The coroner grunted, he was not hopeful that anything useful would come out of his friend’s appeal to his colleagues. De Alençon noted his silence. ‘Give me until this afternoon, John,’ he said. ‘I will speak with the other canons and see what we come up with. I think I will ask our archivist, Jordan de Brent, to join the Precentor and Treasurer when we go to meet Bishop Marshal. Jordan has the best knowledge of the other churches in Exeter and is an astute, wily old fellow.’
All the members of Chapter were rapidly vanishing in search of their midday meal and the thought of food was suddenly attractive to the coroner. With a final exhortation to his priestly friend to think hard about renegade clerks, he decided to abandon any thought of returning to Martin’s Lane and set off in happy expectation for the Bush, leaving the forlorn figure of his clerk standing in the doorway of the Chapter House, his lips still moving in silent conversation with himself.
CHAPTER TEN
De Wolfe’s visit that day to the tavern in Idle Lane was more gustatory than amorous. With a meeting at the Bishop’s Palace in mid-afternoon, as well as an increase in the Bush’s business with the imminent arrival in the city of the Justices in Eyre, there was no time for dalliance in the big French bed. However, he was more than content to be back in favour with his mistress and settled happily for a large bowl of onion soup, boiled salmon, half a loaf and cheese, all washed down with a brew of ale that exceeded even Nesta’s usual excellence.
The auburn-haired Welshwoman came to sit with him in between harassing her serving maids and potman. She had recovered now from the shock of tripping over the corpse of Joanna of London and was eager to hear details of the latest bizarre slaying in St Mary Arches, word of which had flashed all over the city. When John had described the weird event, Nesta astutely seized on one aspect that he had not so far considered. ‘I wonder why these killings have started now?’ she pondered. ‘They seem to be getting more frequent. Is he going to kill every day?’
‘I hope to God not, though we cannot prevent it until we get some clue as to who is responsible,’ he said fervently. ‘But what you say is interesting, my love. The man must have been here in Exeter for some time so why did they start now? No new priests have arrived lately, according to John de Alençon, apart from Brother Rufus, the castle chaplain.’
‘The only thing that is soon to happen is the arrival of the judges,’ she mused. ‘Could that be connected in any way?’
De Wolfe broke the last chunk of bread in half and used his dagger to hack a thick slice of hard cheese to go with it. ‘Perhaps he’s trying to point out that his type of justice is better than that of the country,’ he grunted. ‘Though his victims so far have been offenders against the scriptures, rather than against the King’s Peace.’
Nesta picked up a jug of ale and slid along the bench to refill his pot. John took the opportunity to slip an arm around her waist and knead her breast gently through her green gown. In the shelter of the wattle screen that backed on to his table, she gave him a quick peck on his stubbly cheek. ‘Can you come down tonight, John? Since I’ve got you back, I want you more than ever,’ she whispered into his ear.
He gave one of the lopsided grins that lit up his usually grim features and dropped his hand to caress her smooth bottom. ‘I’m so out of favour with Matilda that she’ll not care where I am until next week, when she’ll be desperate to get invited to these bloody banquets that I’ll have to attend. So I’ll be down here, bonny woman, as long as our resident murderer doesn’t get up to his tricks again tonight.’
A crash from the other side of the room as a quart pot hit the floor and a babble of abuse from one of the maids, abruptly took Nesta away to pacify the girl and to throw out a drunken customer. John looked around to see if his help was needed, but the landlady was well in control, jabbing at the staggering patron with the handle of a broom, urging him out with a stream of invective in mixed English and Welsh. As soon as the door slammed behind the bemused drunk, she propped the besom against the wall and calmly walked back to John, accompanied by a chorus of laughing approval from the other customers.
‘Damned fool, he shouldn’t drink so much in the middle of the day if he can’t hold it,’ she observed equably, sitting down again alongside John. He looked at her admiringly. This really was a woman to be treasured, he thought happily, regretting even more the months that had been wasted when they were at odds with each other.
‘Will this meeting today with the priests be of any use?’ she asked, taking a drink from his clay tankard.
‘I doubt it. They stick together like horse droppings, each guarding the others’ backs against the unordained,’ he answered cynically. ‘But we need the consent of Henry Marshal to question his precious priests.’
‘Do you think the Archdeacon’s plea for information will yield up anything?’
John shrugged. ‘Maybe a couple of clerks will use the chance to vent their spite on the brother they hate most. It will be a good opportunity for old scores to be settled, denouncing a colleague as a pervert or rogue. We need some names, that’s for sure, but whether any we get are anything other than the victims of petty spite and jealousy remains to be seen.’
‘Who’s going with you to see the Bishop, then?’ Nesta’s curiosity seemed unbounded.
‘De Alençon, of course, and my old friend the Treasurer.’ He scowled at the lump of cheese in his hand, thinking of the other men he disliked.
‘Then there’s the bloody Precentor, together with my damned brother-in-law, who won’t be able to resist fawning over Henry Marshal.’
Both the sheriff and Precentor Thomas de Boterellis had been involved with the Bishop in the last abortive attempt by Prince John to seize power from the Lionheart during his absence abroad. As fervent supporters of the King, the three Johns — the coroner, the Archdeacon and John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer — were at permanent odds with the others and regarded them with suspicion. However, in this matter of multiple murders, de Wolfe had to admit that politics was unlikely to cause dissent between them.
As he finished his meal, a distant bell sounded for afternoon Vespers, so he knew he still had some time before the meeting to be held immediately after Compline, the last of the canonical hours. He began to think about the room upstairs, but at that moment Nesta dashed away again to settle some new shouting match between one of the serving-girls and a customer. Then the door opened and the light was momentarily blocked by the huge frame of Gwyn of Polruan, who ambled in and sat himself down opposite his master.
The coroner glared at him suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me there’s been another killing?’
Gwyn shrugged off his cracked leather jerkin, dropped it on to the floor rushes and signalled to Edwin for a pot of ale. ‘No, Crowner — just an assault in the Crown tavern up at Eastgate. A cutpurse tried it on with a pig-herder from Clyst St George and got his skull cracked for his trouble.’
‘Will he die?’
‘I doubt it — the skin’s not breached and he was already getting his wits back when I left. The pig-herder was dragged up to Rougemont by a constable for Stigand to lodge in his cells, though he was pretty indignant about being arrested for whacking the thief who tried to rob him.’
‘Do I need to see this fellow now?’
‘No, after the meeting at the palace will be soon enough.’ The Cornishman smacked his lips at the arrival of a quart jug of ale. ‘Everyone’s sympathies are with the pigman, so you can probably let him go home.’