At last, Cecilia joined the conversation. ‘How could someone move a body across the city without being seen?’ she asked. Her voice was low and pleasant, her Norman-French perfect. Though John knew that they could both speak good English – and no doubt the physician was fluent in Latin – Matilda insisted on always speaking French in the house. Though she was born in Devon and had lived all her life there, apart from a couple of trips to distant relatives in Normandy, she insisted on ‘playing the Norman’ on the strength of her de Revelle ancestors.
‘There are plenty of back alleys and, at night, few people about, except around the taverns,’ answered Cecilia’s husband. ‘Maybe you will never find the culprit, though Almighty God knows and will bring him to his proper reckoning when the Great Trump sounds!’ he added piously.
John was more forthright. ‘It must have been possible to move him, for indeed it happened!’ he declared. ‘The dead man was a thin old fellow; he could have been carried quite easily. And for all we know, there might have been more than one assailant.’
Matilda was becoming increasingly fractious at the choice of subject. She wanted to talk of churches, priests and well-known citizens of her acquaintance.
‘Do you have to bring your loathsome work home with you, John?’ she snapped. ‘I’m sure the doctor here does not weary his wife with tales from the sickbed!’
Cecilia smiled faintly but said nothing in response, leaving it to the others to guess whether her husband discussed his patients’ problems with her. However, John was not going to be sidetracked by Matilda, for he needed some information.
‘Doctor Clement, these outbreaks of the yellow plague,’ he began, topping up his guest’s goblet. ‘Have you experience of them elsewhere? There has not been such a murrain for many years, though it seems that some older people recollect them.’
Clement considered this as he sipped his wine. ‘I have never seen this yellow variety, where the bodily humours are stained with bile,’ he admitted. ‘There are many sorts of fever, as everyone knows, and some seem to pass easily from person to person. But this present ailment is outside my experience.’
‘You know there has been an outbreak in the city, with five dead already?’
The physician nodded. ‘I had heard that, but they were down in the poorer area of the town, I understand. Where living conditions are bad, then it seems that whatever poison causes it can spread more easily.’
‘Is there nothing that can be done to limit the spread of this sickness?’ demanded John. ‘With more than four thousand people crammed inside these walls, there could be devastation!’
The physician raised his hands helplessly. ‘As no one knows the cause or how it is spread, what can we do? I think the power of prayer is our only defence. We must throw ourselves on the mercy of God the Father and His Blessed Son and Virgin Mother.’
At this, the doctor crossed himself, reminding de Wolfe of his clerk’s almost obsessional habit – and confirming the fact that Clement of Salisbury was an extremely devout man. Matilda growled in agreement and imitated the physician by making the sign of the cross herself. John noted that Cecilia said nothing and did not join them in their fervent religious gestures.
‘I have heard the plague being blamed on an excess of rats about the place, as is more common in slums like Bretayne,’ he persisted, doggedly determined to squeeze any useful information out of this professional man. Again, he failed to get any satisfaction, for Clement replied that though it was possible, these distempers could arise anywhere, whether there were rats or not. As without exception those ubiquitous vermin were everywhere, this was hardly useful. Even in this house, old Brutus caught at least one every day, usually in the kitchen or yard, but sometimes in this very hall.
Mary came in with the first ‘remove’ of the meal, balancing a tray heaped with food. Matilda, with a scowl at her husband to get him out of his chair, conducted her guests to the long table of dark oak and sat them together on a side bench, while she and John took the one opposite. He promptly rose again to fetch a pitcher of different wine from a side table, and while he was refilling his looted glasses Mary began placing dishes on the table. For a small gathering like this, there were only three removes and each consisted of three dishes, from which the diners could choose what they wanted. Again, Matilda had insisted on using pewter plates instead of the usual trenchers of thick bread. There were horn spoons at each place, but everyone also used the small eating-knife they always carried, together with their fingers. There were bowls of lavender-scented water on the table, together with napkins to wipe their hands. Mary was an excellent cook, though she received nothing but grumbles and criticisms from her mistress. This evening, she had started with pastries filled with beef marrow, a large platter of boiled mutton slices and a brewet of veal pieces with a spiced sauce of pounded crayfish tails.
The physician seemed very fond of his food, and his eyes lit up at the sight of the cook-maid’s efforts. ‘A most attractive menu,’ he enthused as he helped his wife to slices of mutton and a couple of the small pastries.
‘She does her best, poor girl,’ said Matilda deprecatingly, which was an insult to Mary’s prowess, especially as she had to cook everything with the primitive facilities of the shed in the yard, which was also her sleeping quarters.
Eating took precedence over conversation, and the food rapidly vanished. The brewet of veal was especially popular, the sauce being provided in small dishes at each place, into which the diners dipped their right little finger to spread upon the meat. Before the harassed Mary could bring in the next course, there was time for more talk and Clement expounded upon his medical practice.
‘Salisbury was too small to contain an ambitious doctor like me,’ he declaimed. ‘I needed to offer myself to a wider clientele, and Exeter is famed for its burgeoning prosperity.’
‘My husband has a chamber in Goldsmith Street where patients can consult him,’ offered Cecilia, delicately wiping sauce from her finger with a linen cloth. ‘Already he has a substantial practice.’
‘Entirely among the better class of citizen, of course,’ added Clement. Matilda murmured her approval, but John was determined to put a brake upon the doctor’s conceit.
‘Perhaps you could spare some of your undoubted talents to helping the less fortunate as well,’ he suggested. ‘I’m sure that Brother Saulf at St John’s Hospital would welcome your expertise with some of his poor sufferers down there.’
The physician put on a doleful expression. ‘I would like to do that; it would no doubt be an act of Christian charity,’ he said sententiously. ‘But unfortunately my practice is growing so rapidly that I would have little time to spare – but I will try to assist them when circumstances allow.’
He went on to speak more honestly. ‘Also, I fear that my patients, who come from the higher levels of county society, might not look with favour on the possibility of my carrying contagion to them from the legion of ailments from which the poorer classes suffer.’
Matilda nodded in agreement, but de Wolfe again noticed that Cecilia made no effort to support her husband’s selfish attitude.
‘So you also wish to keep well clear of any victims of this yellow distemper?’ observed John with a harder edge to his voice, which made his wife glare at him.
The elegant doctor made a deprecating gesture. ‘What purpose would it serve? There is nothing I or anyone else can do to help. As I said, it is in the hands of God, whose ways are mysterious.’
Any developing dispute was avoided by Mary returning with a large platter of grilled trout and a dish of capons’ legs, which the diners seized upon with relish. The cook-maid took away used dishes and returned with a pudding of rice boiled in milk with saffron and raisins, together with fresh bread, butter and cheese. All this occupied them for a further hour, including John’s further ministrations with a wineskin of white Loire and a flask of strong brandy-wine. When they eventually left for their short walk home, the physician seemed a little unsteady
on his feet, but nonetheless effusive with his appreciation of their hospitality. John thought somewhat cynically that his excessive zeal for religion did not diminish his fondness for good food and drink. Cecilia also thanked them, less enthusiastically, but quite charmingly, for their kindness, and for once Matilda was smiling smugly as they at last said their farewells to their guests at the front door. The moment it closed, however, her amiable mask slipped immediately.
‘It would have been a perfect occasion tonight but for your constant ogling of that poor lady!’ she snapped. ‘Cecilia is too refined and genteel to have men like you lusting after her.’
As she turned away from him to lumber off towards the solar and her bed, John felt his fingers aching to settle around her fleshy neck, to release him for ever from her mean-spirited nature.
CHAPTER THREE
In which Crowner John talks
to an archdeacon
Soon after a grey November dawn, when the cathedral bells were ringing for Prime, the coroner made another call upon the sheriff and brought him up to date with the events surrounding the bizarre killing of Nicholas Budd. Then he went across to his chamber in the gatehouse, where he found Gwyn and Thomas huddled over the brazier. The wind had dropped outside, and it was marginally warmer but still miserable.
‘A lot to do today,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘We’ve got the Shire Court first, though that should be disposed of quickly. Then there are hangings to attend out on Magdalen Street as well as this murder to pursue.’ As he stood rubbing his hands above the charcoal glowing in the iron bucket, he sensed that Thomas was itching to say something.
‘I went down yesterday to attend the burial of those poor souls in Bretayne,’ said the clerk with a return of the slight stutter which afflicted him when he was excited. ‘I saw something curious.’
John frowned at him. ‘You’re a devil for danger, Thomas!’ he said sternly. ‘First at Lympstone, now here in Exeter. I would be very sad if you took in whatever noxious vapour causes this plague.’
‘And I’d be sorrier still if you brought it back to us!’ grumbled Gwyn, thinking of his family.
The little priest shook his head stubbornly. ‘God will protect me. I was afraid that those people might have been buried without so much as a prayer, let alone a proper shriving.’
‘And were they?’ demanded de Wolfe.
Thomas looked a little abashed. ‘No, as it happens. The old priest from St Bartholomew’s was there, God bless his soul. He was sober enough to say a few words as they threw the bodies into the pit.’
‘So what was this that aroused your curiosity?’ asked John.
The clerk ran a finger over the tip of his sharp nose to remove a dewdrop. ‘For some reason, maybe shortage of cloth in that poverty-ridden place, the bodies were not fully covered. Their heads were sticking out from the rags that passed for shrouds.’
De Wolfe sighed, for Thomas was catching Gwyn’s habit of spinning out every tale.
‘I noticed that four out of the five were as yellow as French lemons, as was to be expected. But the oldest man was still lily-white.’
The coroner and his officer digested this for a moment.
‘And you think that has some meaning?’ asked Gwyn.
‘Well, if this was a plague pit for those who perished from the yellow curse, why wasn’t he yellow?’ said Thomas defensively.
‘Are you suggesting that he might have died from something else?’ said John.
The clerk shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘It bears thinking about! It would be a good way to get rid of a murdered corpse, putting it in with plague victims, now that they are no longer coroner’s business.’
Crafty Thomas knew that this would pique his master, who was jealous of his duty to investigate all suspicious deaths.
‘Well, it’s too late to look into it now,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘He’s six feet under a layer of quicklime and soil by now.’
‘We could get him dug up again,’ retorted de Wolfe.
‘I doubt any labourer would risk shovelling out a plague pit, even for extra wages,’ said Gwyn. ‘Especially on such flimsy evidence as the colour of his face.’
John had to agree, but he was reluctant to let the issue drop. ‘We must enquire about how he died, but first find out who he was.’
‘I already know that, Crowner. I made enquiries on the spot. He was Vincente d’Estcote, from down near the town wall, opposite the Snail Tower. A fellow of fifty-five, an impoverished porter who carried mainly for the fulling mills on Exe Island. He lodged with the family that died and was found dead in the house with them. No one cared about the circumstances; they were too concerned to get them out and buried before the contagion spread.’
Once again, de Wolfe marvelled at the resourcefulness of his clerk, who was worth far more than the three pence a day he was paid for his work.
‘This dreadful killing in Raden Lane must be our first priority, but later we must find out more about the death of this fellow,’ he commanded.
After attending the single case of declaring outlawry held in the Shire Hall, a bleak barn-like building in the inner ward of the castle, they walked down Castle Hill and across to St John’s Priory, tucked away just inside the city wall, which had been built by the Romans, neglected by the Saxons and restored by the Normans.
It was a small Benedictine house, with just a prior and three brothers, devoted to caring for the sick and in schooling a few local children. The only ward was a large room with a row of straw mattresses on the floor down each side, dominated by a large wooden crucifix on the end wall, confirming Clement of Salisbury’s claim that God was the only real healer of bodies and souls.
They found Brother Saulf there, a tall, gaunt monk who acted as hospitaller. He had had some medical training in Flanders before entering the cloister and had been very helpful to the coroner on several occasions. Saulf led them around to the back of the tiny priory, where a small shed stood in the shadow of the ancient city wall. Functioning as a store for stretchers and old furniture as well as a mortuary, it now sheltered the corpse of Nicholas Budd, which lay on the ground covered with a sheet. Gwyn pulled it back and they looked down at a face now cleaned of all the blood and clot that had obscured it the previous day. His open eyes stared up glassily and his lips were distorted by the havoc that a knife had wreaked inside his mouth. Grey hair and stubble marked him as being probably in his fifties.
The monk bent down and picked up something wrapped in a rag from alongside the cadaver. ‘This is his tongue and throat parts,’ he said, unrolling the bloodstained cloth. ‘It should be buried with the body, for decency’s sake.’
Gwyn poked at it with a finger, while Thomas contrived to look elsewhere. ‘Must have been a damned sharp knife, Crowner,’ he observed. ‘Clean cuts, very little ragged edges.’
‘I try to heal bodies, rather than disordered minds,’ said Saulf gravely. ‘But I would have thought that whoever did this was making retribution for something that this poor man had said.’
De Wolfe stared thoughtfully at the Benedictine. ‘You suggest that cutting out the tongue and voice-box, the organs of speech, might mean that the victim had caused offence?’
‘Must have been a bit more serious than just telling him to bugger off!’ offered Gwyn facetiously.
They examined the body carefully, but apart from the wound on the head there was nothing else of significance. The scrip on his belt contained four pence and a tarnished medallion of St Christopher. The fingers were slightly callused and had some small healing cuts, consistent with his work as a woodcarver. The monk pulled the sheet back over the body when they had finished. ‘What happens now?’ he asked. ‘Did he have any relatives that will attend to his burial?’
De Wolfe straightened his back and moved away from the corpse. ‘We will have to make enquiries at his home, then I will have to hold an inquest. I will let you know about disposing of the body as soon as I can.’ He offered a dozen pennies to Saulf, which the monk gratefull
y received as a donation to the funds of the hard-pressed hospital, then left with his two assistants. They made their way down to Curre Street, which was one of the small lanes that led from the High Street towards the North Gate. It was lined with a mixture of houses and tenements, varying in size and shape, some with shopfronts and others being the work premises of various crafts. They found Osric outside a cordwainer’s shop, talking to the owner.
‘I was just asking about Nicholas Budd, Crowner,’ the town constable explained. ‘His workshop is next door, and this man says that Nicholas was at home the day before yesterday, but he’s not seen him since.’
‘Kept himself to himself, did Budd,’ volunteered the shoemaker. ‘Nice enough fellow, but very quiet. Lived alone, can’t say as if I’ve ever heard of him speak of family. Certainly, he never had no visitors here.’
There was no more to be learned, and Osric confirmed that his enquiries elsewhere along the street had been equally barren.
‘Let’s have a look in his house,’ commanded John, pushing open the door, which was unlocked. Nicholas Budd had occupied the ground floor of the small thatched house, the upper storey being used by a family of six who gained access by steps from the backyard. The woodcarver used the front part of his premises for his trade, with two workbenches, stacks of seasoned timber and a rack of tools on the wall. The floor was ankle deep in shavings and offcuts, but beyond a flimsy wattle partition, the rear part of the premises was clean. A firepit, now cold and dead, occupied the centre, and a table, a stool and a blanket-covered palliasse on the floor were the only furniture in Budd’s living quarters. Some food and few pots were on the table, and a small keg of cider stood in one corner.
John sent Gwyn into the yard to look around and to make enquiries among the people upstairs, while he and Thomas looked around the ground floor. There was little enough to study, and within a couple of minutes they had drawn a blank.
A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 6