Gwyn pulled this away to reveal a sodden partly skeletalised corpse that had been washed up on the riverbank. The other cadaver was fresh, but the front of the coarse tunic was soaked in blood from a stab wound in the chest.
‘That one could have died in the summer, by the look of it,’ said Gwyn, airing his knowledge of decomposition.
The coroner nodded. ‘Might have washed down all the way from Exmoor, for all we know.’
Neither corpse provided much of a challenge to his powers. No one knew who the rotted body belonged to and no one ever would, so a short inquest with the finders and few onlookers from Exe Island disposed of the matter and allowed the corpse to be buried in an anonymous pauper’s grave. The stabbing from the Saracen, the roughest tavern in the city, had been witnessed by at least a score of other men, and a verdict of murder against another ship-man was returned by his jury in under a minute. The man would be incarcerated in the city gaol in one of the towers of the South Gate — if he survived the violence or disease rampant in prison, he would be brought before the king’s justices when they next perambulated to Exeter and John would see him again at the gallows on Magdalen Street.
All the time, de Wolfe was fearing the arrival again of the reeve from Stoke, to tell him his brother was dead. It was impossible for John to keep riding down there every day or two; he had his duties to attend to in the city, as well as the three-hour journey each way being too much to endure on an almost daily basis. As he walked back home for his dinner after the inquests, he pondered on what he would do if William did pass away. His elder brother was an expert at running two manors, a born farmer at heart — while John knew nothing about estate management, having been a soldier all his life. And where would he live — Exeter or Stoke? Much as he disliked Matilda, he could hardly walk out and leave her alone in Martin’s Lane for good.
The atmosphere in his house was as gloomy as ever. His favourite dish, roast pork, failed to lift his spirits, even though Mary had provided a side dish of leeks cooked in butter and there was a tart of prunes to follow. When a fresh loaf and a cheese appeared, he silently cut slices of each and slid some across to his wife on a pewter platter, trying to keep up some pretence of good manners, though she never responded with so much as a muttered thanks.
In a desperate attempt to break the silence, he made his first mistake. ‘I wonder how my brother is faring?’ he asked. ‘I must go down there tomorrow afternoon and return the next morning, so that I can attend to my duties.’
This started Matilda off on a familiar tirade about him leaving her alone overnight. ‘I suppose you are using the excuse of visiting your brother to call upon your whore in Dawlish,’ she spat.
On top of his deep concern for William, this was too much for him to bear, considering that he had resolutely avoided Hilda for fear of taking the disease to her.
‘You evil old bitch!’ he yelled, pushing back his chair so violently that it crashed over backwards. ‘You measure everyone by your own spiteful nature, damn you!’
A furious row broke out, as Matilda gave as good as she got, matching insult for insult. John had a quick temper, and this led to a screaming match that was probably a record for this household. Even Brutus, used as he was to these scenes, crawled away from the hearth and lay down inconspicuously in a corner. Matilda also lumbered to her feet, and they stood on each side of the table, shouting at each other at the tops of their voices.
‘Why I’ve not strangled you years ago, I’ll never know!’ he yelled at her finally. ‘But by God, I’ll do it one of these days!’
‘Is that so, John? I’ll remember that,’ came a third voice and, wheeling around, de Wolfe saw his hated brother-in-law standing just inside the door.
‘I knocked, but no one answered. Your maid must be hiding away like your hound,’ said Richard de Revelle smoothly.
‘What the hell do you want?’ demanded John. ‘Anyone with a little decency would have stayed outside.’
‘I thought my sister might need some protection from the threats of her husband,’ retorted the intruder.
‘And what protection d’you think you could offer?’ snarled John. The former sheriffs bravery had been called into question more than once.
‘You’ll go too far one day, John. Perhaps my sister was safer in Polsloe Priory than living here with you and your threats of violence.’
Matilda, breathing heavily and red in the face, tried to recover her poise. ‘Sit down, Richard. John, bring wine for my brother!’
‘Let him get it himself. I’m going out!’ snapped de Wolfe, abandoning any pretence at hospitality, which he considered would have been the height of hypocrisy.
He moved towards the door to get away from this odious couple, but Richard tried to delay him with an upraised hand.
‘John, I came to discover what is being done about the yellow distemper. My pork enterprise is being ruined. I have had to close both those at Exmouth and Dartmouth, as most of the men are dead or sick — and how can I sell meat which has been so near such contamination?’
De Wolfe looked at him incredulously. ‘You selfish bastard! Men, women and children are dying by the score, my own brother is near death, and all you can think of is your bloody bacon trade!’
He dragged open the door to the vestibule and stood on the threshold. ‘All you can do is pray, Richard! Presumably to the gods of Mammon!’
With that parting shot, he went out and slammed the door so hard that the latch snapped.
Rather aimlessly, John wandered into the cathedral Close, as his bad temper slowly subsided. His feet then almost instinctually took him in the direction of Idle Lane and the Bush Inn. Yet again, he regretted the loss of Nesta, who always had the ability to soothe him with her gentle words and divert him with her loving passion.
In the tavern, Edwin brought him a quart of Gwyn’s latest brew and his usual gossip. ‘I hear that on Wednesday, some of those faithless creatures from hell are going to get their just deserts,’ he announced with grim satisfaction.
‘Where did you hear that?’ demanded John, again marvelling at how an alehouse potman became privy so quickly to the bishop’s business.
‘Herbert Gale, one of the proctors’ bailiffs, was in here, and he said he had to bring them in from Ide. The other bailiff was supposed to collect one from Wonford, but it seems he’s disappeared. Run away, no doubt, when he heard that his blasphemy had been discovered!’
De Wolfe had his own ideas about that, but he was not going to tell Edwin, or it would be common knowledge all over the city inside an hour.
Gwyn ambled in, smelling pleasantly of fresh ale-mash, and sat down to share a pot with John. ‘Are we going down to this barn near Ide later on?’ he asked.
John nodded. ‘We’ll leave Thomas out of it, but I need to speak to these men to see if they have any ideas who may be so incensed against them that they resort to murder.’
‘It surely has to be a priest or someone in holy orders?’ said the Cornishman. ‘Who else would care that much?’
De Wolfe shrugged. ‘There are some folk who are so devout that they might do anything. I wouldn’t put murder past my wife,’ he added darkly.
At that moment a small figure appeared alongside them in some state of agitation. It was Thomas, once again venturing into the den of sin that was an alehouse, though in fact Martha was as kind to him as Nesta had been, insisting on feeding him and mending his shabby clothes when necessary.
‘Crowner, a man has arrived at Rougemont from Wonford, saying he’s the bailiff,’ he gabbled. ‘He wants you to go there at once. They have found the body of the man who went missing.’