'No, I'll take myself down to the Bush — or I'll be out of favour with yet another woman!' he grunted.
After Mary had flounced out with a disparaging shrug of her shoulders, the coroner sat for a while longer until he had finished his cup of wine, then snapped his fingers at Brutus and made for the street.
The cathedral Close was cool in the autumn evening and there were only a few children playing among the graves and a solitary beggar sitting on the steps of the great west front. John strode through the lanes, oblivious to the murmured greetings and forelock-pullings of passers-by, until he reached Idle Lane and the new front door of the Bush, set in a clean whitewashed wall, repainted after the recent fire.
A smiling Nesta hurried over and took his arm to steer him to his table by the hearth. She at once noticed his doleful expression and soon he was telling her of his visit to Sampford Peverel and the strange state in which he found his wife when he returned.
'It's not just me, cariad,' he said in the Welsh they habitually used together. 'She's had years to get used to my misdeeds. I've done nothing particularly terrible lately.'
His mistress shook her head pityingly at the lack of insight of men.
'You were the instrument for disgracing her beloved brother — not that you could have done anything else,' she pointed out. 'He was the main culprit, even in her eyes, but that doesn't alter the fact that she feels that in the end it was you who pushed him over the edge.' Like Mary, though Nesta was inordinately fond of this dour, dark man, she had an inexhaustible well of sympathy for anyone in trouble, including wronged wives.
'Lately, she's been talking a great deal about her family in Normandy,' he said. 'Not that they're close to her, nor do they probably want her bothering them again. But maybe she ought to go across the Channel some time, to get it out of her system.'
Nesta nodded her agreement. 'I know how she feels, John. It's three years since I left Gwent to come here with Meredydd and I've not seen my mother or my brothers and sisters since. Only two messages have come by carters to at least tell me they are still alive.' She sounded wistful, not only when she spoke of her family, but also of her dead husband. If the Welsh archer had not been an old campaign friend of John's, he might have felt a twinge of jealousy.
'Maybe you too should make a journey home before long, Nesta,' he suggested. 'Though what would I do, with both the women in my life deserting me!'
The landlady poked him hard in the ribs with her elbow. 'I know damn well what you'd be doing the moment the dust had settled on the high road behind us!' she snapped, only half in jest. 'Where would you go first, man? To Dawlish or to the stews in Waterbeer Street?'
He grinned sheepishly, as Nesta knew all about his other former mistress, the blonde Hilda from Dawlish.
In fact, she had once met her, and they had got along famously, having more things in common than just John de Wolfe.
He stayed at the tavern for a couple of hours, drinking the good ale supplied regularly by the old potman and eating an excellent supper of mutton stew followed by grilled herrings. Nesta, looking even more attractive than usual in a new yellow kirtle under her white linen apron, was hoping that her lover would stay either all night or at least for a few hours in her little room in the loft, but she soon sensed that the upsetting episode with Matilda had taken the edge off his usual keenness to get her into bed. Silently regretful, she settled down to be a sympathetic audience as he poured out his thoughts on the problems still plaguing him.
'I've made not a jot of headway on this slain silversmith,' he complained. 'This Terrus fellow claims that the armourer from Sampford was one of the villains, but it's only his word against that of the suspect, which was backed up by his lords, both dead and alive. Both Hugo and Ralph claimed that this Robert Longus was with them all the time and could never have been near Topsham when the man was robbed and killed.'
'So why are you insisting that this Longus must come to court in Exeter or risk being outlawed?' asked the practical Nesta.
'Just because the bastard refused to come,' snapped John. 'I'll teach him to flaunt the King's law officer.' The Welsh ale-wife wrinkled her nose in doubt. 'I see no reason why this armourer's masters should lie for him. What would be in it for them?'
'Gwyn suggested that he was robbing on their behalf. It seems the Peverels are short of money, having lost heavily in the last year in wagering on the tournaments. But I think that's too far-fetched an idea.'
Nesta absently tucked a lock of copper-coloured hair back under her linen helmet. 'So who killed this Hugo? I fancy the French knight myself, for according to you he promised that he would.'
De Wolfe slid a hand on to her thigh under the table and for a moment her hopes of getting him up the loft ladder were rekindled.
'De Charterai? I don't think he meant it that seriously, it was said in the heat of the moment. And he's too chivalrous a fellow to stab a man in the back.'
'I'd believe anything of a man who has been insulted that badly,' countered Nesta. 'You measure everyone by your own standards of honour, John.'
'There are plenty of other possible killers, sweetheart. Gwyn and Thomas did their usual spying in the manor and came up with a number of folk who hated Hugo. And from what I saw myself, he had few friends there. In fact, he seemed a figure of hate to everyone.'
Always a lover of scandal and intrigue, Nesta rested her round chin on her hand and gazed at the bristly face alongside her. 'Tell me about them again!' she commanded.
'Well, this manor-reeve, Warin Fishacre, undoubtedly hated Hugo's guts. I suspect that it was he who slung that ox turd into the grave. Either him or his son-in-law, as they both felt murderous towards their lord for deflowering their girl on her wedding night.'
'Damned disgraceful!' muttered Nesta, though the sentiment sounded much stronger in Welsh.
'Then there was Godwin the village thatcher, who'd had one of his sons hanged by Hugo not long ago. I put him down for throwing that dead rat.'
'And the family?' she persisted.
'I wouldn't put the dowager out of the running. It seems she suspects that Hugo had something to do with his father's death at the mélée in Wilton. And poor sweet Beatrice must have had a bellyful of shame over her husband's flagrant ravishing of the village girls — as well as perhaps wanting to be free to take up with young Joel.'
'What about this Joel, is he a contender too?'
John took his hand off her leg to lift his quart pot to his lips. 'He was making sheep's eyes at the new widow all the time I was there. Whether he would kill just to get his way with her, I couldn't guess.'
'Do you suspect the other two brothers as well?'
'I suspect everyone in that bloody place!' growled de Wolfe. 'Ralph seems to have the best chance of becoming the manor-lord, so he had a good motive for getting rid of his elder brother. And poor Odo, the one with the fits, may have thought he would have another chance at being recognised as the heir if Hugo was out of the way.'
They sat talking about the problem for a while, with Nesta having to get up every now and then to sort out some problem or other, ranging from sudden scuffles between patrons who had had too much to drink to a panic in the kitchen shed when a pan of beef dripping caught fire.
It was well after dusk when John's conscience began pricking him strongly enough to drive him home to see whether his wife had recovered from her drunken stupor. He would dearly have liked to stay with Nesta, but they both knew that this was not the night for that, with his guilt pressing down on him. Dragging Brutus away from the meaty bone that old Edwin had thrown under the table for him, John gave his mistress a chaste kiss and wearily made.his way back through the darkened streets to Martin's Lane.