‘So why was the poor devil so cruelly mutilated?’ muttered de Wolfe pensively. ‘It seems he had no life other than carving his bloody wood, by the looks of it.’
Thomas nodded, his beady eyes roving around the living room.
‘Not even a cross or a pilgrim’s badge on the wall. Yet something he did must have caused great offence to someone.’
Gwyn came down to report that the goodwife upstairs had not heard her neighbour since the day before yesterday. ‘Usually, she hears him sawing and chopping down here. So it looks as if he met his death the night before last.’
‘Did she say anything about relatives who might wish to know of his death – and who might pay for his burial?’ asked John.
Gwyn shook his head, his ginger locks swinging wildly. ‘She knew very little about him, it seems. Thinks he came here from Bristol a couple of years ago. Doesn’t attend any church, which apparently causes offence to some of the neighbours.’
With nothing more to be learned, the trio took themselves off to the castle gatehouse, where they ate some bread and cheese and drank ale mulled with an old sword heated in the brazier.
Thomas was never keen on ale, a great handicap in a world where it was almost the only safe drink, given the dangers of all water, whether drawn from wells, rivers or ditches. However, when heated, Thomas could tolerate it better, though he preferred cider.
‘You must round up a jury for this afternoon, Gwyn,’ said de Wolfe. ‘Osric, Theobald, the lad who found the body and a few folk from Raden Lane who were knocked up by the constables. We’ll look on them “First Finders”, though as usual they’ll know damn all about what happened.’
‘Best add that shoemaker and the woman upstairs from Curre Street,’ said the Cornishman. ‘I wonder if he was in a craft guild – they might pay for his burial expenses?’
‘Who did he work for, I wonder?’ mused de Wolfe. ‘Must be a freeman on his own, I expect. If he carved stuff for churches, maybe my friend the archdeacon might know of him?’
The coroner was correct in this, but not in quite the way he expected.
Some time before noon, John made his way back towards Martin’s Lane for dinner, taking his horse Odin back to the livery stables opposite. He had ridden out to the gallows on Magdalen Street to witness and record the hanging of two thieves and a captured outlaw, a sight which in no way put him off his expected meal. However, on the doorstep he met Mary clutching a basket filled with new bread and a brace of sea fish from the market.
‘Your dinner will be another hour, Sir Coroner,’ she announced firmly. ‘My fire went out, thanks to the damp wood that old fool Simon has been chopping, so I had to relight it.’ In spite of her protests, he tore a chunk off one of the loaves and loped away, chewing the warm bread.
‘I’ll go down to see the archdeacon while I’m waiting,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed for Canon’s Row. This was where some of the prebendaries of the cathedral lived, only a few hundred paces from his house. It lay along the north side of the Close, the large burial ground outside the huge twin-towered church of St Mary and St Peter.
One of the houses was occupied by Canon John de Alençon, one of the four archdeacons of the diocese. An uncle of Thomas de Peyne, he was the one who several years before had prevailed on John to take on the disgraced and penniless priest as his clerk. He was an old friend of the coroner, an ascetic with a strong sense of justice and piety, his only worldly weakness being a love of fine wines. As usual, he offered the coroner a cup of an excellent Anjou red as a preprandial drink. They sat in de Alençon’s study, a spartan room contrasting strongly with the luxurious accommodation beloved of many of the senior churchmen.
‘It’s good to have you back as Exeter’s coroner, John,’ said the archdeacon warmly. ‘But I hear you have already had a distressing problem?’
‘This strange murder up near the East Gate? It’s not every day we get victims with their tongues and throats slashed out.’
‘Who was he? I’ve heard no details of the tragedy.’
John took a sip of the luscious red fluid. ‘That’s partly why I called, to see if you knew of him. He was a carver of devotional objects, so I thought maybe you had had dealings with him.’
De Alençon stared at his friend in surprise. ‘A woodcarver? Surely you can’t mean Nicholas Budd?’
‘You knew him, then? I thought you might and wondered if you could tell me something of him.’
The archdeacon looked suddenly very sombre, his thin face and crinkled grey hair giving him a stern appearance above his black cassock.
‘I can tell you a lot about him, John! In fact, Nicholas was due to get into the public eye very soon, though not in the horrific way you describe.’
De Wolfe placed his wine-cup down carefully on the table. This was far more than he expected and he thought again how often chance ideas turned up vital information. ‘Tell me, then,’ he said, and his friend continued his story.
‘The cathedral chapter and the bishop’s legal deacon have been debating what to do about Budd for some weeks – and only last Friday, several of the canons gave instructions for him to be arraigned before a special court.’
John’s black eyebrows rose. ‘What’s he been up to? Ravishing the nuns at Polsloe?’
His friend ignored his flippancy; this was a serious matter. ‘In the opinion of some of my fellow canons, that would be a trivial offence compared with what they consider his mortal sins. They want him to be tried for heresy.’
‘Heresy? I thought that was something that was known only in France and Germany – not that I know much about it,’ admitted the coroner.
His friend shook his head sadly. ‘I agree that it is not openly evident in England, where thankfully the rule of Rome is rarely challenged. But under the surface there are still those who doubt or even strongly dispute the right of the Church to be the only channel of intercession between man and God.’
De Wolfe was neither an educated person nor had he much interest in religion, other than a passive acceptance of the inflexible dominance of the Church, instilled into everyone from childhood. He was more interested to know why Nicholas Budd had had his throat torn out.
‘So what has this woodworker been doing, to bring down the wrath of your chapter upon him?’
The archdeacon sighed. ‘It was not what he was doing, John, but what he was saying. One of the proctors’ bailiffs heard Budd talking to a group of labourers on the quayside, dispensing the usual nonsense about every man being his own salvation. The proctor told one of my colleagues and he began a crusade against this man.’
He paused to sip his wine and sighed again. ‘I’m afraid the matter has escalated since then, as this canon found supporters for his views and has forced the chapter to take the matter to the bishop. It is difficult for me, as I admit to not having such strong feelings about the issue as some of my colleagues.’
The archdeacon paused to top up John’s cup before continuing. ‘Somewhat to my discomfort, I am the one who will have to deal with this matter, as the bishop appointed me as his vicar-general. Unlike some other dioceses, the bishop here has no chancellor to deal with such administrative and disciplinary matters.’
‘But I thought that the chapter dealt with such things?’ objected John, to whom the labyrinthine workings of the Church were a mystery.
De Alençon shook his grey head. ‘It has been traditional for the archdeacon of the see to be given this duty. In fact, we are sometimes called the oculus episcopi, “the eye of the bishop” – which does not increase my popularity with my brother canons, who sometimes suspect me of being Henry Marshal’s spy!’
De Wolfe looked at the priest from under lowered brows. ‘I get the feeling that you are not as enthusiastic as your brothers about pursuing this man?’
‘I am not, John. Our Church has been plagued by such critics since its early days in Rome. Then they posed a more serious threat, but stern measures over the centuries have repulsed them until, certainly in this coun
try, they are mere irritations like the fleas and lice in our hair.’
‘I have heard somewhere that in the south of France there are many who challenge the supremacy of the Roman Church,’ said de Wolfe.
‘That is true. That area has always been full of strange beliefs, such as claiming that the Holy Mother herself fled there with Mary Magdalene – ludicrous, when everyone knows that after the Crucifixion she went to Ephesus to live out her days near St John.’
The coroner did not know that, but he failed to see the relevance. ‘Are they not called after the town of Albi?’ he asked as he stood up to leave. ‘I once rode through there to get to some campaign in Toulouse.’
De Alençon nodded. ‘The Albigensians, sometimes called the Cathars. They might pose a threat one day and will have to be dealt with, but I doubt we have many adherents in Devon.’ He finished his wine and saw his friend to the door. ‘If you want to know more, get my nephew Thomas to give you a lecture! He’s always keen to show off his knowledge.’
As they stood on the doorstep, John had a final question. ‘What will happen to this enquiry now that Budd is dead?’
John de Alençon shrugged. ‘No doubt it will be dropped, as Canon fitz Rogo can hardly press for the prosecution of a corpse.’
With much more to think about than when he came, the coroner left the cathedral precinct and went home to Mary’s grilled fish.
The inquest on the woodcarver that afternoon was a brief and unhelpful formality. For convenience, John held it in the yard behind St John’s, adjacent to the ramshackle mortuary. Gwyn had assembled a dozen men and older boys for a jury, which included anyone who might be of use as a witness. The enquiry had to be held with a viewing of the corpse, so Gwyn had lifted it out of the shed and laid it gently on the ground. He left the sheet over it for as long as possible, but at some stage the dreadful wound had to be displayed to the jurymen.
There was virtually no audience – different from the usual inquest in a village, when everyone turned out to gawp at a novelty that livened their dull lives. Rather to John’s surprise, there was one unexpected onlooker, his friend and partner Hugh de Relaga, dressed in his usual colourful costume, in spite of the sombre occasion.
‘What brings you here, Hugh?’ asked de Wolfe, taking him aside just before he began the procedure.
‘I represent the guilds, John. We were told of this poor man’s death and that he has no known family. We shall look after his funeral and see that his property is safeguarded, if he has any.’
Each trade had its guild, which not only regulated the quality of goods, fixed their prices, controlled working conditions and prevented unfair competition but acted as a friendly society for members, looking after widows and children in times of hardship.
‘Did you know anything of this particular man?’ asked John.
De Relaga’s chubby face was framed by a bright green coif, a tight-fitting helmet of linen, tied under his chin with tapes. He looked like some woodland elf, John thought, but it was an effective protection against the cold east wind that had arisen.
‘Not personally, as obviously he was in a different guild from mine,’ he answered. ‘But the warden of the woodworkers who told me of this tragedy this morning said that he had been a very devout man and worthy of all our help.’
The coroner thought it best not to disillusion his friend of the direction of Budd’s devotion and moved off to conduct his inquest. Gwyn bellowed his call to order and the jury shuffled into a line facing the coroner. Thomas set up his parchment, pen and ink on the back of a handcart, as far away from the corpse as possible, ready to transcribe the proceedings for future presentation to the royal justices when they arrived for the next Eyre of Assize.
John first called the lad who had discovered the body, who seemed quite unaffected by the gruesome experience. Osric and Theobald told how they had been called, and Gwyn in turn reported that all enquiries so far had found no witnesses to the killing. Nicholas Budd had worked alone, so that there was not even a journeyman or an apprentice to offer any evidence about his habits, mental state or even when he had last been seen alive. The woman from above Budd’s workshop was the only one who could state that the carver had been heard two evenings before, but she had nothing else to offer.
Finally, Gwyn paraded the reluctant jurors past the cadaver, demonstrating the neck wound and offering the severed tongue and voice-box to them, in the manner of a butcher trying to sell offal to a housewife. When they were back in line, a few shades paler in the face, de Wolfe harangued them to obtain a verdict, though in fact giving them little choice.
‘This is a preliminary enquiry, so that the law may allow the deceased man to be buried,’ he snapped, glaring along the row of faces. ‘The verdict is yours, but it seems unavoidable that you must find that Nicholas Budd was foully murdered. It cannot be an accident and I doubt he would have cut out his own throat and then laid it carefully on a stone beside him!’
He pulled his wolfskin cloak more tightly around him as an icy gust swept through the yard. Then he stabbed a finger towards the largest man in the jury, a bruiser of a fellow who wore the bloodstained apron of a slaughterman.
‘I appoint you foreman, so consult your fellows and give me your verdict.’
He didn’t actually add ‘And be damned quick about it’, but the message was there and within a brief moment the man from The Shambles turned back to mumble their agreement that the woodcarver had been slain by persons unknown.
‘When I get further information I may need to reconvene this inquest, but until then you may all go about your business.’
When they had shuffled away, Gwyn covered up the corpse and put it back into the mortuary until Hugh de Relaga sent men to collect it. John took his friend the portreeve aside.
‘I don’t know what plans you have for a funeral, but I would advise you to keep clear of the cathedral,’ he murmured.
The portreeve immediately pressed him for an explanation, but John held up his hand. ‘I can’t explain now, but suffice to say that it would be best if you have him buried in one of the smaller churches. Better still, go out to one of the nearby country parishes. He has no relatives, so it will make no difference.’ He clapped a hand on the shoulder of his mystified friend and made his way back to Rougemont.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked the sheriff. ‘If it was an ordinary killing, some knife fight in a tavern or a robbery with violence, we could arrest everyone within sight and beat it out of them. But with these secret murders, we never seem to get anywhere.’
De Wolfe was amused at the ‘we’, as Henry de Furnellis rarely stirred himself to go hunting miscreants. He was sheriff for the second time, reluctantly coming back after John’s brother-in-law had been ignominiously deprived of office. Now over sixty, he wanted a quiet life and was looking forward to someone else being appointed in his place.
‘Surely this heretic business must be involved?’ boomed the third man in the sheriff’s chamber. ‘Why else would someone want to cut the poor bastard’s throat out, if he was just an inoffensive woodworker?’
This was Ralph Morin, the castle constable, a man as big as Gwyn, looking like one of his Viking ancestors with his forked beard. Rougemont had always been a royal possession, ever since the castle was built by the Conqueror, and Morin, as castellan and commander of the garrison, was responsible directly to the king.
De Wolfe nodded, as he reached for the inevitable cup of wine, dispensed by Henry. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Ralph. But I have a lot of digging to do before I can find out why.’
‘The archdeacon said that a few of the canons were after this fellow, so are you going to tackle them about it?’ asked the sheriff.
John nodded. ‘I’ll start this very day,’ he promised. ‘Though if I know these snooty clergy, they’ll be reluctant to even give me the time of day. They always shelter behind the power of the bishop or some such excuse.’
‘Is he buried yet?’ queried the castellan.
‘Being put down this afternoon, I think. Probably in St Bartholomew’s, where they disposed of those plague victims.’
De Furnellis looked across at John from his seat behind his table. ‘There were five more deaths in Topsham last night,’ he said sombrely. ‘I hope by Christ and all His Blessed Saints that we get no more in the city. Did you get any help from that doctor last night?’
‘He was as much use as my hound! Less, in fact, as Brutus can at least catch a few rats if he shifts himself.’
‘You think rats might be a cause?’ asked Morin. ‘I’m afraid of them getting among my garrison. The unmarried soldiers all live close together in the barrack-halls, and if one gets a cough or running nose they all get it.’
‘Get a few dogs in, Ralph, and get rid of any rats,’ advised John. ‘God knows if they are anything to do with the yellow plague, but according to this bloody doctor I’ve got next door the only prevention is prayer!’
Morin threw down the last of his wine and stood up. ‘Apart from Exeter itself, the other cases have been in Lympstone, Dartmouth and now Topsham. They’re all ports, so maybe there is something in this allegation that bloody sailors are bringing it in.’
‘Well, we can’t stop them coming – and half of them are Devon ship-men who live here,’ countered Henry.
When the castellan had gone, Henry looked quizzically at de Wolfe. ‘I gather you were not too impressed by your new neighbour?’
John gave one of his all-purpose grunts. ‘Thinks too much of himself for my taste. He’s only interested in the sound of coins jingling in his purse and preaching at everyone about the power of God! Told me to my face that he won’t help out at St John’s or go near the plague sufferers in case it affects his trade with the high-paying patients.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘But he’s got a most desirable wife!’
Henry, knowing his friend of old, clucked his tongue. ‘Now, John, none of that! You’ve got enough problems as it is. Stick to hunting criminals and having a trip to Dawlish now and then.’
It was good advice, and de Wolfe decided to take it. He was overdue for a visit to his family in Stoke-in-Teignhead and Dawlish was on the same road.
A Plague of Heretics (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 7