The next on the list was Julian Fulk at St Olave’s, both priest and church all too well known to de Wolfe. It was his own church, in the sense that on the infrequent occasions that he attended any place of worship, it was to St Olave’s that he was dragged by Matilda. Unlike his officer, he had no strong views on religion. He believed in God, Jesus Christ and all the pantheon of saints and prophets that had been accepted as part of everyday life since childhood. When it did happen to cross his mind, he found the rituals and ceremonies of the Church curiously redundant. What had embroidered vestments, tinkling bells, swinging incense-burners, droning chants and wealthy bishops to do with a humble carpenter who lived a millennium ago in a barren land far away? But the panoply of organised religion was so familiar that he lost no sleep over this paradox — he had spent two years fighting to try to eject the Saracen heathen from Palestine, without any real conviction that this was a Holy Crusade. It was just another campaign, in which he had followed his king and fought whatever enemies were put in front of him.
None of this bothered him now as he led the way into the small church, named after the first Christian king of Norway. It was between services and the incumbent was busy at the aumbry, a wooden locker on the north wall of the chancel for storing the paraphernalia of the Mass. Julian Fulk was a fat middle-aged man. His head was bald and shiny, his face round and smooth, with a waxy complexion. To de Wolfe, the man’s smile was benign, until he looked at the cold, blue eyes, which gave the lie to the man’s amiability.
This smile was turned on as the trio advanced across the floor to where Fulk was placing the cruet, a vessel for the communion wine, alongside the pyx, which held the bread for the Host. He closed the lid of the aumbry and turned to them.
‘The word spreads, rapidly, Sir John. I am well aware of why you pay me the honour of a visit.’ There was a slightly mocking tone to his words.
‘We are working our way through the more prominent parish priests, Father,’ said the coroner, bending the truth a little.
Fulk’s fixed smile stayed in place. ‘Thank you, Crowner, but I also know the names on your list and why they were chosen. We are the trouble-makers, as far as the Chapter House and the Palace are concerned.’
De Wolfe marvelled at the accuracy of the underground signal system in the city, but made no attempt to contradict the priest. ‘Is there any aid you can give us? Anything that might help us make this city a safer place? The last victim, after all, was one of your own brethren.’
Julian Fulk spent ten minutes being overtly helpful, but his information amounted to nothing. He knew of no fellow priest whom he could even suspect of harming a fly, he said. The only chink in his amiable armour appeared when the coroner brought the questions round to the cathedral clergy. Fulk’s smile slipped a fraction and he was caustic about the worth of some of the upper ranks of the hierarchy in the Close — but hastened to add that none could be imagined as party to any evil works.
Hoping to provoke him to some indiscretion, de Wolfe led him on to the difference in status between St Olave’s and other city churches, which induced strong words about the lack of preferment that outsiders could expect in the biased organisation of this diocese. But none of this had any relevance to the coroner’s quest and soon he tired of the bland replies. ‘Could we see your church records?’ he asked innocently, implying that this was a matter of mere personal interest.
Father Julian’s smile became positively sardonic. ‘You want to compare my ability with the quill with your murderous note, no doubt?’ he said, with barbed directness. He went to his aumbry again, for there was no sacristy in the tiny building, took out a heavy book bound between wooden boards and laid it on the lid. ‘This is for the eyes of your clerk, no doubt,’ he said, with a sly dig at John’s inability to read it himself. Thomas had no need to pull out the note left at the Jew’s death scene, as by now he knew by heart every stroke of the pen.
A few seconds’ looking at entries of births and marriages was enough for him to be able to tell the coroner later that, as with Adam of Dol’s records, he could match up nothing between the disguised script and the writing in the book.
There was no more to be gained so they took their leave of the priest of St Olave’s, who seemed mildly amused. No doubt he would delight in telling Matilda about the visit, which was why John had been keen not to upset the man too much, for it would undoubtedly rebound upon him via his wife. After leaving the church, he took the opportunity to go down to the Bush for some more breakfast and to see Nesta. Gwyn was naturally enthusiastic about the prospect of food and drink, and only Thomas saw little merit in calling at a tavern at the ninth hour of a Sunday morning. However, he sat quietly at the end of the table, taking a bowl of meat broth that Nesta pressed on him, with her usual concern for the morose little clerk.
John and Gwyn ate bread and cheese and drank ale while they discussed their lack of success.
‘Ralph de Capra was strange and indignant — and Adam of Dol mad and just plain bloody violent,’ observed Gwyn, after de Wolfe had outlined their activities to Nesta, who hovered over the table, avid for their news.
‘At least we now have a better method of comparing their penmanship,’ grunted John. ‘I should have thought of the church registers before this. It means they don’t get a chance to alter their writing style further, if that was in their mind.’
‘Will all of them keep such records?’ asked Nesta.
John raised his eyebrows at Thomas, to get his expert opinion.
‘All those who can write,’ answered the clerk. ‘The town priests are mostly literate, or they wouldn’t have been given the living. The ignorant ones are shunted out into the countryside.’
‘But does every church keep these books?’ she persisted.
‘In some degree, yes. Many never keep full lists of everything, but they have to record baptisms and marriages. Burials come to the cathedral ground, of course.’
‘As long as each of these suspect priests has written only a few lines somewhere, that’s good enough for our purposes — though almost certainly the killer’s writing will have been heavily disguised. We have only the one note left with the money-lender to compare with the registers,’ said John.
Nesta topped up their pots from a jug of her best ale. ‘Why do you have to do all this work?’ she pouted. ‘I thought it was the responsibility of the sheriff and his merry men to enforce the law in Devon.’
De Wolfe snorted in derision. ‘Dear Richard says he is too busy with the arrival of the justices tomorrow to be diverted by mere multiple murders. And he says that all of his men at the castle are preparing for the ceremonial escort that he hopes will impress them enough to take tales of his prowess back to Winchester and London.’ He took a long drink and wiped his mouth on his hand. ‘Anyway, I prefer to do this my way, however futile it seems. I’ll have three inquests with unresolved verdicts and the only way these will be settled is by finding the bastard responsible.’
Gwyn ran fingers through his unruly hair. ‘What are we to do next, Crowner? There are another five on the cathedral list, but I’ll wager none of them gives us anything worthwhile, other than a punch in the belly.’ He grinned at the memory of the fracas in St Mary Steps, which he had quite enjoyed. Since he had finished campaigning at de Wolfe’s side, a good scuffle rarely came his way.
The coroner rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘Carry on with the rest, I suppose. Thomas has the list from the Archdeacon. The fellow in St Petroc is the nearest, so let’s go there.’
For the next few hours, they walked the city, visiting the other priests whose names had been suggested by the canons. As it was Sunday, they had to wait for some to finish their devotions before they could waylay them.
The result was just as Gwyn had gloomily suggested: all they met with was hostility, annoyance and indignation. Late in the morning, they climbed the gatehouse stairs to the upper chamber to take some liquid refreshment before going off for their noonday meal. De Wolfe slumped behind his trestle table, with Thomas perched on a stool at one end, while Gwyn sat on his favourite window-ledge. The clerk refused any drink, but the other two supped cider from the stone jar in the corner.