Today, however, he had an added motive in spending a few hours in the chapter house, as he wanted to discover if anyone there had any idea of the identity of their most recent corpse. There were usually a few people in the scriptorium, either laboriously copying old papers or researching some obscure point of canon law. Exeter was one of the nine secular cathedrals in England, staffed by canons and their minions, so there were no monks there, only various grades of cleric like Thomas himself. These were at least as prone to gossip as the butcher or baker, and Thomas had no difficulty in getting them talking, albeit in low tones so as not to disturb the couple of old prebendaries who were dozing at their desks.
Adept at worming out information without giving rise to suspicion, the little clerk spent the whole afternoon interrogating a pair of vicars, three parish priests and an old canon who spent most of his time in the scriptorium because of the pleasant warmth given off by the stone chimney that came up from the hearth in the chamber beneath. Thomas had hoped that one of them might have had parishioners who had vanished or perhaps had known of a missing member of the congregation from one of the twenty-seven churches in the city. In addition, though the confessional was sacrosanct, priests were known when amongst themselves to let drop anonymous information, but perhaps this was too much to expect. In the event, his afternoon was wasted, as absolutely nothing turned up that might shed any light on the identity of the unknown corpse. John could only hope that Gwyn would have better fortune than Thomas de Peyne.
In fact, his officer's attempts at gaining information were not only more successful, but much more exciting than the clerk's placid hours in the cathedral scriptorium. The big Cornishman had spent the afternoon and early part of the evening making a tour of Exeter's taverns. Having at least one large jar of ale in each, by twilight a lesser man would have sunk unconscious into the gutter, but Gwyn's iron head and large bladder could deal with prodigious quantities of drink without much effect upon him. But a couple of hours after nightfall, he had still learned nothing of any use and he decided to make his way in the icy moonlight back down to the Bush to report his failure to his master. On his way down Smythen Street, where their problem had begun, he resolved to make one last call and carried on down towards Stepcote Hill, a lane leading down towards the West Gate and so steep that it was terraced to offer safe footing. At its top was the most disreputable alehouse in the city, the Saracen. A haunt of thieves, whores and assorted villains, the tavern was run by Willem the Fleming, an obese giant almost as big as Gwyn, who ruled his disorderly house by sheer physical force. Gwyn rarely went there except when there was an affray or a murder, not only because he represented unwelcome law and order, but also because the ale was so foul compared with Nesta's brew.
Tonight he ducked under the low lintel of the front door, above which was painted a crude representation of a Moorish head, complete with turban. Inside, the taproom was foul with smoke from the central firepit, its odour mixed with the stench of unwashed bodies, spilt ale and the miasma rising from month-old rushes rotting on the floor. A pair of stray dogs competed with rats in searching for old food scraps dropped beneath the rickety tables, at which drunken patrons sat with a few raucous whores. The rest of the room was filled with rough-looking men who stood drinking, shouting and arguing, when they were not pinching the bottoms and bosoms of the three slatterns who pushed through the crowd bearing large jugs to refill empty pots.
Gwyn got himself a mug of cider, which was slightly more palatable than the ale, ignoring the hostile looks of some men who recognised him as the coroner's officer. Picking on an older man sitting alone against the wall, he began a conversation about the weather and then the iniquities of rising prices until he felt able to bring the talk around to missing persons in the city. He soon discovered he was wasting his time with the taciturn fellow and moved on to try the same ploy with others. His efforts fell on equally barren soil and he was about to give up in disgust and go to the Bush, when he felt a hand grip him roughly by the shoulder.
'Why the hell are you asking all these questions, man?' snarled a voice. Turning, Gwyn saw a big black-bearded fellow, whose scarred face seemed vaguely familiar, though he could not put a name to him.
'What's it to you? Unless you've got some answers for me!' responded Gwyn, not a man to take kindly to being spoken to in that tone.
'Bloody spy, that's what you are,' spat Blackbeard. 'I know who you are — the crowner's nark, nosing your way in here like this.' He raised his fist in a threatening gesture and shook it under Gwyn's large nose.
Gwyn, who was always partial to a fight to liven up the evening, pushed the fellow in the chest. Large as he was, Blackbeard staggered back under the thrust of a hand the size of a horse's hoof. Though fights were almost an hourly event in the Saracen, this one promised to be better than the usual run of squabbles, as it involved a red-haired Goliath and their own pugnacious tavern-champion.
The patrons rapidly scattered to form a ring around the combatants and began yelling encouragement at Blackbeard, advising him to tear off the law officer's head. Though Gwyn was unusually large, the other man was also heavily built and a decade younger, as well as evidently being the possessor of an evil temper. He rushed back at the Cornishman, fists flailing, and landed one heavy blow on his upper belly and a sideswipe at Gwyn's lantern jaw. For all the effect it had, Blackbeard might as well have punched the stone wall opposite. Almost lazily, the coroner's officer reached out and repaid him with an open-handed slap across the side of the head, which sent him reeling.
'I don't want to hurt you, son,' growled Gwyn. 'So for God's sake, stop irritating me!'
Now livid with rage and humiliation, Blackbeard began mouthing invective at the ginger giant as he regained his feet and crouched in preparation for another assault. He was encouraged by renewed yells of support from the tipsy spectators, and especially the frenzied screams of the strumpets, who seemed near-orgasmic at the prospect of blood. One of them wore the red wig and striped gown of a Southwark prostitute, being for some reason far from her home territory. This time, the resident fighter managed to land a heavy blow on Gwyn's face, making blood spurt from his nose, and this so annoyed the coroner's officer that he grabbed Blackbeard by the throat and shook him like a dog shakes a rat.
'Will you stop your bloody nonsense, man?' exploded Gwyn, exasperated now at this uncalled-for provocation. 'All I was asking was whether anyone here knew of someone gone missing in the city these past few months.'
His adversary was incapable of speech with Gwyn's massive hand clamped around his throat, though as his face went blue, he continued to thrash his arms and legs in a futile attempt to land some blows. Seeing their champion getting the worst of the contest, the crowd began to quieten, but one moderately sober man, wearing a blood-stained butcher's apron, challenged Gwyn.
'Why d'you want to know that, ginger? What business is it of yours?' he called aggressively.
Gwyn flung Blackbeard back, so that he again staggered into the arms of the spectators behind him. Turning to the butcher, Gwyn bellowed an answer. 'Because we want to know the name of the corpse found in the forge just up the street. After all, he was a neighbour of yours, albeit as dead as mutton!'