As John stood over the slain body of Hilda's husband, he felt a twinge of conscience that he had wronged this old man, even if Thorgils had never known about it. De Wolfe also had to suppress a voice in his head that told him that Hilda was now free, a delectable widow still only in her thirties. His conscience was not troubling him in respect of his own wife, but because of his regular mistress Nesta, the Welsh tavern-keeper with whom he was almost sure he was in love.
As he stood pensively staring at the hessian-covered corpses, he felt the eyes of the other men upon him, waiting expectantly for his next move.
'Are we going to look at this vessel now, Crowner?' prompted Gwyn.
With an almost dog-like shake of his shoulders, John jerked himself back into the present and uttered one of his characteristic throat-clearing noises, which could mean almost anything. Marching towards the door, he beckoned to the others with a sweep of his hand, and a few moments later they were back in the manor bailey, climbing on to their horses, which had been made ready by the youthful grooms.
William Vado rode ahead of them and Osbert the reeve and two other men loped easily behind them, as the horses went at a mere walking pace along the rough track out of the village. They retraced their route of the previous evening towards the bare downs behind the cliffs, but then descended the little wooded valley that led to the fishing huts that John had seen on the small beach. Although the rain and wind had died down, it was much colder, and the first chills of approaching winter were in the air. John wore leather riding gauntlets, but most of the other men had rags wrapped around their hands to keep some feeling in their fingers. The two village men, who seemed to be some sort of assistants to the reeve, were bare-footed, but their horny soles seemed impervious to both sharp stones and the cold. When they reached Challaborough beach, the bailiff turned left along a track that followed the edge of the low cliffs that formed Warren Point, the promontory opposite Burgh Island. Sheep scampered out of the way as they turned the corner above the estuary, where William Vado led them down a gully out on to the beach.
The firm sand stretched for many hundreds of yards, both over to the island and far across the river to sand dunes on the other side of the estuary, towards Thurlestone, named after the huge perforated rock pillar on the shore. The tide was coming in, but the surf was still far off, a long way short of the wreck, which lay away to their left. As they crossed the wide beach, de Wolfe noticed the imprints of bare feet running ahead of them, and soon they were met by a ragged old man, swathed in an uncured cow-hide, and a boy of about twelve, shivering in a threadbare tunic.
'This is the pair I left on guard,' explained the bailiff, though what such a frail-looking couple could do against a determined band of pillagers was beyond John's understanding.
'Haven't seen a soul, William,' said the old man in a quavering voice. 'Naught but a couple of tide fishermen going across to Bantham strand.'
They walked up to the beached vessel and circled it as it lay on its side on the sand. There was a line of seaweed on the beach just above it, showing the limit of the high tide. A typical trading cog, it was about forty feet long and had the general shape of a Norse long boat, but broader, with a high free board and almost vertical stem- and sternposts. It was half decked, there being no planking over the central section of the hull, which was used for carrying cargo. Thomas, the only literate one among them, read out the name chiseled into the upper strake next to the stem-post.
'Mary and Child Jesus,' he intoned reverently, crossing himself again. 'It's Thorgils' boat right enough.'
As they had just seen the ship-master's body lying in Ringmore church, this confirmation seemed superfluous, but John let it pass. He turned to Gwyn, as the authority on seafaring matters.
'What's to be done about this? Is it a total wreck?'
The Cornishman pulled at the long, drooping ends of his ginger moustache as an aid to thought. 'She's sound enough at the moment, until the rising tides throw her on to those rocks.' He indicated the jagged reefs at the foot of the low cliff, fifty paces away. Advancing right up to the deck of the ship, he inspected the damage before continuing. 'The hull is not breached, so she should float if she was upright.'
'So why is it lying on its side?' snapped Thomas, ever ready to contradict the coroner's officer.
Gwyn pointed to the canvas cover that had been stretched over the single opening that occupied half the deck area abaft the broken mast. It was ripped across the top and the lower part was bulging outward, as objects pressed against the inner side.
'The cargo has shifted, that's why. Whatever they have in the hold has tumbled to one side and capsized her.'
'At least it hasn't been stolen yet!' said de Wolfe, with a touch of sarcasm. He clambered on to the bulwark, which was half buried in wet sand. The deck rose vertically in front of him and, with Gwyn's help, he tore down the tattered canvas. There was a rumble and they both stepped aside hastily as several kegs and boxes rolled out of the hold, having lost the support of the hatch cover.
The bailiff joined the two larger men as they peered into the gloomy cave that formed the entire inside of the hull. Thomas, sniffing miserably at a dew-drop that dangled from the end of his long, pointed nose, cautiously held back with the other men from the village. A few dozen barrels and a collection of crates lay on the lower ribs of the hull. Several kegs had cracked and a smell of wine permeated the air inside.
Gwyn hauled at one of the casks to gauge its weight, then did the same to a crate. 'These are damned heavy. No wonder she keeled over when they shifted!'
'Why should that have happened?' demanded John. 'Thorgils was one of the best ship-masters along the coast.'
'Not if he was dead, he wasn't!' retorted his officer. 'With the crew stabbed or thrown over the side, the vessel would have broached to in the strong winds and waves we've had these past few days, especially this close to the shore.'
He pointed a hand the size of a small ham towards the stern.
'With no one at the steering oar nor men to attend to the sail, she would have been thrown on her beam ends and this cargo would have tumbled to one side, preventing her from righting herself.'
'So what happened to whoever murdered them? Did they drown as well?' asked Thomas, but no one answered him. The coroner had stepped over the coaming of the hatchway, and as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom he walked along the planking between the low horizontal ribs.
'This isn't only cargo — someone has been living down here,' he rasped.
Gwyn and William Vado followed his pointing finger and saw four sodden mattresses floating in the few inches of water between the ribs. They were no more than sacks filled with straw, some of which was spouting from the torn end of one bag.
'There's some pots and a broken jug there, too,' observed the bailiff. 'Maybe the crew lived down here?'
'No, they would take turns to be on watch and to eat and sleep in that shelter near the stern,' said Gwyn. He indicated the remains of a low structure abaft the hatch, which had been smashed but was still recognisable as a wood-and-canvas hut, little larger than a privy. '
'So Thorgils must have been bringing some passengers back from wherever he had been,' mused de Wolfe. 'I know he took our goods to Harfleur at the mouth of the Seine, but God knows where he went after that.'
There seemed nothing else to be learned from the vessel. There were no bloodstains on the planking, but given the battering the cog had received from tide, wind and rain, this was to be expected, even if at least three men had been slain there.
'What's to be done about the ship, Gwyn?' demanded the coroner. 'Can she be saved?'