The two craftsmen had been left behind in their more modest lodgings to guard the rest of the stock for display at the fair until their master returned on Monday afternoon — but neither he nor his henchman had shown up.
'Is this man Terrus reliable?' demanded de Wolfe. 'Might he not have robbed his master and made off?'
The elder silversmith shook his head emphatically.
'Never, sir! He's been with us a dozen years and accompanied the master many times with far more valuable pieces than those. I fear they've been waylaid somewhere.'
The coroner sombrely told them of the finding of a body in the river and motioned to Thomas to unwrap the bundle of clothing and show it to the two men.
Their distress was only too evident when they immediately confirmed that the garments belonged to August Scrope, especially when the extensive blood soiling spoke mutely of the wounds he must have suffered.
Rather than launch into a description of the body from the river, de Wolfe took the two men to the dismal chamber in the tower of the Watergate, leaving Theobald and the steward to guard the silver-strewn stall while they were absent. Though the face was ravaged beyond recognition, they unhesitatingly confirmed that the body was that of their master. The younger smith was devastated, falling to his knees among the clutter around the body and sobbing out some prayers. Thomas, ever sympathetic to another's distress, laid a hand on his shoulder and murmured some consoling words.
'How can you be so sure, with his features so ill used?' John asked the older man, who, though pale and drawn, seemed less affected than his workmate.
'Everything about him cries out August Scrope,' he replied bitterly. 'His size, his hair, even the rough skin of his neck which I have stared at in the workshop these many years.' Then he pointed at the head of the corpse. 'And those ears, sir! One sticks out, the other is flat and has that pointed lobe. It's him right enough — now what's to become of us, with no one to serve?'
Though undoubtedly regretting the violent demise of his master, looming unemployment seemed his main concern.
John, though not lacking in sympathy, had more urgent matters in mind. 'Who was this customer he was to visit in Topsham?'
The smith gave him a name, but had no address, though this was of little consequence in such a small town as Exeter's seaport.
Within the hour, the coroner and his two henchmen had gone back to the city to fetch their horses and were on their way down the river road to seek news from the purchaser of Scrope's silverware. Even slowed down by their clerk's awkward riding — for Thomas had reverted to his side saddle in spite of Gwyn's efforts to get him to sit on his steed like a man — they covered the six miles well before mid-morning. The busy quayside was at the end of the single street that straggled past the new church, and here John reined in to sit on his horse Odin, looking at the boats while Gwyn went off to seek William le Bas, the shipman.
The tide was now out, and he looked across an expanse of mud to the flat marshes on the other side of the river, which widened out into the estuary on his left. In the distance, low hills marched down towards Dawlish on the coast, and for a moment his mind strayed to the woman who lived there, the delectable Hilda, the passion of his younger years and, until recently, still his occasional lover. He wondered idly whether her much older husband, Thorgils the Boatman, was away on a voyage at the moment. Then the image of Nesta floated into his head, and with an almost guilty sigh for days gone by he pulled Odin's great head around and waited for Gwyn to come lumbering back to where Thomas was holding the reins of both their horses.
'We've had a wasted journey, Crowner,' called the Cornishman, as he came up to his mare. 'I chanced upon the man himself, outside his dwelling. He says he's seen neither hide nor hair of the silversmith and is wondering what's happened to his wife's gift.' De Wolfe cursed under his breath as Gwyn and Thomas hoisted themselves back up on to their steeds. It now seemed obvious that August Scrope had been waylaid on his way down from Exeter and had never reached Topsham. There was nothing to do but return to the city, so he walked Odin across to join the others.
'What about this servant of his, what can have happened to him?' asked Gwyn, as they weaved between carts and heavily laden porters in the busy main street.
'God knows! Probably his body lies rotting in the woods alongside the road — unless they threw him into the river along with his master,' replied de Wolfe angrily. He was frustrated by the lack of progress concerning this death, as well as the time wasted in a futile ride to Topsham.
After a couple of miles, Gwyn's habitual need for food and drink began to plague him and he bemoaned the lack of an alehouse on this stretch of road. John also felt that he could do with a jug of ale.
'The priory will oblige us, I'm sure,' squeaked Thomas, always eager for the chance to visit any religious establishment. They were just coming up to a side lane which led down to the river where St James' Priory was situated. It was a small Cluniac house, a cell of the Abbey of St Martin in Paris, with only four brothers under a prior. John had had dealings with them before, on one occasion when a sturgeon had been caught near by. As a 'royal fish', along with beached whales, it belonged to the Crown, and as such became the subject of a coroner's inquest to determine its value.
There were no fish today, but as a mild excuse to seek refreshment, de Wolfe thought they might ask the brothers there whether they had heard of any robbery or assault on the Topsham road. As they turned down the lane that dropped off the low escarpment down to the riverside, he sent Thomas ahead, knowing that he would relish the chance to bob his knee and cross himself in the little chapel.
For once, the little man scurried away at high speed, with the coroner and Gwyn jogging well behind. It was a surprise, then, to see their clerk pop out of the priory gateway as they approached, apparently in a state of agitation. Behind him appeared a black-robed monk who John recognised as Brother Francis, the infirmarian.
'Crowner, I think he's here!' babbled Thomas excitedly. 'It sounds like the servant of the silversmith, badly beaten.'
As de Wolfe and his officer slid from their-horses, the infirmarian, a thin old man with a bad squint, came up to explain.
'He was found just before noon yesterday by local men attending their fish traps at the edge of the river.
When they brought him here, the poor fellow was almost dead — he must have crawled out of the water and collapsed. He has a problem breathing, from taking in so much dirty water, I suspect.' As they hitched their horses to the rail outside the gate in the wall around the priory, John probed further.
'Can he speak? Has he said who he is?' Brother Francis shrugged. 'Just managed to gasp his name, which is Terrus, but otherwise he merely wheezes and mumbles, as he has a fever. He was dressed like a serving man and he has wounds upon him, mainly about the head and arms.'
John was about to upbraid the monk for not reporting a serious assault to him as the law demanded, but then closed his mouth again, thinking it was pointless to antagonise a religious house to no purpose.
'Let's see him, quickly,' he demanded instead.
Inside the wall was an area of garden, rows of vegetables being tended by a pair of monks with their habits girt up around their thighs. They stopped hoeing to watch the visitors hurry into the modest buildings, a chapel and a small block containing a refectory, dormitory and workshops. On the ground floor at the back were two cells used as sick quarters, and the infirmarian showed them into one, furnished only with a mattress on the floor, a stool and a wooden cross hanging on the whitewashed wall. In the light from a narrow window opening, they saw a man lying on the pallet, restlessly squirming and muttering to himself between coughs and gasps.