The Manor of Death

by Bernard Knight

  From here his thoughts wandered on to the linked problems of Nesta and the royal command to leave Exeter. Here, he felt confused and uncertain, as there were too many unknowns for him to see any clear pathway through the maze of possibilities. He loved Nesta, but did she still love him? Was her fondness for him cooling, given her oft-repeated conviction that they could never live together? Was this new factor, the Welshman, a real threat or just a product of his own latent jealousy? And hovering on the margins of his consciousness was the slim figure of his childhood sweetheart and first lover, the elegant Hilda. He was almost afraid to think of her, for fear that he would admit to himself how much he desired her, even though he loved Nesta.

  John knew he would soon have to go down to Dawlish to talk to one of his shipmasters about using the St Radegund for his trap - and he knew that, when he did, the temptation to visit Hilda again would be irresistible.

  He hauled his naked body over in the bed with a groan, his head swirling with all these imponderables. As he tried to sleep, his final debate with himself was about moving to London. Would this really be just a trial period or would he never live in Devon again? His mother, sister and brother were not many miles away in Stoke, so how many times would he see them again in this life? In spite of his reassurances to Mary, would he keep his house here? His partnership in the wool trade was no problem - Hugh de Relaga would continue to administer that, as he had done all along - and it seemed that Gwyn and Thomas were resigned to going with him. But what of Nesta - and even Hilda, he dared think? How much of his familiar life would survive the desires of his king? John de Wolfe was a doer, not a thinker, and the effort of juggling these sudden complications in his life made his head ache. Mercifully, sleep eventually overtook him, and in spite of all the problems it was a dreamless coma until the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the shutters.

  Next morning saw a number of new cases that needed the coroner's attention, a welcome diversion from his worries. An alleged rape in St Sidwell's, a man stabbed to death in a brawl in the Saracen Inn, the lowest drinking house in the city, and a rotten body fished out of the river at Exe Island occupied the coroner's trio until the evening.

  However, with nothing remaining to be dealt with the following day, in the early morning de Wolfe and his staff were once more in the saddle, a place never much appreciated by Thomas. John had decided that they needed at least a week or two to set up their trap and allow the rumours to be spread around Devon. In the meantime he decided to visit the Prior of Loders, the manor-lord of Axmouth. After meeting Brother Absalom, John was suspicious about his activities on the Axmouth scene. He claimed to be the assistant to the priory cellarer, the obedientiary responsible for the material needs of a religious house. John had taken an instant dislike to the man. Though such aversions were nothing new for de Wolfe, he wanted to see Loders for himself and gauge how Absalom fitted into the picture.

  So once again they were traversing the east of the county, taking the whole morning to reach Axmouth, where they received a frosty reception. The surly landlord of the Harbour Inn grudgingly provided poor rye-and-barley bread with cheese that tasted as if it had been buried in the village midden for a week.

  'My mare passes better ale than this stuff,' growled Gwyn, grimacing over his jug. Thomas, who refused anything other than a slice of bread, asked his master why they had called yet again at Axmouth. 'We seem to learn less at each visit, Crowner,' he complained.

  'As we are on the way to Loders, we might as well show our faces here, to show them that we have them under our eye,' replied de Wolfe. 'If I could only catch them out in even one misdemeanour, we could drag them back to Rougemont and shake them a little to see what fell out.'

  With this ominous threat, which was largely wishful thinking, they left their poor meal and walked their mounts along the river's edge towards the sea, looking at the vessels tied up there. It was low tide, and five cogs were sitting on the stony mud, leaning against the bank. Three of them were loading wool, a line of men carrying bales on their backs from the warehouses opposite, to trot up the tilted gangplanks.

  'That Tiger is not here again,' growled Gwyn as they reached the end of the line of ships. 'Her master seems to be avoiding us, though I suppose that's just chance.'

  The coroner was also sorry that Martin Rof, the villainous captain, was not around to be questioned - not that he was likely to admit anything useful.

  'Still, we can drop a few hints about our six cases of silver, as long as it's done casually,' he suggested. 'Thomas, you work your charms on that old priest - he looks as if he enjoys a gossip. I'd better not raise the subject myself, but you, Gwyn, could let something slip to that tally-man, what's his name, Capie?'

  They ambled their horses back through the lower gate into the village and tied them up at the rail outside the bailiff's dwelling. While his two assistants went off about their business, de Wolfe strode up the path and banged on the door, which was ajar. Without waiting for a reply, he pushed it open and walked in, to find Edward Northcote bending over a table where Elias Palmer was wielding a quill pen over a roll of parchment. Both men turned to face the coroner, but their greeting was anything but welcoming.

  'We heard that you and your men had ridden through our village,' snapped Northcote. 'What do you want with us this time?'

  Though there was an undercurrent of insolence in his voice, it was muted.

  'I want nothing particular, but wish to keep an eye on this manor,' growled de Wolfe. 'I would remind you that a young man was cruelly murdered here and no progress has been made in finding his killer. Neither has your attitude helped my investigation.'

  'We have nothing to tell you, Crowner,' replied the bailiff stubbornly. 'You seem unwilling to accept that it was but some violent act of drunken shipmen.'

  De Wolfe scowled at the man. 'I have information that suggests otherwise. There is also the matter of the deaths of a Keeper of the Peace and of a pedlar, both of which have features that point in this direction.'

  'I don't know what you are talking about, sir!' said Northcote doggedly.

  John glowered at him, then shifted his gaze to Elias. 'What is that you are writing, portreeve?' he asked suspiciously.

  'Merely a list of the cargo taken from one of those cogs down at the quayside. I am entering the items that John Capie has recorded on his tallies.' He pointed to a collection of knotted cords and notched sticks that lay on the table.

  Knowing that he was unable to challenge what Elias said, John wished that Thomas was here to check on the document. Frustrated, he changed the subject. 'I see that ship on which the dead boy Simon sailed is not in the harbour?'

  'The Tiger? No, she sailed some days ago for Barfleur. Martin Rof will bring her back in a few days' time,' volunteered the portreeve, whose attitude was less resentful than that of the bailiff.

  De Wolfe felt that he was uneasy and slightly apprehensive when in the presence of the coroner. 'Has that monkish fellow from Loders been here recently?' demanded de Wolfe, determined to keep the pressure up and convince the Axmouth people that he was watching every move they made.

  'Of course. He is the prior's envoy here, he comes once a week,' said Northcote stiffly. 'I don't know what you could want with him, but if you had come yesterday you would have seen him here.'

  'No matter. I will be at the priory this afternoon. I can discuss his functions with the prior,' said John smugly and was gratified to see the other two exchange worried glances.

  John gave a final suspicious glare at Northcote and Elias and made his way back to his horse. As he waited for his assistants, he looked past the cottages on the other side of the village street to the wide expanse of the estuary, where a stiff onshore breeze was skipping wavelets far up the valley towards Colyford. Beyond the water, the countryside was a patchwork of bright green pastures, brown strip-fields and darker forest, all sloping up inland towards Axminster and Honiton. Above the village, the high ridge south of Hawkesdown Hill was covere
d in dense woodland running out towards the cliff at the end of the headland at the open sea. It was a pleasant place, and he hoped that soon any evil that lurked there would be driven out. He also realised with a pang of nostalgia that he would miss this Devon countryside when he moved to London.

  When Gwyn and then Thomas reappeared, they said little until they were well clear of the village, heading inland for a short way until they turned up at Boshill Cross on to the steep track over the ridge towards Lyme.

  Thomas was the first to report. 'I managed to insinuate to Father Henry that you had come back today because you were concerned about piracy in the area, given that a cargo of coin was soon to sail, taking the army's pay to Rouen. I swore him to secrecy, which means that he will blab every word about before supper!'

  Gwyn guffawed at his little friend's duplicity. 'I was a bit less forthright with John Capie. I dropped into the conversation something about my going up to Taunton with some troops to collect something valuable that was soon being shipped out of Exeter.'

  John nodded his approval. 'We need to put similar hints about the city when we get back. Gwyn, you can do it in the alehouses and again Thomas can seed it amongst the clergy. God knows, they are the biggest gossips in England!'

  The Priory of Loders was just beyond the small town of Bridport in Dorset. As the town was not on the actual coast, its name came from the use of the word 'port' for a market, and it was here that de Wolfe decided to stop for the night, as the day was now well advanced and he did not think that they would be all that welcome as guests at Loders. They found a moderately respectable-looking tavern and the coroner bought them all a penny-worth of bed and board, which consisted of supper and a straw-filled sack in a barn-like room behind the alehouse, where they lay wrapped in their riding cloaks.

  In spite of the austere accommodation, John slept like a baby, unlike his tossing and turning of the previous night. He woke refreshed, ready for his breakfast of thin oatmeal gruel and a couple of butter-fried eggs on a thick slab of coarse bread.

  The rest of the journey was short, a mere few miles further east before they reached the small priory, whose Benedictine mother house was in Montebourg in Normandy, just south of Cherbourg.

  As in Polsloe, they had to negotiate with a surly gatekeeper to get into the walled compound, leaving Thomas to wonder how the traditional hospitality to travellers was dispensed, when it seemed so difficult to get inside. Services were still in progress in the priory church, and inevitably Thomas de Peyne vanished inside like a homing pigeon, eager to attend the devotions. The indifferent coroner and his covertly agnostic officer stayed out in the precinct, sprawled on the grass in the spring sunshine, for the weather had improved markedly. There was nothing they could do until the inhabitants of the priory finished the offices of Terce, Sext and Nones, at about the tenth hour. Then a score of monkish figures streamed out of the church, and Thomas came towards them accompanied by a thin priest, whom he introduced as the prior's chaplain and secretary.

  'Prior Robert will see you in his parlour in a few moments,' announced the chaplain in a sepulchral voice.

  'You won't want me,' said Gwyn gruffly, subsiding again on the greensward, confirming his antipathy to those who practised religion. John had never discovered what had caused his attitude, which was potentially dangerous in a society dominated by the Church. He would never have got away with it in a village, but the relative anonymity of a city and the army had allowed his phobia to be ignored.

  De Wolfe beckoned to his clerk, who accompanied him with alacrity as they followed the chaplain across to a side door of the main building, which led to the prior's residence. They climbed a stone staircase and were ushered into a room that was sparsely furnished with a table, a few stools and a large wooden crucifix hanging on a whitewashed wall. It looked as if Prior Robert of Montebourg was as ascetic as John's friend the archdeacon, and if he was profiting in any way from sharp practices in Axmouth then certainly it was not being spent on lavish living.

  Robert was a small man of late middle age, with a rim of grey hair around his shaven tonsure. He had a brooding look, with deep-set eyes and a sharply hooked nose. The black robe of the Benedictine combined with the bare, gloomy appearance of his room oppressed John and made him wish he was still out on the sunlit lawn with Gwyn.

  Robert waved a hand at a stool and invited the coroner to sit. His voice was deeper and more melodious than might be expected from a small and rotund body. His chaplain stood behind him and, taking his cue from that, Thomas placed himself at his master's shoulder.

  'You are the king's coroner for Devon, I understand?' said Robert. 'I am intrigued as to why you should venture into Dorset to seek out a humble prior.'

  'It concerns Axmouth, father, which is within my jurisdiction. I know that the manor and church have belonged to your house since William de Redvers granted it very many years ago.' John had gleaned this information from his knowledgeable clerk.

  Robert looked mildly surprised. 'It is indeed one of the manors that we hold on behalf of the Abbey of Montebourg. What interest can that be to a law officer?'

  'There have been some disturbing occurrences there recently. A young shipman was murdered and his body buried in the village - and I have reason to suspect that the administration of the port is irregular, to say the least. It may be frankly criminal.'

  The prior's sparse eyebrows lifted. 'I find that hard to credit, Sir John! I have heard nothing of any of this. But then I leave all such business to my cellarer, whose duty it is to deal with all the material aspects of our life here.'

  'You do not supervise their work or check the revenues that the port generates?' said John. He failed to keep his voice free from criticism.

  Robert shook his head. 'I am more concerned with the religious life of this establishment. Naturally, I scan the accounts every quarter-day and remit part of the income to Montebourg when the abbot sends his emissaries across at intervals. But my cellarer, Brother Philip, has been carrying out his duties faithfully for twenty years and more. As they say, why keep a dog and bark yourself?'

  De Wolfe thought this relaxed attitude was an invitation to abuse of the system, but he kept his opinion to himself. 'It seems that your cellarer does not deal directly with affairs in Axmouth but leaves them to an assistant. Are you content with such an arrangement?'

  'Of course! Brother Absalom is a trusted lay brother. True, he is in lower orders, but Philip has high regard for his efficiency, which he has been displaying these past five years.'

  'And you have no doubts as to his integrity, for he must be responsible for considerable sums of money which are due to the priory from all the activity at the port down there?'

  De Wolfe was starting to tread on sensitive ground with his implied criticisms, for the prior was beginning to look irritated.

  'Indeed, I trust all my staff implicitly!' he replied crossly. 'Axmouth has a bailiff and a portreeve and we keep in touch through Absalom. There has never been any suggestion of malpractice. The cellarer receives their monthly accounts and checks them - and as I said, I look over them myself several times a year. I cannot see what you are hoping to gain by these questions, sir!'

  De Wolfe was inclined to agree with him, as he saw the futility of trying to learn anything from Robert of Montebourg. The prior seemed indifferent to the secular side of his responsibilities, content to leave it all to subordinates, especially where Axmouth was concerned. Presumably, as long as the manor turned in a reasonable income, much of it remitted to the mother house in Normandy, no one bothered to check on the reality of the accounts brought up by Absalom. It seemed unlikely that the actual cellarer, Brother Philip, was involved in anything shady, as he was an ordained monk of long standing with no reason to need personal wealth. But Absalom could be party to a conspiracy down in Axmouth, as a lay brother could walk away from a religious establishment at any time and enjoy any wealth that he had managed to accrue by fair means or foul.

  John decided it wa
s wasting everyone's time to prolong this meeting and stood up to take his leave. 'I thank you for your frankness, prior. Perhaps you would allow me to have a few words with your cellarer and his assistant, now that we have come all this distance?'

  Robert readily agreed, glad to see this law officer go on his way. He instructed his secretary to take them to Brother Philip, and a few minutes later they found themselves in a small room on the ground floor, adjacent to a series of chambers filled with a jumble of food, grain, furniture and all the oddments that were needed to keep the priory supplied with worldly goods.

  The cellarer was a stout man, getting towards the end of his active life, and John suspected that Brother Philip rarely left his chair in the office, except to eat, sleep and worship.

  The conversation with the prior was repeated almost word for word, and it was obvious to the coroner that the cellarer left almost everything to his lay assistant, especially over dealings with Axmouth. He even admitted that he had not visited the village for the past two years, being satisfied with scanning the parchment lists that Absalom brought up after his frequent trips.