The clerk stuck his tongue out at Gwyn in a most unpriestly manner, but the officer persisted. ‘Even if the sheriff shifted himself to put a watch on the city gates, who would they look for? Two men can walk in and out as they like, especially if they were pushing a barrow or carrying a bale of wool.’
The mention of the sheriff started de Wolfe’s fingers drumming again.
‘I’ll swear he’s up to something concerning this affair — but I’m damned if I see what. Why was he in such a hurry to appoint this fellow as a new verderer? Does anyone know anything of this Philip de Strete?’
Gwyn shook his big head, but Thomas de Peyne, whose large ears collected all manner of information, knew a little.
‘He’s a knight from down the west end of the county, fairly young, I hear. He was in one of the French campaigns and scraped enough loot together to buy out his knight-service and get himself a freeholding.’
The coroner digested this, but was none the wiser.
‘Why should he want to burden himself with a thankless, unpaid job like that of a verderer? He’d be better off staying home to look after his flocks and his fields.’
As the words left his mouth, he realised that the same applied to himself and his coroner’s appointment — though he had no flocks and fields to labour over. His brother William was quite content to look after the two family manors and John’s business partner, city burgess Hugh de Relaga, turned them a nice profit from their wool-exporting enterprise.
But the fact remained that Richard de Revelle had produced this man from nowhere and was going to install him in a dead man’s shoes.
‘The post may be unpaid, master — but anything to do with the forests is suspect of being involved with extortion and corruption,’ Thomas reminded him. They argued the issues back and forth for a time, but with no solid facts to hand it became a futile exercise.
‘I’ll hold the inquest on the bottler this afternoon in the courthouse — not that it will advance us one inch farther,’ grumbled John. ‘Gather the neighbours for a jury in a couple of hours, Gwyn. Afterwards, I’ll go to see if de Bosco has recovered any more of his memory.’
CHAPTER THREE
Though considerably recovered, de Bosco was of little further help when John went to visit him in the early evening. Adam Russell, the apothecary, was just leaving as the coroner arrived and confirmed that the older man would have a sore head for a week or two, but was in no danger as long as fever did not set in from the gash on his head. When the coroner climbed to the solar where the injured man was in his bed, he found a neighbour’s ample wife came to sit with him until nightfall.
Standing alongside the pallet like some great black crow, John looked down at the bandaged head and saw that the eyes were now almost closed from the bruised swelling of the lids. However, what could be seen of them was bright enough and Nicholas spoke quite rationally.
‘I suppose you have no hope of catching those murdering bastards?’
He had been told of the death of his bottler and was grieving for the loss of the innocent old man.
‘I wish I had better news for you, but there was no chance of finding these men. We had no description whatsoever and they had been gone from your house many hours before you were found. I’m sorry.’
‘No matter. When I’m able to move, I’ll take myself off to one of my manors, where I can feel safe with my servants around me. For they’ll try again, mark my words.’
‘So you don’t believe they were common robbers?’
De Bosco’s toothless mouth made a derisory sound. ‘Not at all, Crowner! You can’t think that yourself, with the verderer slain not two days before — and me having been threatened to give up my duties.’
‘Will this encourage you to do that?’ ventured de Wolfe.
‘No, be damned to them, whoever it is!’ snapped Nicholas. ‘I was appointed by my King to do his duty, just as I fought for him in the wars. I’m not going to be frightened off by a bang on the head.’
John forbore to mention that his bottler had suffered more than a bang on the head, as had Humphrey le Bonde. He admired the older man’s courage, but hoped that he would do as he promised and retire to the safety of one of his manors to carry out his duties.
‘Can you hazard any guess at all as to what’s behind this?’ he asked, as a last query.
‘Someone wants to infiltrate the forest administration, I suspect. But why, God alone knows! There’s plenty of graft and dishonesty there, but that’s mainly the perquisite of the foresters and woodwards. It would be unusually well-organised corruption if the verderers and the Warden had their fingers in the same pie.’
As John left, he wondered whether de Bosco had struck nearer the truth than he imagined.
In the long summer evenings, they ate supper much later in the house in Martin’s Lane, and John found he had a couple of hours to spare before he need sit with Matilda at their silent meal. His feet took him automatically towards Idle Lane, and as he strode through the town his thoughts abandoned dead men and split heads, in favour of his lady love.
He became more uneasy the nearer he came to the Bush. It was over a week now since he had been with Nesta in her room upstairs in the inn. Usually, their lovemaking was carefree and enthusiastic, sometimes even boisterous. Dour as John was to the outside world, alone with the Welsh woman he was a changed man — tender, sensual and happy.
So it was with grave concern that he pondered what had happened over this past week or two. Once again, he tortured himself with thoughts of Nesta being involved with another lover, but somehow the signs of that were lacking. He wondered with dread whether she was ill or sickening for something, though she looked healthy enough. As he stooped to enter the low door of the inn, his resolve hardened to find out what was going on. A coward in the face of embarrassing emotions, he steeled himself to confront Nesta head on tonight. For once, fortune favoured him as he saw her standing at the back of the low room, watching Edwin hammering a wooden spigot into a fresh cask of ale. There were relatively few patrons sitting around and he grabbed his mistress by the hand and pulled her towards the back door.
‘We’re going for a little walk, madam,’ he said firmly, leading her into the yard behind. As she turned a surprised face towards the suddenly masterful coroner, he saw that they were not alone, as one of the cook-maids was coming out of the kitchen shed and a customer was relieving himself against the fence behind the brew-house.
‘This way, then,’ he snapped, turning sharply to avoid an audience. He opened the wicket gate that led out on to the waste ground alongside the inn, and with an arm now around her shoulders walked Nesta towards the junction of Idle Lane and Priest Street.
‘What are you doing, John? I’ve got a tavern to run!’ she protested.
‘The Bush can look after itself for half an hour. I want to talk to you.’
The Welsh woman must have had an inkling of what was to come, for she went along meekly as they walked silently down the steep street towards the city walls near the river. At the south-west corner, a new gate had been cut through in recent years, to reach the quay-side where smaller ships lay beached on the mud outside the warehouses.
John led Nesta over to some casks and crates awaiting shipment, where there was no one within earshot. He sat her on a large bale of wool wrapped in sacking and stood in front of her, his hands on her shoulders.
‘Something is concerning you, my love. You may as well tell me what it is, first as last.’
As Nesta looked up at him, her eyes brimmed over with tears. She shook her head and looked away, rubbing her face with the sleeve of her working gown.