‘I went to de Courcy’s dwelling in Currestreet. There was a chestnut-seller outside and I waited there as an excuse, eating from a halfpenny sack for some time, watching the house door.’ He produced a big hessian bag of cold roasted nuts, which Gwyn immediately began to peel and chew. ‘Eventually, a serving-maid opened the door to brush out old rushes and I spun her a tale that I had a message for her master from the sheriff. I knew he was not in, but persuaded the girl to allow me inside to wait for him, chancing that he wouldn’t return and catch me there.’
John gave one of his rare grins at the deviousness of the crooked clerk. ‘And you found nothing?’
Thomas looked piqued at the anticipation of his tale. ‘No, I had no chance to get beyond the porch and outer hall, but slipped through into the yard to tell the maid and the cook that I could wait no longer. But I had time to examine all the clothing that hung on hooks and the shoes and boots that lay on the floor. There was nothing to be seen. Of course, what may have been near the hearth or in the solar, I had no opportunity to view.’
Gwyn and the coroner exchanged glances and the Cornishman spat out some chestnut shell before speaking. ‘As we thought, he could not have struck the blows.’
Thomas looked puzzled at this obscure comment, but plunged on with the best part of his story. ‘This morning, I went to the younger Ferrars’s lodgings in Goldsmith Street. He has only one room and the vestibule there, where he and his squire live when he is in the city. It was easier, for he has no house servants, the squire carrying out any menial tasks. They seem to eat and drink – mainly drink – entirely in the town, not at home.’
‘Get to the bloody point, man,’ growled Gwyn.
Thomas made a rude gesture at him and poked out his tongue. ‘There are other men lodging there, some using the upper room and others the back yard, so there was considerable coming and going. I followed one man through the front door, which wagged back and forth as often as a Cornishman’s mouth.’ He dodged a chestnut thrown by Gwyn. ‘I stood inside the vestibule, where there was a rude pallet for the squire’s bed and much clothing, boots and armour. There was so much that it must have belonged to both Ferrars and his henchman.’ He drew breath to prepare for the climax of his story. ‘I took the chance that no one was at home, as they seem to spend half their time jousting and the other half in the taverns. I searched among the clothing. There, on the side of a surcoat I have seen Ferrars wearing, were many spots of fresh blood.’ He ended on this triumphant note and looked expectantly at his master.
‘Where was this garment?’ asked John, sceptically.
‘Hanging on a peg on the left-hand side, just within the street door. There were a few drops of blood on the floor beneath, which must have dripped off the hem.’
Gwyn pulled hard at his moustache. ‘You said that Hugh Ferrars is often away at sword practice and horse-jousting. The blood could have come from that.’
‘He would never wear a fine linen surcoat to go fighting,’ objected Thomas, annoyed that his great discovery was not being received with due acclamation. ‘He would have worn a hauberk or at least a leather cuirass.’
‘What colour was this coat?’
‘A pale dun – a greyish-brown.’
‘Not the best colour for showing up blood spots,’ objected Gwyn, but Thomas ignored him.
‘Do you recall what Hugh Ferrars was wearing in the shire hall yesterday?’ asked John, looking from Thomas to Gwyn. Neither could remember, and the coroner himself could not call it to mind.
Thomas was eager to consolidate his great discovery. ‘But you have a report that he was seen near the place of the assault – and he has blood on his clothing! What more do you want?’
John stood up abruptly. ‘No good debating upon it – we could do that until next Michaelmas. Let’s go to see Thomas’s blood spots.’
Goldsmith Street was a turning off high street, running northwards, with All Hallows Church at the near end and St Paul’s further along. Just past the entrance from the high street were several shop-houses with heavy shutters and thick doors. These were the establishments of the gold-workers, the rest of the lane being dwelling-houses. Some were old and wooden, with thatched roofs. More recent ones were built either of plastered wattle in timbered frames or solid masonry.
The wind had dropped overnight, and when the coroner’s trio entered the street, the atmosphere was heavy with smoke from a thousand hearth fires in the city. The fumes seemed particularly heavy in that canyon-like lane, as the smoke seeped from under the eaves of the older houses and from the few chimney-stacks of the newer dwellings.
Hugh Ferrars had his lodging half-way down on the left, the ground floor of a narrow timber building with a stone-tiled roof. It had a solar that extended right across the upper part, where other young men lodged. At street level, it was similar to John’s own house, with a small entrance vestibule where his squire slept, with a passage running back to the yard behind. Another door led into the hall, a single large room whose ceiling was low and heavy-beamed, because of the presence of the upper chamber.
The street door was shut, but opened when the iron latch was raised. Gwyn stuck his head inside and called out in his bull-like voice. An answering challenge came from the hall and the squire appeared, a tankard in his hand. Behind him Hugh Ferrars, flushed of face, grasped an even larger quart jug. They moved forward into the vestibule and saw John de Wolfe behind his officer.
‘Ha, you’ve come to grovel your apologies, I trust,’ grated Ferrars, his voice already unsteady with drink. ‘My father is seeking a meeting with Hubert Walter when he goes to Winchester next week, to indict you for your behaviour. You’ll regret crossing our family, Crowner.’
John ignored this and turned his attention to the clothes hanging in disorder on the left-hand wall of the vestibule, in line with the low, narrow passage that went through to the rear of the house. Thomas pointed to a dull tan linen surcoat that hung on the wooden peg nearest to the front door.
‘What the devil are you up to now, damn you?’ snarled Ferrars, his thick neck reddening with anger as he swayed forward from the hall door.
‘Is this your garment?’ snapped John, pointing at the super-tunic. It was an open-fronted robe of mid-thigh length, with short sleeves reaching to the elbow, for wearing over the tunic, a tube-like gown coming to the knees.
Surprise dulled Hugh’s aggression. ‘Mine? Of course it’s mine. Why in God’s name do you want to know?’
John bent to lift up the hem of the coat. ‘Because of these blood spots, Hugh Ferrars. Can you explain their presence?’
The young man stumbled quickly across the small room and peered at his property. The garment was hanging from its neckband on the peg and on the left side was a spatter of blood, and runnels streaking down to the embroidered hem. On the line of flagstones that crossed the earthen floor to run down the passageway were a few splashes of dried blood.
‘Well, what have you to say?’ demanded John.
Ferociously, Hugh grabbed the surcoat from the peg and held it up to stare at it as if he had never seen it before. Ale sloshed from his pot as he twisted the coat this way and that to inspect it from every side.
‘I know nothing of this, the devil damn it! What game are you playing now, Crowner?’ he shouted. Then he rounded on his squire, standing bemused in the background. ‘Roland, what do you know of this? Have you been using my clothes?’
As the squire made protestations of innocence and ignorance, John fixed the younger Ferrars with a cold eye. ‘When did you last wear this? And I ask you again, where were you the night before last? Were you in the cathedral precinct at any time, eh?’