Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  Thomas recognised an elderly clerk sitting alone at a table facing the doorway and went across to make enquiries. After a short conversation, he came back to de Wolfe.

  ‘Simon Basset is not here, Crowner. He was expected this morning to deal with certain matters, but has not appeared.’

  ‘Did you learn where we might find him?’

  ‘The chief clerk suggests that we try him at home. He might be indisposed, which is why he did not appear,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Maybe he’s quit the realm, with a bagful of gold trinkets!’ suggested Gwyn, with his usual black humour. John scowled, such jokes might be too near the truth to be funny.

  ‘Let’s find the bloody man, then. We can walk that far, even in this damned heat.’

  They walked across New Palace Yard to the main gate into King Street and went back along the road that they had ridden down a couple of hours earlier.

  ‘Did that clerk give you exact directions, Thomas?’

  ‘He said it was the last dwelling on the left side of the road, before the bridge over the Clowson Brook.’ This was a branch of the Tyburn, running northwards through the abbey grounds, one of the many brooks that drained the marshes.

  They passed a row of dwellings, some with shopfronts, the shutters on the downstairs windows folding down to act as display counters for merchandise – shoes, harness, candles, leather belts and a host of other things. Most of the buildings here were two-storeyed, some with upper floors projecting into the street. The little bridge was a single small arch and beyond it the houses were larger and grander, all stone-built. On the opposite side, even larger houses lined the street, where the more exalted members of the Westminster community lived.

  ‘This must be the one, it has a Madonna over the door,’ said Thomas, crossing himself at the sight of a small gaudily painted statue of the Virgin in a niche above the front entrance. The house was well kept but not ostentatiously large. It was a narrow building of whitewashed cob between heavy oak frames, roofed with stone slates. A small yard with a hitching rail for horses lay between the edge of King Street and the house. A narrow path ran around each side to the backyard, the stream being on one side in a deep culvert.

  Gwyn banged on the heavy front door and soon the shaven scalp of a young man in lower holy orders appeared, looking rather nervously through the gap.

  ‘We seek your master, is he at home?’ demanded de Wolfe, after identifying himself as the Coroner of the Verge.

  The door opened wider and the thin shape of the servant stood in his black tunic, rubbing his hands anxiously.

  ‘He is not here, sir. Have you any news of him?’

  John stared at the fellow. ‘What do you mean? Why should I have news of him?’

  Another figure appeared in the short passage behind the door, this time another cleric, but a man of early middle age and portly appearance. His fleshy face looked troubled as John explained that he was looking for Canon Basset.

  ‘Please come inside, Sir John, I will explain.’

  He led the way through a heavy leather door-drape into a comfortable, almost opulent room, where padded benches, a table and several carved chairs indicated that this was well above the usual standard of furnishing. The bareness of the whitewashed walls was relieved by fine tapestry hangings, depicting classical battle scenes and religious events. An ornate gilded crucifix was the only evidence that this was the residence of a canon of Lichfield and his entourage.

  ‘I am Gilbert, the canon’s chaplain. Please be seated, coroner.’ Again, Gwyn and Thomas were left standing, but after Gilbert’s instruction to the lay brother to fetch refreshments, they were invited to a brocade-covered bench against a wall and included in the offer of ale, wine and pastries.

  De Wolfe suffered these formalities impatiently, then returned to his need to speak to the Exchequer official.

  ‘I am in some difficulty over that, I fear,’ replied Gilbert, anxiously. ‘We have not seen him since yesterday morning. He did not return home last evening and failed to appear again today.’

  A small bell of alarm began to chime in John’s head. ‘Is that unusual for him?’ he asked.

  ‘It is indeed, he is a man of most regular habits. He never misses a meal, as we have one of the best cooks in Westminster.’

  ‘Where was he yesterday later on? Do you know anything of his movements?’

  The chaplain shook his head. ‘Martin, his steward, might be aware of those, but he is out at present – riding the roads between here and the city, in case the canon has come to some harm there.’

  ‘The city? Was he going into London yesterday?’

  Gilbert lifted his shoulders in a gesture. ‘I did hear some talk of it when we came back from attending Prime at St Margaret’s. But Martin would know.’

  Further questions confirmed that no one in the household had any idea of where their master had gone. When the steward returned a short while later, he was unable to shed any light on the disappearance, but it was obvious that the chaplain and servants were worried about Simon Basset’s vanishing act, especially if it was going to affect their comfortable life in this very desirable residence.

  ‘There was no sign of him along the roads,’ said Martin, a strongly built man with a black beard. ‘He mentioned the previous evening that he might have to ride into the city sometime in the day, but he didn’t say where he was going – and I’m not sure if he went or not.’

  John sighed – this investigation seemed to run into the sand at every turn, like his inquest on Basil. He tried again.

  ‘Let’s get this straight! Your master went off yesterday morning, presumably by horse?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him trotting off up the Royal Way, so I presumed he was going to the city and probably to the Great Tower, where the Treasury stores some of its valuables.’

  ‘We were there yesterday and I am sure that the Constable would have mentioned if Canon Simon had been there, as his name was central to our discussions,’ countered John. ‘So it seems unlikely that he went to the Tower.’

  Martin scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Of course, he could have gone anywhere in that direction,’ he mused. ‘Anywhere at all in the city – or he could have turned at Charing and gone up to the Oxford Road. Or maybe he called at some religious house on the way – the Templars, even.’

  ‘Why the Temple?’

  ‘The king has a great partiality for the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, as well as for their money, for he borrows greatly from them. The Exchequer has considerable dealings with them, my master visited them frequently to arrange or repay loans. In addition, some of the Treasury bullion is often stored in their vaults for safety.’

  John knew that a steward was privy to much that went on in the household, but he seemed unusually well apprised of national finances.

  ‘So he could have gone to the Temple?’ he queried.

  Martin turned up his hands in a Gallic gesture. ‘Of course! But he could equally have gone to a score of places elsewhere.’

  This was getting them nowhere, so the coroner drew the questioning to a close and rose from the chair to leave.

  ‘But in all this,’ he concluded, ‘the strange aspect is that the canon did not say that he might be away for a time – nor did he later send any message that he would be delayed in returning home?’

  Martin and the chaplain both nodded. ‘It is most unusual, which is why we are so concerned. What shall we do, Sir John? Should we inform the Lord Treasurer and the other lords of Exchequer?’

  ‘I’ll do that myself, as soon as I get back to the palace,’ promised de Wolfe. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest that you send to the New Temple and any other likely places, to see if Simon Basset is there or has been there in the last day. If you have any news, be sure to notify me at once, d’you hear!’

  His tone made it clear that he wanted his orders carried out promptly and with that he led his pair of assistants out of the house, leaving a worried and apprehensive household behind him.


  With an absentee Chancellor, as well as an absentee king, de Wolfe decided to consult the Chief Justiciar about Simon Basset’s disappearance. However, he was told that Hubert Walter was across the river, inspecting the progress of his pet project. This was the building of a palace for himself in Lambeth as a London residence, as it was said that he wanted a magnificent house to spite his rival, the Bishop of London. The two major churches, one at Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral, were in competition for funds and the expression ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul’ had arisen from the names of their respective patron saints. Any prospect of seeing Hubert Walter that day was dashed when his clerks said that he was riding to Canterbury and would be absent for at least four days.

  De Wolfe turned instead to the Keeper of the Palace, but found that Nathaniel de Levelondes was preoccupied with the coming royal visit and the move of the whole court to Gloucester.

  ‘Report it to the Lord Treasurer,’ he muttered absently. ‘He’s in charge of all those money-grubbers.’

  Frustrated, de Wolfe went back to the Exchequer building at the other end of the palace, but the chief clerk told him that the Treasurer had gone back to his estates in Northamptonshire.

  ‘Have you any idea where Canon Basset may have gone?’ he demanded of the old clerk. ‘His household have had no news of him since yesterday morning.’

  Once again, enquiries were made among the other clerks sitting at their desks, but no one had any suggestions.

  ‘Did he not have duties here each day?’ demanded the coroner.

  The grey-haired official shook his head. ‘We are busiest when the sheriffs come to pay in their county taxes, but between times the senior officials attend only when there is something specific to be done. Canon Simon should have been here this morning to peruse and sign some documents, but they can wait until he appears.’

  Cursing under his breath, John went up to his chamber facing the river, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting. He told them of his fruitless attempts to arouse some interest in the disappearance of the man who had the only other key to the notorious treasure chest.

  ‘I wouldn’t give a damn about the fellow himself, if it weren’t for the fact that I have been saddled with this commission from the Justiciar to investigate the theft,’ he fumed.

  ‘Maybe that clerk down at the front is right,’ soothed Gwyn. ‘Perhaps come Monday morning, he’ll turn up as usual.’

  The coroner marched impatiently up and down the room, his back hunched and his head jutting forwards. The swept-back black hair, which he wore unfashion-ably long, bounced on the collar of his grey tunic and once again Thomas was reminded of a large crow strutting about the garden.

  ‘Where the hell can he have gone?’ he rasped. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, but short of searching every house in London, there’s little we can do.’

  In the afternoon, de Wolfe restlessly rode with Gwyn back to the canon’s house, where still no news of him had been received by the anxious servants. Getting a description of Simon’s horse – a grey mare with a white blaze on her forehead – the pair rode as far as the New Temple and made enquiries of the porter there. The man knew Canon Simon from previous visits, but was quite definite that he had not called in the past day or two.

  From lack of any other inspiration, de Wolfe walked his horse around a number of byways, going up from the village of Charing to the high road which ran westward from Holbourn and then on to Tyburn, where he and his officer stopped for a few moments to look at the large elm trees that now competed with Smithfield as an execution ground. The first customer a couple of months ago had been the rebel William fitz Osbert, known as Longbeard, whose capture and hanging had brought Hubert Walter into such disfavour. But there was no sign anywhere of Simon Basset nor of his horse, so a dispirited de Wolfe followed a direct track across the marshes to where the great bulk of the abbey and palace stood up against the sultry sky.

  Thankfully, that night during supper in the Lesser Hall there was no discussion about the canon, as for once, the palace gossip machine had failed to pick up the news. John was spared interrogation, but he suspected that the disappearance of someone so directly linked to the theft of the treasure would not remain a secret for long.

  With a choice of boiled capon, salmon, pork ribs and a range of vegetables from leeks to parsnips, John was busy filling his stomach, but was obliged for courtesy’s sake to attend to Hawise as well. She had managed to sit opposite her husband, and next to John, her hip pressed against his as he gallantly sliced pieces of chicken to put on her trencher. The Lesser Hall sported tablecloths, instead of the usual scrubbed oak boards and the large bread trenchers were placed on oblongs of wood to spare the spoiling of the linen beneath.

  They had each already finished a wooden bowl of potage, a soup of vegetables in stock, thickened with oatmeal, and Hawise was gaily protesting at the amount of food John was serving her.

  ‘You are intent upon making me fat, Sir John!’ she gushed. ‘I’ll need a stronger horse to carry me when we ride to Gloucester!’

  The warmth of her thigh moving against his distracted him so much that he dropped a chicken leg and cursed as a large stain of gravy spread on the pristine cloth. The woman giggled and briefly touched his leg under the table.

  ‘You seem out of temper this evening, John! No doubt you’re missing that blonde Saxon who shared your bed recently!’ She failed to keep the jealous pique out of her voice.

  The pert remark made John realize that he had not given much thought to Hilda these past few days, as the theft of the treasure and now Simon Basset’s vanishing trick had fully occupied his mind. He tried to think of a suitably cutting response to Hawise, who was now resting her fingers on his thigh, as she ate with her other hand. But her husband cut in with a return to the old topic.

  ‘Have you made any progress in finding the miscreant who stole the king’s gold?’ he asked in a semi-bantering tone. Archdeacon Bernard leaned forward from the other side of Ranulf, who was next to Hawise’s silent maidservant. ‘Give the man a chance, he’s only been at the task for two days! No doubt you suspect someone in the Great Tower itself?’

  ‘I certainly have a new path to pursue, but you will appreciate that I have to keep such matters strictly confidential,’ said de Wolfe. At least I’ve told the truth, he thought wryly – the fact that at present his new path led nowhere, need not be voiced to these inquisitive creatures. He was finding the touch of Hawise’s fingers quite pleasant, but almost reluctantly he slid his own hand under the edge of the tablecloth and gently replaced hers on her lap. As he did so, he briefly felt the warmth of her skin through the silken gown and a frisson of desire rippled through him. For her part, Lady de Seigneur gave a petulant pursing of her lips and once again John thought her husband must either be half-blind or uncaring about her flirting.

  They finished the meal with a flagon of white wine from the Loire, accompanied by dried figs and apricots, then drifted out of the Lesser Hall. As Hawise was towed away by her husband towards the stairs to the guest quarters, she gave John a doleful look of longing to which he responded with a faint smile.

  ‘She’ll have the breeches off you yet, John!’ murmured Ranulf, as they went out into the evening light of the Palace Yard. John had arranged to meet Gwyn in the alehouse a little later, so to pass the time, he suggested to Ranulf that they took a walk along the riverbank. Passing the stables and all the less impressive parts of the back end of the palace, they went through the gate in the wall that formed the southern limit of the enclave and crossed the small bridge across the Tyburn. The marshy flats along the edge of the Thames had dried out in the recent hot weather and sheep and goats, tended by an occasional shepherd, were dotted about the wide, flat area. They walked towards the edge of the river, where a narrow path ran above the slope down to the high-water mark, now exposing a wide shelf of mud leading to the dark water.

  ‘Do you think she’s like that with all men?’ asked John ruminatively, takin
g up Ranulf’s earlier remark.

  The marshal shook his head and grinned. ‘She’s not set her cap at me, has she?’ he countered. ‘It’s you that the Lady Hawise is inflamed about. I wish it was me, I’m more than a little jealous!’

  The smile he gave took any rancour from his jibe.

  ‘Even if I was inclined to oblige her,’ said John. ‘There’s always that dumpy husband of hers to contend with.’

  Ranulf stopped and stared at the sky, where thunderclouds still massed on the far horizon. ‘I get the feeling that Lord Renaud isn’t all that bothered about his wife’s fidelity,’ he murmured. ‘I’d be there like a shot if I had any encouragement.’

  De Wolfe was dubious. ‘Why should he have that attitude?’ he asked. ‘She is an uncommonly attractive woman. You’d think a plain older man like him would keep her on a short rein.’

  ‘Unless they have hidden motives,’ suggested Ranulf darkly. John came to a sudden halt on the path and turned to face his friend. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

  The under-marshal looked left and right as if checking that he could not be overheard, though the nearest thing on legs was a sheep a hundred yards away.

  ‘We get to hear things at the stables, people coming and going on official business. There is a spy scare on at the moment, according to one of our men, who overheard some barons and earls he was escorting on a barge up to Windsor.’

  ‘Spying on what? And how can that concern me and a flighty dame who should know better?’

  They began to walk slowly back to the abbey and palace that loomed before them, Ranulf continuing with his tale.

  ‘My gossip also tells me that one of the reasons for Queen Eleanor’s visit is for her to impress on the Royal Council the real threat of an invasion from France – and also to dissuade her errant son John from becoming involved again in support for Philip Augustus. Naturally, the French want to know what the official reaction is and to know if military precautions are being taken along the coast of Kent and Sussex.’

  ‘And how could that affect me? I am a coroner, I know nothing about politics or troop dispositions!’