Gabriel stood at attention and replied, stolidly, ‘The door was locked, sir. We hammered on it and eventually the old cook-servant came. He said no one was there. Both the craftsmen were in your gaol and the old man said that his master went out early last evening.’
‘Where was he going?’
‘He said he didn’t know and that it wasn’t his place to ask. His master was heavily cloaked and carried a large bag, which he thought was one in which he kept money and some silver.’
‘There was no one else in the house?’ demanded Ferrars.
‘Not a soul, sir. The old man said that the maidservant of the departed wife had come earlier to collect some clothing for her mistress. His master was angry with her, but eventually let her take what she wanted.’
‘You searched the house?’
Gabriel nodded. ‘From top to bottom – and the yard, the sheds, the pigsty, the kitchen. We couldn’t have missed as much as a mouse.’
De Courcy glared at the sheriff. ‘You see? He must have got wind of the rumours. God knows, there were plenty blowing around the town yesterday. The whole of Exeter must have known what that leech confessed to.’
‘Everyone in Devon must know by now that the bastard seduced my woman,’ blurted out Hugh Ferrars, still obsessed with his loss of face over his fiancée’s infidelity.
John had remained silent throughout the tirade that had erupted when the complainants found that Fitzosbern was not at the court, but now he spoke out in his usual practical fashion. ‘What’s to be done? That’s the thing. Has he left the town since the gates were opened at first light?’
Ralph Morin rocked his great head from side to side. ‘Very unlikely. As soon as the sergeant reported him missing, I sent his men around the walls to question the gate-keepers. No one had seen Fitzosbern leave. He’s a well-known man and I doubt he’d have slipped through unless he was disguised. There’s a man-at-arms now with the watchmen at every gate to look out for him.’
‘And his two horses are still in the livery stables,’ added Gabriel.
Guy Ferrars wagged a finger at the sheriff. ‘You’d better find him, de Revelle. This virtually confirms his guilt, if he has taken fright and tried to escape.’
‘Maybe he has sought sanctuary in one of the churches,’ suggested de Courcy. ‘There are enough of them, God knows.’
The priest on today’s court duty interjected solemnly, ‘It would have been reported to the Archdeacon if anyone had taken refuge. Unless it’s happened in the last hour or so, there is no news of a sanctuary seeker.’
Richard turned again to the constable. ‘Morin, turn out every man you can spare from the garrison. They are to search every corner of the town to find this man.’
Ralph sighed under his breath, but saluted the sheriff and strode out to do his bidding.
‘There’s nothing we can do without a defendant, thanks to you, de Revelle,’ snarled Guy Ferrars. ‘We may as well go and join in the search, if he is still in the city. It’s a small enough area within the walls – he must be here somewhere.’
Angrily, he turned on his heel and marched out, his son and de Courcy following, leaving the mortified sheriff to get on with the remnants of his court.
It was neither men-at-arms nor watchmen who eventually found Fitzosbern, but a small boy and his dog. Between the east end of the cathedral and the town wall, recent excavations had been made to improve the water supply that had long benefited the church authorities. More than twenty years ago, the Chapter had caused a lead pipe to be laid from St Sidwell’s, half a mile beyond the East Gate. According to an ancient legend, Sidwell was a noble virgin who had been martyred just outside the city by having her head lopped off with a scythe. Where she fell, a spring of pure water issued forth and it was this that the cathedral used for their supply. It came in a deep trench around the town wall through Southernhay and burrowed beneath it half-way between the East and South Gates, the nearest point to the cathedral Close. It ended in St Peter’s Fountain near the west front of the cathedral, from where a branch pipe went across to St Nicholas Priory, which took a third of the water. The townsfolk of Exeter got none of this, relying on wells in their gardens and water-sellers who came around with carts and donkeys carrying casks from outside wells and the river.
Due to new building and disturbances of the ground within the city wall, the soft lead pipe in its trench was frequently damaged, so the Chapter had recently built a stone-lined passage just below ground to protect it and make it accessible for repairs. This ran for a hundred paces from the inner face of the wall, with a small access door built in a low archway at its foot.
Just before noon, when the shire court had finished its session, a ragged eight-year-old urchin from a porter’s family in Milk Lane was playing with a mongrel. He was throwing a rolled-up piece of rag in lieu of a ball for the dog to chase and bring back to lay at his feet.
One chance throw sent it to fall within the archway to the aqueduct. This time the animal failed to return, but set up an incessant barking, its muzzle pointing into the archway. The lad ran up and was surprised to see the wooden door ajar – usually when he played there, it was tightly closed.
He pushed the dog aside, then walked down the four steep steps to see the body of a man a few yards up the low tunnel. It was slumped on the narrow floor, the head propped against the wall, the face covered in dried blood. The urchin, young as he was, felt sure that the man was dead.
He had seen dead men before and was more intrigued than frightened. Stepping down on to the new stones of the culvert floor he went up to the body when, to his surprise, the man groaned and partially opened one eye between swollen, bruised lids. He muttered something unintelligible, then the eye closed and he seemed dead again.
The lad turned and ran out of the arch, ball and dog forgotten. He streaked across the open ground to the nearest garden, where a man was hoeing end-of-season weeds from his vegetable patch. This belonged to the last house in Canon’s Row, the northern limit of the Close, where the prebendaries lived. The boy grabbed the arm of the man and pulled him, babbling excitedly about a wounded man near the town wall. The gardener, a young vicar choral, one of the junior priests who carried out most of the canons’ duties in the cathedral, tried to shake the lad off, but soon realised that he was in earnest.
He followed the boy across the wasteland, still with his hoe in his hand and the mongrel barking happily about their feet. One look into the water conduit was sufficient for him to see the seriousness of the situation. He bent low and moved up to the injured man. ‘I think he’s dead, boy,’ he said, after putting a hand on the victim’s chest and looking into his face in the dim light.
‘He moved and made a noise just now,’ offered the lad.
The vicar waited a moment, but saw no movement. He was a nervous young fellow and did not wish to get mixed up in what looked like homicide.
‘I must get help – raise the alarm,’ he exclaimed, and ignoring the boy, ran back to Canon’s Row. He had a vague idea of the law and knew that when a crime was discovered the First Finder – which was now himself – had to raise the hue and cry. He was from a village near Torrington and knew that in the countryside the person to be notified was the manor reeve or bailiff but here, in the big city, he was not sure as to what should be done.
He solved the problem by hammering on the doors of the last four canons’ houses, in all of which lived assistant priests and servants. Soon men were running out of the doorways until a dozen or more were crowding around the vicar, who still brandished his muddy hoe.
When he told them of the emergency, they streamed across the rough grass towards the culvert arch and confirmed that there appeared to be a bloody corpse down in the tunnel.