‘Like living in a bloody hive full of bees!’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘All gossip and scandal and intrigue, but very little actual work for me.’
He had been Coroner of the Verge for only a short while, posted there on the direct orders of King Richard, but after dealing with an extraordinary crime he decided that he wanted to leave, partly from feelings of guilt at not having done enough to solve it.
They spoke a little more about the sporadic cases of the yellow plague that had been cropping up, and John told him of the most recent one in Lympstone. For once, Hugh looked seriously concerned. ‘Lympstone! That’s getting uncomfortably close to Topsham.’
This was the port at the upper end of the estuary of the River Exe, where much of their goods were handled. If the disease hit Topsham, then their shipments would be badly disrupted. Like so many worried people around the southern coast, they began discussing possible causes of the yellow curse, without any hope of an answer.
‘Why don’t you ask the opinion of your new neighbour?’ suggested Hugh. John looked at him blankly for a moment, then realised what he meant.
‘The new physician? I’ve hardly said a word to him yet, though my wife seems to think that he’s some kind of saint.’
Three months earlier, while John was away in London, the house next door in Martin’s Lane had found a new tenant. Empty for well over a year since the silversmith who lived there had been murdered, it had been bought cheaply by the former sheriff, Richard de Revelle, John’s brother-in-law. Always striving to make yet more money, Richard had rented it out to Exeter’s first resident physician, Clement of Salisbury, who had recently arrived in the city to set up in practice.
Apart from muttering an occasional greeting when they passed in the street, John had kept clear of his neighbours, not being a very sociable individual. However, from the limited conversation he had with Matilda, he gathered that the new doctor and his wife were welcome additions to the upper levels of Exeter society.
Clement was a good-looking man of about John’s age, who dressed exceptionally well, as did his handsome wife. Best of all in Matilda’s eyes, they were very devout and already constant attenders at the cathedral. Now Matilda had invited them to her own church of St Olave’s in Fore Street, for additional services during the week.
‘Perhaps I’ll have a few words with him when I next see him,’ muttered de Wolfe. ‘Though I doubt he’ll know any more about plagues and distempers than the monks at St John’s Hospital. He seems to be more interested in dancing attendance on the wealthier folk in the city.’
As he spoke, he realised that his friend was one of those wealthier folk, but de Relaga was not one to take offence. They spoke for a little while longer, until the clerks began to get restive as they hovered about the portreeve with sheaves of parchment. John finished his wine and rose to leave, his final query to Hugh being about his brother-in-law.
‘Have you seen anything of Richard de Revelle lately?’ he asked. ‘I’ve not set eyes on him since I returned — not that it distresses me, but I always feel uneasy if I don’t know what mischief he might be up to!’
The portreeve grinned. ‘Have you not heard that he’s become a pig farmer now?’
John stared at him, suspecting some jest, for which Hugh was well known. ‘A pig farmer? The last I heard, he was making money with that private school of his down in Smythen Street.’
De Relaga nodded, the length of brocade wound around his head bobbing as he did so. ‘He’s still got that, but he’s found a new way of making yet more money. He has several acres of mud down near Clyst St George and another somewhere about Dartmouth, where he has hundreds of swine.’
John almost gaped in surprise. ‘I can’t see that dandified creature pouring buckets of pigswill or shovelling manure!’ he exclaimed.
The portreeve shook his head. ‘I doubt he’s ever even seen the damned hogs! He’ll have ill-paid slaves to do that for him.’
‘So what’s he up to, for God’s sake?’
‘As I said, making money! He discovered that the king’s army in France needed feeding, so he’s supplying salted pork and smoked bacon by the ton. No doubt at inflated prices, but the soldiers have to be fed. He sends shiploads of the stuff over to Barfleur and Honfleur, mainly out of Exmouth, Topsham and Dartmouth.’
‘Well, well! It’s a change to see that rascal engaged in some honest trade for once,’ grunted John. ‘But I’ll wager there’s some mischief somewhere — bribing royal purveyors to give a higher price or some such crafty deceit.’
Hugh shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s seen the error of his ways at last. I even considered offering to carry some of his cargoes across the Channel in our ships.’
‘His money is as good as anyone’s, I suppose,’ conceded John. ‘I’ll leave it to you, as long as you watch the bastard like a hawk!’
CHAPTER TWO
John de Wolfe went out into the cold wind and the crowded streets, this time walking to Carfoix near where Thomas had had his hair cut and seen his heretic. The coroner marched across and down the slope of Fore Street, past the tiny church of St Olave’s, where his wife worshipped almost every day. Then he turned left into even narrower lanes and came out into Smythen Street, where his brother-in-law owned a small college which taught logic, mathematics and theology to a handful of earnest young men.
Further down, a side turning crossed some weed-filled land which had lain barren for several years since fire destroyed a row of wooden houses. Now logically known as Idle Lane, the only structure left was a stone-built tavern, the Bush. Since he had returned from the Crusade four years ago, this inn had been as much a part of John’s life as his own house. It was here that his former mistress Nesta had reigned as landlady until she left for Wales to get married. Now Gwyn’s wife Martha was in charge, as John had bought the inn and set them up to run it for him.
He ducked his head to enter the low front door, set in a whitewashed wall under a steep thatched roof. The whole of the ground floor was a single ale-room, with a large loft above where straw pallets provided lodging for anyone wishing to spend the night. The Bush was one of Exeter’s most popular inns, with a reputation for good food, excellent ale and clean mattresses. A large heap of logs glowed in the firepit near the centre of the room, the smoke finding its way out through the eaves under the edge of the thatch, which was barely above head height. The eye-watering atmosphere was compounded by the smell of cooking, sweat and spilled ale, but unlike many of the other alehouses in the city there was no stench of urine and the rushes on the floor were changed regularly.
He made his way to his usual seat, a bench at a table near the firepit, sheltered from the draughts from the door by a shoulder-high wicker hurdle. His bottom had hardly touched the bench when an old man materialised, sliding a pottery ale-jar in front of him, filled with a quart of the Bush’s finest brew.
‘God and His Blessed Son be with you, Sir John!’ bleated Edwin, the tavern’s ‘potboy’, though he was well past sixty. An old soldier, he had lost an eye and was crippled in one leg from wounds suffered in Ireland. Usually, he called the coroner ‘captain’ in deference to his military reputation, but Gwyn had told John that he had recently become very religious, probably as an insurance against hellfire as he felt his final years approaching. Now Edwin eschewed all mention of warfare and violence, mouthing pious platitudes instead, much to the ribald amusement of many of the Bush’s patrons, who for years past had been used to his barrack-room oaths and blasphemies.
‘Gwyn’s out in the yard. I’ll tell him you’re here,’ he said as he moved off with some empty mugs, his collapsed and whitened eye rolling horribly as he tried to wink at the coroner.
John settled down to enjoy his quart, nodding to acquaintances and exchanging a word with others he knew, who were seated at the few tables scattered around the room. Almost everyone in Exeter knew de Wolfe by sight. He was admired as an ex-Crusader and respected as one of the few honest officials in the county. Not a few feared him, as though he was an almost obsessional champion of justice he was not a man to cross, as he came down hard on any wrongdoing.