The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The lawyer’s musty office was hardly big enough to hold those who crowded in to hear Walter Knapman’s last testament read early on that Sunday afternoon. Robert Courteman was squeezed behind his table, with his son standing at his shoulder, pressed up against the shelves of parchment rolls lining the wall behind him. In front, a motley collection of stools and benches brought from the nether regions of the house was occupied by the Knapman family and their hangers-on.

The widow Joan sat directly in front of the lawyers, immaculate in a deep blue silk kirtle, its dark colour a gesture to her gradual, if rapid, shedding of funereal black. Instead of a white cover-chief and wimple, her black hair was neatly braided into two spiral rolls, held in place over each ear by fine gilded nets. Her hands rested demurely on a fur-lined woollen cloak, which lay across her lap. The new widow kept her eyes on her fingers for most of the time, but now and then she stole glances around the room from under her long dark lashes, trying to interpret the mood of the others at this crucial time.

On her left, her brother Roland sat in an almost aggressive pose, his big hands on his knees and his heavy features jutting pugnaciously towards Courteman, as if ready to challenge anything he said. As with all tanners, a faint but perceptiple aura of something rank hung about him, no doubt derived from the vats of dog droppings that were used to cure the leather. Fidgeting on Joan’s other side was her mother Lucy, skinny and bird-like in a grey gown, her hair hidden under a linen coif tied tightly under her chin. Behind them, Matthew Knapman perched uncomfortably on a rickety bench, his florid face bearing a worried expression. He picked nervously at loose skin around his fingernails, until his wife jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

Next to her Peter Jordan and his wife shared another short bench. The young man seemed calm enough, but Mistress Jordan glared indignantly at the backs of the trio in front of her, as if challenging their right to be there solely by virtue of Walter’s recent marriage.

The last person squashed into the small chamber was Paul Smithson, present seemingly as spiritual supporter of the widow, but interested, too, in anything that Knapman might have bequeathed to his church.

The only person not there who might well have been concerned at the outcome was Stephen Acland — but he could hardly have used his role as the widow’s paramour to justify his presence.

‘Are you well accommodated in Exeter, Mistress Knapman?’ began Robert Courteman, in his high-pitched voice, after he had shuffled enough parchments on his table to establish his legal credentials.

‘My mother and I are well housed with Matthew, thank you, through the kindness of his good wife. My brother is lodged in the Bush Inn, and Vicar Smithson has a bed in the cathedral precinct.’ Her quiet tones were firm, but devoid of expression. They seemed to imply that the lawyer should leave the niceties and get down to business. Perhaps Courteman took the hint, for he untied a leather thong from around a small parchment and unrolled it between his bony hands.

After clearing his throat a few times, he stared bleakly around the expectant group and began to speak. ‘This is the final testament of Walter Knapman, tin-master of Chagford in the County of Devon,’ he intoned unnecessarily. ‘It is dated the second day of April in the year of Christ eleven hundred and ninety-five.’

There was a sudden grating noise as the foot of Peter Jordan skidded on the stone floor. ‘What date did you say, sir?’

The dried-up features of the elder lawyer stared testily at the young man who had interrupted him. ‘The second of April, this year.’

‘But that can’t be right,’ began Peter, but he stopped short as his wife jabbed him in the ribs and hissed something fiercely into his ear.

After another disapproving glare at his son-in-law, Robert Courteman continued, staring at the parchment, though not reading it verbatim. ‘The roll has been sealed by myself as certifying that Walter Knapman assented to the contents on that day and his own seal has been appended in wax.’ He held up the curled skin briefly, to display two embossed blobs hanging from tape tags at the bottom of the roll, in lieu of signatures; less than one in three hundred people was literate. ‘The sealing was witnessed by two of my clerks, their signatures being here.’ Courteman jabbed at the document with a long forefinger and laid the roll down again.

‘The substance of the testament is this. The beneficence of Walter Knapman to the Holy Church leads him to donate twenty-five pounds to St Michael the Archangel, Chagford, to be used as the incumbent sees fit, as long as the use is approved by the Prebendary and Bishop.’

Smithson smiled broadly — twenty-five pounds was a large sum of money, and although it was not specifically earmarked for his stipend, it ensured the security of parish finances for a long time to come.

‘After this pious bequest is paid, the residue of his property and possessions is to be distributed thus, assuming his wife Joan survives him — as she thankfully does.’ The lawyer gave a humourless grin, exposing his yellowed teeth in the direction of the widow. His attempt at levity was met with stony silence.

‘The freehold demesne in Chagford is granted absolutely, without let or hindrance, to her, with all its goods and chattels.’ Courteman peered again at Joan and clarified his legal jargon. ‘In other words, the house, its contents and the land on which it stands are yours, Mistress Knapman.’

Joan gave a slight nod, as if to convey that she had expected nothing less.

He returned to his parchment. ‘All the residue, which includes his dozen tin-workings, including all stream-works, blowing-houses and boundings registered under Stannary Law but not yet worked, three freehold farms and mills and all other possessions such as horses, cattle and any other livestock, together with the contents of his treasure chest and all debts due to him yet unpaid, are to be divided into three equal parts between his widow Joan, his brother Matthew and his stepson Peter Jordan.’

There was an outbreak of whispering and muttering and heads closing together, as the audience tried to work out if they were pleased, satisfied or disgruntled, but the lawyer’s voice cut harshly across the murmuring. ‘There are two conditions upon this dispensation. First, the apportionment of his estate is dependent upon the agreement of all beneficiaries not to allow the break-up of the tin-workings by selling any part of them for at least five years.’ He stopped again to gaze around the room, as if seeking any opposition to this clause. ‘The testament provides that any beneficiary wishing to sell their share within those five years will forfeit it and it will then be shared between the other legatees.’

This provoked a babble of protest from Matthew, Peter Jordan and Joan’s brother. Peter sprang to his feet, almost upsetting his wife seated on the other end of the bench. ‘How, then, can we benefit for at least five years, if we are unable to sell our holdings?’ he demanded.

The lawyer sighed, a veteran of many other testaments and family squabbles. ‘You should be rejoicing at your good fortune, not complaining, Peter. You have a third share in whatever is in his personal treasure chest, coin, jewellery or whatever, which is yet to be accounted. And you will have a third of the income from his extensive business, which wisely — and on my own advice to Walter — will be kept intact for five years, and far longer if you heed my counsel.’

Peter remained on his feet, pale but determined. ‘This is not the will that my stepfather told me about, sir.’

Robert Courteman scowled at the young man. His face conveyed annoyance and suspicion. ‘And how would you know that, boy? Walter demanded that I kept his affairs absolutely secret, especially from his family.’

At the back of the room, the priest noticed that Philip Courteman’s face had reddened, and that Peter Jordan had shifted his angry glare from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law.

Robert Courteman might also have recognised Peter’s switch of hostility, had not Matthew, with a perturbed expression on his fleshy face, interrupted, ‘You said there were two conditions attached to the bequests and you’ve given us only one. What’s the other?’

The elder lawyer aimed his gaze at the tinner’s agent. ‘Whereas, apart from the house, Mistress Joan shares equally with you and Peter in the present circumstances, Walter had made provision for future circumstances, when her share would increase from one-third to eight-tenths of the substantial fortune, leaving you and his stepson one-tenth each.’

Matthew’s jaw dropped, and Peter went white above his dark moustache. ‘What possibility could that be?’ said Matthew, in a strangled voice.

‘If Mistress Knapman had had a child before Walter’s death.’

There was an audible sigh of relief from the other two beneficiaries and a snarl of disapproval from Lucy and her aggressive-looking son.

Matthew murmured to his spouse that he thanked God that his brother had remarried only five months before his death.

But the lawyer had not yet finished. ‘Or if she was found to be with child at the time of Walter’s death.’

There was a sense of anticlimax at this and both Matthew’s and Peter’s heartbeat had begun to subside to normal.

Until Joan spoke up from her seat in front of the table. ‘But I am with child — and have been these past three months!’

That evening, the coroner and his two assistants met together for the first time in several days. When Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn called at the narrow house in Martin’s Lane, they timed their arrival to avoid meeting Matilda, who detested them. She considered one a Celtic savage and the other an irreligious pervert. They knew she always attended the Sunday evening service at St Olave’s, which took place after the rigid series of Offices at the cathedral had finished. The two men, today sharing a common bond of aches and pains from their recent injuries, made doubly sure of her departure by skulking behind the corner of St Martin’s Church until they saw her leave the house.

Inside, John was contemplating leaving his hearth for a lonely drink in his new haunt, the Golden Hind, when Mary put her head around the door screens. ‘I’ve got two battered knaves in my kitchen, saying they want to talk to you.’

The coroner followed her into the vestibule, then down the covered passage to his backyard, where he found his clerk and his officer sitting by Mary’s cooking fire, eating hot wafers. Brutus was crouched adoringly at Gwyn’s feet, having his ears scratched by the dog-loving giant. They jumped to their feet, but de Wolfe waved them down as he joined them on a stool and took a pot of new ale from Mary, who wandered off across the yard to another shed where she did the washing, ignoring conventions about working on the Sabbath.

After enquiring about their various cuts and bruises, John was reassured that both men were recovering well. He was particularly glad to see that Thomas remained cheerful — he even had an air of expectant optimism, as if his recent ‘miracle’ was soon going to blossom into good news. But now he had other news to report, and proudly disclosed the results of today’s spying in the cathedral precinct.

‘After Compline, there was a short mass to celebrate St Botolph, and afterwards some of the vicars and secondaries adjourned to the refectory for sweetmeats and a glass of wine. I managed to get myself invited to both functions,’ he added evasively, leaving the others to wonder how he continually managed to insinuate himself into the ecclesiastical life of Exeter, especially within a day of attempting suicide.

‘Get to the point, midget,’ rumbled Gwyn placidly.

‘Well, one of the visiting guests was the Chagford priest — that fat fellow we saw at the inquest. After a few cups of Anjou red wine, he began telling us of a meeting he attended this morning at a lawyer’s office in Goldsmith Street.’

Thomas then related, fairly accurately as it later turned out, the provisions of Walter Knapman’s will and the reactions of those assembled to hear it. ‘The priest was delighted with the bequest to his church, which will see him secure for a long time — but he described with ungodly glee the reactions of some of the other beneficiaries.’

De Wolfe was intrigued by the account, and Thomas became almost euphoric at the curt praise his master bestowed on him for bringing such useful intelligence.

‘So the inscrutable Widow Joan is not as virginal as she looks, eh,’ chortled Gwyn.

‘That’s what the rest of the family want proven,’ replied Thomas waspishly. ‘According to Smithson, there was the devil of an outburst from Matthew and Peter when she claimed to be with child — and an equally loud condemnation of their doubts from Joan’s brother and mother!’

‘So what happened then?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘Matthew, with Peter, who are both set to lose about two-thirds of what they would have had if she had failed to produce an heir for Walter, voiced their doubts as to who might be the father. They insinuated that Stephen Acland was more likely to have sired the pup. That provoked much shouting and abuse from the widow’s relatives, but the priest said that Joan herself just sat with that faint smile of hers on her pretty face.’

De Wolfe rubbed his itching cheeks — he had missed his Saturday shave the day before and had had to scrape off a budding beard that very morning. ‘Then what happened?’ he persisted.

‘It seems the old lawyer, Robert Courteman, stuck his own finger in the pie. Obviously he has an interest in the matter beyond his legal obligations, as his own daughter’s fortune would be affected by how much Peter gets from his stepfather’s estate. He claimed that the terms of the testament can only be fulfilled when it is proven that Walter’s wife is indeed with child.’

Gwyn cackled coarsely. ‘Does he intend proving it personally?’

Thomas gave him a prim look of disapproval. ‘He said he could not approve the bequests until the pregnancy had been confirmed by someone of repute.’

‘He only has to wait a month or two for it to be obvious to everyone,’ grunted the Cornishman, but Thomas ignored him.

‘The lawyer insisted that the widow be examined by a woman wise in these matters — and the obvious choice is our Dame Madge from St Katherine’s in Polsloe.’

John recalled the formidable nun from the small priory a mile or so north of the city. She was skilled in all matters relating to women’s ailments and the problems of childbirth. He had had reason to be grateful for her services before, when she had helped him investigate a fatal miscarriage and a rape. ‘So the fair Joan is to be put to the test,’ he mused. ‘But does this help us to put a finger on who is the most likely candidate for Walter’s murder?’

The little clerk had one more titbit of news. ‘The priest said that there was something unspoken going on between the lawyers and Peter Jordan. The young man several times challenged the testament as not being the one he knew about. The old lawyer shouted him down, but Smithson had the impression that Peter was covertly accusing Philip, the younger Courteman, of misleading him.’

De Wolfe gave one of his grunts. ‘I don’t know that that tells us anything. But an expectation of what was in the will might be a motive for killing, I suppose.

‘Walter had been married five months — he was certainly likely to change his will after marrying again. But did he know that Joan was with child when he made this last one?’

‘If she’s three months gone, she herself would know, even though she wasn’t showing yet,’ said Gwyn. ‘But if Acland was the father, she may have kept it from Walter — but not otherwise, surely.’

‘The will was dated earlier this month, which was why Jordan seemed so shocked and upset,’ added Thomas.

‘I can’t make head nor bloody tail of it,’ grumbled Gwyn, finishing the last of the ale that Mary had provided.

‘Maybe Joan had her husband killed before he discovered that she was carrying Acland’s child and cut her out of the will?’ suggested Thomas, half-heartedly.

‘How the hell would Walter know it wasn’t his child, unless he had slept in the stable since his marriage?’ rumbled Gwyn.

‘He would if the infant was born with hair like Acland’s,’ retorted the clerk.

De Wolfe scowled at them both. ‘This is getting us nowhere. As it turns out, neither Walter’s brother nor his stepson have made a great deal from his death, which reduces their motive. And, by the same token, the widow and her hangers-on have increased their share of the fortune and therefore also their incentive to see Knapman dead.’

‘But did they all know that before the testament was disclosed?’

Thomas voiced the obvious objections that were in de Wolfe’s mind.

There was a long silence as they sat around the dulling fire. Then de Wolfe stood up and stretched his long limbs. He was about to announce that he was going down to the Bush for more ale, when the realisation that he was persona non grata there flooded back to him.

‘I’m off to the Golden Hind,’ he grunted, and glared at the other two, defying them to make any comment.

Robert Courteman wasted no time in setting about the verification of Joan’s child-bearing. On the afternoon of the reading of Walter Knapman’s testament, he sent a servant to Polsloe Priory to enquire if Dame Madge would be kind enough to examine the widow. He sweetened this request with a small donation to the priory funds, making a note that this was to be added to his legal fees deducted from the final settlement of the will. The servant returned with the redoubtable nun’s agreement, asking that the lady attend upon her at Polsloe the next morning.

Courteman decided that he needed an independent witness to hear Dame Madge’s verdict from her own mouth and sent his son Philip on Monday morning, with Joan’s mother as chaperone.

The trio left from the East Gate at around the eighth hour, the ladies jogging side-saddle on the palfreys they had brought from Chagford and Philip on a brown gelding. The road passed through St Sidwell’s, then through a mile of mixed farmland and woods to reach the foundation where six nuns dispensed spiritual and bodily help to the locals.

The buildings were small, all in wood apart from a new stone chapel, which Philip Courteman had ample time to study as he waited outside in the compound, adjacent to the West Range of buildings. The two ladies were escorted inside by a young novice, and half an hour later they emerged, Lucy with a broad grin and Joan with a faint smile of satisfaction on her usually inscrutable features. They were followed by a tall, grim-looking nun, who reminded Philip fleetingly of John de Wolfe. She advanced on him, her black robe swirling in the keen wind, her face framed tightly in a snow-white wimple and flowing head-veil.

‘If you are the lawyer, I understand that I am formally to confirm to you that the lady is indeed with child,’ she said, her long face looking as if it had been carved from a boulder of granite moorstone. Before he could answer her, the flinty face suddenly broke into a charming smile, almost as if a different person lived within. ‘And I can certainly do that, young man! God has granted her the gift of motherhood, and in five or six months, Christ’s family will have increased by one new member — unless she has twins!’ She smiled again, and raised her hand to make the Sign of the Cross in farewell to the three visitors.

Philip Courteman gallantly helped the two ladies up on to their saddles, and a moment later they were heading for the wooded track back to Exeter.