There was a dead silence, as everyone knew what was coming.
‘It is no secret that the clerk to the coroner falls into that category and not only has a shameful history of indecent assault but since then is well known both to have attempted the mortal sin of self-destruction and for acting in a most abnormal manner. As reported to me by junior clerks who share his company in the cathedral precinct, he constantly mutters to himself and is in an unstable frame of mind, almost as if he is possessed by some unclean spirit.’
John de Wolfe hauled himself up to counter this blatant antagonism to himself, using his servant as the means. The only problem was that the Precentor was telling the bald truth, but John felt honour bound to defend his clerk.
‘Your Grace, it is true that Thomas de Peyne has suffered much recently, in that his deepest desire to be reinstated into Holy Orders has been peremptorily rejected. It is not relevant here to record that he claims his original ejection was ill-founded — but there is no possibility at all that he is involved in these crimes. Indeed, it has been his expertise in Latin and scripture that speedily explained the cryptic messages left by this cunning murderer.’
As he sat down, the Bishop turned his stern gaze upon de Wolfe. ‘That’s as may be, Sir John — but can you swear that he was within your sight at the time of every one of these deaths?’
There was another profound silence, during which de Wolfe realised that this was a trap, primed by the Precentor, who must have told the Bishop previously that Thomas had no alibi for any of the killings.
‘If you cannot so prove, Crowner, then I see no reason to exclude your clerk from the list of potential suspects. What is good for the parish priests of this city must also be good for your servant.’
At this he rose and swept away rapidly to a door behind the platform, leaving his audience to rise and bow after his departing figure.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
That Saturday evening was surprisingly peaceful for de Wolfe, as Matilda was again visiting her cousin in the town — more from a desire to ignore him, he suspected, than from any feeling of familial affection. He spent his time in the Bush, some of it eating, drinking and yarning with some of the locals — the rest upstairs in Nesta’s closet. He was tempted to risk spending the whole night there but caution got the better of him and by midnight he wound his way unsteadily back to Martin’s Lane. He undressed in the dark and crept on to his side of the wide palliasse, thankful that the loud snores from his wife removed the need for attempted explanations and the inevitable recriminations.
In the morning, he was not so fortunate: when he awoke, Matilda was sitting bolt upright. Her head was swathed in a cloth that concealed wooden pegs put there by the rabbit-toothed Lucille, intended to torture her hair into the ringlets alleged to be the latest fashion in France. Her husband was reminded of a turbaned Saracen warrior, the impression reinforced by the fierce look on her face.
However, after the usual sarcastic jousting, her manner moderated a little and John, reading the signs from years of practice, knew she wanted news of his meeting with the Bishop, who to Matilda was only a finger’s breadth below the Almighty Himself.
He avoided any reference to Thomas de Peyne, whom she hated like hemlock, because he was, as she thought, a renegade and perverted priest. However, he unwisely forgot also to censor the reference to Julian Fulk as one of the suspects. To his wife, the priest of St Olave’s was but a shade less saintly than the Bishop and she took umbrage at the slur on his character. De Wolfe lay patiently under the sheepskins, waiting for this latest squall to blow over. It subsided quite rapidly and he correctly guessed the reason.
‘When you were at the Bishop’s Palace, did you learn anything of the festivities laid on for the royal Justices this week?’ she demanded.
‘There will be a feast on Tuesday, given by Henry Marshal in their honour.’
‘We will be invited, of course?’ It was an aggressive statement rather than a question.
‘I have little doubt of that, wife, though I am not in the Bishop’s best favour, these days.’
‘That’s because you’re a fool, John de Wolfe. Why you antagonise persons of stature and influence, I cannot imagine.’
Her condemnation was of necessity muted: she knew that Henry Marshal trod the same dangerous political path as her brother, whose reputation, and possibly his neck, depended upon her husband’s forbearance in proclaiming his treachery. ‘And what of the burgesses — and the castle? What are they putting on?’
‘The Portreeves are entertaining them next Thursday — and your brother will have them at Rougemont on the following Saturday. No doubt we will be there, as your dear brother could hardly disappoint you,’ he added sarcastically.
The prospect of three grand occasions in one week mollified Matilda and diverted her into concern for which gowns, wimples and mantles to wear. Thankful for the distraction, de Wolfe crept out of bed and dressed. Under her cold gaze, he took a bone comb from a wall ledge and dragged it perfunctorily through his tangled black hair, then with his boots in his hand, he opened the solar door and padded down the stairs. He had had his weekly wash and shave the day before, so went straight to Mary’s kitchen-hut to eat the oat porridge, salt bacon, butter-fried eggs and fresh bread that she put before him.
‘And what mischief is the king’s crowner up to today?’ she asked, with blunt affection.
‘Chasing around after these bloody priests, I suppose,’ he growled, washing his food down with murky cider. ‘It’s Sunday, so at least they should all be at their duties. Though what good it is likely to do, I can’t imagine. No assassin as clever as this one is going to break down and confess to us. And we can’t even drag them to Stigand’s dungeon for a little persuasion, as the Bishop has made it clear that he’s doing us a favour by even letting us talk to them.’
‘I suppose Gwyn will be with you — but what about Thomas?
De Wolfe champed down a slice of bread running with egg yolk before replying. ‘That’s a difficult one, given that my enemies have deliberately thrown suspicion upon him. But I need him, he has such a knowledge of the Church and the scriptures that he might spot some slip of the tongue that would be lost on myself or Gwyn. Yes, he must come with us and be damned to the consequences!’ he ended with a snarl.
When he had finished eating, he pulled on the boots that Mary had just cleaned and marched off to the vestibule, telling the disappointed Brutus to stay behind. It was a fine May morning, the yard and the street were dry, so John decided to leave his wolfskin on its peg. He looked at his broadsword, but decided that he was unlikely to have to fight any of the Exeter priests and settled for his dagger.
As the coroner stepped out into the lane, the cathedral bells were ringing for the Matins and Lauds of Our Lady, which preceded Prime, the first major service of the day. Apart from the more devout going to worship, the streets were quiet so early on a Sunday, and within a few minutes he had walked through the pale sunshine to the castle gatehouse. Gwyn had come into the city from St Sidwells as soon as the East Gate was opened after curfew and was waiting for him in the guardroom. His master told him the plan for the day, then added, ‘Last night, I told our little fellow to be at All-Hallows by Prime. If we are going to see these priests, I thought we may as well start furthest away and work back up the hill.’