They reached the quayside and went to inspect the goods. The casks of wine and dried fruit, about forty-three in number, were stacked in a large thatched shed near the tidal landing stage slightly downstream from Exe Island. The port of Exeter was losing out to Topsham in volume of business: it was so far upstream where the river was shallower that it could only be reached by small ships at high tide. Much of the merchandise now came up from Topsham, after being off-loaded from the seagoing vessels into barges.
Gwyn had cajoled a few dozen locals to act as jury although, strictly speaking, they should have been from Torre and district where the wreck had occurred. The only other interested parties were Joseph of Topsham and Eric Picot, who were the sole original consignees of the goods aboard the ill-fated ship.
The proceedings were short and uncomplicated. Gwyn herded the mystified jurors into the shed, where they stood next to the goods under discussion. These were piled at one end, the rest of the large hut being filled with bales of wool, finished worsted cloth and sacks of grain waiting for shipment out of the Exe. Joseph and Eric stood a little away from the common folk, each with some tally sticks in their hands. Neither could read nor write, but they were accustomed to keeping an accurate check on their stock by means of notched sticks, just as a manor reeve would keep tally of all the produce of his village. As a further check, old Leonard, the clerk from Topsham, was also there with written lists of what should have come over from Normandy. De Wolfe wasted no time in getting down to business. ‘All wrecks of the sea within the waters of England belong to King Richard,’ he stated, in a loud voice. ‘The wreck itself, if it has any value – and certainly any salvaged fittings or cargo – must be listed and valued. Then a decision is made by the coroner and his jury as to its disposal. Legally, the value should go to the royal treasury, to help the Exchequer of the Realm.’
He looked sternly at the vacant faces of the jurymen, most of them from nearby Bretayne and along the lower streets near the church of All Hallows-on-the-Walls. Bemused, they waited patiently to be told what to do.
‘The vessel was completely destroyed in the gale, so there is no need to consider it further. However, much of the cargo was washed ashore, and it lies behind you.’ He waved his hand at the pile of casks, and the jurymen dutifully craned their necks to look at it. ‘All that remains is to prove its origin and, although all the crew perished, that can still be done easily.’ He motioned politely for Joseph to step forward. Gwyn lugged the splintered length of ship’s timber from a corner and displayed the crude lettering carved into it.
‘Joseph of Topsham, do you recognise this plank?’
The grey beard wagged as he nodded. ‘I do indeed. It is from my own vessel, Mary of the Sea, which was sailing from Barfleur in Normandy to Topsham.’
‘And was that some of the cargo she carried?’ asked John, again waving a finger.
‘It was, some of it my own goods being imported. The rest belongs to Eric Picot here.’
‘How much was there?’
Both merchants consulted their tally sticks again.
‘I had forty-six casks and ten crates of dried fruit ordered from my suppliers in Cotentin. Only twenty-two seem to have survived,’ said Joseph.
The coroner turned to Picot, and gestured for him to speak. ‘Like Joseph, my imports of wine come regularly from across the Channel. This shipment would have been’ – he looked down again at his tally – ‘sixty barrels, of which only twenty-one are here.’
John rubbed his chin. ‘So even if the goods are returned to you, you will both have lost over half your investment?’
The two traders concurred glumly. ‘It will put up the price of fruit and wine this winter, I fear,’ said Joseph. ‘We have to make good the loss somehow.’
‘And if the salvage goes to the Crown?’
Picot rolled up his eyes in his handsome dark face. ‘It may not ruin me, but the loss of profit on even the twenty-two remaining casks will prevent me from being able to purchase a full cargo again for a long time.’
Joseph echoed his sentiments and John turned to the jury. ‘The issue seems a matter of natural justice. These two honest merchants had goods on their way to harbour, when an Act of God, a gale, threw their ship and its cargo on to the rocks. More than half was destroyed and the rest washed ashore. My opinion, which I commend to you, is that the casks have never left the ownership of Joseph and Eric. Even the thieving antics of the villagers of Torre were but an illegal and temporary diversion.’ He paused to marshal his thoughts. ‘It would be different if unknown goods from an unknown wreck were scattered along the coastline. Then the crown could legitimately claim them. But here we have a known ship, every dead crewman named and the cargo patently identified. How can it be other than their property, as it never left their ownership?’ He glared along the sheepish line of jurors. ‘What say you?’ he demanded, fixing his eye on a large man at the end of the front row.
The impromptu foreman shuffled to his feet awkwardly and gave a quick look along the line and over his shoulder at his fellows. Without waiting for a response, he said, ‘We agree, Crowner.’
Before there could be any discussion or second thoughts, Gwyn herded out the jurors like a sheepdog behind a flock. Joseph and Eric came over to thank John for his efficiency and they, too, left the warehouse, after making arrangements with the custodian for the goods to be collected later. They walked back to the town gate with John, Gwyn and the coroner’s clerk following behind.
The conversation moved to other matters. ‘Edgar told me that he had been discussing the awful events of last week with Christina,’ began Joseph. ‘She is much recovered in her mind, thank God, being a resilient young woman. He suggested to her that she might still be able to recognise her assailant by voice or some mannerism, if she confronted him.’
John looked doubtful. ‘She has always steadfastly denied any clue as to who the villain might have been.’
The ship-owner sighed. ‘I know, and probably that is the case. But Edgar is desperate to make some breakthrough in this tragedy, both for her sake and to lift this suspicion off his own shoulders about attempting to kill Fitzosbern.’
‘So what does he propose?’ asked Picot, as they climbed Rack Lane to Southgate Street.
‘That Christina confronts Godfrey Fitzosbern, to see if the meeting triggers off any memory.’
‘He may not agree to that,’ objected Eric.
‘Agree be damned!’ retorted Joseph. ‘He must be, made to agree. As a law officer, you surely have that power, de Wolfe?’
John considered the proposition for a moment. ‘I don’t know if I have or not,’ he said frankly. ‘But, by the same token, neither does Fitzosbern know so I could bluff my way to doing it.’
‘What about the sheriffs approval?’ asked Eric.
‘To hell with him. He does his best to shelter the man because of his prominence in the guild and among the burgesses,’ replied John. ‘I don’t see that he’s in a position either to offer or refuse his consent.’
As they left to go to their various dwellings, it was agreed that John would call upon the Riffords and get Henry’s approval to take Christina to Martin’s Lane, when Fitzosbern had returned home from St John’s Hospital.
It was now late afternoon and the light was beginning to fail below heavy rain clouds. John went home and consolidated his good standing with his wife, who showed no signs of descent from the euphoria of the past few days’ high social activity. They had a meal and sat before the fire, while he regaled her with the events of the day. The last item was the business with Christina Rifford, which rather cooled Matilda’s good spirits.