Their clerk still worried' away at the problem. 'Why should a man stay still while another hammers a nail into his neck?' he demanded.
'Maybe he was asleep — or dead drunk,' suggested Gwyn.
'Or he could have been drugged,' added de Wolfe. 'Syrup of poppy or some other stupefying herb. He might even have been given a buffet on the head, hard enough to make him lose his wits for a while. We would find no trace of that, given the state of him now.'
The coroner hauled himself up from his bench and made for the doorway, an arch in the rough stone wall. It had been draped with ragged hessian in an attempt to reduce the draughts that whistled up the narrow spiral stairs from the guardroom two floors below.
'I'm going over to see the sheriff, for this death is odd enough to tell him about. Gwyn, you get out into the town and see if you can pick up news about anyone gone missing in the last few months or so. And Thomas, you do the same over in the cathedral Close. Your priestly friends are the biggest gossips in the city.'
De Wolfe clattered down the stairs and came out into another bare chamber, where two soldiers were playing at dice on an upturned barrel. A third man-at-arms shivered on guard duty outside, just within the archway that led out to the drawbridge over a deep dry ditch that separated the outer ward of the castle from the inner bailey. Inside the latter, walls of red sandstone enclosed an area containing three buildings, the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary, the plain stone box of the Shire Hall, and, straight ahead across the inner ward, the two-storeyed keep where the sheriff had his quarters.
The snow had petered out before it settled and under John's feet was hardened mud, churned by the horses, oxen, cartwheels and innumerable boots that had crossed the bailey to reach not only the keep, but the many sheds and wooden buildings that lined the walls. Some were barracks for the men-at-arms, others store-houses and stables, a few huts even housed wives and families of the soldiers, though most of these lived in the larger outer bailey, which was almost a village in itself. John climbed the wooden steps to the entrance of the keep, the main hall being ten feet above ground for purposes of defence. Beneath it was the undercroft, a semi-basement which housed the castle gaol.
Inside the large hall, the chill December day was tempered by a blazing fire in a hearth-pit and the body heat of scores of men, some sitting at trestles, others standing in groups, the rest milling about as they tried to get their varied business done. Merchants, clerks, stewards, a few knights and men-at-arms were talking, shouting, eating and drinking in what was probably the busiest place in Exeter.
John pushed his way through them and made for a side door on the left, where a soldier in a leather jerkin and round iron helmet stood guard outside the sheriffs chamber. At the sight of the king's coroner, the man jerked upright and smacked the butt of his spear on to the flagged floor in salute. All the men-at-arms knew and respected Sir John de Wolfe as a seasoned warrior, a former Crusader and veteran of a dozen campaigns in Ireland and France. From the colour of his hair and stubbled cheeks, as well as his preference for dark clothing, he had become known as Black John among the troops, a name that had often been matched by his moods — though fair and just, he was not a man to be trifled with.
De Wolfe gave the man a nod and opened the heavy oaken door. Inside, the Sheriff of Devon, Henry de Furnellis, was suffering the persistent attentions of his chief clerk, who loaded more parchments on to Henry's already cluttered table. Like John, Henry could neither read nor write, and his clerks had to read every document to him and take down replies as dictation.
De Furnellis looked On the coroner's arrival as welcome relief and waved the clerk Elphin away, reaching for a wineskin and a couple of pottery cups. De Wolfe sat down in a leather-backed chair opposite Henry and gratefully accepted a cup of good Loire red.
The sheriff was an elderly man, almost sixty, and had a heavy face like that of a mournful bloodhound. An old soldier like John, he had been given the shrievalty of Devon as a reward for his faithful service to the king. In fact, he had been given it twice, as almost two years ago the previous sheriff, Richard de Revelle, had been ejected from office almost as soon as he was appointed, suspected of sympathy for the rebellion of Prince John, Count of Mortain, against his brother Richard Coeur de Lion, whilst the latter was imprisoned in Germany.
De Furnellis had temporarily taken over the post, but a few months later de Revelle was reinstated as a result of the political influence of Exeter's Bishop Marshal, himself a Prince John sympathiser. However, a year later, he was again ejected from office, mainly because of de Wolfe's exposure of his corrupt behaviour, and once again de Furnellis had been recruited to fill the gap.
After a few pleasantries and mutual complaints about the icy weather, John told the sheriff about the discovery of the body in Smythen Street.
'I've no idea who the man might be, Henry,' he finished. 'He wore garments of a decent quality, so is unlikely to be some beggar who crawled in there for shelter.'
'And who would want to slay a beggar with a nail in the back of the neck?' agreed de Furnellis. He was a shrewd man, experienced in the ways of the world, though the fire had gone out of his belly as the years passed by. He had accepted the post of sheriff reluctantly, out of duty to his king, but hoped that he was only looked on as a stopgap and could go back to retirement as soon as possible.
'Have you any recollection of someone having gone missing in the city this past year?' asked John, hopefully. The sheriff had a manor a few miles out in the country, but lived most of the time in a town house on Curre Street, so might have heard some local gossip.
He scratched his bristly jowls thoughtfully. 'Folk are always vanishing, John, usually for reasons of their own. This is no village, where all men belong to a frankpledge and their neighbours know every time they cough or fart. In towns, men conveniently slip away because of debt or to escape from a shrewish wife — or run off with a pretty mistress.'
De Wolfe knew that the bluff older man was not making personal remarks, though either of the last two reasons could have applied to himself. 'But no particular disappearance comes to your mind?' persisted the coroner.
Henry shook his head dolefully. 'Sorry, John, no one of sufficient importance to be reported to me, anyway. Unless they are arrested or appealed for some crime, our citizens try to give me a wide berth. If they are dead, they come to your notice!'
After a few more minutes, the chief clerk began to get impatient and glare accusingly at his master for neglecting yet another armful of documents, so de Wolfe finished his wine and took his leave.
'You do what you think fit, John. You have more experience in tracking down corpses than me,' was Henry's parting shot as the coroner went to the door. Typically, the sheriff was content to leave any investigating to de Wolfe, though as the king's representative in the county, enforcing law and order was his responsibility.
Outside the keep, snowflakes were being whirled about by a keen east wind. John pulled his mottled wolf skin cloak tighter about him as he loped across the inner bailey and made for the gatehouse. Instead of going up to his dismal chamber, he carried on through the arch, through the outer ward and down Castle Hill to the high street. It was not far off midday, according to the cathedral bell ringing for Nones, so dinner was next on the agenda. He made his way back to his house in Martin's Lane, a short alley which joined High Street to the cathedral Close.
Pushing open the door of the narrow timber building, he wondered which would prove to be more frosty, the weather or his wife's welcome.