The coroner’s trio reached the village in mid-afternoon, Manaton being about fifteen miles from the city. It was a hamlet typical of the edge of Dartmoor, nestling on the slope of a valley among wooded countryside. Above it was a hill crowned by jagged rocks, and across the vale was a smoother mound of moorland. In the distance, more granite tors stood on the skyline, like broken teeth against the sky.
The village straddled the crossing of two lanes, and as the three riders came up the eastern track from the Becka waterfalls, they could smell the fire before the remains came into sight.
‘What a bloody stench!’ grumbled Gwyn. ‘Tanneries are bad enough at the best of times, but a burnt one …!’
Thomas de Peyne, jogging side-saddle behind them, almost retched as they came up to the still-smoking ruin, which lay a few hundred paces east of the village. A thin haze of blue smoke wavered in the slight breeze and the heat from the ashes caused the distant woods to shimmer in the sun. The tannery had been set in a large plot, giving room for the stone tanks set in the ground, where the skins were soaked and which added their aroma to the acrid stench of scorched leather. Their smell came from dog droppings, as the strong ferments in the excreta were used to strip the soft tissue from the cow hides and sheepskins.
As they halted on the road to look across at the desolation, a group of people came towards them from the wide green in the centre of the village, which consisted of a loose cluster of cottages set around a church and an alehouse. The first to greet them was Robert Barat, who deferentially introduced a fat, self-important man as the manor lord’s bailiff, Matthew Juvenis.
‘This is a bad business, Crowner. When you have finished here, my master would like to speak with you at the manor house.’
‘Has there been any sign of the tanner?’ asked John.
The bailiff half turned to wave a hand towards the group of villagers standing a few paces away, most of them gazing at the new arrivals as if they had two heads each. However, three tough-looking young men remained grim faced, the eldest with an arm around an older woman, whose tearful features told de Wolfe that this must be the tanner’s wife and the men her sons.
‘They’re sure he must be in there, sir.’ Matthew Juvenis pointed to the blackened ashes. ‘He went from their cottage, which is just down the road, soon after midnight to see why his hound was barking — and never came back.’
‘Have you looked in the ruins?’ demanded Gwyn.
‘They were still too hot this morning, but maybe we can probe around now.’
The coroner and his officer slid from their mounts, which were taken off by a couple of villagers to be watered and fed. Thomas let them take his pony, but he kept well back from the smoking ashes. Followed by the tanner’s sons, the reeve and the bailiff, they walked to the edge of the scorched patch of grass that surrounded the remains of the tannery.
‘There was a two-storeyed building here,’ grunted the eldest son, a gruff fellow of about twenty-five. ‘And behind it were a couple of sheds, this side of the tanks. All old wood and damned dry in this weather.’
All that remained of the three structures was a tumbled scatter of charred wood, some of the thicker beams still in pieces up to a few feet long, but split and blackened, with smoke still wreathing from the cracks. The rest was grey-black ash and charcoal, with occasional layers of fragile sheets like the leaves of a large book.
‘Those are the stacks of cured hides, which were stored upstairs,’ explained another of the sons.
John moved nearer, treading among the crumbling ash, which sent up clouds of fine grey dust. ‘Did no one try to put the fire out?’ he snapped.
‘It was impossible,’ said Robert Barat. ‘I was one of the first here, when the eldest boy raised the alarm. He had gone to see why his father had not returned home. But already the place was like an inferno and the nearest water was the stream down in the valley, apart from a couple of small springs there.’ He waved his arm vaguely behind him. ‘By the time we had got enough men and buckets, the roofs had fallen in and we couldn’t get within thirty paces because of the heat.’
It was still hot, as de Wolfe found as he moved nearer the larger debris in the centre. His feet became warm and, looking down, he saw that the leather of his shoes was starting to blister. He moved back to cooler ground, but a couple of the more enterprising villagers had brought up a few wide, rough planks, pulled from a fence. They laid these end to end into the hot ashes and the coroner walked carefully along them to get much nearer the centre of the fallen building. He peered around him for a few moments, hunched forward with his hands behind his back.
‘Pass me a long stick or a pole, Gwyn,’ he called. The Cornishman, who was itching to look for himself, relayed the command to the villagers and in a moment one ran back with a long bean-stick, filched from the vegetable plot of the nearest cottage. It was about eight feet long, and with it de Wolfe could prod well into the centre of the fallen beams. They were mostly ash and either crumbled to the touch or rolled over easily. He poked about in various parts of the smoking heap for a few minutes, then walked back and asked the reeve to put the planks on the other side of the cindered plot. This was too much for his officer to endure.
‘Let me try this time, Crowner,’ he pleaded.’ You’ll be roasted if you stay there much longer.’
With the hot sun and the radiant heat from the hot ashes, John was sweating like a pig and gladly handed his bean-pole to Gwyn. The big redhead started poking vigorously at a different part of the blackened debris and almost at once let out a cry of triumph. He had rolled over a short, thick length of burnt timber, which had probably supported the upper floor of the main building. ‘There’s what looks like bone under here!’ he yelled over his shoulder.
Using his crooked pole like a lance, he leaned forward to carefully spear something, and a moment later backed down the plank, bearing a bleached white object dangling from the tip.
When he reached the edge of the scorched area, he laid it down gently on the grass and withdrew his bean-stick. The others crowded around, de Wolfe, the reeve and the bailiff in front. However, the sons and their mother were at the other side and a screech went up from the woman. As she burst into a torrent of wailing and weeping, a son and several good-wives clustered around and drew her gently away. What she had seen was the remains of a skull, partly blackened, but the cranium a brittle white from the incandescent heat of the fire.
John dropped to a crouch over it, almost nose to nose with Gwyn.
‘Looks like a man to me, by the size and those thick ridges over the eyes,’ said the coroner’s officer judiciously.
‘God’s teeth, Gwyn, it’s hardly likely to be a woman, in the circumstances,’ growled de Wolfe, but his officer just grinned at the sarcasm.
‘Talking of teeth, this one’s got big gnashers, like a man,’ he persisted. The lower jaw had fallen away, but in the upper there were still some teeth, blackened and split at the tips, but still intact.
‘What’s that big hole in the side?’ asked Juvenis.
‘Was our father struck on the head by those bastards who set the fire?’ shouted the tanner’s eldest son, in whom sorrow, revulsion and rage vied for priority.
Gwyn shook his untidy head. ‘That’s where my stick went through, I’m afraid. The burnt bone is as soft as dried clay, owing to the heat.’
John de Wolfe stood up and ineffectually brushed the grey dust that had smeared the front of his long black tunic. ‘We can never be sure that this is actually your father,’ he said gently to the sons. ‘Of course, there is every likelihood that it is, I’m afraid — but for all we know, it could just be one of the fire-setters, if that was what happened.’
‘So where is my father, if that’s not him?’ demanded the eldest lad, his attitude belligerent following the tragedy that had befallen their family.