After Matins and Lauds, the surly prior had gone back to bed until Prime at dawn, leaving a sleepy monk to lean against the door-post of the mortuary and keep an eye on the coroner. The other town constable had gone about his business, but the skinny Osric stayed to help. Just as de Wolfe was about to approach the corpse, he heard Gwyn’s heavy tread in the lane outside. The Cornishman came through the priory gate with Thomas de Peyne in tow. ‘Found the little knave wandering the Close. He wasn’t on his bed after all.’
‘I couldn’t sleep — I went for a walk to clear my head, that’s all,’ protested the clerk. ‘Do you expect me to crouch in my lodging all night, just in case you want me?’
Ignoring their bickering, the coroner beckoned them into the storeroom, where a couple of candles, remnants from the altar in the priory chapel, threw a flickering light over the body. ‘Thomas, come and look at these marks, before they are rubbed away for ever.’ He grabbed the ex-priest’s hunched shoulder and dragged him to the head of the bier. ‘What do make of that? A young secondary at the Bush claimed that it spelled a word.’
Thomas peered closer, the hunt for truth overcoming his revulsion at the proximity of a dead woman. His thin lips moved as he tried to trace out the smudged marks, which even to de Wolfe’s illiterate eyes were less clear now than when he had first seen them. ‘It’s hard to make out … A couple of letters are gone. What did that other fellow claim he saw?’
‘He said it read “revelation”.’
Thomas scanned the marks again. ‘Ah! Now you tell me that I can fill in the blurred parts. It is indeed “Revelation”.’
‘And what the hell might that mean, written on the brow of a whore?’ demanded Gwyn.
‘A whore, you say?’ Further light dawned on the clerk’s face. ‘Of course, St John the Divine! This is another message — like the one we saw with the old Jew, Crowner.’
De Wolfe sighed. ‘Come on, Thomas, explain yourself. What’s St John to do with marks daubed in lampblack? Do you mean this comes from the fourth Gospel?’
Thomas frowned at his ignorance. ‘No, no! The same disciple, but a different book of the New Testament. He also wrote the very last one of the whole Vulgate — the Revelation of St John the Divine, the most obscure and mystical of them all.’
‘You’re right there, little toad,’ growled Gwyn rudely. ‘It’s totally obscure to me. But what’s this to do with a throttled drab?’
Thomas closed his eyes, not in disgust at his companions’ Philistine failings but as an aid to searching his memory. ‘Let me see — yes, I have the words! Not literally, but those that seem so relevant to these circumstances. Just look at the colours of her clothing.’
De Wolfe ground his teeth: Thomas was becoming as long-winded as Gwyn. ‘God’s guts, man — spit it out, will you?’
The clerk pointed at the dead woman’s temples. ‘Towards the end of the Book of Revelation, John describes a woman dressed in purple and scarlet, with a cup in her hand filled with the abominations of her fornication. And on her forehead was written “Mother of whores and every obscenity on earth”.’
There was a silence, in which they all looked at the gaudy colours of Joanna’s clothing, the wine cup left alongside her and the writing on her forehead.
‘Whoever’s doing this, he certainly knows his Bible,’ muttered de Wolfe. He looked sharply at Thomas. ‘Is every priest able to recognise these passages from the scriptures as well as you?’ His tone was almost accusatory.
‘I told you last time, Crowner, many priests can hardly read. Whoever is doing this must have had a good education.’
‘Do you mean it would be a canon or an archdeacon?’ demanded Gwyn.
The clerk shook his head. ‘Far from it. Some canons are as ignorant as their bottlers. I suspect some are even totally uncaring about their faith, perhaps even unbelievers.’ His face darkened as some inner thought erupted. ‘And some are evil men, who think nothing of taking away a man’s soul.’
De Wolfe had more urgent problems than Thomas’s soul. ‘Has he left a message this time, as he did with the moneylender?’
They began to search the body, but were hampered in that none of the men wanted to undress her, although in life she had earned her living by exposing her body to men. The removal of her hooded mantle was as far as they went, which at least gave them access to her head and neck. The gaudy wig, made of some bright orange-red tow, was awry, revealing her short brown hair beneath. The ligature around her neck was made of silk and when Gwyn unwrapped it, they saw it was a thin stocking, looped twice around her slender throat and tied in a double knot at the side. It had cut into her neck, leaving a deep groove from the pressure.
‘It was done during life, no doubt of that,’ growled the coroner, pointing at the two edges of the groove. ‘The upper edge has a line of blood spots along it and above that, the skin is purple and swollen, whereas it is pale and clear below.’
‘Why should you think otherwise, Crowner?’ asked Thomas, with his unfailing curiosity, even for the macabre.
‘Because I have seen ligatures around the already dead — and this one has a head injury, just like the Jew.’
De Wolfe, who had been supporting the head while Gwyn unwrapped the stocking, showed the palm of his hand, which was covered in sticky blood. ‘The back of her head was violently struck — this time with force enough to crack the skull in spite of her wig. I can feel pieces of bone grating together under the hair and skin.’ He wiped his hand on the crumpled silk stocking. ‘We have a killer who seems to stick to his methods — first a blow to the head to silence the victim, then another means of causing their death.’
He stood back and gazed at the pathetically still harlot. For the first time, he noticed that an ominous bloodstain was spreading through her gown over the area of her lower belly and upper thighs. The significance was all too obvious, but still the men shied away from the intimate probing that would be necessary to determine exactly what had happened.
‘We need a wise woman’s help here,’ de Wolfe muttered gruffly. ‘Gwyn, make sure that a message gets to Polsloe soon after dawn to get that midwife nun over here.’
Gwyn nodded, then, anxious to change the subject, said ‘No sign of any written message, though?’
‘The written message was on her temple, Crowner,’ pointed out Thomas, sensibly. ‘It seems clear enough to me.’
John nodded reluctantly. ‘I suppose you’re right. There’s little else we can do here, now — we know who she was, how she died and that it was by the same crazy hand that killed Aaron.’ He led them outside, and Osric pulled the door shut.
‘Can we do any more tonight?’ asked Gwyn. ‘It must be halfway to dawn now.’
De Wolfe remembered Nesta’s threat about breakfast, but he also had Matilda to contend with. He was back on the old knife-edge of weaving a safe path between them.
‘If you have the names of those who were at the Bush, we can leave it until early morning. The Saracen will be our first call, to get that evil swine Willem to the inquest, if this girl was working mainly out of his lousy ale-house.’ He trudged away, leaving Thomas to find his pallet in the Close and Gwyn to bed down in the castle gatehouse, while he himself went home to make his peace with Matilda as best he could — although he knew that when she discovered his new case was centred around the Bush, she would make his life hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was not long before Sir John de Wolfe, warrior and Crusader, again showed his yellow streak when it came to facing up to women. Matilda was sound asleep when he eased himself quietly into the solar and even more quietly on to his side of the wide mattress. He was up before dawn and slid out before she awoke, putting off the evil hour when he must tell her about the body in the Bush.
Mary was also up and about, getting the cooking fire going, but he refused her offer of food and took himself off to Idle Lane just as it was getting light. The Bush was already in full swing, with the lodgers breaking their fast and some early traders calling in for food and ale.