De Wolfe rode with Walter de Ralegh, and the two Devon-bred men found they had plenty of mutual acquaintances and local topics to make easy conversation.
‘How is this new crowner’s business going, de Wolfe?’ said de Ralegh suddenly.
‘The sheriff doesn’t like it, but that was part of the reason for Hubert Walter setting it up,’ answered de Wolfe wryly.
De Ralegh’s face cracked into a smile. ‘You’re taking business away from his courts into ours, I hear,’ he cackled. ‘Keep up the good work. These bloody sheriffs need bringing to heel — especially this one.’ He dropped his voice, though de Revelle was many yards ahead, gabbling to Peter Peverel, who the sheriff had rapidly identified as the one with most clout at court.
‘I hear you have some murderous problems in the city?’
De Ralegh’s abrupt change of subject caught John by surprise. He had no idea that news of the Gospel killer had spread so rapidly outside Devon, but seeing no reason to conceal or minimise the situation, he gave a detailed account of the four deaths.
‘And the last one was only yesterday, you say? God’s bones, what’s the sheriff doing about it?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. He’s been too concerned with your visit to bother his head with a triviality like multiple murder! He’s left it to me to worry about.’
The justice shook his head in dismay, but what de Wolfe had said was true. After yesterday’s killing of William Fitz-William, he had gone up to Rougemont to inform the sheriff of yet another murder, but all de Revelle had said was ‘Just get on with seeking the villain, John — that sort of challenge is right up your stret, I know,’ as he scanned a roll of parchment.
‘I’m the coroner, not the law-enforcement system of Devonshire!’ de Wolfe had muttered irritably.
‘If you need more help, take some men-at-arms. Ralph Morin will see to it,’ the sheriff had said, with a dismissive wave. ‘You enjoy ferreting out details, so leave me to deal with the important job of running the county,’ he added condescendingly.
De Wolfe knew only too well that de Revelle would be happy enough to take any credit for unmasking the serial killer, but was unwilling to burden himself with any effort to achieve it.
When the party reached the city, the judges were lodged in the New Inn at the upper end of the high street, the only one with separate chambers upstairs to accommodate them. Their servants were housed in Rougemont and the court clerks were distributed among the spare beds in the vicars’ lodgings in the cathedral Close and Priest Street.
John was tempted to go down to the Bush, but thought he had better put in an appearance at home for diplomacy’s sake: Matilda would be winding herself up for the first of the banquets the following evening. As he had anticipated, she was moderately civil and sat opposite him near the empty hearth, sharing a stone bottle of wine. At times like this, John had glimpses of what it must be like to have an amiable wife and a settled home-life, and resolved yet again to try to heal the breach between them. He knew deep down, though, that her abrasive nature and his quick temper were incompatible with the pleasant, ordered existence that some couples seemed to enjoy, but he resolved to keep her sweet for as long as possible this week.
Matilda insisted that he recount every detail of the Justices’ arrival and their entourage, especially what they were wearing. He invented most of it to keep her content, but his account of Peter Peverel’s gaudy fashions was not far from the truth.
He followed up with details of yesterday’s murder, which also grabbed her attention, especially as the victim had been one of the city’s commercial worthies. Through her familiarity with the town gossip, relayed through her cronies at St Olave’s, she was even able to confirm her husband’s suspicions about William Fitz-William’s perverted tendencies with young boys. Many of the women she met at her devotions were the wives of other burgesses and craftsmen and the lifestyle of Fitz-William since his wife’s death had caused tongues to wag.
‘So why didn’t someone do something to save the boys from such evil?’ de Wolfe grunted, aware that he was on dangerous ground by criticising her and her friends.
‘And what could we have done?’ she snapped. ‘Send the constable or the sheriff — or you, for that matter — to his house to ask him if he was committing the sin of Sodom?’
‘Maybe a priest might have been able to turn his heart — or, at least, try to aid the boys. Would your priest Julian Fulk have known of these rumours?’
Matilda stared at him suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask? I heard that you had been to see him. Have you been pestering that good man with useless questions?’
‘We’re just asking prominent priests in the city for any help they might be able to suggest,’ de Wolfe replied diplomatically.
‘Well, you can forget Father Julian,’ she said acidly. ‘If he knew anything useful, he would have come to you or his archdeacon.’
De Wolfe let the subject drop, and after their early-evening meal, he decided to go up to his chamber in the castle to see Gwyn before he left for St Sidwell’s ahead of the gates closing at dusk. It was also useful as an excuse for his intended foray down to see Nesta at the Bush.
As he climbed the last few steps of the steep winding stair in the gatehouse, he heard snuffling noises and Gwyn’s deep tones. Pushing through the sackcloth curtain over the doorway, he came across a curious sight. The big Cornishman was leaning over Thomas, with his arm around his humped shoulders, pulling him against the rough leather of his worn jerkin. As John entered, he grinned sheepishly, embarrassed that his master had caught him comforting the little clerk. For Thomas, when he jerked his face from Gwyn’s large chest, showed unmistakable signs of misery, his eyes moist and his lips quivering. He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his hand, before scurrying across to his usual stool at the end of the table.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded de Wolfe, speaking gruffly to cover his own discomfort at seeing grown men display emotion — especially Gwyn of Polruan, who was normally about as sensitive as a stone wall.
‘It’s those swine down at the Close. They’ve thrown him out of his lodgings.’
John looked across at his clerk, who was giving an impersonation of a hunted rabbit. ‘Come on, tell me all about it,’ he commanded.
In a small voice choked with emotion, Thomas spilled out the sad story. ‘Two of the vicars and a secondary complained to the canon that they objected to having me — a suspected criminal — in their house. All I have is but a pallet in the servants’ corridor in Canon Simon’s dwelling, but the whispers about this killer have driven me out.’
De Wolfe dropped on to his own stool and thumped the table. ‘Who’s been spreading these malicious rumours?’ he grated. ‘I’ll go down to the Archdeacon and stop this outrage.’
Thomas half rose in terror. ‘No, Crowner! I don’t want my uncle involved any further in my troubles. I don’t think the canon himself wanted to throw me out, but I suspect the vicars were put up to it by someone above them.’
‘And that would be that bloody Precentor, no doubt!’ growled Gwyn.
‘When the real murderer is caught, all this will blow over and I can go back,’ said Thomas, with a marked lack of conviction. ‘But I couldn’t return there now, with this hanging over me.’
De Wolfe looked across at Gwyn and knew that the evil worm burrowing in his mind was also in his officer’s. Though they stoutly defended their clerk against any outsiders, a tiny voice kept whispering that Thomas had no alibi for any of the killings, he was unusually well versed in the scriptures, could use a pen as well as any man in Devon, and undoubtedly was in a disturbed frame of mind.