The big Cornishman came and sat with him, basking in the compliments about his latest efforts at brewing. A fervent dog-lover, he brought a bone from the kitchen-shed for Brutus, who lay in the rushes under the table, gnawing happily while the men above talked.
‘The yellow plague has hit Dartmouth now, so a carter told us this morning,’ said Gwyn. ‘Another port. We don’t hear of it happening up on Dartmoor, so it must surely be brought in by ship-men.’
They discussed this for a time, but felt futile and helpless in the face of a disease which struck so rapidly and so randomly.
‘That doctor next door to me is useless,’ growled de Wolfe. ‘I’ll have a word with Richard Lustcote, the apothecary. He’s a sensible man, though I suppose if there was anything he could do, he would have done it by now.’
His officer, depressed by the subject, moved to another problem. ‘What are we going to do about this murder? Where do we start?’
‘The heretic fraternity is the only lead I can see,’ answered the coroner. ‘Unless some fanatic comes to confess to it, which seems as likely as the moon breaking in half, we can only attack the problem by discovering whom the heretics fear or even suspect of such an act.’
‘And what about Thomas’s pale man in the plague pit?’
John shrugged and took a deep draught of his ale. ‘We’ve no chance of getting him dug up again, in the circumstances. And even if we did and found another bloody great wound in his head, what good would that be in finding out who did it? We’ve already got one example, and that’s taking us nowhere at the moment.’
Gwyn scratched his crotch, which seemed his alternative to Thomas crossing himself. ‘So we’ve got to find us some unbelievers?’
‘Unbelievers in the Roman way, certainly — though our clerk says they are more than devout in their own way. Someone said they heard such heresy being voiced in the Plough tavern, so maybe you should do one of your tours around the alehouses and keep those big ears open.’
Where Thomas gained much gossip from among his ecclesiastical colleagues, Gwyn was adept at eavesdropping in taverns, a task that suited him admirably.
‘I’ll start tonight, Crowner — my goodwife can hardly complain if I’m doing it on behalf of the king and his coroner!’
CHAPTER FIVE
John spent the early part of the afternoon with Thomas in their chamber, as they had to work on some of the submissions to the royal justices when they came to hold the Eyre in a few weeks’ time. As de Wolfe had been away for months, most of the few cases were left over from Nicholas de Arundell, manor-lord of Hempston Arundell, near Totnes. He had reluctantly taken over the coronership when John was posted to Westminster and had now gone back to Hempston with a sigh of relief.
Thomas de Peyne was rewriting some of the scrappy records left by a junior clerk that Nicholas had borrowed from the castle, as his pride would not allow him to put such imperfect parchments before the king’s judges. In addition, he had to record a couple of fatal assaults, a rape, two house fires, seven hangings and four declarations of outlawry that John had dealt with since his return. As the coroner could only just about write his name, Thomas took dictation from him and read back any material that John needed to know about. The arrangement worked well, especially as Thomas used his own initiative to improve the content and style of his master’s words, without John being aware of it.
As they worked, de Wolfe listened for the cathedral bells, the only way of gauging the time, other than dawn and dusk. The only other means was going to a church that had graduated candles used for timing services.
‘That was for Vespers, so we’ll wait a while, then go down to tackle this other canon,’ he decided.
If de Baggetor had actually graced Vespers with his presence, instead of sending a vicar in his stead, he should be back within the hour.
In due course the coroner and his clerk walked back down to the Close, and Thomas took him to another house a few doors away from Ralph de Hospitali. Here they were again conducted by a steward to a comfortable room with even better furniture than before. De Baggetor was a tall, stooped man of about fifty, with a long, deeply lined face which reminded John of a hunting hound. The canon had an aloof manner which went with a stubborn and inflexible nature.
He offered no invitation for them to be seated, and de Wolfe was again made aware of the antagonism and jealousies that often existed between the clergy and the city. The cathedral precinct was almost a state within a state, as the writ of the sheriff and burgesses did not run in the Close, except along the public paths. Discipline and justice were meted out by the bishop and the cathedral chapter, through the strong arms of the proctors’ bailiffs. This had been softened a little by the decision of Bishop Marshal to delegate jurisdiction over serious crimes like murder to the sheriff and coroner, but it was always made clear that the secular powers operated in the precinct only under sufferance.
‘You want to talk to me about this slain heretic?’ asked de Baggetor. His voice was slow and almost lazy, but was belied by the steely look in his dark eyes. The ring of frizzled hair around his tonsure was grey, but his eyebrows were jet black, like John’s.
‘It is just possible that we may have two slain heretics,’ answered de Wolfe. ‘I can’t prove it for various reasons, but another man said to have similar beliefs has died suddenly. Does the name Vincente d’Estcote mean anything to you?’
A look of surprise came over the canon’s face, which John felt was genuine. ‘No, never heard of him. Why do you say that he might also have been a blasphemer?’
‘My clerk here heard him addressing folk in the street on the subject. I thought he might have been one of the names that your bailiffs had reported to you. Ralph de Hospitali told us that you held a list of such suspects.’
Robert de Baggetor turned to his table and reached up to a shelf above it, where a number of rolled parchments rested, tied with pink tape. Everything in the room was in meticulously neat order, with nothing out of place. Even the large ebony and ivory crucifix on the wall shone as if it had been polished only an hour before.
He took a thin roll and untied it, before scanning it rapidly and then handing it to John. ‘That name is not on there, Sir John.’
The coroner, always slightly sensitive about his illiteracy, slid the curled sheet across to Thomas.
‘How did your men come by these names?’ he asked.
The canon rubbed one of his eyes, which was red and inflamed.
‘On my instructions, they seek out meetings of such evildoers. They also have paid informers who can acquire such names without arousing suspicion. Experience in Italy and France has shown that since the Papal Bull on the matter, threatened exposure can lead to violence and even murder of the investigators.’
John made a mental note to ask Thomas about this notorious Bull, but he did not wish to show his ignorance before this patronising cleric.
‘I would like to keep this list — or have my clerk make a copy of it,’ he requested.
De Baggetor’s dark brows came together in displeasure. ‘Impossible! It is for the use of the bishop and the proctors. This is an ecclesiastical matter; it is none of the business of a sheriff or coroner.’
Thomas, emboldened by his knowledge of Church law, ventured to enter the dispute. ‘With the greatest respect, canon, the Papal Bull Ab Abolendum specifically stated that bishops should seek the aid of stewards, bailiffs and all other officers in pursuing heretics and that such secular authorities were obliged to offer such help.’