After he had been to the Saracen, de Wolfe barged into the sheriff’s chamber unannounced. He found de Revelle slumped morosely behind his table, a large goblet of wine in his hand, for once ignoring the profusion of parchments spread before him. He had already washed the smuts from his face and hair and was swathed in a plum-coloured velvet house-gown. He raised his head slowly to the coroner, a scowl on his petulant face. ‘Come to crow over me again, I suppose?’
John grinned at him, though it was more of a leer. ‘How you enjoy yourself at night is none of my business — unless it involves plotting against the King whom you represent in this county.’
The sheriff tried to counter this veiled threat with haughty bluster. ‘You are in no position to preach about morals! It’s common knowledge that you have been betraying my sister for years with that woman from the inn — and God knows how many others.’
De Wolfe kept his grin in place. ‘But, Richard, I don’t pick up painted whores and have to flee almost bare-arsed from burning buildings in full view of our worthy citizens.’
The sheriff seemed to sag in his chair, his attempt at defiance crumpling. ‘I need a woman now and then! My wife is never here and a man has natural desires. You should know that above all people.’
The frosty Lady de Revelle kept away from Rougemont and her husband as much as she could, though she would have to put in an appearance at the feasting this week.
‘I’ve just come from the Saracen, where I had a few words with your paramour,’ announced John, planting himself in a folding chair opposite the sheriff.
De Revelle drunk the rest of his wine and banged down the pewter cup. ‘I never even got my money’s worth, damn it! We’d hardly got started when that fire began.’ He stared wildly at the coroner. ‘What the hell is going on, John? Was that sheer coincidence?’
De Wolfe shook his head slowly. ‘You’re not going to like this — and neither are the royal judges, if they get to hear of it.’
With his brother-in-law becoming more incredulous as he went on, John related their findings in the backyard at Waterbeer Street: that naphtha had been used in a deliberate arson attack and an ambiguous Biblical text had been scrawled at the scene, reduced Richard to a state of furious agitation.
‘Why should this murderous swine want to kill me? And what is that damned nonsense about vengeance and coals of fire?’ He jumped up and shakily poured more wine, without offering any to his saviour.
De Wolfe watched him stalk about the room, his fair hair and beard spiky from its recent wetting, his small head sticking out of the long red gown like a globe atop a tournament tent. ‘There’s plenty of folk who’d be happy to see you dead or shamed,’ he said. ‘You send men to the gallows every other week from your shire court, and their families might want vengeance. Even the tinners have threatened violence to get rid of you as Lord Warden of the Stannaries.’ He paused. ‘To say nothing of those who despise you for your adherence to Prince John.’
Richard’s face flushed with anger and shame. ‘But if what you say is true about this poxy message scratched on the window-ledge, this is the same man who’s been killing sodomites, whores and Jews. What’s that to do with me?’
‘He seems to have a private crusade against evildoers — and that includes you!’ answered de Wolfe, with some relish. ‘At least you are unique.’
‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’ snarled the sheriff.
‘You’re his first failure — thanks to Gwyn and myself!’
De Revelle muttered something under his breath, which sounded far removed from an expression of gratitude, but he sat down and seemed to remember his duty as a host: he poured some wine for his brother-in-law. ‘Is any of this going to come out?’ he mumbled anxiously.
‘The fact of the fire is already common knowledge, and as for the rescue of the girl, a dozen men saw that — much to their delight.’
‘You say you’ve spoken to her?
‘Just now, at the Saracen. She was more frightened of my threats of retribution if she talked about you than she was at the shock of almost being burned alive like a witch.’ He took a deep swallow of the good red wine. ‘And I promised her that you will send her a purse of silver, to make sure that she stays silent.’
The tight-fisted sheriff scowled again, but managed to hold his tongue.
‘As far as I can make out, no one has realised that you were in the house with her — except the would-be assassin, of course. I can’t believe he would go to those lengths just to dispose of another common harlot.’
‘He did so before, with that red-headed strumpet,’ the sheriff objected.
‘I suspect he’s choosing to punish one example of each sin,’ said John. ‘If he intends eliminating every prostitute in Exeter, he’ll be working full-time until Christ Mass! Anyway, that text from the Gospels fitted you better than the girl, with its talk of vengeance.’
‘Vengeance for what?’
‘There’s plenty to choose from, Richard. Sheriffs are the least popular people in the land. Maybe your good wife hired an assassin?’
De Revelle groaned. ‘I hope by all the saints in heaven that she never gets to hear of this! She will be here by noon tomorrow.’ The chill prospect of his wife’s acid tongue caused him to think of his sister. ‘And Matilda? What about her? Does she have to know?’
This was one score that de Wolfe was not going to let pass. When he had caught out her brother in his attempted treachery last year, Matilda had pleaded with him to save the sheriff from disgrace and perhaps even execution. He had agreed, and in return gained several months’ respite from her domineering abuse. Now he had the chance to build up a little more credit, by telling her how he had saved her brother from both cremation and ridicule.
‘There can be no secrets between husband and wife, Richard,’ he said, with a straight face but with underlying glee. The sheriff groaned and pleaded for his silence, but John cut across his words. ‘There are more important things at the moment. How did that new chaplain of yours happen to be around Waterbeer Street at the wrong time? Could he have known you were in the house?’
De Revelle’s eyes widened. ‘Was he there? He didn’t see me, did he? He’s an inquisitive bastard. I don’t know why William the Marshal sent such an unsuitable fellow to us. It must have been some arrangement with his brother, Bishop Henry.’ Then a further thought struck him. ‘A priest … well lettered, knows the Gospels. John, do you think …?’
De Wolfe knew well enough what the sheriff meant, for the same idea had cropped up in his own mind, but there was no real evidence for incriminating the genial Franciscan.
‘But it can’t be him. He’s from Bristol and knows almost no one in these parts,’ went on de Revelle. ‘Though he may have followed me down from the castle out of sheer curiosity.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t believe it was Rufus. What about that other priest, though?’
De Wolfe stared at him. ‘What other priest?’
‘Your damned clerk, that twisted little runt with the evil eye. Where was he when all this was happening tonight?’
He said this with a return of his old spitefulness and John was incensed, not only because of the slight against Thomas but because he had no answer. He had no idea where Thomas de Peyne had been that evening, after he left the Bush to fetch his belongings. ‘He’s well accounted for,’ he lied brusquely, but vowed to check this as soon as he next had Thomas and Gwyn together.
A crafty look came into his brother-in-law’s eye. He moved across to his littered table and produced a small leaf of parchment from under a ledger. ‘This was delivered to me today, John. I know you have no understanding of letters, but I’m sure you’ll accept it when I read it out. You can have it checked by someone else later.’
De Wolfe glowered suspiciously at him, ignoring the slur on his literacy as he nodded brusquely for the sheriff to continue.