‘A dead tinner – beheaded in his own stream-working.’
De Wolfe’s black eyebrows rose, almost meeting the fringe that hung over his forehead. ‘A tinner? That’s unusual. That lot usually look after their own affairs.’
‘The bailiff from Chagford, Justin Green, rode in early this morning,’ said Gwyn, banging his cider pot down on the table. ‘He’s over in the keep now, getting some food, if you want to talk to him.’
‘Give me some of that cider first. Arguing with my wife has given me a thirst.’
The big Cornishman lumbered to a small alcove built into the thickness of the wall, took down another pottery mug and wiped the dust from it with a grubby rag. He poured into it a murky stream of rough cider until it slopped over the brim. In the same alcove was a loaf of bread and some more hard cheese, wrapped in a slightly less soiled cloth. Gwyn slid his dagger from his belt, cut two hunks of bread and divided the cheese into three, offering some to his master.
‘Better keep some for that little turd when he arrives,’ he grumbled, referring to their clerk, the third member of the coroner’s team.
‘Where is he? He’s usually here by this time.’
‘Gone down to the cathedral scriptorium, to cadge some ink. He complained that it was too expensive to buy, given all the work he has to do.’
De Wolfe stretched out his long legs under the table, then shivered in the dank air of the spartan chamber as Gwyn settled himself on a window-sill. A pair of unshuttered slits looked down on the city, letting both light and a cold draught into the room. The sheriff had grudgingly provided the worst accommodation he could find for his brother-in-law, to emphasise his opposition to the new post of coroner.
‘Tell me about this Chagford business,’ he ordered, biting into the rough horse-bread.
‘The overman of a gang of stream-workers was found dead yesterday morning when the men arrived. His body was lying under the washing trough, but he had no head.’
‘Was it nearby?’
‘Not a sign of it, not within the workings.’
De Wolfe scowled – he often did so, as an aid to thought. ‘Were they sure it was the overman, if he had no face?’
Gwyn pulled at the ends of his bushy red moustache, which hung down to his collar-bones. ‘No doubt about it. The men recognised his clothes, and he had a finger missing from his left hand, so the bailiff says. He never returned home to his wife the previous night nor has he been seen since.’
The coroner pondered this. ‘Who does the working belong to?’
‘Walter Knapman of Chagford. He has at least a dozen stream-works on the east side of the moor.’
‘Did they leave the body there?’
‘His men hauled it from the trough, it seems. But they had the sense to leave it at the workings in a hut.’
John swallowed his bread and cheese and finished off his cider before rising to his feet. ‘We’ll have to go there today. I’ve got the sheriff coming to eat at the house first, but we’ll leave in the early afternoon.’ He walked to the doorway and bent his head under the lintel. ‘Find that bailiff – and that scrawny clerk of ours – and be at the West Gate well before the Vespers bell. We’ll be away from home again tonight, which’ll give my dear wife something more to whine about.’
At the bottom of the twisting stairs he left the gate-house through the guard-room, saluted respectfully by the two men-at-arms. Sir John de Wolfe was popular with soldiers, who knew of his exploits in many foreign campaigns and his faithful service to the King in the Holy Land during the Third Crusade.
He walked into the inner ward and crossed to the keep, a square two-storeyed building near the northern wall. As he trudged across the refuse-strewn dried mud, the bare stone box of the court-house was on his left, and the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary on his right, but he registered none of these familiar sights as he thought about the prospect of Theobald as a fellow coroner – and the fuss Matilda would make when she knew he was off again today on his travels.
As his gaunt black figure absently navigated the inner ward, people stepped out of his way, either from respect or caution, depending on whether they knew him or not. The yard bustled with activity, with soldiers crossing from their billets in lean-to huts around the walls and the women and children of the garrison filling much of the space that was not occupied by horses, ox-carts or porters pushing trolleys piled with equipment. On the other side of the enclosure, a dozen men in chain-mail hauberks and round helmets were being drilled by Gabriel, the sergeant-at-arms, an activity that produced much shouting, swearing and clattering of shields.
De Wolfe reached the wooden steps that led up to the door of the keep, placed high above the undercroft for purposes of defence. Most of the first floor was occupied by the hall, another hive of activity as clerks, officials, servants, burgesses, merchants and soldiers strode, sauntered, gossiped, conspired, worked, ate and slept in it. Some were there to petition the sheriff but were kept at bay by a man-at-arms outside the door of his chamber, which lay behind the hall. The coroner went straight to the door, nodded curtly at the guard, opened it and marched in.
Sir Richard de Revelle, the King’s representative in the county of Devon, looked up from his parchments in annoyance, which did not lessen when he saw his sister’s husband. ‘I’m very busy, John, very busy indeed.’
De Wolfe leaned on the edge of the document-strewn table and glared down at the sheriff. ‘Too busy to come and eat with us, I hope.’
De Revelle smote his forehead with a beringed hand and had the grace to look slightly apologetic. ‘I’d forgotten Matilda’s invitation, John. Of course, I must come – though I’ll have to finish here first.’
His clerk hovered at his side, with a sheaf of parchments covered in columns of figures. ‘The accounting date is almost due, and I have to be off to Winchester next week with the county farm. As usual, the damned tax collectors are behind with their returns.’
The ‘farm’ was the total amount of tax that the King’s Treasury decided was due from each county. The sheriff was responsible for delivering this in coin every six months. If he could screw more from the inhabitants of Devon than was demanded, he was permitted to keep the excess. It was a goal that de Revelle kept constantly at heart.
‘I’ll go and have a few words with the Chagford bailiff while you finish your business, Richard. Then we’ll walk down to Martin’s Lane, so that you and your dear sister can bend my ear over one of Mary’s good meals.’
De Revelle looked up sourly at his brother-in-law’s sarcastic tone, but made no reply. He was a trim, dandified man, of average height compared to John. He had light brown wavy hair, a pointed beard and a small moustache above a pink, pursed mouth set in a rather weak, narrow face. He dressed in the height of fashion, favouring bright greens and golds for his tunic and mantle, and shoes with ridiculously long pointed toes – the newest mode from Paris.
His eyes followed the coroner across the chamber and he breathed a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind him. Since de Revelle’s secret disgrace over his involvement in the abortive rebellion a few months ago, he had not dared to cross his brother-in-law too openly, but he detested him more than ever. His own indiscretion had given de Wolfe a hold over him.
John muttered to the guard outside the door, who pointed across the crowded hall to a man sitting alone at a table, eating from a bowl of stew and tearing pieces from a small loaf. The coroner walked over to him and sat heavily on the bench alongside him. ‘Are you Justin Green, the bailiff from Chagford?’
The man began to scramble to his feet, but de Wolfe waved him down. ‘Finish your food. You must have left the moor early today?’
‘At first light, sir – though it’s well under three hours to Exeter if you’ve got a decent horse.’ He recognised de Wolfe as someone in authority and hazarded a guess. ‘Are you the King’s coroner, sir, the one I was seeking?’
‘I am indeed, so tell me about this death. We must ride back to your town in
a few hours to make full enquiries.’
The bailiff was a small, dark man, his face pitted with old cow-pox scars. He hurriedly spooned the last of his broth before answering. ‘Nasty it was, sir. I’ve known Henry of Tunnaford since we were boys – we’re about of an age. To see him with no head was a shock, I tell you.’ The memory seemed not have spoiled his appetite, as he crammed the last of the bread into his mouth.
‘Was it cut off cleanly? And were there other injuries?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘No, very ragged it was, just a torn stump of neck. But no other wounds – that was enough!’
‘When was he last seen?’
‘The night before. The gangers left him to tidy up, that was the usual thing. A good overman he was, and the men liked him. As long as they did a fair day’s work, he was easy on ’em, not like some bastards.’
John regarded the man: he seemed a sound enough fellow. A bailiff was a person of some standing in a community: he was one of the main servants of a manorial lord, working under the steward, who was the most senior of the lord’s staff. He supervised the reeves, the headmen of each village, and often presided at the manor court if the lord was absent. If anyone knew what was going on in a manor, village or town, the bailiff would.
‘So who did this?’ asked de Wolfe bluntly.
The bailiff shook his head sadly. ‘For once I can’t say. I know most of the feuds and jealousies that go on in Chagford, but there’s nothing I can put a finger on here. Henry lived quietly out of town, in a croft at Tunnaford, a mile or so away. He had a good wife and a grown son, who is a smith in Gidleigh. No reason for anyone to kill the poor devil. The whole town is shocked at his death.’
‘And the man’s head has gone missing altogether?’
‘Vanished like magic. If I wasn’t a sensible, God-fearing fellow, I’d be tempted to think of witchcraft here.’
They talked for a few more minutes, but it was obvious that the bailiff had no idea as to the motive for, or the perpetrator of, this gruesome crime. De Wolfe left him to get some more ale from the castle steward, with orders to be at the West Gate before Vespers tolled that afternoon. It was too late for an excursion down to the Bush Inn, so he went back to his chamber to wait until it was time to collect the sheriff. As he climbed the stairs in the gatehouse, he heard yelling from above, the deep bass voice of Gwyn roaring in counterpoint to a terrified squealing from another. As he pushed through the hessian screen, he saw his Cornish bodyguard holding a small figure upside down by the ankles, shaking him like a rag doll.
‘Holy Mother of God, what’s going on?’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘Put him down!’
Gwyn stopped and grinned sheepishly at the coroner. ‘Little bastard knocked over my drinking jar – spilled the lot!’ he explained.
John motioned abruptly with his hand, and his officer reluctantly lowered his victim to the floor. The little man hauled himself indignantly to his feet and began to brush down his threadbare tunic, a long black garment of vaguely clerical appearance. ‘It was an accident. My writing bag caught the pot. You shouldn’t have left it on the edge of the window-sill!’ he protested, in a tremulous high-pitched squeak.
De Wolfe held up his hands in exasperation. ‘Just forget it and be quiet. You two should be court fools in caps and bells, not responsible servants of the law.’
His two assistants were always squabbling – it was mainly Gwyn’s fault, as the big man could never resist teasing their little clerk, who unfailingly rose to the bait. Thomas de Peyne was an unfrocked priest, employed by de Wolfe after having been ejected from his post at Winchester, accused of molesting one of the girls he was teaching at the cathedral school. He was a small wraith of a man, lame in one leg and with a slight hunchback, due to suffering from phthisis as a child. His thin, almost chinless face was sallow and adorned with a large pointed nose. The lank brown hair still sported a shaved tonsure on the crown, though he had been stripped of Holy Orders more than two years earlier. Thomas desperately craved a return to the priestly life and did all he could to pretend that he was still one of the brethren. Like his master, he wore black or grey clothes and even lodged in a canon’s house in the cathedral Close, where he had managed to scrounge himself a mattress in a corner of the servants’ quarters.
For all his dubious history and his unprepossessing appearance, Thomas was a highly intelligent and well-educated young man, with a gift for reading and writing. As well as his proficiency in recording all the coroner’s business on parchment rolls, he had proved himself invaluable as a spy. His indefatigable curiosity made him an excellent gatherer of gossip, especially among the large ecclesiastical population of Exeter, while Gwyn ferreted out rumours in the city inns and alehouses.
As Gwyn went back to sit on his favourite window-ledge with a refilled jar of cider, Thomas’s ruffled dignity was restored and he groped in the shabby cloth bag that hung from his shoulder. He pulled out three rolls and laid them on the table in front of John de Wolfe. ‘These are the last three inquest transcripts, Crowner. I have two more to do – the ink ran out, but I have more now so I’ll finish them later today.’
De Wolfe reached for them. ‘We’ll be riding out again this afternoon, Thomas, so get your bottom in shape for that winded nag you call a horse.’
The clerk groaned at the prospect. He was no horseman and sat side-saddle like a woman on his old pony, to the constant derision of the Cornishman. ‘How far this time, Crowner? Not the north coast, please.’
The previous month, they had made repeated journeys to the most distant part of the county and Thomas was still aching from the days he had suffered in the saddle.
‘Only a couple of hours, pansy,’ cut in Gwyn caustically. ‘Just to Chagford this time.’
The clerk was a Hampshire man and still unfamiliar with much of Devon. ‘Where’s that?’ he demanded suspiciously.
‘It’s one of the three Stannary towns, on this side of Dartmoor,’ explained de Wolfe. ‘All the tin from that district of the moor goes there for coinage.’
‘But we’re going there to view a headless corpse, Thomas,’ added Gwyn, with ghoulish relish. He knew that, even after six months’ experience, the ex-priest was still upset by macabre sights.
At the distant sound of bells coming from the cathedral, the coroner threw down Thomas’s rolls and made for the stairway. ‘I’ve got to eat with the sheriff, so whatever Mary cooks today will taste like ashes in my mouth,’ he said. ‘Be at the West Gate before Vespers toll. Put a blanket behind your saddles. I doubt we’ll be back tonight.’
The three sat eating at one end of the long table in de Wolfe’s sombre hall. He was at the head, with his wife and her brother on either side. Old Simon, the yard servant, had banked up the fire with logs and Mary bustled in and out with dishes and jugs. Brutus lay under the table at John’s feet, waiting hopefully for any scraps his master might drop down to him.
After some stilted conversation, they got down to the serious business of eating and the champing of jaws and slurping of wine were the only sounds for a quarter of an hour. Matilda, with her usual remarkable appetite, and the two men did justice to Mary’s hare stew and boiled chicken, with onions and cabbage. Instead of the usual trenchers of thick bread, the food was served on platters made of pewter, a snobbish fad of Matilda’s. She never missed a chance to ape the manners of the courtly classes. De Wolfe, who would not have cared if he had to eat his food off his horse’s back, refilled the pottery cups from a stone jar of red Poitou wine. They had a few wine glasses carefully stored in a chest, but he had vetoed their use today, not wishing to risk them merely for a midday meal with his brother-in-law.
After the meat, Mary brought in a mazer of bread, cut into chunks, with a large slab of hard cheese; there was no fruit at this early part of the year, the remains of last season’s apples having withered away. Courteously, Richard de Revelle used his own dagger to cut some slices of cheese for his sister, which she ate directly from the scrubbed oak boards of the table, washing t
hem down liberally with wine.
‘I’ve got to go a-travelling soon,’ growled de Wolfe, ‘so let’s get down to your business here, Richard.’
The sheriff sipped his wine delicately before answering. ‘It’s quite simple, John. I’m two coroners short of the royal instructions.’
De Wolfe interrupted him abruptly. ‘What d’you mean, you’re short of two coroners? It’s nothing to do with you. They were instituted by the King’s Council – partly to keep an eye on you sheriffs! Some of you damn well need watching, too.’
De Revelle reddened, still smarting at the state of probation he had been under since his fall from grace. ‘Well, if you must split hairs, John, so be it – though why we need coroners at all is beyond my understanding. Until last year we had managed without them quite nicely for centuries.’ He never missed an opportunity to needle de Wolfe about his contempt for the new law officers. ‘Since Fitzrogo died, you have had the whole county to deal with – though during the two months you were laid up with that broken leg, Devonshire managed quite well without even one crowner.’
‘Get to the point, Richard,’ snapped John, who had tired of de Revelle’s endless sarcasm about his post. ‘You want that useless sot Theobald Fitz-Ivo to be appointed.’
De Revelle ran his fingers down the point of his little beard, a mannerism he affected just as Thomas incessantly crossed himself or Gwyn scratched vigorously at his crotch. ‘I wish to make him coroner for the northern part of the county.’
De Wolfe bristled again, though he knew his brother-in-law was being deliberately provocative. ‘You can’t make him anything. This is a royal appointment, requiring the King’s approval.’
‘In theory, John, in theory. I doubt if our Richard, busy in France on his jousting and his campaigns, can spare a thought for a triviality such as a coronership. However, I think the Shire Court, through me, will be recommending the appointment to the Chief Justiciar when I am in Winchester next week. No doubt he will ratify my suggestion.’
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