'I must start my enquiries,' replied de Wolfe. 'Though as it is a Sunday, I cannot open an inquest today, but I must question those people who may have any knowledge, while their memories are still fresh.'
The two sons remembered their obligations to visitors and invited the coroner and his officer to have some meat and drink before they began their investigations. More logs were placed on the fire and when they were all seated at one of the tables, servants brought wine, ale and cold meats with fresh bread and slabs of hard yellow cheese. Godfrey and his brother took some wine, but ate nothing, which was hardly surprising, considering the ghastly sights they had seen that morning. Adam the steward and some of the senior servants, such as the bottler, the falconer and the hunt-master, hovered in the background, with lesser mortals behind them, all wanting to share in any dramatic revelations that might come along.
'I'll need to speak to all those who had any part in both the hunt yesterday and the finding of the body this morning,' announced John, as he finished his impromptu meal and drained the last of his wine. Godfrey, gradually assuming his new role as the head of the household, gave orders to his old steward to round up everyone who was needed and soon a motley, shuffling group of men assembled in the hall.
John sat at the table as soon as the remains of the food had been cleared, with a brother on either side of him, as this was not a formal inquisition. However, to save taxing his memory until he returned to Exeter, de Wolfe asked Godfrey whether Adam le Bel, the only literate man among them, could write a summary of the facts, and the wrinkled old steward sat at the end of the table with quill and parchment. Gwyn stood near by and acted as a master of ceremonies, motioning the wheelwright forward as the First Finder. He had little to say except that he happened to be the first man to come across his lord's body in the stream and had hollered out in panic to bring the rest of the searchers to him.
Then the huntmaster reluctantly stepped forward, turning his pointed woollen cap restlessly in his hands as he stood before this grim-faced officer from Exeter. He was a lean, stringy fellow with a yellowish tinge to his face and a nose blushed with fine veins, suggesting too strong a liking for the ale-cask.
'Tell me what happened last night,' demanded John abruptly.
'Not a lot to tell, sir,' said the fellow hesitantly. 'We had little sport all afternoon, until the light was fading, when one of my beaters raised a deer. I think Sir Peter had been irked by the lack of excitement until then, for he dashed off to the left, waving to Sir William to circle round to the right. I went with the younger master and that was the last we saw of our lord.'
In spite of further probing by the coroner, it seemed he had nothing else to tell, and several other retainers who had been following the chase gave the same story. Peter le Calve had rushed off on his horse through the woods and had not been seen alive again.
'How far was the spot where you separated from that place on the stream?' John asked William, as Godfrey had not been at the hunt.
'Not more than half a mile, Crowner. If darkness had not overtaken us, I suspect we would have found him within the hour.'
As an aid to thought, de Wolfe rubbed his chin, which was relatively free of dark stubble, as it was only the previous day that he had had his weekly wash and shave. Even this mannerism failed to stimulate any profound ideas about advancing his investigation, but to fill the time he asked the steward a question.
'Your bailiff, I was told he was absent due to an illness. Where was he last night?'
Adam le Bel looked up from the parchment that he was laboriously completing. 'On his cot, no doubt, Crowner! He has been laid low these past three days with a bloody flux. I visited him yesterday morning in his toft along the road there and he seemed a little better. His wife said he had taken a little gruel, without it immediately passing through him.'
John grunted and accepted that, even if improving, the sick man was hardly likely to have been in a fit state to be involved in his lord's murder. There seemed no one else to interrogate, and John was driven to ask general questions of the throng that now half filled the hall of the manor.
'Has anyone any further light to shed on this tragic happening?' he shouted at them. 'Have there been any strangers here in the past few days?'
There was a general murmuring and shaking of heads, but no one volunteered any information. The new manorlord came to their rescue.
'Unfortunately in that respect, Sir John, we are on the high road to Plymouth, so strangers are passing through all the time. Few stop here, as we are so near Exeter, but some call at the alehouse for food and drink.'
This seemed to trigger someone's memory, as an elderly man stepped forward, leaning heavily on a staff and deferentially tugging at a sparse lock of dirty grey hair that hung over his forehead. He was dressed in little better than rags and had a strip of filthy cloth wound around his right leg, from which yellow matter leaked down on to his bare foot.
'Begging pardon, sirs, but I saw some strangers on the lane to Dunchideok yesterday afternoon, a couple of hours after dinner-time.' His quavering voice was weak, and Godfrey beckoned impatiently to him to come nearer.
'What's all this, Simon? Who did you see?' He turned aside to the coroner to explain. 'He's an old cottar, a bit mad. He cleans out the privy pits in the village, which is why he's always getting these purulent sores.'
'I was sitting on the bank, master, my leg being so foul. Three men passed me, jogging on palfreys towards Dunchideok. I couldn't see any faces, they had deep hoods over their features.'
'Can you describe anything else about them?' barked de Wolfe. Hooded men in a village could be significant, he thought.
'Yes, sir. They had black habits down to their feet, bound with cords around their waists.'
Godfrey gave an impatient snort. 'For God's sake, Simon, they were just monks! Benedictines, no doubt. There are hundreds of them about the countryside. Buckfast is one of their great houses.'
'What about this lane?' asked John, reluctant to give up even the most unpromising clue. 'Does it go anywhere near those woods?'
This time William answered. 'Not really, it's just a track to the next village. There's a hermit's cell there. I suppose monks could be visiting that for some reason.'
The crestfallen Simon stepped back among his sniggering fellows, and there now seemed little left to keep the coroner in Shillingford. With a promise to return the next day to formally hold an inquest, so that burial could be arranged, he and Gwyn went out to reclaim their horses and leave an uneasy and chastened manor behind them.
On the short ride back to the city, de Wolfe chewed over the strange affair with his officer, partly to sort out the details in his own mind.
'Who would want to kill Peter le Calve, anyway?' he mused. 'He's getting on in years, certainly older than me. And he takes no part in politics or county affairs — in fact, I'd almost forgotten he existed, as he never attends any tournaments or feasts in Exeter.'
John pondered for another score of Odin's hairy hoofbeats on the track.
'And look at the manner of his death! Lashed to a pole, beheaded, gutted and his twig and berries cut off!' he muttered.
'That was no casual robbery,' said his companion. 'And anyway, his purse was still on his belt with some coins still inside.'
'And where the hell is his head and his manhood?' persisted John. 'Have they been taken away as trophies?'
'Could this be to do with witchcraft or the black arts?' queried Gwyn, almost nervously. As a Cornishman and a Celt, he had a healthy respect for pagan superstitions, as a recent outbreak of witch-hunting in Exeter had revealed. De Wolfe, though having similar Celtic blood in his own veins courtesy of his mother, had no time for magic. 'Those wounds were made with good sharp steel. And what are we to make of that stab wound, eh?'