De Wolfe knew one of them fairly well – Sir Walter de Ralegh was originally a Devon man – but the others were strangers to him. De Ralegh was an older man in his sixties and had known John’s father. He was a hardfaced individual, his features looking as if they been hacked out of granite with a blunt chisel, but he had a reputation for honesty and was a staunch supporter of King Richard. He introduced de Wolfe to the second judge, Sir Peter Peverel, a wealthy land-owner from Middlesex, who had manors all over eastern England. Peverel reminded de Wolfe of Hugh de Relaga, in that he dressed extravagantly and expensively. A rather stout, dapper man, the coroner felt disinclined to trust him too far, though that was perhaps an unfair judgement on such short acquaintance.
The third was Serlo de Vallibus, a senior clerk from the Chancery. He was a thin, silent man of about forty, with a high forehead and a sparse rim of beard around his sallow face. He wore a plain oatmeal tunic under a brown cotte, which matched the colour of the handsome palfrey he rode.
The last Justice, dressed in cleric’s garb, was deep in conversation with the Precentor, and de Wolfe sidled up to de Alençon while he waited to introduce himself. ‘Do you know this priest, John?’ he asked quietly, inclining his head towards the newcomer. Gervase de Bosco was a small, wiry fellow wearing the black robe of an Augustinian canon. Like Thomas de Peyne, he rode side-saddle, though on a better mare than Thomas’s dismal pony.
‘He is my counterpart in Gloucester, though when he has any time for any episcopal duties, heaven alone knows! He’s always off indulging in politics or sitting in judgement.’
‘Is he a fair-minded man?’
‘I’ve heard nothing to the contrary. He’s no lover of the Prince, so that’s something in his favour.’
When the greetings were finished, they set off on the hour’s ride back to Exeter, the newcomers pairing off with the locals in the procession. They were followed by the dozen court clerks and servants who had accompanied the justices and a few more were way behind with the two wagons that hauled their personal belongings and documents. The carts were slower than the horses and part of Ralph Morin’s contingent stayed with them as escort.
De Wolfe rode with Walter de Ralegh, and the two Devon-bred men found they had plenty of mutual acquaintances and local topics to make easy conversation.
‘How is this new crowner’s business going, de Wolfe?’ said de Ralegh suddenly.
‘The sheriff doesn’t like it, but that was part of the reason for Hubert Walter setting it up,’ answered de Wolfe wryly.
De Ralegh’s face cracked into a smile. ‘You’re taking business away from his courts into ours, I hear,’ he cackled. ‘Keep up the good work. These bloody sheriffs need bringing to heel – especially this one.’ He dropped his voice, though de Revelle was many yards ahead, gabbling to Peter Peverel, who the sheriff had rapidly identified as the one with most clout at court.
‘I hear you have some murderous problems in the city?’
De Ralegh’s abrupt change of subject caught John by surprise. He had no idea that news of the Gospel killer had spread so rapidly outside Devon, but seeing no reason to conceal or minimise the situation, he gave a detailed account of the four deaths.
‘And the last one was only yesterday, you say? God’s bones, what’s the sheriff doing about it?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. He’s been too concerned with your visit to bother his head with a triviality like multiple murder! He’s left it to me to worry about.’
The justice shook his head in dismay, but what de Wolfe had said was true. After yesterday’s killing of William Fitz-William, he had gone up to Rougemont to inform the sheriff of yet another murder, but all de Revelle had said was ‘Just get on with seeking the villain, John – that sort of challenge is right up your stret, I know,’ as he scanned a roll of parchment.
‘I’m the coroner, not the law-enforcement system of Devonshire!’ de Wolfe had muttered irritably.
‘If you need more help, take some men-at-arms. Ralph Morin will see to it,’ the sheriff had said, with a dismissive wave. ‘You enjoy ferreting out details, so leave me to deal with the important job of running the county,’ he added condescendingly.
De Wolfe knew only too well that de Revelle would be happy enough to take any credit for unmasking the serial killer, but was unwilling to burden himself with any effort to achieve it.
When the party reached the city, the judges were lodged in the New Inn at the upper end of the high street, the only one with separate chambers upstairs to accommodate them. Their servants were housed in Rougemont and the court clerks were distributed among the spare beds in the vicars’ lodgings in the cathedral Close and Priest Street.
John was tempted to go down to the Bush, but thought he had better put in an appearance at home for diplomacy’s sake: Matilda would be winding herself up for the first of the banquets the following evening. As he had anticipated, she was moderately civil and sat opposite him near the empty hearth, sharing a stone bottle of wine. At times like this, John had glimpses of what it must be like to have an amiable wife and a settled home-life, and resolved yet again to try to heal the breach between them. He knew deep down, though, that her abrasive nature and his quick temper were incompatible with the pleasant, ordered existence that some couples seemed to enjoy, but he resolved to keep her sweet for as long as possible this week.
Matilda insisted that he recount every detail of the Justices’ arrival and their entourage, especially what they were wearing. He invented most of it to keep her content, but his account of Peter Peverel’s gaudy fashions was not far from the truth.
He followed up with details of yesterday’s murder, which also grabbed her attention, especially as the victim had been one of the city’s commercial worthies. Through her familiarity with the town gossip, relayed through her cronies at St Olave’s, she was even able to confirm her husband’s suspicions about William Fitz-William’s perverted tendencies with young boys. Many of the women she met at her devotions were the wives of other burgesses and craftsmen and the lifestyle of Fitz-William since his wife’s death had caused tongues to wag.
‘So why didn’t someone do something to save the boys from such evil?’ de Wolfe grunted, aware that he was on dangerous ground by criticising her and her friends.
‘And what could we have done?’ she snapped. ‘Send the constable or the sheriff – or you, for that matter – to his house to ask him if he was committing the sin of Sodom?’
‘Maybe a priest might have been able to turn his heart – or, at least, try to aid the boys. Would your priest Julian Fulk have known of these rumours?’
Matilda stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask? I heard that you had been to see him. Have you been pestering that good man with useless questions?’
‘We’re just asking prominent priests in the city for any help they might be able to suggest,’ de Wolfe replied diplomatically.
‘Well, you can forget Father Julian,’ she said acidly. ‘If he knew anything useful, he would have come to you or his archdeacon.’
De Wolfe let the subject drop, and after their early-evening meal, he decided to go up to his chamber in the castle to see Gwyn before he left for St Sidwell’s ahead of the gates closing at dusk. It was also useful as an excuse for his intended foray down to see Nesta at the Bush.
As he climbed the last few steps of the steep winding stair in the gatehouse, he heard snuffling noises and Gwyn’s deep tones. Pushing through the sackcloth curtain over the doorway, he came across a curious sight. The big Cornishman was leaning over Thomas, with his arm around his humped shoulders, pulling him against the rough leather of his worn jerkin. As John entered, he grinned sheepishly, embarrassed that his master had caught him comforting the little clerk. For Thomas, when he jerked his face from Gwyn’s large chest, showed unmistakable signs of misery, his eyes moist and his lips quivering. He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his hand, before scurrying across to his usual stool at the end of the table.
> ‘What’s going on?’ demanded de Wolfe, speaking gruffly to cover his own discomfort at seeing grown men display emotion – especially Gwyn of Polruan, who was normally about as sensitive as a stone wall.
‘It’s those swine down at the Close. They’ve thrown him out of his lodgings.’
John looked across at his clerk, who was giving an impersonation of a hunted rabbit. ‘Come on, tell me all about it,’ he commanded.
In a small voice choked with emotion, Thomas spilled out the sad story. ‘Two of the vicars and a secondary complained to the canon that they objected to having me – a suspected criminal – in their house. All I have is but a pallet in the servants’ corridor in Canon Simon’s dwelling, but the whispers about this killer have driven me out.’
De Wolfe dropped on to his own stool and thumped the table. ‘Who’s been spreading these malicious rumours?’ he grated. ‘I’ll go down to the Archdeacon and stop this outrage.’
Thomas half rose in terror. ‘No, Crowner! I don’t want my uncle involved any further in my troubles. I don’t think the canon himself wanted to throw me out, but I suspect the vicars were put up to it by someone above them.’
‘And that would be that bloody Precentor, no doubt!’ growled Gwyn.
‘When the real murderer is caught, all this will blow over and I can go back,’ said Thomas, with a marked lack of conviction. ‘But I couldn’t return there now, with this hanging over me.’
De Wolfe looked across at Gwyn and knew that the evil worm burrowing in his mind was also in his officer’s. Though they stoutly defended their clerk against any outsiders, a tiny voice kept whispering that Thomas had no alibi for any of the killings, he was unusually well versed in the scriptures, could use a pen as well as any man in Devon, and undoubtedly was in a disturbed frame of mind.
Guiltily, the coroner shook off these unwelcome thoughts to come to grips with the present problem. ‘We must find you somewhere to sleep until this foolishness is past. Let’s go down to the Bush and I’ll have words with Nesta.’
With Gwyn muttering imprecations under his breath against all priests, from the Pope downwards – and being uncharacteristically gentle with Thomas – they trooped out and made for Idle Lane.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In which Crowner John attends a house fire
As the trio were walking through the town on that pleasant May evening, a pair of priests had their heads together in their lodgings in Priest Street. They were not normally friendly and rarely said more than a civil good-day to each other, but circumstances had driven them closer.
Many of the narrow houses in the street were divided into rooms for the lesser ranks of the clergy. This evening, Edwin of Frome, the Saxon priest from St Martin’s, had met Henry de Feugères of St Paul’s on the doorstep as they returned for their supper and a few hours’ sleep before Matins. The incumbent of St Paul’s stood aside for the other to enter and, with a casualness that was too good to be true, offered an invitation to the other: ‘Father Edwin, have you a moment to spare? Perhaps a cup of wine in my chamber?’
Startled by this unusual gesture, the morose priest from St Martin’s nodded and followed the other down the gloomy passage to a room at the back, which had a shuttered window that looked into the yard behind. The house had two floors with six rooms for resident clerics, plus a common refectory and cubby-holes for three servants. As usual, the kitchen, privy and wash-shed were outside in the yard.
Edwin pushed aside the heavy leather flap that closed his doorway and led his guest into a room that contained some good furniture, including a raised bed, an oak table and several leather-backed chairs. There were two cupboards on the walls and, apart from a small crucifix on the wall, there was little to show that it was a priest’s cell. Henry de Feugères went to one of the cupboards and took down a stone bottle and a couple of pewter cups. Pouring a drink for them both, he waved Edwin to a chair and sat himself on the other side of the table.
‘Unfortunately, we have something in common,’ he began, looking keenly at the sad features of the other priest.
Edwin nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. ‘Both favoured by a visit from the crowner as a result of being branded a misfit by those in the cathedral precinct,’ he muttered bitterly.
‘At least we are not alone, Brother,’ said the burlier priest, with an irony that was not lost on the Saxon. ‘Gossip has it that half a dozen have had the episcopal finger pointed at them.’
They drank the red wine in silence for a moment. Then Edwin spoke. ‘It is an outrage, but we Saxons have suffered such persecution for the last hundred years and more. I have no doubt that that is the reason for my name being on this shameful list.’
It was an invitation for Father Henry to hazard a guess at why he was included in the Bishop’s black list, but he was more circumspect. ‘I can think of no excuse for such an insult in my case!’ he blustered, ‘except that my face does not fit in the exclusive clique that the canons run down at the cathedral there.’ He failed to mention his reputation for unreasonable rages, which exceeded in violence those Edwin visited upon perverters of the Vulgate. They sipped their wine silently, each brooding on his problems.
‘What can we do about this slight on our characters?’ demanded Edwin. ‘It’s pointless petitioning the Archdeacon or the Bishop, for it’s they who have caused this in the first place.’
‘If we raise too much dust, we’ll get posted to an outlandish chapel on Bodmin Moor or some such remote place,’ agreed Henry de Feugères.
‘Then what about a letter to the Archbishop?’ suggested the Saxon.
The priest of St Paul’s snorted. ‘Hubert Walter is more a soldier and politician than a priest – God knows why the King appointed him to the See of Canterbury. We’d get nothing from him, except a reference back to Henry Marshal – and we’d end up on Bodmin Moor just the same.’
Another sullen silence ensued while their minds roved over the limited possibilities, until Edwin of Frome spoke again. ‘Then what about the Justices? They’re in the city now and although one is another canon, the other is a cleric from Chancery, Serlo de Vallibus. Maybe he can do something.’
‘We certainly want our names cleared,’ declared de Feugères, slamming his fist on the table, his temper always simmering near the surface. ‘Everyone now knows they sent John de Wolfe to interrogate us. I’ve seen my own parishioners staring at me and whispering. One child even threw a mud pie at me this morning – I smacked his arse roundly for his trouble.’
The Saxon looked dubious. ‘What we need is for the real killer to be caught. That’s the only way these sneers will abate. But if you think petitioning the Justices in Eyre might help, we can do it – there’s little to lose, after all. We’ll go along to the court tomorrow and waylay this Chancery clerk.’
The priest of St Paul’s had a distant look in his eyes. ‘Something you just said, Edwin. About the real killer being caught. That would indeed be the best way to lift this burden from our shoulders.’
‘But we have no idea who that might be,’ objected the Saxon.
‘The gossip is that the coroner’s clerk is the most likely candidate. I’m not concerned about whether he is or not, but giving the sheriff or the Justices a name would take the pressure off us.’
‘Unless the killer struck again afterwards,’ said the still dubious Edwin.
De Feugères downed the rest of his wine and refilled their mugs. ‘It’s better than nothing. I’m damned if I want law officers pestering me every few days, trying to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.’ He gave a quick, shrewd glance across at the other priest. ‘I certainly know that I’m not the culprit. I presume that also applies to you?’
Edwin of Frome looked shocked. ‘Of course not! How could such a thought even cross your mind? Because I’m a Saxon, I suppose, dedicated to slaying the invaders of my country.’
De Feugères held his temper in check and held up a placating hand. ‘Let’s keep to the problem of accusing t
his Thomas de Peyne, who may well be the true killer, anyway. We can’t name him as such openly, because the fact that we are suspected ourselves would make our testimony worthless.’
‘So we must betray him anonymously?’
De Feugère nodded. ‘The easiest way would be with an unsigned note. We could get some urchin to deliver it for a halfpenny, I could get one of the servants to find one in the street well away from here, so that it could never be traced back to us.’
Edwin looked dubious. ‘Deliver it to whom? It’s no good sending it to the coroner who investigated us, he would never accept a threat to his own clerk.’
The irascible de Feugères struggled to control his impatience with the stupid fellow opposite – no wonder a handful of Norman invaders were able to defeat millions of his race within a few months.
‘Of course not. Send it to the sheriff – there’s no love lost between them. De Revelle would be delighted with such a suggestion.’
‘Will you write it or shall I? The script needs to be disguised, just as I understand that the note left at that Jew’s murder was deliberately obscured.’
‘Then you pen it and I’ll have it delivered,’ said de Feugères. ‘Maybe we can think of something else on another day to reinforce suspicion against de Peyne. As my patron St Paul wrote to the Corinthians, “in the mouth of two or three witnesses, shall everything be established”.’
This final cleverness was a mistake on Henry’s part, as Edwin’s obsession took fire like flame across dry heathland.
‘You misquote, sir!’ he yelled. ‘The true word of God is “shall every word be established”.’
It took de Feugères a full ten minutes to assuage Edwin’s outrage and get down to composing their mischevious note.
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