she had left off her usual linen cap and her rich hair was plaited into two ropes that hung over her shapely bosom. De Wolfe had had many women over the years, but none plucked at his heartstrings like Nesta of Gwent. He held up his hand to take her fingers in his own.
'I'm in my best finery today because of the installation of this new sheriff. Come and sit with me, dear Nesta!'
She slid on to the bench and he put an arm around her waist and hugged her to him, ignoring the covert glances of other patrons.
'A couple of minutes only, John. There's cooking to be seen to — we're run off our feet with all these people coming into town.'
Nesta ran the tavern with bustling efficiency, helped by Edwin and two maids. It was now a thriving business, renowned for good food and the city's best ale.
The rushes on the floor and the mattresses upstairs were the cleanest in Exeter, so there was never any lack of custom. Nesta's husband Meredydd, a Gwent archer who had campaigned with John de Wolfe, had bought the inn several years ago, but later died of a fever, leaving his widow deeply in debt. John had come to her rescue for the sake of his friendship with her husband, and gradually, by dint of his money and her hard work, they had turned disaster into success. In the process they had become lovers, and John's miserable marriage had become all the more irksome because of the contentment he felt when he was with Nesta.
'Shall I get the girls to cook something for you, John?' she said, her concern for his appetite coming to the surface as usual. He squeezed her more tightly as he shook his head. 'I had some small stuff at Rougemont — and Mary has threatened me with hideous torment if I fail to eat the duck she's cooking for supper.' They sat for a few moments, she listening contentedly while he gently kneaded her breast with his free hand as he told her of the day's events.
'So you've-no idea who this poor dead man might be?' she asked, after he had recounted the tale of the washed: up body. Nesta was always full of sympathy for the afflicted, be they paupers, lame dogs or the nameless dead.
'No, he's a mystery man as yet. You've heard nothing of any fights or assaults in the last day or two?' Like Mary, the innkeeper often heard gossip about happenings in the city, indeed the whole county, especially as the Bush was a favourite inn for carters and travellers. But this time, Nesta had nothing to suggest.
'If no one recognises him, he must surely be one of the many who have come for the fair,' she reasoned.
John didn't press the point that with a face as battered as his, the corpse was totally unrecognisable.
He changed the subject by pointing to the new beams and boards above their head, which formed the floor of the roomy loft.
'They did a good job in such a short time, Nesta.
Apart from the look of such new timber, it's hard to know what ruin there was before.'
In August, the tavern had been deliberately set on fire and the place had been gutted, only the stone walls remaining. But thanks to willing workers and timber from John's manors at the coast, it was now back to its former glory — even Nesta's small room on the floor above had been rebuilt. This was where they had many a pleasant hour together, though the fire destroyed her pride and joy — the large French bed that John had imported from St Malo, probably only one in Exeter. Until he could get a replacement they would have to make do with a mattress.on floor, like most other people. The thought of the little chamber in the corner of the loft caused him to give her another squeeze.
'Are you too busy this evening to climb the ladder, my love?' he whispered in her ear. She jabbed him playfully with her elbow, then pulled herself free from his encircling arm.
'I must go and see to the girls in the kitchen now,' she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down the green kirtle that flowed over her shapely figure. 'But if you can find the strength to walk down again after glutting yourself on Mary's duck, then maybe I can find a few spare moments later on this evening!' She made her way to the back of the room, laughing and making small talk with her patrons along the A popular woman, she had the gift of being pleasant to everyone, yet firm enough with drunks or the few who tried to take advantage of her, as a woman innkeeper was a vulnerable rarity in the many alehouses of the city.
The coroner sat with his pot and also exchanged salutations with some of the regulars in the taproom, They all knew of his long-standing affair with the landlady and most heartily approved and wished them well.
Though there was many a nudge and wink, none ever made any audible jest or comment, as Black John's short temper and strong arm were too well known for any liberties to be taken with him.
De Wolfe was chatting to a carpenter on the next table about the good quality of the repairs to the building, as the man was one of those who had worked on it, at John's expense. Under the table, Brutus was contentedly gnawing on a mutton knuckle that another patron had thrown to him. The scene was one of peaceful serenity, too good to last. The early evening sunlight coming through the open door was momentarily blocked by a large figure as Gwyn of Polruan came in and crossed to de Wolfe's table. The coroner groaned as he saw the familiar look on the big man's whiskered face.
'Tell me the worst, then! I was just getting comfortable,' he grunted.
Gwyn dropped on to the opposite bench, which creaked ominously under his weight. He ran thick fingers through his dishevelled red hair, then waved them at Edwin to summon a jug of ale.
'There's been something found, Crowner. Something that might have a bearing on our corpse.' The Cornishman had a habit, infuriating to his master, of spinning out any story in instalments that delayed the actual facts.
'What "something", damn you? Spit it out, for God's sake!'
Edwin limped up with Gwyn's ale and the officer took a deep draught and gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering the exasperated coroner.
'Garments, that's what. Bloodstained and hidden in a hole.'
Between gulps of Nesta's best brew, the story came out. Two young boys had been playing on the river bank about a quarter of a mile downstream of the wharf, where the Shitebrook disgorged its filth into the Exe.
This was a foul stream that acted as the main sewer for Exeter, most of the ordure draining through culverts in the city walls to find its way into the aptly named brook which trickled sluggishly down a small valley to the river.
'They had a mangy dog with them and they throwing sticks into the river for it to fetch,' explained! Gwyn. 'Then it suddenly lost interest in the game and started digging into the bank, in what seemed like an otter run.'
John waited impatiently for his old friend to get toi! the hub of the matter.
'The upshot was that the cur dragged out a bundle of what the lads thought were rags, but which turned out to be a tunic and surcoat. The upper part of both of these was stiff with blood.'
He went on to explain that when the boys ran back up to the wharf, some of the men there challenged them, thinking they had stolen something. One happened to be the fellow who had found the body earlier in the day. He called Osric, who in turn asked Gwyn to notify the coroner.
'Where's the stuff now?'demanded de Wolfe.
'Osric has it in that shack behind the Guildhall that the constables use for their shelter.'
The two men downed the remainder of their drink and John told Edwin to tell his mistress that he would see her later that evening. They stepped out into Idle Lane, feeling one of the first chill breezes of the autumn as they strode back towards the city.