weight in Hampshire.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘Unfortunately, the reverse is also true, in that a denial of his merits from here would ruin any hope of reinstatement. And that is all I got from my dear brothers — a round condemnation of Thomas’s conduct, even though they know little or nothing of the real facts.’

‘Why should they blacken some poor fellow who means little to them?’ demanded the coroner.

‘Because he is your clerk and my nephew! Neither of us is popular in the Chapter House or the Bishop’s palace. Since that affair a few months ago, when the sheriff was disgraced over his affection for Prince John, mud stuck to a number of ecclesiastics — especially the precentor and, of course, to Bishop Henry Marshal. They have no love for people like me or you, or for our friend the treasurer, as we are all avowed King’s men.’

De Wolfe, at heart a bluff and perhaps rather naïve soldier, found it hard to believe that educated, professional men of God would be so vindictive. ‘You mean they would block a minor clerk’s career — indeed his happiness and even his life — just to get back at us spitefully for some political difference?’

The Archdeacon shook his head in wonder at his friend’s apparent trust in human nature. ‘Without blinking an eye, John. When I put the matter to them, their vehemence told me straight away that they relished the chance to confound us.’

By now they had reached Martin’s Lane and the priest left de Wolfe at his door, with a promise to call at St John’s in the morning to see how his nephew was progressing.

De Wolfe watched him go, his hand on the latch. For a moment, he contemplated going to the Bush, to see whether there was any truth in Matilda’s jibe about Nesta and Alan, but a stubborn streak of pride won the day and, with a deep sigh, he opened the door and went in.

While the drama was being played out at the cathedral, Matthew Knapman and his assistant Peter Jordan were seeking legal advice. They were visiting Peter’s father-in-law, Robert Courteman, at his house in Goldsmith Street, which was off the high street near the Guildhall.

Courteman was the lawyer who handled the affairs of the Knapman tin business, including Matthew’s sale and transport operations. He was a gloomy-looking man of fifty, with a pate as bald as any monk’s tonsure on top, but rimmed with bushy iron-grey hair. His narrow face was lined and two deep furrows on each side of his mouth and folds of lax skin under his chin gave him the appearance of a hound with permanent indigestion.

Courteman received his visitors in his office chamber, a cubicle partitioned from the living hall of his narrow house, appropriately as gloomy as his humourless self. A table was scattered with rolls of parchment and vellum, tied with tapes of plaited wool or leather. Shelves were loaded with dusty documents and a few books. The lawyer sat on a stool behind his table and the other two men perched on a short bench opposite. At Robert’s side stood his son and junior partner, Philip Courteman, a younger version of his father, with the same sombre look on his pallid face.

The lawyers had already heard of the death of their client Walter Knapman, and the lengthy commiseration had been completed, though Matthew suspected that the sorrow they expressed was for the potential loss of his business.

‘As you might guess,’ said Matthew, ‘the suddenness of his demise has greatly disturbed our business activities. Tin is being produced as usual, but we need to know who it belongs to, for purposes of sale and disposal. We are like a ship without a rudder at present.’

‘And we want to be reassured that the workings will remain together, not be broken up,’ cut in Peter Jordan. ‘There are people waiting like wolves around a sheepfold to seize any opportunity to ravage us — Stephen Acland for one, though others would like to bid piecemeal for the dozen or so stream-works and blowing-houses.’

The older lawyer steepled his fingers against his lips and managed to look more miserable than usual. ‘What do you want from me? There’s little enough I can do at this early stage.’ He looked up at his pasty-faced son, as if to seek his agreement to their legal impotency.

‘There may be difficult problems in this situation,’ said the younger man obscurely.

Matthew sounded impatient: ‘Every day’s uncertainty makes trading more difficult,’ he complained. ‘There has just been a new coinage in Chagford, and I have a large quantity of metal ready for the second smelting and sale. I need to know for whom I am selling.’

Robert Courteman spread his hands as if in benediction. ‘I can appreciate the problems, Matthew, but it is too soon for answers.’

‘But we need to know what is in his will as soon as possible,’ said Peter, impatient at the lawyer’s torpid attitude.

‘And even if there is a will,’ snapped Matthew in frustration.

Courteman shook his head slowly. ‘I cannot divulge the contents of a last testament, not until the proper circumstances arrive.’

‘And what might they be, for God’s sake?’ asked the dead man’s twin.

‘All the family together, everyone who might benefit. They are entitled to hear it from the lawyer’s own lips, not second-hand after it has been divulged piecemeal to all and sundry.’

Matthew grunted in disgust. ‘We’re not all and sundry, Robert. I’m his twin brother, and Peter is the nearest thing to a son that Walter had. At least you can confirm that there is a will — and when it was last altered, if it has been?’

The elder Courteman pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure I can even do that, Matthew. The relations between a lawyer and his client are as sacred as those between a priest and sinner, you know.’

‘God’s bones, Robert, we are all one family here! Your own daughter is married to Peter, so what affects his future affects hers too.’

Courteman wagged his head slowly from side to side, his wattles swaying under his chin. ‘One cannot let personal issues sway the sacred trust of our profession, Matthew,’ he uttered sententiously. ‘However, I will venture so far as to tell you that there is indeed a last will and testament to which Walter Knapman appended his mark in front of me as a witness, and that I will be disclosing its contents to the assembled family, principally his lawful wife Joan, in the very near future.’

‘How near?’ demanded Peter Jordan. ‘Does this mean another journey to Chagford?’

‘No, I have had a message that the widow is coming to Exeter very shortly, together with her mother and brother. I will inform you when the testament will be read, so that you can arrange to be present. If the widow wishes it, it may even be tomorrow.’

And with that the impatient pair had to be content.