De Wolfe bent down and grasped the shoulder of the stiff cadaver, turning it on its side to face Theobald Fitz-Ivo. ‘The face is unmarked, is it not?’ He pulled down the grubby sheet and pointed to the neck and chest, then hoisted the body half off the bier to display its back. ‘So where are the signs of this merciless beating, eh? A single bruise behind the ear!’ He let the body fall back and dragged the sheet over it.
‘The truth of the matter is that the deceased man struck my officer a sudden cowardly thrust with a dagger, as the bailiff of Chagford can testify, as well as Gwyn of Polruan himself – and, no doubt, a dozen witnesses, if they were honest enough to come forward.’ He turned to the Cornishman. ‘Show them your wound, Gwyn.’ Awkwardly, the officer lifted his chained arms to show the fresh slash in his thick jerkin. ‘Under that, Crowner.’
De Wolfe pulled aside his outer garment and displayed a large circle of dried blood on Gwyn’s duncoloured tunic, just over the edge of his ribs on the left side. ‘We are lucky not to be holding another inquest – this time on a murdered law officer!’ he shouted, with real anger in his voice. ‘He struck the coward a single blow in self-defence, which must have caused an apoplexy in the brain. He fell unconscious and died some hours later.’
He bent again towards the sweating Fitz-Ivo and snarled, ‘A royal law officer trying to uphold the King’s peace against an unlawful lynch mob is attacked with a knife and has to defend himself with a single blow from his fist. Where now are your grounds for murder, Fitz-Ivo?’
He drew back and turned his thunderous features upon the sheriff. ‘I shall report all of these matters to the Justiciar, Sheriff. Not only about Fitz-Ivo’s irresponsible incompetence, but also your own failure to uphold the rule of law and the King’s peace by not even attempting to prevent the unlawful killing of the old Saxon – and your lamentable inaction in not curbing the present folly of this so-called coroner!’
As de Revelle began to huff and puff in his own defence, de Wolfe’s stentorian voice overrode him. ‘As the only official coroner in this county, I declare this travesty of an inquest null and void. I will take it over myself to reach a proper and legal verdict.’
He hoisted himself up on to the platform and stood menacingly over the crestfallen Fitz-Ivo, then signalled peremptorily to the pair still holding Gwyn. ‘I told you to take my officer out to the smithy and get those bonds struck off – at once.’
As the Cornishman, grinning with relief, shuffled towards the door, de Wolfe beckoned to the front row of the sullen but subdued audience. ‘Those of you who were named as the jury, come forward and look closely at the corpse.’
A couple of hours later, the coroner and his officer were riding almost knee to knee along the road back towards Exeter.
‘That was a near thing, Crowner. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, they’d have strung me up for sure, just like that old Saxon.’
No formal word of thanks had passed between Gwyn and his master, but the bond that twenty years of companionship had forged was sufficient to leave many things unspoken.
John gave one of his gargling grunts, which obscured a whole range of emotions from displeasure to contentment. ‘That swine was the cause of most of the trouble,’ he muttered, jerking a gloved hand at the sheriff who rode twenty yards ahead, behind Sergeant Gabriel and two of his men, the others forming a rearguard.
‘Fitz-Ivo was no help, either!’ growled Gwyn cynically.
John spat accurately into the ditch as they trotted along. Their discussion lapsed for a while as they reached a rutted part of the track, where wagons had cut deep grooves in the mud, formed where a stream had overflowed recently. The horses picked their way delicately through the morass until a rise in the ground hardened off the surface once more.
De Wolfe picked up the talk where it had ended, speaking in a Welsh-Cornish patois, as he and Gwyn always did when alone together. ‘Fitz-Ivo’s just an ignorant fool – but de Revelle is a malignant, scheming bastard! He’s also a spineless bastard, when it comes to a challenge, God be praised. If he’d not been so weak back there, my task would have been the harder.’
Gwyn was thankful that both the sheriff and Fitz-Ivo had caved in so readily under the coroner’s verbal onslaught in Lydford Castle. The neutral attitude of Geoffrey Fitz-Peters had helped, too, as although the manor lord wished to stay on the side of the powerful community of tinners, he had been uneasy about the flagrant breaches of law, both concerning Aethelfrith’s lynching and the illegal inquest that aimed to sentence Gwyn to death. Geoffrey also hoped to succeed Richard de Revelle as Lord Warden, and de Wolfe’s threat to report the sheriff’s failings to the Chief Justiciar and demand a Commission of Enquiry into the running of the Stannaries had been music to ears that wanted de Revelle dispossessed of the Wardenship.
‘Will you really speak of him to the Justiciar?’ enquired Gwyn, tenderly touching his swollen eye and bruised face.
‘I’m certainly going to tell Hubert to watch who becomes coroner when vacancies arise in the counties. And a close look is needed at the Stannary organisation.1 These tinners are getting above themselves! They seem to think that they live above the King’s laws, and they’ve grown more arrogant since the King needed all the metal they can produce. If we had a decent Warden, instead of a scheming rogue who only wants to line his own purse, they’d be much better served.’
The group of horsemen made steady progress, hour after hour, stopping a few times to rest and water their horses at inns in Okehampton and Whiddon Down. Here they drank some ale and ate sparingly at a tavern, the soldiers eating from the hard rations they carried in their saddle-pouches. The sheriff pointedly ignored de Wolfe, and as he was above socialising with Gabriel he ate and drank in aloof solitude.
On the last leg of the journey in the late afternoon of that Saturday, the conversation between the coroner and his henchman turned back to the unresolved affair at Chagford.
‘Before they strung him up, it seems that Aethelfrith confessed readily to the slaying of Henry, the overman,’ observed Gwyn. ‘He seemed quite proud of it, saying how he had done it with an old Danish battleaxe that had belonged to an ancestor, who was in Harold’s army and survived the battle at Hastings.’
‘Why should he have suddenly turned to murder?’ asked de Wolfe, intrigued by the story.
‘He said that Henry of Tunnaford was the spokesman of the jury that condemned his only son to be hanged twenty years before. It seems he was accused of stealing a sheep on the moor – falsely, according to Aethelfrith, as they really wanted to stop him trying to stake a claim on a small tin-stream way out on the moor.’
De Wolfe rode on in silence for a while. ‘So it seems that the tinner’s death is unconnected with that of Walter Knapman. The Saxon didn’t admit to that, did he?’
‘He was scornful of the notion when the tinners accused him of it.’
‘It’s what I felt in my bones all along – Dunsford was well out of Aethelfrith’s territory, anyway. So we still have that problem on our hands. It has to have been someone who would profit by Knapman’s death. It was no stray outlaw killing, I’m sure.’
Gwyn winced as the mare stumbled, jarringhis bruised ribs. ‘There’s a damned wide field of suspects to choose from, Crowner. That brother of the widow seems the most likely to me, a villain if I ever saw one. All he wants is to get a piece of Knapman’s empire through his sister.’
De Wolfe grunted, keeping his eye on the sheriff’s back to make sure he was far enough ahead not to hear their conversation. ‘That applies to others in the family, too. Matthew and the stepson have been worrying themselves stupid over the will, ever since Walter died.’
‘What about Stephen Acland? He’s after the widow – and not only for her beautiful body, I reckon.’
John had still failed to size up Acland. ‘But would he kill for it, I wonder? Where was he when you had your bit of trouble in Chagford yesterday?’
‘Not a sign of him – not even at the coinage, where a good
ly part of the metal belonged to him.’ Gwyn’s blue eyes twinkled – or, at least, the one that was still visible did. ‘I suspect he was away holding the fair Joan’s hand – or some other part of her, perhaps.’
‘At least you can’t accuse him of wanting you hanged,’ said de Wolfe, with a wry smile at his henchman. ‘But he still has to stay as a possible candidate for Walter’s killing. He’s got a double motive.’
‘I suppose we can exclude the fat priest, Smithson – he’s hardly likely to slay Walter, as part of his living came from Knapman’s purse, so he wouldn’t want to risk that drying up.’
There was a comfortable silence between them as another few miles of track passed beneath their horses’ legs. The weather had improved, and as they neared Exeter and the coast, the snow vanished from the countryside, and fitful patches of blue sky appeared between the clouds as the east wind dropped.
De Wolfe had earlier told Gwyn of their clerk’s dramatic but futile attempt to end his life, and the big man had been noticeably upset, vowing never to tease the little fellow again – a promise that de Wolfe doubted he would be able to keep. ‘He seems much more contented, now that John de Alençon has convinced him that his deliverance was miraculous,’ said John, when the subject came up again.
Soon the tops of the great twin towers of the cathedral came into view, as Exeter’s northern crag appeared on the horizon. De Wolfe rehearsed his excuses to Matilda for his intention to report her brother’s further misconduct, as well as his unseating of Theobald Fitz-Ivo from the coronership, after she and Richard had connived at his appointment. ‘She’ll have the same old stick back to beat me with,’ he grumbled to Gwyn. ‘The one that says that being the only coroner means I’m always away from home, neglecting her.’
He realised again, sadly, that he no longer had the Bush Inn as a bolt-hole.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In which Dame Madge appears again
The lawyer’s musty office was hardly big enough to hold those who crowded in to hear Walter Knapman’s last testament read early on that Sunday afternoon. Robert Courteman was squeezed behind his table, with his son standing at his shoulder, pressed up against the shelves of parchment rolls lining the wall behind him. In front, a motley collection of stools and benches brought from the nether regions of the house was occupied by the Knapman family and their hangers-on.
The widow Joan sat directly in front of the lawyers, immaculate in a deep blue silk kirtle, its dark colour a gesture to her gradual, if rapid, shedding of funereal black. Instead of a white cover-chief and wimple, her black hair was neatly braided into two spiral rolls, held in place over each ear by fine gilded nets. Her hands rested demurely on a fur-lined woollen cloak, which lay across her lap. The new widow kept her eyes on her fingers for most of the time, but now and then she stole glances around the room from under her long dark lashes, trying to interpret the mood of the others at this crucial time.
On her left, her brother Roland sat in an almost aggressive pose, his big hands on his knees and his heavy features jutting pugnaciously towards Courteman, as if ready to challenge anything he said. As with all tanners, a faint but perceptiple aura of something rank hung about him, no doubt derived from the vats of dog droppings that were used to cure the leather. Fidgeting on Joan’s other side was her mother Lucy, skinny and bird-like in a grey gown, her hair hidden under a linen coif tied tightly under her chin. Behind them, Matthew Knapman perched uncomfortably on a rickety bench, his florid face bearing a worried expression. He picked nervously at loose skin around his fingernails, until his wife jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
Next to her Peter Jordan and his wife shared another short bench. The young man seemed calm enough, but Mistress Jordan glared indignantly at the backs of the trio in front of her, as if challenging their right to be there solely by virtue of Walter’s recent marriage.
The last person squashed into the small chamber was Paul Smithson, present seemingly as spiritual supporter of the widow, but interested, too, in anything that Knapman might have bequeathed to his church.
The only person not there who might well have been concerned at the outcome was Stephen Acland – but he could hardly have used his role as the widow’s paramour to justify his presence.
‘Are you well accommodated in Exeter, Mistress Knapman?’ began Robert Courteman, in his high-pitched voice, after he had shuffled enough parchments on his table to establish his legal credentials.
‘My mother and I are well housed with Matthew, thank you, through the kindness of his good wife. My brother is lodged in the Bush Inn, and Vicar Smithson has a bed in the cathedral precinct.’ Her quiet tones were firm, but devoid of expression. They seemed to imply that the lawyer should leave the niceties and get down to business. Perhaps Courteman took the hint, for he untied a leather thong from around a small parchment and unrolled it between his bony hands.
After clearing his throat a few times, he stared bleakly around the expectant group and began to speak. ‘This is the final testament of Walter Knapman, tin-master of Chagford in the County of Devon,’ he intoned unnecessarily. ‘It is dated the second day of April in the year of Christ eleven hundred and ninety-five.’
There was a sudden grating noise as the foot of Peter Jordan skidded on the stone floor. ‘What date did you say, sir?’
The dried-up features of the elder lawyer stared testily at the young man who had interrupted him. ‘The second of April, this year.’
‘But that can’t be right,’ began Peter, but he stopped short as his wife jabbed him in the ribs and hissed something fiercely into his ear.
After another disapproving glare at his son-in-law, Robert Courteman continued, staring at the parchment, though not reading it verbatim. ‘The roll has been sealed by myself as certifying that Walter Knapman assented to the contents on that day and his own seal has been appended in wax.’ He held up the curled skin briefly, to display two embossed blobs hanging from tape tags at the bottom of the roll, in lieu of signatures; less than one in three hundred people was literate. ‘The sealing was witnessed by two of my clerks, their signatures being here.’ Courteman jabbed at the document with a long forefinger and laid the roll down again.
‘The substance of the testament is this. The beneficence of Walter Knapman to the Holy Church leads him to donate twenty-five pounds to St Michael the Archangel, Chagford, to be used as the incumbent sees fit, as long as the use is approved by the Prebendary and Bishop.’
Smithson smiled broadly – twenty-five pounds was a large sum of money, and although it was not specifically earmarked for his stipend, it ensured the security of parish finances for a long time to come.
‘After this pious bequest is paid, the residue of his property and possessions is to be distributed thus, assuming his wife Joan survives him – as she thankfully does.’ The lawyer gave a humourless grin, exposing his yellowed teeth in the direction of the widow. His attempt at levity was met with stony silence.
‘The freehold demesne in Chagford is granted absolutely, without let or hindrance, to her, with all its goods and chattels.’ Courteman peered again at Joan and clarified his legal jargon. ‘In other words, the house, its contents and the land on which it stands are yours, Mistress Knapman.’
Joan gave a slight nod, as if to convey that she had expected nothing less.
He returned to his parchment. ‘All the residue, which includes his dozen tin-workings, including all stream-works, blowing-houses and boundings registered under Stannary Law but not yet worked, three freehold farms and mills and all other possessions such as horses, cattle and any other livestock, together with the contents of his treasure chest and all debts due to him yet unpaid, are to be divided into three equal parts between his widow Joan, his brother Matthew and his stepson Peter Jordan.’
There was an outbreak of whispering and muttering and heads closing together, as the audience tried to work out if they were pleased, satisfied or disgruntled, but the lawyer’s voice cut harshly across the murmu
ring. ‘There are two conditions upon this dispensation. First, the apportionment of his estate is dependent upon the agreement of all beneficiaries not to allow the break-up of the tin-workings by selling any part of them for at least five years.’ He stopped again to gaze around the room, as if seeking any opposition to this clause. ‘The testament provides that any beneficiary wishing to sell their share within those five years will forfeit it and it will then be shared between the other legatees.’
This provoked a babble of protest from Matthew, Peter Jordan and Joan’s brother. Peter sprang to his feet, almost upsetting his wife seated on the other end of the bench. ‘How, then, can we benefit for at least five years, if we are unable to sell our holdings?’ he demanded.
The lawyer sighed, a veteran of many other testaments and family squabbles. ‘You should be rejoicing at your good fortune, not complaining, Peter. You have a third share in whatever is in his personal treasure chest, coin, jewellery or whatever, which is yet to be accounted. And you will have a third of the income from his extensive business, which wisely – and on my own advice to Walter – will be kept intact for five years, and far longer if you heed my counsel.’
Peter remained on his feet, pale but determined. ‘This is not the will that my stepfather told me about, sir.’
Robert Courteman scowled at the young man. His face conveyed annoyance and suspicion. ‘And how would you know that, boy? Walter demanded that I kept his affairs absolutely secret, especially from his family.’
At the back of the room, the priest noticed that Philip Courteman’s face had reddened, and that Peter Jordan had shifted his angry glare from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law.
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