‘Then he may have to do it from inside a prison cell while he awaits the gallows!’ screeched Richard, by now so carried away that he was careless of what slander he uttered.
The stocky coroner from Dorset became impatient. ‘Am I or am I not going to hold this inquest?’ he asked plaintively. He stepped forward and sat himself in the chair that Nicholas had vacated so abruptly. ‘Let us hear what the jury has to say on the matter.’
Though juries in the countryside were supposed to be composed of all the adult men from the four nearest villages, this was often patently impossible, and in towns even less practicable, so anything from a dozen to a score were usually empanelled.
The idea was to include all those who might know something useful about the event, so in addition to being the jurymen who delivered a verdict, they were also the actual witnesses.
Somewhat to his surprise, John realised that he was also one of the jury, being the person who had first found the body.
The new coroner called for evidence of identity, but before John de Wolfe could step forward, Richard had virtually hopped in front of him.
‘She is my sister, Matilda, a lady of good Norman stock, in her forty-sixth year,’ he exclaimed.
By the time he had uttered the words, John had marched across from where he stood on the end of the line and pushed his brother-in-law out of the way with a thrust of his shoulder. There was a gasp from the crowd, as many half-expected him to strike de Revelle a hammer blow with his fist.
‘I am Sir John de Wolfe, and Matilda was my wife,’ he glowered. ‘A husband undoubtedly takes precedence over a mere relative when it comes to identification. Yes, she was of Norman blood, so there is no question of presenting Englishry.’
De Courtenay nodded his agreement. ‘Let the clerk so record that fact. I will leave the matter of a murdrum fine to the royal judges when the case is presented to them in due course.’
‘I am also the First Finder,’ continued de Wolfe. ‘I will give evidence as to the situation when I arrived at the scene.’
The locum coroner looked irritated at having his role being anticipated for him by one of the witnesses, but nodded for John to continue.
‘There is little to tell. I returned home some time in the evening, went into my hall and found my wife lying dead on the floor. She had bruises on her throat indicating that she had been throttled by some unknown assailant.’
‘So you no doubt raised the hue and cry?’ asked de Courtenay.
‘I had no opportunity. As I stood there, I heard the hall door opening and feared it was the killer returning. But it was just this man, my brother-in-law, arriving at a suspiciously opportune moment!’
He managed to inject a note of sheer contempt into his voice as he waved a hand dismissively at Richard, who was still standing nearby.
‘That is only half the truth!’ shrilled de Revelle. ‘I came to visit my sister and found this evil man standing over her, while she was still warm! He pulled a knife on me and made to attack me. I was afraid for my life!’
‘Attack you be damned!’ snarled John. ‘I wouldn’t need a knife for that! Just shouting “Boo!” at you would be sufficient, you craven coward!’
‘So you failed to raise the hue and cry?’ persisted de Courtenay.
‘This interfering rascal did it for me!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Before I could gather my wits, the house was swarming with people he had dragged in from all around — the stable-keeper, the physician, neighbours, God knows who!’
Laboriously, the new coroner called all those who had responded to Richard’s raising of the hue and cry. They all told much the same story, some embellished, but basically confirming that Matilda was dead on the floor, John de Wolfe was present and that there was a dagger dropped nearby.
The evidence of Clement of Salisbury amounted to considerably more in John’s disfavour. After repeating the bare facts of being called by de Revelle as part of the hue and cry, de Courtenay asked him if he knew of any reason why Matilda might have been the victim of such violence.
With a sorrowful expression, Clement admitted that he knew there was friction between John de Wolfe and his wife, for he had several times heard violent arguments going on in their hall. This aroused a murmur of interest among the crowd, and many heads turned to stare at John.
‘You actually heard such disputes?’ demanded de Courtenay. ‘How could that be?’
‘Their house stands immediately on to the lane, sir. The window shutters allow the sound of voices to escape.’ He looked crestfallen, but assumed an air of righteous honesty. ‘On one occasion my own wife was present with me and can confirm what I say.’
‘Perhaps we should hear from her later,’ said the acting coroner. ‘But for now, did you hear what was said?’
‘I cannot recall the words, but it was of an angry, threatening nature,’ replied Clement.
Richard de Revelle was moving restlessly from foot to foot, desperate to have his say, and now he saw his opportunity.
‘I can confirm what the good doctor has testified,’ he declared, moving to the centre, directly in front of de Courtenay. ‘I repeat what I said just now — I called to see my sister last evening and found him standing over the body. As I entered the hall, he turned upon me and drew a dagger!’
‘Did he attack you with it?’
‘He was very threatening, but I remonstrated with him and he threw it on the floor.’
‘You bloody liar, Richard!’ called de Wolfe from the side, but the coroner held up a restraining hand as de Revelle continued his tale.
‘As Clement of Salisbury has said, my brother-in-law has repeatedly threatened his wife and quite recently, in my presence, I heard him promise to kill her! I am sure that their servants will confirm this.’
This provoked a loud ripple of muttering across the audience, which was strengthened when Lucille, Mary and Cecilia were called to be questioned.
Cecilia did her best to be non-committal, but when directly asked by Aubrey de Courtenay if she backed up her husband’s allegation, she reluctantly agreed that on one occasion, when passing their next-door neighbour’s window, she had heard a noisy altercation between Sir John and his wife.
‘But I am sure it was no more than the frequent raising of voices that occurs between man and wife,’ she added, trying to mitigate the damage that was being caused.
Mary the cook-maid was similarly reticent and gave evidence so grudgingly that the coroner had to warn her that she might be in trouble if she told less than the truth. Under this duress, Mary was forced to admit that her master and mistress sometimes had differences of opinion that developed into raised voices, but that she never heard Sir John ever seriously threaten his wife. It was Lucille who did the most damage, in that her evidence related to the time of the killing.
Looking like a frightened rabbit, she stood frail and shivering before the crowd as she related her knowledge of the previous evening.
‘The mistress and I had come home from church and I was folding her outdoor clothing in the solar upstairs,’ she whispered with chattering teeth. When de Courtenay barked at her to speak up, she almost fainted from fright but managed to get out the rest of her story.
‘The mistress was in the hall, taking some wine and cold meats that Mary had left for her, as the cook had gone to visit her cousin. Between the solar and the hall is a small window-slit, high up on the wall. I could hear voices and soon one was raised in anger, but I often heard them arguing or in violent contention, so I took little notice.’
‘Could you hear what was being said?’ demanded the coroner.
Lucille shook her head. ‘No, sire, I was busy packing garments into a chest at the other end of the solar. It was just a distant noise of voices.’
‘Did you recognise who was speaking, then?’ asked de Courtenay irritably.