John was intrigued by the notion that some exotic substance from the almost mythical continent of Africa could find its way to his left buttock. 'How in God's name do you get hold of such rare products?' he asked.
'There are some dealers who supply me at intervals but I also give lists to certain merchants who have ships trading across the Channel. They bring me certain goods I need — I don't ask how they get hold of them.' He winked and tapped the side of his nose as if half revealing some secret.
A small warning bell rang in John's head. 'Do these marvellous substances carry any levy or tax when they come into England?' he asked.
Richard shrugged. 'I don't ask. I just pay the price demanded. Merchants and ship owners in this city pass on the lists to their traders, and in the fullness of time the packages arrive.'
'And which merchants would be involved in this trade?' queried John, wearing what he hoped was a guileless expression.
Richard Lustcote began to wonder what earthly interest the coroner could have in the means by which he obtained his medicaments, but he had no reason to prevaricate. 'There are a few of them. Edward of Yeovil for one — and some come on the ships of Robert de Helion, whom I know quite well.'
This name cropping up again made de Wolfe decide to call upon the merchant at some early opportunity. Though he had no idea if medical supplies carried any Customs duty under the new financial regime of Hubert Walter, the rather secretive manner of the apothecary made it worthwhile to enquire, as Luke de Casewold had seemed convinced that Axmouth was involved in some dubious business.
With his bottom now more comfortable, John bade his friend goodbye and walked back to Martin's Lane in the gathering dusk. After his supper, the usual silent meal opposite a morose Matilda, John sat for a while staring into the glowing logs of a small fire in the hearth. He had his customary cup of wine in one hand, the other fondling Brutus's ears as he squatted beside his master's knee. Predictably, it was not long before Matilda called for her maid Lucille and went off to her solar, to be undressed for bed after a long session on her knees in prayer.
John gave her another half-hour, then rose and, with his hound padding expectantly after him, took his sword and a short cloak from the vestibule and stepped out into the lane. When he turned right into the Close, the two great towers of the cathedral were dark silhouettes against the remaining pale light in the western sky, which was clear enough to give a chill to the evening. One of the bishop's proctors was lighting the pitch-brand that hung in an iron ring over Bear Gate on the other side of the wide burial ground that fronted the great church. John walked across towards it, past the imposing West Front of the building, Brutus ambling from place to place, cocking his leg against any projecting structure.
The Close was a warren of overgrown burial mounds, piles of rubbish and a few open grave-pits, ready for tomorrow's corpses. Beggars crouched in corners, and respectable citizens were loath to walk alone there at night, for fear of the cutpurses that often lurked in the darkness. John had no fear for himself, as it would be a very bold robber who would tackle this tall, formidable man with a sword at his belt and a large hound at his heels.
He strode the familiar path out into Southgate Street, and then across to the smaller lanes that sloped down towards the western wall and the river beyond. Crossing Milk Lane, he went down Priest Street, where Thomas lodged, and then turned into the short lane that joined it to Smythen Street, where the iron workers had their forges. This lane had almost no buildings, as they had burnt down in a fire some years earlier, and the empty ground around the Bush Inn gave it its name of Idle Lane. The tavern, itself substantially rebuilt after a fire the previous year that had almost claimed the life of its landlady, was a whitewashed stone structure with a steep thatched roof that came down to head height. A low door flanked by two shuttered window-openings graced the front, with a large fenced yard at the back containing Nesta's brew-shed, kitchen, privy and pigsty.
De Wolfe bent his head to enter the low room that occupied all the ground floor, making for his favourite bench at a table near the central firepit. It was sheltered by a wattle hurdle from the draught from the front door and was so well known as the coroner's personal seat that anyone already sitting there would hastily move out of his way. Brutus slid under the table, aware that he would soon get a bone or some scraps from a platter, while John eased himself down on to Lustcote's new woollen pad. Almost immediately, a quart jar of best ale was set in front of him by the potboy. This was old Edwin, who had not been a boy for fifty years — an old soldier with a crippled foot and one eye, the other being a ghastly white globe in a scarred socket, the legacy of a spear-thrust in one of the Irish wars. The garrulous old fellow saluted John in semi-military style, calling him 'captain' by virtue of their being in the same campaign in France many years ago.
'The mistress is in the kitchen-shed, cap'n!' he croaked. 'Screaming at a new cook-maid who can't boil a bloody egg.'
Edwin was easily the most inquisitive man in the city of Exeter and had often fed John useful titbits of information gleaned from the hundreds of travellers who passed through the Bush. The coroner thought it might be worth trying to tap his store of gossip.
'Know anything about Axmouth, Edwin? I've got to deal with a killing over there.'
The haggard old man rubbed his chin, his dead eye rolling horribly.
'God's guts, Crowner, they're funny buggers over that side of the county!' he said, falling in with most people's opinion of the inhabitants of the Axe valley. 'Busy place, though, a lot of trade passing in and out of that river. I left from there in '73 on a voyage to St-Malo when we went to fight in Brittany for old King Henry.'
John was more interested in present problems than in ancient history.
'You must get shipmen in here sometimes. Have you heard of any ill-doings in that port, such as piracy or smuggling?'
Edwin gave a toothless grin as he gathered up empty ale-pots.
'Smuggling? Of course, who doesn't dodge the tallyman when he can? Goes against the grain to pay for something, then have to pay the bloody Exchequer as well. Begging your pardon, Crowner,' he added hurriedly as he realised that he was speaking to a senior officer sworn to uphold the law.
As this seemed an almost universal sentiment amongst the citizens, John let it pass. 'What about piracy?' he demanded.
Edwin considered this for a moment. 'Well, cap'n, there are rumours, but you get them from any port along the western coast. A few drunken shipmen have occasionally boasted how they outran some privateer — and there are whispered tales of ships never being heard of again and of corpses washed up with their throats cut.'
'But Axmouth in particular?' persisted the coroner.
The old man shrugged. 'Never recall anyone mentioning it, sir. As I said, they are a rough lot over there; they don't seem to have much to do with us here in the city.' He heard the back door bang and saw the landlady bustling towards them, so he made a show of wiping John's table with a rag to mop up the spilt ale. 'Here's the missus coming,' he muttered and moved away.
'What's that old rascal been gossiping about, John?' she asked briskly, then slid along the bench towards him and grasped his arm. 'And where have you been this past week, Sir Crowner?'
This was Nesta's half-bantering, half-sarcastic mode of addressing him when he had annoyed or neglected her. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a kiss, looking down at this pretty, auburn-haired woman of twenty-nine, his mistress for the past two years.
'I've been dealing with the villains of this county, of whom there are far too many,' he said lightly, for he knew that he had failed to visit her often enough lately. Cases seemed to come one after the other and, though they took little time to settle, the travelling around the second-largest county in England swallowed up the days and left him weary by the time he got back home. Thank God, recently they had managed to replace the coroner for the north of Devon, the first one having killed himself after a fall from his horse. For a long time, de Wolfe had had to deal with deaths and other incidents as far away as Barnstaple and Clovelly, the round trip taking several days.