De Wolfe was a bad liar and, anyway, he rarely deigned to avoid the truth.
Nesta, who could read him better than her own palm, saw him struggling for an evasion and needed no further proof. ‘You lost little time in seeking another bed, damn you,’ she hissed, under her breath. Although they spoke in their usual Welsh, several ears were flapping at nearby tables. ‘I think you’d find the ale more to your liking in other taverns from now on.’
Pink in the face with anger, the landlady flounced away from the discomfited coroner. Brutus gave a little whine and nuzzled his head more closely against his master’s leg.
As soon as the coroner had left Matthew Knapman’s house that afternoon, the tin-merchant had left his wife to sniff away her mild sorrow at their fireside and had taken Peter Jordan with him to the yard of a haulier with whom they did business. They passed through the Watergate in the south-west angle of the city walls and walked in silence along the quayside, where several merchant vessels and barges were aground at low tide. At the yard, Matthew arranged with the carter to move his brother’s body to Chagford after it arrived next day at the castle.
The man normally collected crude tin from the moor and later hauled some of the refined metal to other cities in England, using both ox-carts and his trains of sumpter horses and Poitou mules. ‘I’ll see that it arrives by tomorrow night, with all due reverence,’ he promised, secretly worried that the death of the most prominent tin-master might affect his business.
As they walked back to the house, Matthew gave instructions to his step-nephew. ‘I’ll have to ride to Chagford straight away, to break the news,’ he said, in a hollow voice. ‘You stay until the corpse arrives in the morning and see that everything is done with decorum. Ride with it when it leaves. A light cart should get there before nightfall.’ He looked at the sky, overcast and grey. ‘As I hope to now, if I leave without delay.’
However, Matthew Knapman arrived in Chagford well after dark, although he pushed his horse to the limit over the sixteen miles from Exeter. Leaving the steaming beast to recover in the charge of a stable-boy at the back of the Knapman hall, he walked the few yards to the priest’s house on the edge of the churchyard. Here he recruited Paul Smithson to help him break the news to Walter’s wife, and together they went to the house
The steward, Harold, met them outside the main door, returning from the stable where he had been investigating the arrival of a rider after dark. In the light of a tar flare set in the wall, his face was apprehensive. He immediately guessed the reason for Matthew’s late visit, and wept pitifully when he was told of the violent death of his master, whom he had served for almost twenty years. Then he straightened up, stopped sobbing and led them into the house.
‘The mistress is in there with a visitor – come to offer support at the master’s disappearance, no doubt,’ he added, with a hint of sarcasm. In the main room the old woman, Lucy, sat dozing in a high-backed chair near the fire, while Joan Knapman, her dark hair hanging in two thick plaits over her bosom, sat stiffly at the table, now bare except for a wine flask and two French glasses. On the other side, leaning on the scrubbed boards, was Stephen Acland, his burly figure perched on a stool.
At the sound of footsteps, he turned his head, and when he saw Matthew and Smithson enter, rose to his feet, an almost defiant expression on his face. ‘I came to see if there was any news of Walter,’ he said, before the newcomer could utter a word. ‘We have had our differences, I know, but he’s still a neighbour and a fellow tinner.’
Matthew glanced at him perfunctorily and crossed to stand before Joan, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him calmly. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she said, in a low voice.
As Matthew nodded slowly, there was a squeal as Acland’s stool abruptly grated across the flagstones. ‘Christ Almighty, no!’ he cried, waking Lucy, who joined in the clamour as Harold starting sobbing again in the background.
‘Be quiet!’ snapped the new widow, dry-eyed and in control of the situation. ‘What’s happened, Matthew?’
He sank to another stool and leaned his arms on the table as he told them the story as far as he knew it from the coroner. Joan’s mother tottered to her daughter and tried to put a comforting arm around her, but the younger woman shrugged herself free. The parish priest also came near her, but experience warned him to leave his platitudes until later.
‘I’ve arranged for him to be brought home tomorrow,’ continued Matthew sadly. ‘The crowner will be coming and there will another inquest, I’m afraid, before he can be laid to rest.’
Joan laid a slim hand on his arm. ‘It’s hard to believe, Matthew. He was so active, so alive. How can he be gone so quickly from our lives?’
The dead man’s twin stared at her and was almost surprised to see that her eyes were moist in the dim candlelight. He had never approved of his brother’s new marriage and thought Joan a hard, calculating woman, concerned only for her own comfort, but now, for the first time, he saw some vestige of affection, too late for his brother’s solace, for Matthew knew that Walter had had doubts about his new wife’s fidelity. ‘And you, Joan? This must be doubly hard for you, to lose two husbands in such a short time,’ he said.
The new widow accepted a scrap of handkerchief from her mother, who fluttered about her like a demented moth. Dabbing at her eyes, she pulled herself up to her usual stiff-backed posture and gave a deep sigh. ‘I have expected this since yesterday. When he failed to come home, I knew something terrible had happened. And when last night and much of today had passed, the only answer was that he was dead. Yet I thought he must have had a fall from his horse or some other accident – not that he had been murdered and found in a river a score of miles away.’
Matthew had never known her so talkative and wondered again if he had misjudged her. Yet this other man was here in the same room, almost suspiciously solicitous for her welfare. He watched Acland pace restlessly to the hearth and back.
‘What in hell is going on around the moor these days?’ demanded the rival tin-master. ‘First that overman, now Walter himself! Is there some evil spirit battening on us tinners? Some of the old workers believe in Crockern, the pagan god of the moors, and I’m beginning to think that way myself.’
Matthew laughed bitterly. ‘If there is, it’s a spirit that can wield a staff pretty well – and a cleaver in the case of poor Henry.’
The priest nodded in the candlelight. ‘I think we can blame a human presence for these outrages, not some moor phantom. But that’s of little comfort to poor Joan. Is there anything I can do for you, dear lady?’
Walter’s widow sat pale and erect, her hands in the lap of her rich red silk gown, the colour of which matched the braid that was woven into the plaits that reached her waist, their ends encased in thin gilt tubes. ‘Thank you, no. I must take some time to get used to the idea of having no husband once again.’
Lucy was snivelling and trying to hold her daughter’s hand, but Joan rose to her feet and walked around to the saddle-weary tin-merchant.
‘We should be thinking more of you, Matthew. You were his twin, closer to him than any of us. And you are exhausted. You must rest – we will need all our strength for the coming days.’
Seemingly the strongest of all, she gave orders to Harold to settle her brother-in-law in a small room on the upper floor and supply him with food and drink. Then she thanked the priest graciously, virtually dismissing him – and less graciously sent her mother to bed.
When she was left alone with Acland, they moved to sit side by side near the glowing fire. Heads close together, they talked earnestly for a long while, her fingers covered by his powerful hands.
That same night, John de Wolfe had left the Bush with a mixture of emotions. They swung from recrimination with himself for mentioning his journey through Dawlish to despondency that the knot that had tied him to Nesta for over a year seemed now to have been undone. Then anger displaced gloom, as he first cursed the fickleness of women, then co
ntemplated beating Alan of Lyme to a thin pulp.
As his hawkish figure loped rapidly back up the streets towards Rougemont, his mood settled into icy resolve. If Nesta had falsely accused him of a dalliance with Hilda that day, he had nothing more to lose by making that liaison a reality. He ignored the fact that had Hilda been at home when he called he would not have been innocent of Nesta’s charge, but such is the ability of men to be selective in their truths that he easily persuaded himself of Nesta’s unfairness.
He marched past Martin’s Lane and went on up to the castle, partly to have a genuine excuse for Matilda as to his whereabouts that evening, but also to apprise Richard de Revelle of Knapman’s death. The hall of the keep was almost deserted, apart from a few servants sleeping near the fire, and for once the sheriff’s door was locked with no guard outside. Thinking that de Revelle must be away at one of his manors, either Tiverton or Revelstoke, he went in search of his steward to enquire when he would return. A servant scurried off to find the man, who hurried back within a few minutes, with the news that Sir Richard was indeed inside his apartments. ‘He returned from two days in the country only a few hours ago, Crowner, very tired and hungry. Before retiring, he gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until morning.’
To hell with that! thought de Wolfe. If I have to work all the hours God made, so shall he. ‘It’s urgent, steward. Knock at his door until he answers.’
Reluctantly, but not daring to defy this bony crow of a man, the servant produced a large key from his belt and opened the door into the outer chamber, which de Revelle used for his official business. Beyond that was another door, leading into his bedchamber. The steward approached this and tapped timidly.
‘Hammer on the thing, blast you!’ said de Wolfe, from the middle of the room. The man knocked more loudly, his ear to the thick panels. There was a long pause and de Wolfe thought he heard scuffling and low voices. Then the sheriff demanded angrily to know who was there.
‘The coroner, sir. He says he has urgent news.’
There was more scuffling and then the key turned from inside and the sheriff slipped out and banged the door shut behind him. He had thrown a long cloak over his shoulders, but de Wolfe sensed he was naked beneath it. ‘I was in bed, damn you! What do you want?’
De Wolfe knew he had not been alone. His brother-in-law’s wife, the icy Lady Eleanor, rarely came to Exeter, preferring the comfort of their manors to the bleak quarters in Rougemont’s keep, which suited Richard very well, and it was not the first time that de Wolfe had caught him in bed with a doxy. ‘I think the recent challenge to you as Lord Warden of the Stannaries can be forgotten for the time being, Richard.’
The sheriff goggled at his brother-in-law. Was this why he had dragged him away from a warm bed and a warm woman at this time of the evening?
‘Walter Knapman is dead. Murdered!’ announced de Wolfe.
The sheriff stood stock still for a second, then pulled the heavy cloak more closely around him and padded on bare feet across the cold stones to sit in his chair behind the parchment-strewn table. He looked up at the coroner, almost fearfully. ‘Well, don’t look at me like that! I didn’t have the damned fellow killed,’ he said.
That possibility had not occurred to de Wolfe until then, but he stored it away in his mind for future consideration. ‘Did I suggest you had?’ he asked evenly.
‘I know the way your mind works, John,’ said Richard bitterly. ‘You’ll leave no stone unturned in seeking sins to lay at my door. Though the fellow irritated me beyond measure with his insolence, I’ve no fear of such as he.’ He glared up at his sister’s husband, his waxed beard as pointed as a lance-head. ‘In any event, I’ve been touring my tax-collectors from Lydford to Crediton to Cullompton, chasing the idle swine before the farm is due.’
De Wolfe filed away the fact that this area was diffuse enough not to be too far from Dunsford, where Knapman vanished – though he did not seriously consider that the sheriff would have carried out any dirty deeds himself when he had so many spies and vassals to act for him. He recounted the facts as far as he knew them, emphasising that it must have been murder, not an accident.
‘Whether he fell on his head or had it smashed with a rock, he was first toppled from his mount by a heavy blow on the back, so the death is still a crime. Then presumably he was dumped in the Teign – the flood waters soon carried him down to the coast.’ He paused, thinking of the corpse tangled in driftwood. ‘Just as well he was seen there. The next tide would have taken him out to sea, and then we would never have known what happened to him.’
Grumpily, with several sidelong glances at his inner door, the sheriff discussed what should be done and de Wolfe told him he was going to Chagford next day to investigate and hold an inquest.
‘The coinage is to be held there in two days’ time. As Warden, I had better attend, given all this trouble that’s blown up,’ muttered de Revelle.
De Wolfe gave a smile that was almost a leer. ‘You’ll be far from popular with the tinners after Crockern Tor. But I suppose you have a duty to be present. Bring a troop of soldiers. You may need them to protect you.’
With that last cheerless remark, de Wolfe left his brother-in-law sitting dolefully behind his trestle, his ardour considerably dampened.
Walter’s corpse was still on its way to Exeter across a pack-horse when John de Wolfe and his two assistants rode out of the city the next morning. Gwyn was his usual boisterous self, but his companions were both subdued. John, never talkative at the best of times, was still torn between sorrow and anger at his rejection by Nesta, while Thomas de Peyne slumped inertly on his pony.
The two men on the bigger horses were hampered by the clerk’s slower speed, and it took them more than two hours to pass through Dunsford and reach the mill on the river beyond the village. Here de Wolfe stopped to inspect the presumed scene of the killing. The Teign swirled down between undulating hills, heavily wooded on both sides. There was a rocky weir diagonally across the river just above the trackway, which forded the water through the shallows below. The mill was downstream from the ford, but took its water through a leat that began above the weir.
‘He couldn’t have been attacked very near here or the millers would have seen or heard something,’ reasoned Gwyn.
De Wolfe agreed and looked up the long slope through the woods, where the track gradually climbed up the side of the valley towards Doccombe, then on to Moretonhampstead and Chagford. ‘But a few hundred paces away, around a bend and into the trees, they’d be out of sight and sound,’ he said. ‘A thwack with a stave and a stone against the head makes little noise.’
Thomas stirred himself out of his doleful silence. ‘What about getting rid of the body, Crowner? He was a big man, as I remember.’
‘There must have been at least two assailants, for sure. One had to distract him somehow, while the other hit him unexpectedly with his staff. Knapman was too strong and alert to let one villain get the better of him.’
‘So two men could easily have carried or dragged him through the woods to the river,’ agreed Gwyn. ‘It would have to have been downstream of the mill or he’d have been caught in the weir.’
‘It’s all wooded down there, no dwellings at all. They’d not be seen or disturbed.’
Leaving Thomas with the horses, the coroner and his officer spent the better part of an hour clambering and squelching through the trees and along the riverbank, but found nothing significant. A tidemark of dead branches and twigs showed where the water level had been a foot higher after the recent storms. ‘A body could be pushed into the water anywhere along here and leave no clue on these muddy banks,’ grumbled the Cornishman.
Frustrated, they returned to their horses and stood in the middle of the track for a few minutes, looking at the river, the forest and the road from Exeter.
‘We may as well have a word with the miller, now that we’re here,’ grunted de Wolfe, with little enthusiasm but unwilling to leave any stone unturned. Th
ey remounted and walked their steeds down the path to the mill, which was visible behind a clump of trees near the riverbank. The rumble of the water-wheel grew louder as they approached the yard, where several ox-carts were delivering sacks of grain and loading up with flour for Dunsford and other neighbouring villages. One of the carters yelled for the miller and a dusty man soon clattered down the steps from the wooden building, banging flour from his leather apron as he came.
De Wolfe announced who they were and the miller, a florid, heavy fellow with blackened stumps for teeth, immediately became deferential and almost obsequious. Walter Knapman had been his master since the tin-master had bought the mill from the manor lord and he was eager to help any investigation into his death – not least because his job might depend on who took over from the dead owner. He also had a small item of news for the coroner. ‘Since Knapman’s men from Chagford came to search for him, a lad has said that he saw some men near the track soon after Knapman left here,’ he gabbled, waving an arm vaguely behind him.
De Wolfe’s black brows came together in a fierce expression at the words. ‘Why did we not know of this earlier?’ he demanded.
The miller turned up his whitened hands deprecatingly. ‘The boy is simple, Crowner. It only came out last night, when he was talking to his father. He’s one of my labourers, lives in that hut down on the riverbank.’ He yelled for the fellow, a scrawny, pale man who looked too frail to be lifting full sacks of grain and flour.
Within minutes, he was taking de Wolfe and Gwyn down the footpath behind the mill to a ramshackle cottage made of cob, roofed with turf. A few geese and fowls scratched outside and a thin cow was tied to a post near the hole that served as a doorway. Behind a square of hurdles, half a dozen pigs squealed their way around a mud-patch.
‘My wife keeps a few swine and our youngest son tends them. He was born late in my life and his poor mind is addled – though his three brothers are all well,’ the man said defensively. His Devon accent was so thick that even de Wolfe, a native of the south of the county, had difficulty in following his words.
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