The Tinner's corpse

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As only men were eligible to be members of a jury, Gwyn had trawled around the several small hamlets strung out along the Cullompton road out of Polsloe. To get every man from the four nearest villages, as the law demanded, was patently impossible, so he rounded up twenty-five reluctant men and boys of over twelve years old. These he had shepherded down to the large compound around the priory by noon, when witnesses arrived from Exeter.

The day was fine but breezy, and when Oswin’s bulky corpse was carried out on the chapel bier by two priory servants, a couple of stones had to be laid on the shroud to prevent it blowing away. The morning services were over and the Prioress and Dame Madge, with three of the six nuns, joined the wide circle of jurors and witnesses around the chair placed ready for John de Wolfe.

One other person was sitting: Joan Knapman, a scarf wound around her throat, was considered fragile after her two shocking experiences. Privately, de Wolfe thought she was as tough as her mother, who was fussing ostentatiously over her like a hen with a single chick. He went over to pay his respects before the inquest began and to ask how she fared after the attack. He admitted wryly to himself that he enjoyed being near to such a lovely young woman, and the huskiness of her voice after her ordeal made her sound even more seductive than usual.

‘I am as well as might be expected, thank you, Sir John,’ she said, looking up at him languorously, the close proximity of her glistening violet eyes and full lips causing him to experience fleeting thoughts that had nothing to do with the King’s coronership.

‘Dame Madge informs me that there has been no danger to your unborn child, Madam.’ He let his glance drop to her waist, but the only fullness was delightfully higher.

‘There is no problem, thank God. All I have is this soreness in my throat.’ She held back her head and briefly touched her neck with her slim fingers.

He dragged his mind back to more professional matters and asked her one more question. ‘When you were disturbed in the priory cell, what did you see of the intruder? Was there a knife in his hand? Peter Jordan denies it.’

She moved her head slowly from side to side, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. ‘I cannot help you at all, Crowner, for I was fast asleep, and when I was rudely woken by the crash of that fallen table, the window space was empty. I cannot even say that any intruder was there — apart from the table being tipped — let alone who it was or whether he carried a knife.’

Her voice became weaker and rougher after so many words and de Wolfe abandoned his questions, but patted her shoulder as he thanked her for her help. He walked back to his solitary chair, and nodded to his officer to begin.

As Gwyn got the proceedings under way with his stentorian bellowing for ‘all persons who have anything to do before the King’s coroner, to draw near and give their attendance’, John scanned the people present and cursed under his breath when he saw that Richard de Revelle had just ridden up and had pushed his way to the front to stand alongside Robert Courteman. The lawyer’s son Philip stood sheepishly alongside his father, his head still swathed in a linen bandage, reminding de Wolfe of one of Saladin’s warriors. He rattled through the formalities, knowing that an inquest would never get to the bottom of this tangled conspiracy.

First, there was a successful ‘presentment of Englishry’, which was a relief to the locals as it quashed any fear of a murdrum fine. Gwyn had learned from Matthew that his labourer had a brother in Exeter and he was called forward to swear that Oswin was mainly Saxon, as his name indicated. Then Matthew certified that Oswin had been a labourerin his tin yard for the past five years, with a good record of work. He had been inexplicably absent since yesterday morning, and occasionally lost half a day, mainly through being dead drunk the previous night.

Next, de Wolfe asked the jurymen to file past the body, as Gwyn pulled off the sheet and pointed out the crushed, lacerated chest, now livid with black and red bruises. ‘Stamped by the hoofs of a palfrey,’ he explained, in a loud voice, as the jury gaped open-mouthed at the bloody corpse. ‘The ribs are smashed and the lights could not draw in air.’

When the body had been covered again, he called Lucy to tell of how she had gone to the rescue of her daughter. In her moment of glory, she described graphically how she had dropped her horse on to the assailant — she sounded inordinately proud of her achievement and would have gone into a long story of how great a horsewoman she was, had not the coroner stopped her in mid-flow.

‘Though, legally, this bold woman was the sole cause of Oswin’s death,’ he commented, ‘it was an entirely justifiable killing. She had to save her own daughter from being strangled. Indeed, it is obvious that she had formed no intention of killing the man, only to take some action to make him desist from his murderous act.’

Sergeant Gabriel and one of the soldiers told of how they had found the dying man in the wood and confirmed that he had made a dying declaration and confessed by head signs to the killing of Walter Knapman.

‘Did he say anything about having an accomplice?’ demanded de Wolfe, who knew full well that Oswin had done no such thing, but wanted to ensure that the possibility reached Thomas’s records. ‘Or did he say who had persuaded or bribed him to commit murder?’

Immediately, Robert Courteman stepped forward and objected. ‘Crowner, that is not relevant to this inquest. You have only the right to determine how this man Oswin died, which is patently obvious.’

John cursed all lawyers under his breath — especially this one. The trouble was that Courteman was right — Oswin was dead, Lucy had killed him, and that was the end of the matter.

Then he saw the sheriff and the lawyer whispering together and began to suspect that underhand business was going on. He decided to fight back. ‘That may well be so, but the King’s court has given coroners jurisdiction over any serious crime, be it assault or rape, as well as homicide. I have reason to believe that an attempted murder, in this very place yesterday, was connected with the activities of whoever commissioned this deceased villain to slay Walter Knapman.’

It was a weak argument, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth, for Courteman pounced again. ‘You have no evidence of that whatsoever. You are constructing a scheme out of circumstances, sir.’

De Wolfe, exasperated but powerless to proceed, saw that there was no point in prolonging the argument. ‘Those matters will be decided, no doubt, by a higher court than this. I shall provide the judges at the next Eyre of Assize with all relevant records to assist them in dispensing justice.’ He rapidly wound up the inquest by telling the jury that their verdict was inevitably one of justifiable homicide to prevent a felonious act. The men mumbled among themselves, nodded their assent, and the assembly dispersed, the body being given to the brother, who had brought a handcart to trundle it back to Exeter for burial.

De Wolfe walked over to where the lawyer and sheriff were deep in conversation. ‘What was all that about?’ he demanded of Courteman, whom he respected as a knowledgeable advocate.

‘You were trying to incriminate my daughter’s husband in this matter,’ snapped the lawyer.

‘How could I? The dead man made no statement about who put him up to these killings.’

‘No matter. Just by asking the question you insinuated that there was a link between the death of Oswin and Knapman — and the misunderstanding here yesterday.’

De Wolfe looked at him scornfully. ‘Misunderstanding? My officer dragged him from an heiress’s window with a dagger in his hand.’

‘It was not in his hand. Peter Jordan drew it to defend himself against the assault by your boorish servant.’

‘Who, only days ago, was in danger of being hanged for fatally assaulting another man in Chagford!’ cut in Richard de Revelle, finding his tongue in de Wolfe’s presence at last.

‘There is no evidence at all that young Jordan is implicated in this matter,’ said Courteman haughtily.

‘Where was he on the day that Walter Knapman was killed?’ demanded de Wolfe, immediately conscious that he did not know the answer himself.

‘That is not relevant to this inquest today.’

‘But it may well be when I reopen the one on Walter,’ retorted de Wolfe. ‘Until then, Peter Jordan stays in Rougemont gaol.’

There was an almost palpable silence from the other two men. De Wolfe looked from one to the other, and settled his gaze on the smug face of his brother-in-law. He realised suddenly what must have happened behind his back. ‘You haven’t, have you? Damn you!’

The sheriff stroked his little beard and smiled sardonically. ‘There was no reason to hold him, John. What proof have you of any wrongdoing?’

‘Only catching him red-handed trying to murder his stepmother, who stood between him and a fortune,’ he said bitterly.

‘That could be construed as a wicked slander,’ advised the lawyer gravely. ‘Did you see a knife in his hand at the window?’

‘No, but my officer did — he saved Mistress Knapman’s life.’

De Revelle slapped his gloves against his hand angrily. ‘Who takes the word of that great clod seriously? After what happened in Chagford and Lydford, the less he says, the better it will be for him.’

De Wolfe was livid at this slur on his henchman — especially from someone as politically vulnerable as de Revelle. ‘The pot must be careful of calling the kettle black!’ he shouted. ‘The King’s judges will be getting several other reports on the conduct of the law in the shire of Devon when they come next month.’

The sheriff flushed, but twisted away from his own exposed position. ‘If you must seek a culprit, why not suspect him?’ he sneered, flicking his gloves in the direction of Matthew Knapman, who was just mounting his horse in the road outside. ‘He employed that Saxon and had total influence over him for five years.’

The lawyer’s lined face became almost animated as he backed up the sheriff’s insinuations. ‘And my son-in-law tells me that he was minded to expose Matthew Knapman for cheating his brother by way of trade. He stood to gain exactly as much as Peter Jordan under the testament, so he might have needed to prevent his dishonesty being disclosed to his brother — and he cannot prove where he was on the day that Walter Knapman died.’

De Wolfe made an impatient gesture. ‘But he wasn’t caught climbing through Joan’s window, was he?’

Robert Courteman grew red in the face. ‘I’ve told you, you’re deliberately misconstruing an innocent act, de Wolfe. He has explained that he wished to avoid any meeting with my son, who sat outside her door in the infirmary there.’

‘That must be the most feeble excuse for murder that has ever been offered in England, Master Courteman,’ replied the coroner, impatiently. ‘Why in God’s name, should he want to do that?’

The lawyer’s face flushed even darker in his embarrassment. ‘This is a family matter, Crowner, but now I suppose it must be said, though in strict confidence. My foolish daughter, on behalf of her husband Peter, prevailed upon my even more foolish son to spy among my rolls and tell him the contents of what he thought was the extant testament of Walter Knapman. He got it wrong, so Peter and Philip are now at loggerheads. That is why he wished to avoid him.’

‘A likely story!’ said de Wolfe contemptuously, but again a small worm in his mind began to erode his confidence in what might be true and what false.

Richard de Revelle pulled on the gloves he had been playing with and turned to leave the priory garden. ‘Matthew’s your man, John — take my word for it,’ he said airily, and strode off to find his horse.

The lawyer stared bleakly at de Wolfe before following the sheriff. ‘Be careful how you handle this, Crowner. You’re not dealing with tavern brawlers or a bunch of peasants here.’

De Wolfe’s face darkened in anger and he was determined to have the last word. ‘Peter Jordan will have to answer before the King’s justices at the next Assize — I will attach him to appear, never fear.’

Robert Courteman smiled enigmatically at the coroner as he left, knowing that before the day was out his daughter and her husband would be aboard ship at Exmouth, en route for an extended stay with relatives in Normandy.

The next afternoon, the Devon county coroner was in a foul mood as he sat in his chamber above the gatehouse. Thomas sat quietly at his corner of the table, trying to look inconspicuous as he penned copies of this morning’s execution records. Gwyn, after failing to get a civil response from his surly master, had wisely gone in search of a hot pie and a quart of ale, leaving de Wolfe to mutter under his breath as he scratched around among the parchments before him, most of which he could not read.

The day had started badly at the gallows field outside the city, where John had had to attend four hangings. Two of the felons had had sufficient property to make it worthwhile recording what was to be seized for the Treasury. One of the others, a sheep-stealer from Alphington, was so fat that he could hardly climb the ladder set against the gallows-frame. The assembled crowd, mainly old men, wives and children, who always came out of the city to enjoy the twice-weekly hangings, tittered at the sorry spectacle. When the weakened rope snapped as the unfortunate man was pushed off the ladder by the hangman, their mirth knew no bounds and they hissed and jeered at the executioner, until he went mad with rage and flew at the crowd, flailing with his fists.

Gwyn and the only man-at-arms on duty had had to restrain him and calm him down. The fact that the victim had died instantly of a broken neck did little to soothe the hangman’s injured pride.

But what had really exasperated de Wolfe had taken place an hour or two later, when he sent his officer to serve an attachment on Peter Jordan. This was a warrant to appear before the Justices at the next Eyre of Assize and to find sureties in the sum of twenty marks to ensure his appearance.

Gwyn came back and announced grumpily that neither Jordan nor his wife were to be found, either at home, at Matthew’s yard or in the lawyer’s office. At first, no one had admitted to knowing where they were, reported Gwyn. ‘But then that son of Courteman, who had the whack on the head and who now seems to hate Jordan, whispered to me on the doorstep that they had already taken ship for France, so they’re out of our reach, even to serve this writ upon.’

As the sheriff had been legally entitled to open the prison door for Jordan — and he had not been arraigned for any serious crime — there was nothing de Wolfe could do about it, at least until he returned to England. Even then, with such tenuous evidence and a wily lawyer and sheriff working against him, the coroner was realistic enough to know that he had little chance of bringing Jordan to trial. However, this knowledge did nothing to sweeten his mood and it worsened when Gwyn returned from the next errand upon which de Wolfe sent him.

‘Get down to the lower quayside and find that ship that is being repaired for its return to the Rhine,’ he had ordered.

In his endless campaign to defeat his brother-in-law’s efforts to discredit him, de Wolfe decided to counter Richard’s claim that Matthew, not Peter Jordan, was the villain. His alibi for the day that his twin brother had been killed was his presence in Exeter at a meeting in the morning with tin-importers from Cologne, whose ship was said to be still in the river.

When Gwyn returned at noon with the news that the vessel had sailed three days before, de Wolfe kicked over his stool in a fit of frustrated temper. ‘Only the day before yesterday, Matthew said it was still there, being caulked!’ he shouted, as his clerk cowered.

‘Well, it’s gone now,’ said Gwyn stoically. ‘The point is, did Matthew know it had sailed when he claimed the Germans could have confirmed he was with them that day? We’ll probably never know.’ Now Gwyn had gone out, leaving de Wolfe to fret about who had really employed Oswin as an assassin, and to fume at being outwitted by Robert Courteman and the sheriff.

He felt sure that money had changed hands to secure Peter Jordan’s rapid release from Stigand’s prison cell. Not only had the older lawyer wished to save his son-in-law’s neck, but the part of the legacy from the Knapman tin empire due to Peter would greatly improve the security of Courteman’s daughter. It would be well worth passing a heavy purse to de Revelle for the lad’s release: a hanged felon’s family could never benefit under the will of his victim. The more he thought about it, the more the coroner came to believe that de Revelle was up to his corrupt tricks again — but the realisation that he could prove nothing made de Wolfe’s sullen anger all the more intense.

He sat glowering in the dank chamber with Thomas, who hardly dared to breathe and tried to make his quill scratch less loudly as he wrote. After a time, they heard Gwyn’s heavy feet tramping up the stairs towards them, and de Wolfe prepared to vent his bad temper on the Cornishman for his prolonged absence.

When Gwyn pushed through the sacking curtain over the doorway, his beefy face wore a wide smile. ‘What are you grinning at?’ snapped de Wolfe peevishly.

Undaunted by the cool reception, Gwyn continued to beam and the clerk slid down further on his stool in anticipation of a grand row between the pair. ‘I’ve just come from the Black Cock,’ announced the officer.

‘So? I can find some work for you, if all you’ve to do is drink ale.’

‘From the gossip I heard there, I think you should stop supping at the Plough or the Golden Hind and go back to drinking at the Bush.’

The coroner looked up suspiciously at his henchman from under his beetling brows.

‘If I was you, Crowner, I’d take a stroll down to Idle Lane — you may find things have changed a bit there.’

Before the Compline bell had tolled, de Wolfe was in the Bush Inn, hunched at his favourite table with Nesta sitting opposite. An empty ale pot stood in front him, but old Edwin stayed well out of earshot, thanks to a glare from the landlady that would have soured milk.

‘Did the bastard take much?’ John asked fiercely.

‘About five marks’ worth of silver pennies — and Molly, the second cook-maid,’ said Nesta grimly.

De Wolfe resisted his need to discover if Alan of Lyme had also stolen the landlady’s honour. Cautiously, he looked across at Nesta, unsure of her mood. He had hurried down to the inn after Gwyn had relayed the tavern gossip, eager for Nesta to fall across his breast and sob out her repentance. But he realised now, knowing her as he did, that he should have had different expectations. Instead, he found her dry-eyed and sad-faced, with a grim determination about her that made her remaining staff wary of what they said in her presence.

‘Am I welcome to return here for my ale and victuals?’ he asked gently.

Nesta stared back at him, her crossed arms gripping her shoulders, as if protecting her bosom from the evils of the world, which came mainly in the shape of men.

‘You are a Norman knight, sir. You can do what you wish in this city,’ she replied — rather incongruously, as they were speaking Welsh, the language of the Normans’, major adversaries in these islands.

De Wolfe’s temper, never far below the surface, twitched at this. ‘Lady, what answer is that? You are my best friend, to say the least.’

Nesta sighed, and her shoulders sagged. ‘John, there’s no future for us, is there? This dalliance with Alan, swine that he was, came from frustration — or desperation.’

He stared blankly at her, uncomprehending in his masculine simplicity. ‘But we’ve been content, Nesta, you and I together this past year and more.’

She smiled bleakly at him. ‘Content? You may have been content, John, having a warm welcome and a warm body to visit whenever you felt so inclined, a haven for a few hours from a nagging wife. Then you could return to your grand house and your life as a Norman knight and a great law officer.’

His long, brooding face regarded her with astonishment. Astute as a coroner, courageous in a fight, he was still a simpleton when it came to matters of the heart. ‘But surely we can put what happened behind us, woman — forget that scheming bastard ever existed and take up where we were before.’ Some kindly spirit prevented him from adding, ‘I forgive you,’ which had been on the tip of his tongue.

Nesta reached out across the table and patted the back of his hand, more like a mother with a son than a mistress with a recent lover. ‘I can put Alan behind me well enough, John — but what am I to do with you? I have twenty-eight years to look back on, and how many to look forward to? And with whom?’

‘If I was free, I would marry you tomorrow,’ blurted John, with a gallantry safely guarded by an indissoluble marriage.

‘I’m sure you truly think you would, good man,’ she replied sadly.

De Wolfe shook his head desperately, like a tethered bull tormented by dogs.

‘What’s the problem, then? What am I to do for you?’ he asked.

‘Do? There’s nothing to do, John. You are ever welcome here, for the best food and ale in Exeter.’ Her eyes flicked to the wide steps that led to the upper floor as if to say, ‘But not up there.’

They talked a little longer, in lower tones as the inn began to fill with customers, many of whom grew flapping ears when they saw Nesta and de Wolfe together again. But their conversation seemed to grow more stilted, as if a barrier was slowly descending between them, like a portcullis over a gate.

When one of the maids called her away to attend to some urgent problem in the kitchen hut, John rose slowly and, with dragging feet, walked to the door. As he left he, too, looked at the ladder up to Nesta’s room and his French bed, wondering what had gone on up there during the past few weeks.

Sadly, he decided it was one of the things he was never destined to know, along with the true identity of Walter Knapman’s killer.

Footnotes

Chapter Four

¹ now Preston Street.

Chapter Seven

¹ now Gandy Lane.

Chapter Fifteen

¹ This Commission materialised in 1198, when William de Wrotham became Sheriff and Lord Warden