The Tinner's Corpse

by Bernard Knight

  De Wolfe noticed that the Controller, a stocky man in a long leather apron, was fiddling with a large steel-yard suspended from one of the roof beams. It was a weighing scales, with one short arm carryinga flat pan and a longer arm from which hung a smaller weight-pan that could be slid back and forth on the yard. ‘His main concern is that King’s beam,’ explained Gwyn. ‘He brings it here with a sealed box of weights that has been checked by the mint in Winchester.’

  The assay team worked with brisk efficiency, born of years of practice. John watched as the Steward went to a fresh applicant at the rope and dictated his name to the clerk, who allotted simple code letters to the tinner, usually based on his initials. The Receiver, another grizzled veteran in a leather apron, took the bars over the rope and rapidly impressed the code on to the soft metal with a hammer and set of dies. Then he handed them up in quick succession to the Controller, who weighed them on the beam, had it checked by the Steward and called out the result to the clerk, who entered it on his roll. The bar was passed quickly to the assay master, who squatted on a small milking stool before a large log of hard oak, which acted as an anvil. With a hammer and small chisel, he dextrously knocked off a small corner of the bar, exposing the shinier grey tin underneath. Immediately, he exchanged the chisel for dies and struck two other impressions on the bar, one the King’s mark of a couchant lion, and another a set of dots, the purpose of which was incomprehensible to de Wolfe.

  ‘What’s that one for?’ he grunted to Gwyn.

  ‘The quality mark, Crowner, what he considers to be the purity of the metal, which will affect the price it gets from merchants like Matthew Knapman.’

  ‘How does he know that?’ demanded de Wolfe.

  Gwyn chuckled. ‘Black magic, some say. But he’s been doing it for years. A good assay master is worth his weight in gold, let alone tin. He can tell by the way the chisel cuts the metal, its hardness, even the sound it makes when it’s sliced, as well as the colour and the amount of impurities on the surface.’ Gwyn sounded almost wistful, as his mind went back to the days of his youth, before his father left tinning for the dangers of the sea.

  De Wolfe was almost as impressed by the speed of the operation as by the ability of the assay master to value the quality of the bars. With many hundreds if not thousands of ingots to deal with in two days, the rapidity of the process was remarkable. The calling out of the weights, the clang of the bar into the weighing pan and the steady pounding of the hammers as they embossed the tin were almost hypnotic.

  Outside the ropes there was now equally frantic activity, as tinners and porters hurried back and forth across the square with piles of bars, fetching them for assay and returning them to the stacks at the edge of the roadway. Mugs of ale and cider were ferried across to the coining team, as were loaves and pasties, so that the labouring officials could grab a bite or swig from a drink between their incessant handling of the black metal.

  After a few minutes, de Wolfe noticed that the sheriff, who had so far ignored him, seemed restive, and soon afterwards he left the enclosure with Morin and two men-at-arms and vanished up the high street, no doubt to seek refreshment in one of the taverns. The novelty of watching the coinage soon palled on John, too, and he turned to Gwyn to give him his orders. ‘I must go back to Exeter this morning. I’ll take Thomas with me, but you must stay until the coinage has finished tomorrow. I’m told the sheriff is going to stay until the end, to emphasise his role as Lord Warden, so maybe you can ride back with Gabriel and his men behind de Revelle and the constable.’

  ‘What do you want me to do here?’ asked Gwyn, quite happy to spend a day and a night in a town with six ale-houses.

  ‘Just keep your eyes and ears open, especially in the taverns. Drink loosens tongues and I want to know what the tinners are saying about these killings. The answer must surely be up here in Chagford, not in the city. But I can’t spend all my time here – there’s other work at home, to say nothing of my wife’s tongue.’

  Turning his back on the banging, shouting and clanging, de Wolfe took Thomas to retrieve their horses from the side-street, then to collect Matthew and Peter Jordan from the Knapman house ready for the ride to Exeter. He left his officer without a thought for his well-being: after all, Gwyn was more than capable of looking after himself in most situations.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In which Thomas de Peyne hears some news

  On the journey back to Exeter, de Wolfe learned little that was new, but was intrigued by the vehemence with which Matthew aired his suspicions about his brother’s likely killers. Away from Joan and her mother, his tongue seemed more ready to wag, though Peter Jordan remained relatively silent. As the pair rode at each side of the coroner, with Thomas plodding forlornly behind, the tin merchant seemed eager to voice his theories about the murder. He appeared to have changed his mind about the likely culprits. ‘I now think more strongly than ever that trail-bastons are to blame,’ he said, as they trotteda long the track towards Moretonhampstead. ‘The countryside is plagued by outlaws, especially since there are so many unemployed soldiers about, and many men destitute after that bad harvest eighteen months back.’ He paused and added, ‘These crippling taxes to pay for the King’s damned wars have also driven many men into poverty and outlawry.’

  De Wolfe grunted, unsure whether to censure Matthew for another slur on the monarch, but decided to correct him instead. ‘It would be a strange footpad who carried out robbery with violence, then left the victim’s purse on his belt,’ he said. ‘I think you must look elsewhere for your killers.’

  Matthew produced his other ideas with equal conviction. ‘Then the sheriff is involved, to defeat poor Walter’s ambition to run the Stannaries properly. You saw how feelings run high against him – but he’s a crafty one, is de Revelle, and ruthless into the bargain. He’d have little compunction in arranging a convenient murder.’

  At this, Matthew’s step-nephew spoke: ‘I find it hard to believe the sheriff would need to take such drastic action. Walter had little chance of unseating him as Lord Warden, unless this threatened commission from London or Winchester was to recommend it. The tinners themselves couldn’t do it, however much noise and trouble they caused.’

  Matthew shook his head doubtfully.

  ‘They could stop producing tin! The royal court – and the King himself – would take notice if the coinage taxes stopped coming in!’

  ‘But the tinners wouldn’t go on strike! They’d starve in a month, without pay coming in or metal to trade,’ protested Peter.

  ‘Then I wouldn’t put it past Joan’s brother, damn him. That Roland’s an evil fellow, you can see it in his face, coveting the good things Walter had in his house. He hopes to benefit from Joan’s inheritance and has his eye on the tin-works. That’s why he was so keen to take over their running as a temporary measure. Once he was in, we’d never get rid of him.’

  De Wolfe wanted to keep the debate going to see what else came out. ‘So do you rate him as a serious possibility for the slaying?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s as ruthless as the sheriff. He saw a good chance for himself when his sister married Walter. I’d be loath to say that she was in collusion with him, but it’s not impossible. And certainly that old dame Lucy is single-minded about getting every penny for her children. She’d cut anyone’s throat for a prize like Walter’s property and business.’

  ‘What about the inheritance, then? When will that be settled?’ asked John.

  ‘We must find out what Walter’s testament says – everything depends on that. Joan says that she and her damned brother are coming to Exeter tomorrow to see the lawyer.’

  ‘Who happens to be my wife’s father,’ added Peter drily. ‘Not that it’s of any advantage to us.’

  De Wolfe had his doubts about that, but kept them to himself.

  The talk during the rest of the journey was only elaboration and repetition of the same themes, and de Wolfe was glad when they reached the city, where they parted compan
y inside the West Gate.

  As they walked their tired horses up the slope to Cairfax, Thomas moved alongside his master, plucking up courage to ask a favour.

  ‘You were good enough to speak to my uncle John of Alençon, Crowner. I wondered if you had any answer yet.’

  De Wolfe looked down at the diminutive clerk slumped awkwardly on his pony. ‘As you know, Thomas, I’ve hardly been in Exeter lately, with all these problems.’ He said this kindly, but with a bitter undertone as he recalled the difficulties his absences had caused him, especially in his love-life.

  ‘Do you think you could ask the Archdeacon fairly soon, Crowner? I am consumed with longing and worry, sir.’

  The quaver of suppressed emotion in Thomas’s voice reached even de Wolfe’s tough heart. ‘Then no time like the present. We’ll call upon him on the way home – he should be there at this time. Compline must be over by now.’

  They left their steeds with Andrew the farrier in Martin’s Lane, but instead of crossing the narrow street to his front door, de Wolfe led the clerk into Canons’ Row. Half-way along, under the shadow of the north tower, the coroner turned into the door of one of the narrow-fronted houses, bidding Thomas to wait outside.

  A few moments later, he emerged, his face betraying nothing. ‘Your uncle wishes you to attend upon him inside,’ he said flatly. ‘He wishes to talk to you himself. This is your private business, Thomas, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Deathly pale, the clerk scurried into the house and de Wolfe stood for a moment, his brows furrowed in thought. Then, with a deep sigh, he turned and walked home to face Matilda.

  A couple of hours later, the coroner sat alone in the Golden Hind, a tavern in the high street, with a pewter tankard on the table in front of him. He had found the Saracen a rough, noisome place, with indifferent ale and a foul-mouthed, surly landlord. Willem the Fleming ran a crude establishment, with too many of his customers on the wrong side of the law, and de Wolfe had been to that inn several times professionally. Apart from its insalubrious atmosphere, he felt that it was not a place for a senior law-officer to patronise.

  The Golden Hind had been one of his local watering-places before he had taken up with the landlady of the Bush. His appearance there after such a long absence caused a few eyebrows to be lifted and a few comments were muttered behind hands: his rift with Nesta was now common knowledge throughout the close community of the city. It had certainly reached the ears of his wife, which was one reason why John had left the house so soon after their evening meal.

  As soon as he had arrived at home after leaving Thomas, he knew that Matilda had something up her sleeve. She greeted him tersely, and he could tell from her tight-lipped half-smile and her smugness that she was about to come out with something to his disadvantage.

  She kept it bottled up until almost the end of the meal, as if savouring the anticipation. Mary had brought in a dish of dried fruit, imported at considerable cost from southern France, and as she left with the remains of the trenchers, Matilda pounced. ‘Not going to your favourite drinking den tonight, John?’ she asked, with acid innocence.

  ‘I’ve travelled enough today,’ he responded sourly.

  ‘I hear that your Welsh whore has thrown you over for a younger man,’ she taunted, picking up an apricot. ‘What will you do now, I wonder. Trawl about the county for some other doxy, I suppose. Or will you be content to slink off to Dawlish? No doubt your dutiful visits to your mother will increase – the road to Stoke is convenient, I remember.’

  John stayed sullenly mute: he knew that anything he said would be twisted against him.

  Matilda carried on in the same vein for a time, her pug face almost gleeful as she squeezed the last drop of malicious pleasure from baiting him. ‘They say there’s no fool like an old fool! You’re long past acting the romantic lover, John – just as you’re past rushing around playing at soldiers. You’re forty, for goodness’ sake, and it’s time for you to behave sensibly and cease shaming me in the eyes of my respectable friends.’

  Patience and forbearance were not prominent among de Wolfe’s virtues, and his bench squealed on the flagstones as he pushed it back abruptly to stand up. ‘Yes, your damned friends! The stuck-up merchant’s wives of Exeter! All you care about is your pride and showing off as the sheriff’s sister and the coroner’s wife! You don’t give a damn about me. I’d starve and go around in rags if it was left to you – thank Christ we’ve got Mary!’ He stamped towards the hall door, beckoning the expectant Brutus to follow him.

  As he left, Matilda still wore the smug expression of a satisfied winner. ‘You’d better browse among the hawker’s stalls while you’re out. From what I hear, you’ll soon need to buy a wedding present for your alehouse wench!’ she shouted after him.

  Furious at himself for being so easily incensed by his wife’s baiting, de Wolfe stalked blindly out into the lane and then the few yards to the high street, hardly caring where he was going. He stopped and looked up and down the crowded thoroughfare, bemused about what to do next. Matilda’s last remark had been particularly unsettling. He did not know whether it was embroidery to humiliate him or whether she had really heard that Nesta and Alan were betrothed. He could hardly storm into the Bush and demand to be told – and both of his usual sources of gossip were out of action: Gwyn was still in Chagford and Thomas preoccupied with his own misfortunes.

  For want of anywhere else to go, he entered the Golden Hind, his dog close at his heels. The walls of the big room were lined with benches and there were a few tables and stools around the central fire-pit, where a heap of logs and peat burned slowly to keep the unseasonable April weather at bay.

  De Wolfe sat at a table towards the back of the room, near the row of casks, wanting to be as far from the small street windows as possible, to remain inconspicuous in the dim light of evening. A serving wench brought him a quart jar of ale unasked: that or cider was all that was on offer. He sat for a long time in the shadows – Brutus lying patiently under the table – his mind churning over a series of problems, from Nesta’s infidelity to Fitz-Ivo’s incompetence, from Knapman’s murder to Thomas’s misery.

  For a time, de Wolfe wondered whether he should abandon the coroner’s appointment and take off again with Gwyn to find some campaign they could join, well away from Exeter and its problems. He was getting old for fighting, but perhaps he had one more battle left in him. Few barons would hire a middle-aged mercenary, but he was sure that the King would welcome him. Richard was over the Channel, where he was fighting Philip of France, trying to repair the damage caused by Prince John’s incompetence and treachery.

  But de Wolfe had to admit grudgingly that he enjoyed the coroner’s work, much against his first expectations. He had come to relish the freedom it gave him to ride the countryside with Gwyn and to uphold his sovereign’s interests against such scoundrels as his brother-in-law. However, this last week had soured his appetite for it, though he had insight enough to know that losing Nesta, Matilda’s venom and the depressing presence of Thomas were the root causes of his present disenchantment.

  He sat brooding as the light failed outside, drinking a whole pennyworth of ale over an hour or so until he began to feel sleepy. The landlord, who, like every citizen of Exeter, knew Sir John de Wolfe by sight, began to wonder why his house had been favoured by the coroner after all this time. As his customer dozed over his mug, he wondered if he should offer to help him home, as he often did many of his other patrons who imbibed not wisely but too well.

  However, his dilemma was resolved by an unexpected messenger to the Golden Hind. The door opened and a young man appeared in clerical garb, a long black tunic tied with a cord at the waist and a small wooden cross hanging from a leather thong around his neck. He stared around the room, squinting in the uneven dim light from the windows and the fire.

  The landlord advanced on him: although many priests were fond of the drink and even more dubious pleasures to be found in alehouses, it was unusual to see one i
n a hostelry just round the corner from the cathedral precinct, especially without even a cloak to disguise his vestments.

  ‘What brings you here, vicar?’ he asked, correctly guessing that this was some canon’s vicar-choral.

  ‘I am urgently seeking the crowner. Someone in the street told me that they saw him come in here not long ago.’

  The tavern-keeper indicated the gloomy corner and the young priest hurried over. ‘Crowner John? I come from my master, the Archdeacon. He sent me to find you and to bring you to him urgently.’

  De Wolfe raised his head and gazed blearily at the eager young face. Though he had a head almost as hard as Gwyn’s when it came to drink, the fatigue of travelling and the emotion of the evening had left him a little fuddled. But the youthful vicar’s next words rapidly cleared his head.

  ‘Your clerk, the little man with the humped shoulder, he’s tried to kill himself!’

  Brother Saulf bent solicitously over the pallet that lay on the floor of the infirmary cell. He pulled up the coarse woollen blanket and tucked it gently under Thomas’s shoulders against the chill night air of the dank room. It was in the tiny priory of St John, in a side lane just within the East Gate. The five brothers there were dedicated to treating the sick and the few pallets they had were the only hospital in Exeter, the next nearest being the nunnery of St Katherine’s at Polsloe, a mile outside the city, which catered mainly for women.

  Thomas de Peyne had been carried there by two of John of Alençon’s servants. They bore him on an unhinged door, with the coroner and the Archdeacon stalking alongside. During the five-minute journey, the little clerk groaned pitifully, which de Wolfe took as a good sign – at least he was not unconscious.

  ‘He should be fully recovered by tomorrow,’ said Saulf, a tall Saxon who was the most experienced of the healing monks at St John’s. ‘He’ll be black and blue with bruises and have some nasty grazes that will weep and maybe turn purulent but, thank God, he’s no broken bones and his head seems sound.’ He ushered them out of the room into a cramped corridor, dimly lit by a tallow dip on a ledge. ‘How did he come by these injuries, sirs? I was told only that he had a fall.’