‘I have brought someone who can definitely identify the body, if it is who we think,’ said John brusquely. He motioned Edwin forward. ‘This young man is on the palace staff and knows the presumed victim.’
A still shape lay upon the cart covered with a grubby sheet of canvas. One of the sheriff’s servants pulled it off and Edwin moved forward to study the dead man’s face.
‘There’s no doubt about it, that’s Basil of Reigate,’ murmured the clerk, looking rather white about the gills.
The other sheriff’s man, rather reluctantly deferring to a knight of the realm, wanted to know more details and Edwin described how Basil was one of the palace officers responsible for the upkeep of the guest chambers.
‘I suppose you want to examine the cadaver, Crowner?’ said Gwyn, moving towards the barrow. The first sheriff’s officer, named William, quickly stepped forward and laid a hand on the massive arm of the Cornishman.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
Gwyn looked enquiringly at John as he shook off the restraining hand. For a moment, de Wolfe was afraid that his henchman was going to send the other man staggering for his temerity in grasping him. He held up a restraining hand to Gwyn and glared at William.
‘I need to examine the corpse! He was stabbed before going into the river.’
William glowered back at him. ‘You Westminster people came to identify him, that’s all! Your duty is done, for which the sheriffs will thank you.’
It was John’s turn to scowl at the man. ‘I am the coroner, fellow! I need to hold an inquest into this man’s death!’
William shook his head and stood in front of the body with his arms folded in a gesture of defiance.
‘You have no powers here, sir. The city of London is an independent commune and has no coroner. Our two sheriffs carry out that function, so there’s no need to trouble you.’
De Wolfe glowered at the men, for the other one had moved to stand alongside William in an almost threatening manner.
He knew that the city was a place apart, fiercely jealous of its independence, arrogant by virtue of its huge commercial strength, undoubtedly greater than all other English cities put together. The aldermen, burgesses, guildsmen and merchants were extremely powerful and on occasions might even defy the king himself. John was also well aware that when Hubert Walter had instituted coroners in every county two years earlier, he had to heed a refusal from the city fathers and was forced to exclude them from the edict, allowing the two sheriffs to perform those duties.
‘That may well be — for your own corpses from the city!’ he protested harshly. ‘But this is a royal servant who drifted down the river from the king’s palace of Westminster and that falls within my jurisdiction.’
The stony face of the sheriff’s man stared defiantly at de Wolfe.
‘Well, he’s not in Westminster now, is he? His corpse lies here in the city and that’s what matters.’
The coroner felt like punching the man on his fleshy nose, but managed to restrain his short temper.
‘He lies within the Verge, damn you! Twelve miles in any direction from the king’s court!
The other constable, a tall, burly man, smirked. ‘By Christ’s bones, sir, then you’ve got your work cut out!’ he exclaimed sarcastically. ‘That encompasses the whole of London and halfway into Essex, to say nothing of Middlesex and much of Surrey!’
‘Only if the deceased is connected with the court, you damn fool!’ snarled de Wolfe. In truth, he was not at all sure of the exact definition of those who should come within the jurisdiction of the Verge, but he was incensed at being sneered at by fellows who were little more than city watchmen.
William stood obstinately in front of the body. ‘I know nothing of that, sir. All I know is what the sheriff ordered and that was to keep the body privy until he comes to see it and decides what to do. No doubt it will be sent back up the river to you when he’s finished with it.’
De Wolfe, never known for his patience or easy temper, was fuming at the man’s smug complacency. But short of starting a fight with the representatives of the city’s aldermen, there was little he could do at the moment.
‘And when will that be?’ he demanded fiercely, glowering at the man with his arms akimbo, hands jammed into his waist. ‘I need to speak to this sheriff of yours straight away. And then to the Chief Justiciar, who introduced these laws on behalf of King Richard!’
The watchman was unimpressed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me, coroner. The sheriff is Godard of Antioch — at least the one that’s dealing with this. The other one is Robert fitz Durand, but he’s away hunting in Northampton.’
‘Where can I find this Godard?’ demanded John.
‘He must have heard you, sir,’ crowed the other man, raising his eyes to look across the bailey. ‘Here he is now!’
They all turned and saw a fine white horse enter the castle gate. The rider slid off and threw the reins to an ostler who dashed to meet him. Then he waddled across the open space, a fat man with a long yellow tunic reaching to his calves, slit front and back for sitting a horse. As he approached, John saw that his bulging belly was girdled by a wide belt, bearing a short riding sword. He had virtually no neck, a bulbous head rising straight from his shoulders, bristly blond hair surmounting a round, pugnacious face. John sighed and he heard Gwyn mutter.
‘Another awkward bugger, by the looks of it!’
De Wolfe decided to go on the offensive right away.
‘Sheriff, I am Sir John de Wolfe, the king’s Coroner of the Verge! We have just identified this corpse from the river as being that of the palace clerk who was murdered in Westminster yesterday.’
Godard, who took his other name from estates his father had owned in one of the Christian kingdoms of Outremer, held up his arm in salute, but looked suspiciously at de Wolfe.
‘I have heard of you, Sir John. What are you doing here?’
His tone was guarded, but not overtly hostile, as his eyes flickered from the coroner to the body on the cart and then to his pair of henchmen standing in front of it.
‘This man was stabbed yesterday within the enclave of the royal palace and then fell into the river. I need to investigate his death and bring the culprit to justice.’
Godard shrugged and virtually repeated what William had said. ‘This is a task for us, sir. We perform your function in this city.’
Bottling up his exasperation with difficulty, John made a further effort to reason with the man. ‘I grant you that this was the situation until recently,’ he grated. ‘But King Richard expressly directed the appointment of a coroner to deal with all relevant deaths within the verge of the royal court, wherever it may be. He ordered the Chief Justiciar to implement his wish and I have been appointed by him to perform that function.’
He deliberately emphasized the names to convey the importance of his office, but Godard seemed unimpressed.
‘Ha, Hubert Walter! He’s well out of favour in London these days, so I’d not be too ready to flaunt your warrant from him.’
De Wolfe sighed heavily. He knew Godard was referring to the harsh way in which a couple of months previously Hubert had quelled the popular revolt against taxation led by William fitz Osbert, known as ‘Longbeard’. The leaders of the rebellion had been cornered in the church of St Mary le Bow, which Hubert had set on fire, driving the rebels out to be dragged to an agonising death at Tyburn. Since then, his unpopularity over the increasing burden of taxes had been worsened by accusations that he had deliberately ordered the violation of sanctuary.