While the other sister wound a long strip of linen around his head, Philip haltingly told de Wolfe his part of the story.
‘We were hardly out of sight of this place, trotting around a bend, when what I took to be a monk in a habit and cowl, carrying a staff, waved us down at the side of the track. I was in front of the ladies and I stopped. I assumed he was in some distress.’ He looked rather sheepish as he added, ‘The distress was to be mine, for that’s the last I recall, until I found myself being carried back here across the back of a groom’s nag. He must have struck me senseless with that staff.’
Frustrated by Philip’s loss of memory, de Wolfe turned away, to be faced by Joan’s mother, who had come from the next room at the sound of voices. Her wrinkled face was relieved by her bright blue eyes and even the hardened Dame Madge seemed impressed by her. ‘The lad was knocked out of his senses,’ she declared, ‘but I can tell you what took place. This fellow, disguised as a Benedictine in his black robe, struck the young fellow here a swinging blow with his staff that felled him from his horse. Then he rushed at my poor daughter, her being with child, and dragged her from her pony.’ Lucy clenched her fists at the memory. ‘Thankfully, she fell into a bush which broke her fall, but then the bastard – begging your pardon, Sister – bent over her and started to throttle her. And I couldn’t be putting up with that, could I?’ she added, in an almost matter-of-fact tone.
Dame Madge put an arm affectionately around Lucy’s shoulders. ‘A real heroine, this woman,’ she said proudly. ‘She attacked the villain herself and drove him off.’
The mother, though still tremulous, beamed. ‘I’m a tanner’s wife, and I’ve seen plenty of rough men and fights in my time. I drove my horse at him and reared her up so that her front hoofs struck him. I was afraid for my daughter, but she was underneath and it was that or let her be strangled.’
John had to admire Lucy’s enterprise and courage – though the thought passed through his mind that she would probably be worse to live with than Matilda and that perhaps the tanner from Ashburton was happier in his grave. ‘So he made a run for it, this man?’ he asked.
‘I think I hurt him grievously,’ said Lucy. ‘I felt a hoof crunch into the side of his chest, for he let out a terrible scream. He dropped Joan and staggered away, then limped off into the forest. I was too concerned with my daughter to bother with him, as long as he fled.’
‘Have you any notion as to who he was?’ asked Gwyn, silent until now.
‘No, he kept this monk’s habit girded tightly around himself and I think he must have tied the cowl under his chin somehow, for his face stayed well hidden.’
‘Was he a big man or small?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘Not small, certainly,’ said the old woman, ‘but not a great lump like this ginger man of yours here.’
‘Was your daughter able to recognise him?’
‘She has said nothing, her throat is so sore she can hardly speak.’
Dame Madge interrupted, ‘She is not yet well enough to be questioned, if that is in your mind, Crowner.’
De Wolfe motioned to his officer. ‘We must get back there and see if Gabriel has found anything.’
Minutes later, they returned to the edge of the forest and were met by one of the soldiers who had been left by Gabriel to guard the scene. The man held out something. ‘The sergeant told me to show you this, Crowner. He picked it up where the bushes were flattened.’
John took a shiny grey object into the palm of his hand. It was a charm or amulet hanging on a leather thong, which had snapped. Gwyn looked over his shoulder, curious to see what it was. ‘Made of pure tin, that is,’ he said. ‘Three rabbits with their heads in a circle, sharing only three ears.’
‘The symbol of the tinners,’ agreed de Wolfe. ‘Must have been pulled off the attacker when that harridan Lucy stamped him with her pony.’
‘These bloody tinners get everywhere,’ muttered Gwyn, but a shout from the trees diverted him.
Another soldier appeared, pushing his way through the long damp grass to the edge of the road. ‘We’ve got him, Crowner, though he’ll not last long. The sergeant says for you to come quickly.’
They hurried back into the wood, where the lush undergrowth faded beneath the trees into wild garlic and early bluebells. Footprints in the wet earth and an occasional splash of blood marked the trail for several hundred paces to a small clearing where some fallen trees had allowed the bushes and weeds to flourish again. Here Gabriel, two of his men and the pair of servants from the priory were gathered in a circle. At their feet lay a figure almost hidden under a voluminous habit of coarse black wool. The cowl had been pulled back.
De Wolfe bent over a face that was almost blue. Its owner was gasping for breath, his lips were really black and spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. At first the coroner did not recognise the man, but then he realised he had seen him somewhere before.
‘He seems mortally wounded in the chest,’ murmured Gabriel, pulling aside the robe to show a large tear in the rough blue smock, which suggested a labourer of some kind.
Under the rip, a shiny patch of new blood-clot shimmered in the light coming through the trees and de Wolfe noticed the pink-white end of a broken rib sticking through the underlying skin. ‘What’s your name, fellow?’ he rasped.
Gasping was the only reply and, although the man was conscious, the coroner knew from experience that he had little time left to live. ‘You are dying, fellow, so make your peace with God by confessing your sins,’ said John loudly.
‘His chest is punctured – he has little air left in his lungs,’ diagnosed Gwyn who, like his master, considered himself an expert on injuries after two decades of warfare.
A dying declaration, attested by witnesses, was valid evidence in law, so de Wolfe needed to get what he could before the man expired. He had not forgotten that another death had been caused by a blow from a staff that had unhorsed the victim, and wanted to discover if the same hands had inflicted both strokes. ‘If you can’t speak, nod or shake your head! Did you also attack a man a week ago near Dunsford, a man named Walter Knapman?’
The crumpled figure tried to suck in air, his damaged chest heaving ineffectually. His eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, and de Wolfe thought he had died. But then the bloodshot lids flickered and the eyes refocused, but the man made no sign with his head. ‘You are dying. This is your last chance for redemption,’ he snapped, wishing he had Thomas here to coax the man with some religious cant. ‘Once again, did you attack a man near Dunsford Mill in a similar fashion?’
Foam appeared alongside the spittle on his lips but, slowly, the dying man nodded.
‘And who did you wish to slay today? The young man you struck?’
This time the head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side.
‘So it was the young woman?’
There was a pause and again John feared that death had forestalled him. But then there was a slow nod, before the eyes rolled up again.
‘He’s going, I reckon,’ observed Gwyn impassively.
‘Who set you to these crimes, fellow?’ shouted de Wolfe, desperately, though all too conscious that the man had no ability left to tell him. With a bubbling rattle, pink-stained froth welled from the false monk’s mouth and his head fell back, the face now almost black for want of air.
‘Dead as mutton. You’ll get no more answers from him,’ rumbled Gwyn, satisfied that his forecast of impending death had been correct.
De Wolfe straightened up and looked down at the now inert assailant. ‘At least we know who killed Knapman – though I’ll wager he was only some hired assassin. But where the hell have I seen him before?’
One of the men-at-arms from Rougemont stepped forward and peered again at the corpse. ‘I think I know him, Crowner. With his face blue and swollen like that it’s difficult, but I’m sure he was a porter who worked in Matthew Knapman’s tin-yard near the quayside. He’s part Saxon, by the name of Oswin.’
De Wolfe’s memory clicked, as he recalled the fellow humping tin bars in the warehouse when he called to tell Matthew of his brother’s death.
‘Come, Gwyn, back to the horses. We’ve urgent business to attend in Priest Street.’
However, once on the back of his borrowed mare, de Wolfe decided to call back at the priory to see if Widow Knapman had recovered sufficiently to say whether her assailant had given any clue as to who had sent him on his murderous mission. They found Philip Courteman still sitting on his bench, holding his aching head in his hands, and Lucy in the guest hall with the sisters, who seemed to have been highly taken by her aggressive courage.
The new knowledge he brought, that she had killed their assailant, seemed only to increase her satisfaction, and de Wolfe arranged for the new corpse to be brought to the tiny mortuary outside the infirmary wall until he could hold his inquest.
His hope of talking to Joan was quashed by Dame Madge, who opened the door of the infirmary cell to show her sleeping peacefully beneath an open window. ‘I gave her a sleeping draught to ease the discomfort of her bruised throat,’ explained the nun. ‘She’ll not be ready to talk until later today.’ With that de Wolfe had to be content, and after a few fruitless words with the lawyer’s son, he and his officer rode away towards the city.
Before he went to Matthew’s house and yard, John felt that a brief appearance at home might insure him later against Matilda’s disapproval. He called at Martin’s Lane and partially thawed her icy indifference with the latest news on the Knapman saga. Anything that involved family feuding, pregnancy and disputed wills was welcome nourishment to her curiosity, especially if she could later retail it to her circle of friends at the cathedral and St Olave’s.
His duty done, de Wolfe rejoined Gwyn, who had been skulking in the farrier’s opposite, and they rode down to Priest Street. Here they found that the sheriff had forestalled them: Gabriel had felt obliged to send a soldier post-haste to tell him of the events in Polsloe Wood. Another had been despatched to Matthew’s yard and then to the lawyer’s office, conveying to Robert Courteman the news about his son.
When de Wolfe arrived, two men-at-arms were holding Richard de Revelle’s horse outside the gate to the yard, from where furious shouting could be heard.
‘How, in God’s name, should I know where Oswin has gone?’ yelled Matthew, as they walked through the back gate. ‘He should be here helping to load these bars. I’m having to do it myself, as you can see.’
‘Perhaps he has gone on a murderous errand for you,’ retorted the sheriff. ‘Just as he did last week in Dunsford.’
Matthew looked blankly at de Revelle, whom he thought had gone insane. ‘Mary, Mother of God, what are you saying? Ask the bloody man yourself when he comes back – just before I tell him he’s lost his job here, leaving me in the lurch on such a busy day.’
John stepped forward, and the pair noticed his arrival for the first time. ‘Oswin won’t be coming back today – or any other day. He’s dead, Matthew,’ he said.
‘Where the devil did you spring from, John?’ exclaimed de Revelle, annoyed at the intrusion of the coroner into what he had hoped was to be a surprise arrest of his own.
Guessing that Gabriel had informed the sheriff of recent events, de Wolfe ignored his brother-in-law and spoke to Matthew, who was red-faced with outrage and confusion at de Revelle’s obscure accusations. ‘Your man Oswin attacked Joan Knapman and Philip Courteman today – and admitted killing your brother last week. Have you anything to say about that?’
Matthew’s colour changed from pink to greenish-white and he sank back weakly for support against a pile of ingots. ‘Oswin? Why should he do that? The man’s a moron! He’s only good for using his muscles to lift tin.’
‘Well, he used them to kill Walter and to try to strangle your sister-in-law today. But who put him up to it, eh? We know that two men were implicated in the killing. The lad at the mill was quite definite, simple as he is.’
The sheriff, strutting impatiently in his bright green cloak, thrust himself back into the fray. ‘This Oswin’s your servant, Knapman. He does what you bid him do. Admit it now, you used him to rid you of those who kept you from an inheritance.’
The tin-merchant goggled at de Revelle. ‘Me? Kill Walter? You’re mad! How could I slay my own twin, with whom I shared my mother’s womb?’
De Revelle smiled nastily at Matthew. ‘No doubt we’ll discover that at the Ordeal or during peine forte et dure,’ he threatened. He yelled for his men-at-arms to come into the yard. ‘Seize this man and deliver him to the gaoler in the castle keep.’
Exasperated by yet another act of dangerous foolishness on the part of the sheriff, John stepped forward and grabbed de Revelle’s arm. ‘Don’t be so hasty, Richard. You have no evidence that Matthew is involved in this.’
The sheriff sneered at his brother-in-law. ‘Motive and opportunity – isn’t that sufficient? He stood to gain a goodly part of a fortune by disposing of his brother – and of keeping far more of it by disposing of his widow. As for opportunity, whose servant is the confessed killer, eh?’
‘I have been here in this yard all day, with many witnesses to prove it. How could I have been involved?’ quavered Matthew desperately.
‘I don’t give a tinker’s curse for your alibi today. It was the man you paid to do your evil deeds who matters,’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly.
De Wolfe cast about desperately for something to prevent the sheriff persisting with his rash and impetuous prejudice. ‘Where were you on the morning your brother was murdered?’ he snapped.
Matthew drooped pathetically. ‘What’s the point? You’ll only say it doesn’t matter, as Oswin did my bidding, anyway!’
‘Answer me! Can others testify to your presence somewhere?’
‘Of course! That morning, before I rode to Chagford for my regular meeting with my brother, I was negotiating the sale of tin for Germany, with two merchants from Cologne.’
‘Who, no doubt, have now conveniently left England,’ sneered the sheriff.
‘No! As far as I’m aware their vessel still lies in the river, having sprung leaks that need recaulking,’ averred Matthew, with a return of his defiance.
De Revelle shrugged indifferently. ‘As you said yourself, it matters not. This Oswin did your dirty work for you.’
De Wolfe had his opportunity. ‘Not so, Richard! We well know that another person, apart from the self-confessed Oswin, was involved. Walter was struck from behind. He would never have suffered that had not another person been engaging his attention from the front, the one who led him off the road into the trees. It was almost certainly someone he knew, who would arouse no suspicion of attack. And it could not have been Matthew, who can prove that he was in Exeter until it was too late for him to be in Dunsford at the time Walter was attacked.’
But nothing would dissuade the stubborn de Revelle from his first conclusion and he beckoned again to the two bemused men-at-arms to advance on Matthew. The tin-merchant backed away behind de Wolfe, whom he saw as the more even-handed of the law officers. ‘Wait, I tell you!’ he shouted. ‘What about that damned brother of Joan’s, who can’t wait to get his hands on her money? He declined to go with his sister to Polsloe today, claiming he had urgent business in Ashburton – which I doubt.’ Emboldened by his theory, Matthew’s voice became more confident. ‘If he could get rid of her, after ensuring that Walter’s death and her pregnancy made her the heir, then as her nearest relative he could claim all the eight-tenths for himself. So why not discover where he was today – and on the day my brother met his death?’
This novel idea stopped both the sheriff and the coroner in their tracks. De Wolfe admitted to himself that since Joan had been attacked, the possibility of her brother’s involvement had not occurred to him.
As usual, Gwyn had remained silent while his superiors argued around him, but his ponderous body hid an astute brain. ‘No one has asked where Peter Jordan is today,’ he pointed out.
> John stared at the hairy Cornishman, then at Matthew. ‘So where is he?’
The tin-merchant looked mystified. ‘He’s been here all morning, helping me since that damned Oswin failed to appear.’
‘Then where is he now?’ demanded de Revelle, shifting the target of his suspicion.
‘When that messenger came with news of the attack at Polsloe, he said he’d better go home to tell his wife that her brother had been injured. That was a few minutes before you arrived.’
De Revelle gave a shrug of indifference, but John felt a sudden frisson of worry.
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Rack Lane, not two minutes from here.’
Without a word of explanation to the sheriff or Matthew, de Wolfe hurried out with his officer. Minutes later they were rapping on the door that a water-seller had pointed out to them.
A serving-girl ushered them into a small but well-furnished hall and a puzzled-looking Martha Courteman came in from the yard at the back of the house. She was a plain woman, several years older than her husband. A downturned mouth above a receding chin suggested a sour disposition, and John found it easy to accept that she was the daughter of the dour lawyer. ‘We need to speak urgently to your husband, Mistress Jordan,’ he began, hovering over her like a thin black eagle.
Martha looked bewildered. ‘But Peter is at his work down at the warehouse.’
‘Matthew told us that he had hurried home to tell you of the injury to your brother.’
The young wife threw a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, her eyes as large as eggs. ‘Philip injured? I know nothing of it!’ she howled.
It took a few minutes to explain and calm her down, the maid fussing over her with a reviving glass of mead. De Wolfe was impatient to discover where her husband might have gone, but Martha had no idea. She began to cry, rocking back and forth on a stool.
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