‘We have seen your name on a certain list held by the cathedral authorities,’ he began. ‘That is no concern of mine, except that it may lead me to discover who might have killed Nicholas Budd. I presume that name means something to you?’
The weather-beaten face clouded over, and he became instantly suspicious. ‘I know that the poor fellow met a terrible death,’ he said cautiously. ‘But what business is it of mine?’
John leaned across the table, his fists avoiding fish scales and blood.
‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Adam. We both know you are on the Church’s list of suspected heretics. Budd is dead and we suspect that Vincente d’Estcote may be another. Do you know anything about his death?’
The fishmonger looked furtively from side to side, as if he was afraid that Bishop Marshal might be lurking in the pastry-cook’s booth next door. ‘Vincente just vanished from his lodgings; no one saw him go,’ he muttered. ‘He was in good health an hour before, because I saw him myself.’
‘He was one of your group, was he?’ asked de Wolfe, but Adam shook his head.
‘No, he subscribed to the beliefs of the Cathars. He had been in the king’s army and had spent time down in France.’
‘So what are you, man?’ demanded John. ‘You may as well answer, you admit you knew him.’
Adam drew in a deep breath, as if committing himself to an irrevocable decision. ‘I follow the ways of Pelagius — and I am not alone in that.’
Thomas in his surprise and disbelief made a noise almost like a mouse’s squeak. ‘A Pelagian! There have been no Pelagians for six centuries!’
Adam regarded the priest placidly. ‘It has been revived by many, even if not in name. The principles are well known, and those who disagree with the dictatorship of Rome come together to discuss the True Way.’ He held his dirty hands out towards the clerk as if inviting him to put bonds upon them. ‘Now you may denounce me, if you wish.’
Thomas seemed nonplussed for once and looked to the coroner for support. ‘I am here as an assistant to an officer of the King’s Peace. I leave Church discipline to others.’
De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘I am investigating a murder, Adam, not doing the Pope’s work for him. You might be more at risk from whoever killed those men than from the bishop’s court. Have you any idea who might have wished them dead?’
‘Those canons undoubtedly hate us, but I doubt they would stoop to murder,’ muttered the other man. ‘His proctors are bullies but are just paid servants, so why would they care?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I cannot guess who may have done this terrible thing. Perhaps some mad parish priest? We have sympathisers all over the county. Any village parson with an unhinged mind could have taken the law into his own hands.’
The coroner decided to change his approach. ‘Where can we find the other men on this list?’ he asked. ‘We know of this Hengist of Wonford, but maybe the others can help us to track down this killer.’
He motioned to Thomas, who took out his piece of parchment and started to read out the remaining ten names. However, Adam took it from them and scanned it himself, much to the astonishment of the others.
‘How is it that an Exeter fish-man can read and be so knowledgeable of Church history?’ asked Thomas, slightly affronted that his monopoly of such knowledge was being displaced by a mere tradesman.
Adam smiled wanly. ‘It goes to prove that priests are not indispensable in man’s dealings with the Almighty,’ he answered. ‘My father put me as a child into St Nicholas’s Priory, intending me to enter holy orders — but he died and I had to leave to support my mother and sisters. In the few years I was there, I learned a great deal, especially how to hate priests, begging your pardon!’
The fishmonger went back to studying the list and nodded at several of them. ‘Those three belong to our way of thinking,’ he said cautiously, repeating their names. ‘I am not sure where they live, but they attend most of our meetings.’
‘Are those the meetings you hold in a barn near Ide?’ snapped John.
A look of surprise spread over Adam’s face. ‘How did you know that? It’s supposed to be a secret.’
‘Fine bloody secret, if you can hear it bandied about in every alehouse!’ said Gwyn sarcastically.
‘When is your next meeting?’ asked the coroner. ‘I wish to speak to your fellows there, to see if they know anything useful.’
‘Monday, at the end of the afternoon. Those of us from the city have to get back in before the gates close at dusk.’
John took directions to the barn and reassured Adam that he was not coming to spy on them for the bishop or his clergy. Thomas looked a little uncomfortable at this and, when they left the fishmonger’s stall, he asked if he could be excused from Monday’s venture.
‘I could be censured by the bishop if I attended such a meeting and failed to report it, which is my duty as an ordained priest, master,’ he said miserably. ‘In fact, even knowing what we have just learned is very difficult for me to reconcile with my conscience. These are people whose philosophy is directly in opposition to the Church I serve. I should be doing my utmost to confound them.’
De Wolfe laid a hand on his clerk’s shoulder as they walked back up Fore Street. ‘I understand, Thomas, believe me! I am only concerned with catching and hanging a cruel killer. What the Church does about its rivals is none of my business. So you stay at home on Monday. No doubt Gwyn will be protection enough for me when I penetrate this den of blasphemers!’
Suiting his actions to his words, he sent Thomas off to his duties at the cathedral and carried on with Gwyn to the livery stables, where they saddled up and set off for Wonford, a village just a mile or so south-east of the city.
They rode through the straggle of dwellings that was spilling out around the thriving city and travelled through a mixture of woodland and strip-fields to reach the hamlet. It was part of a royal manor but rented out to an aged knight who left its running to a bailiff. They overtook a man pushing a barrow of manure and Gwyn reined up to ask directions.
‘Where can we find a man called Hengist?’
The villein raised a lined face, with a couple of blackened teeth protruding from under his upper lip. ‘Hengist? You may well ask, sir, for he’s vanished!’
De Wolfe leaned forward from the other side of Gwyn. ‘Vanished? What the hell d’you mean?’
‘Just that, sir, he’s disappeared. We’ve been searching for him since yesterday.’
The man picked up the handles of his barrow ready to walk on. ‘You’d best speak to the bailiff, sir, he knows most about it. Ask for him in the alehouse.’
He marched away and the coroner and his officer jerked their horses into motion and went on into the little village, where the squat church and the alehouse opposite were the only substantial buildings.
Gwyn slid from his saddle outside the tavern, marked by a bedraggled bush hanging over the door. He stuck his head under the low lintel of the doorway and a moment later came out, followed by a young man with sandy hair and a long brown tunic.
‘I’m Robert the bailiff, sir. I understand you are also seeking Hengist?’
‘I am indeed, but what’s happened to him?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘He’s our harness-maker and he was in his workshop the night before last, but no one has seen him since,’ replied Robert, who John thought seemed an intelligent-looking fellow.
‘Does his family not know where he is?’
‘He is a widower, sir. His two sons live elsewhere in the vill. One came to visit the next afternoon, but there was no sign of him. We have looked all through the crofts and tofts and the fields — nothing!’
‘How can he vanish in such a small place?’ grunted Gwyn.
‘His sons are now out searching further afield, but beyond our strips, the forest starts. He could be anywhere in there, maybe having lost his wits or had a palsy.’
‘We need to find him. Can you show us where he lives, bailiff?’