Soon after Thomas de Peyne had washed himself down in the yard behind the Bush, another priest was slipping furtively into this tiny church. It was little more than a simple room poised on the upstream edge of one of the piers, projecting out on a buttress fifteen feet above the grassy mud of Exe Island. The interior was virtually bare, except for a stone shelf around the walls and a stone altar covered with a cloth, on which stood a wooden cross. The place was intended for travellers wishing to give thanks for their safe arrival at Exeter or to pray to St Christopher for a safe journey into the wild West Country. A chaplain had been appointed by the diocese, but he visited rarely.
The priest was carrying a large pottery flask and, incongruously in broad daylight, a small lantern. He produced a flint and tinder and, with some difficulty, his shaking hands managed to light the candle in the lantern, which he placed alongside the cross on the altar. Then he sank to his knees in front of it and, head bowed, began to gabble in a monotone that soon rose to become a frenzied supplication in a mixture of Latin, English and Norman French. This went on for half an hour, the man rocking back and forth on his knees, beating his breast. Finally, he collapsed on the floor and lay flat on his face, his arms and legs spreadeagled on the cool slabs.
He lay immobile like this for some moments, then silently got up and walked stiffly to the altar, picked up the lantern and the flask and moved like a sleepwalker to the open doorway. Outside in the sunlight, he walked down the unfinished bridge to where the empty roadway came to an abrupt end over the final pier that stood at the edge of the Exe’s main channel. The water flowed smooth and deep below him, as he stood with his feet near the edge.
Setting down the flask and the lamp, he pulled his long black tunic over his head and threw it on to the ground. When he kicked off his scuffed sandals, he was as naked as the moment he was born.
Picking up the pitcher, he upturned it over his head and let about a gallon of turpentine mixed with strong Irish spirits gush over his body, holding it until the last drops of the oily liquid had coursed over his shoulders, chest, belly and legs. He threw the pot aside then picked up the lantern. He moved until his toes were curled over the very edge of the masonry, and looked down at the water, moving almost silently below. Then he opened the door of the lantern and, with a cry of exultation and despair, clasped it to his chest so that the flame almost touched his skin. The light spirits ignited into an almost invisible blue flame and flashed across his body. The heat caught the heavier turpentine alight and in seconds, the man was a human torch. With another scream, this time of mortal agony, he threw up his arms and his back arched in unbearable pain.
Just outside the West Gate, two porters with great packs of raw wool were sitting for a rest, when they saw what seemed to be a flaming crucifix in the distance. With yells of alarm, they sprang up and ran down the bridge towards it, followed by one of the gatekeepers and a few passers-by. Until they reached halfway, the astonished men could still see the writing, contorting figure, from which flame and smoke swirled into the still air. But suddenly and with a final despairing cry, the living cremation pitched forwards and fell into the river below, a last hissing and bubbling marking where the body sank beneath the uncaring surface.
De Wolfe had just crossed Carfoix when shouts and the sound of running feet coming up Fore Street told him that yet another emergency was in the offing. Gwyn and Brother Rufus were with him, one on each side of Thomas, who seemed to have recovered rapidly from his ordeal.
As they neared St Olave’s church, people in the street were turning to look at three men jogging up the slope from the West Gate, shouting and waving their arms to attract his attention.
The leading man panted to a stop in front of him. It was Theobald, the town constable. ‘Crowner, there’s a body just dragged from the river. Can you come quickly?’
De Wolfe scowled. Drowned bodies were one of the most common type of case he had to deal with. There was usually no great urgency about viewing them, especially as now he had other things on his mind.
‘Can’t it wait a little? Or get a barrow and take it to the dead-house on the quayside.’
Theobald shook his head. ‘It happened not half an hour ago. He set fire to himself on the new bridge and then jumped in. It’s a priest, by the clothes he left behind.’
The word ‘priest’ instantly grabbed John’s attention, but the ever-inquisitive monk got in first. ‘Priest? Who was it?’
‘We’re not sure, his face was badly scorched, but it looks like the priest of All-Hallows.’
‘Ralph de Capra?’ snapped de Wolfe.
Theobald nodded. ‘About his height and build. His hair’s burnt off and most of his skin’s gone, but it’s most likely him, especially after that caper he had on the city wall yesterday.’
They all hurried down towards the river and Theobald led them across the mud of Exe Island below the new bridge, followed by a crowd of onlookers. The corpse had not drifted far: a hundred paces away from where the man had jumped into the river a dead tree had trapped his body in its branches. The two porters who had seen the conflagration on the bridge had rushed down and dragged it ashore, where it now lay on its back on the rough grass. Even in the open air, the smell of cooked flesh was distinct.
As they stood over it, Thomas and Brother Rufus competed with each other in crossing themselves repeatedly, but John and his officer dropped beside the body into their usual crouch.
‘Bit of a mess, but I reckon it’s de Capra right enough,’ said Gwyn. The face was bright red with blackened patches, and was completely skinned, as were much of the shoulders, chest and thighs. All the hair had gone and the scalp was scorched. The burning and swelling of the eyelids and lips made the features grotesque, but there was no doubt that it was the mad priest of All-Hallows-on-the-Wall.
‘He’d have been a damned sight worse if he hadn’t jumped in the river,’ offered one of the porters, with morbid satisfaction.
‘Stark naked, he was, standing on the end of the bloody bridge like a bush afire!’ contributed the other excitedly.
De Wolfe rocked back on his heels to ponder the situation. Was this a final act of contrition for killing and assaulting all those people? There was no proof of that — even priests are allowed to go mad without necessarily being serial killers.
‘Shall we haul him off to the mortuary, as you said, Crowner?’ asked Theobald.
John got to his feet and looked again at the scorched cadaver.
‘No, he’s a clerk in Holy Orders, so we must see what the cathedral wishes to do about this. The Archdeacon is responsible for the parish priests, so he must be told — and the Bishop, if he’s still in the city.’
A wide circle of people had formed around the scene and as they moved to allow de Wolfe and his party to pass through on their way back to the higher ground outside the city wall, Brother Rufus reminded him of Ralph de Capra’s recent movements. ‘He was being sheltered by the priest at St Mary Steps, both before and after he was taken to St Nicholas. I wonder if he knows about this?’
‘That’s further reason to speak to him, as soon as we can,’ grunted the coroner. ‘He seemed quite fond of that deranged fellow, so it may come as a nasty shock.’