For a moment, John thought that the young man was going to strike him and his hand went automatically to the hilt of his dagger.
But Hugh settled for a stream of abuse and threats of dire retribution when his father heard of this latest defamation. The coroner waited patiently for this storm of drink-laden invective to die down, then took the coat from Hugh’s hand. He pointed to the blood spots, splashed thinly over an area twice the size of a spread hand. ‘Look at these, Ferrars, will you?’ he asked calmly. ‘You are a fighting man, you know blood when you see it. Do you deny that this garment, hanging in your hall, which you readily admit belongs to you, has blood upon it?’
This cold, direct questioning rapidly sobered Hugh’s temper. Grudgingly he admitted that the spots could be nothing but blood. ‘But as God is my judge, I know nothing of it. I have not worn that coat for at least three days. As you see, I have plenty of others to choose from.’ He swept a hand expansively around the vestibule, where every peg had several garments hung upon it and where many more were thrown across stools and even on Roland’s tumbled bed.
Gwyn muttered something into the croner’s ear, using their Celtic patois. John turned back to Hugh Ferrars. ‘Would you put that ale jar down there for me?’ he asked, pointing to the ledge running around the wooden walls.
Mystified, but now deflated by the finding of blood on his clothes, Ferrars dumped the rough pottery mug on the ledge.
‘I see you wear your dagger on your left hip?’ said John.
Hugh stared at him as if he had gone out of his mind.
‘Of course I do – as do you! Why, for Lord Christ’s sake?’
John ignored this and puzzled the man even more by asking him to pick up his ale jar again. Rolling his eyes in exasperation, Hugh did so, and Gwyn and John confirmed that he used his right hand.
‘Have you finished your mummers’ play-acting?’ demanded Hugh, his truculence returning.
Suddenly, the case that the coroner and his officer were building up against Hugh Ferrars began to crumble, thanks to the inquisitive and nimble mind of their little clerk. This time it was Thomas who came to whisper into John’s ear and, under the uncomprehending gaze of the tenant and his squire, the coroner’s team turned their attention to the wall and the street door.
‘Gwyn, hang this surcoat on the peg, just as it was,’ ordered de Wolfe.
When this was done, Thomas pointed a thin finger at the wooden planks of the wall immediately to the side of the coat. Though hard to see on the dark, weathered timber, a few spots of blood had dried at the same height as those on the gown. Some were elongated, almost fish-shaped, lying horizontally on the planks.
The clerk now pointed down at the blood spots on the grey stones of the floor. ‘Some are also spear-shaped. They could not have dripped from the coat but have struck at an angle,’ he observed. ‘Now open the street door,’ advised Thomas, who seemed now as keen to destroy his own theory as he had been, originally to propose it.
It had been closed after they entered, but when it was fully opened, the door swung back against the left-hand wall, its free edge reaching within a few inches of the clothes on their pegs. ‘See there, at the same level,’ squeaked the clerk.
John looked and saw more small elongated splashes of dark blood dried on the rough black wood.
‘Blood has been thrown in through the open door,’ rumbled Gwyn. It was now obvious that the blood on the surcoat had got there while it was hanging on its peg, the spray being confined to the side facing the doorway.
‘And some has missed the coat and spattered on to the wall, the floor and the edge of the open door,’ concluded Thomas. He was now unsure whether to be complacent about his latest discovery or mortified that his original finding of the blood was now discredited as proof of Ferrars’s guilt.
Hugh and Roland had been watching the others in total bewilderment, but now the significance dawned upon them. ‘I have been falsely accused, then!’ ranted Ferrars. ‘Not only have you repeatedly slandered my good name, but I have been the victim of a foul plot against me!’
De Wolfe turned and bent from his greater height until his hooked nose almost touched the red face of the young man. ‘Listen, sir! You should be grateful for your good fortune. I had information that you were seen in the vicinity of the killing of Fitzosbern at about the right time. Then your bloodstained clothing is found in your own dwelling! Can you deny that those facts should lead to suspicion?’
‘False – all false!’ snapped Hugh, but the logic penetrated even his fuddled and outraged mind.
‘Maybe, but you should be grateful to this astute clerk of mine, for he has removed you from suspicion. It is now obvious that someone has tried to mislead us and plant a false trail to your door.’
He paused and drew back from breathing into Ferrars’s face. ‘This also involved Reginald de Courcy, but we have eliminated him by other means.’
He turned back to the line of garments and angrily tore the surcoat from its peg and threw it on the ground. ‘I should get this to your washerwoman as soon as you can and give thanks to God for the sharp eyes of Thomas de Peyne.’
His fuming anger drilled into Hugh Ferrars’s brain and blew away the remnants of his indignation.
‘Who did this to me, Sir John?’ he muttered.
The coroner hoisted his grey cloak over his hunched shoulders as he prepared to leave. ‘I think a certain wine merchant needs to be questioned about that, young man.’ He swung out of the house and walked rapidly away, with his clerk and officer hurrying after him, leaving two bemused but now very sober young men staring after them.
Ten minutes later, they were in Priest Street, at the lower end of town. This ran down from Southgate Street, past the entrance to Idle Lane, where the Bush tavern stood. The wine merchant’s premises were near the lower end, not far from the town wall. They hammered on the door, but there was no response and their shouting through the crack of the shutters was met with stony silence.
Gwyn’s yelling and kicking at the stout oak door soon attracted a group of idle onlookers, mostly old men and children. The noise also brought a junior priest from next door, a teacher from the cathedral school, who was home with an attack of the colic. Pale and clutching his stomach, he spared a few minutes from sitting in the privy in the back yard to tell them that he had seen Eric Picot leaving the house soon after dawn.
‘Can this door be forced?’ demanded John of his henchman.
Gwyn shook his head, the unruly hair flying wildly. ‘Not without an iron bar or baulk of timber to smash the lock. I suppose it’s meant to keep thieves from his valuable wines.’
The coroner glowered at the young clergyman. ‘Has Picot no manservant or worker in the wine shop?’
‘He usually has, but no one has been here today.’ He was about to add something but, hit again by belly cramps, he turned and stumbled off to his earth closet, leaving the trio to stare in frustration at the closed building.
‘If he’s not here, why do we need to get inside?’ asked Thomas reasonably.
John, in a bad temper, scowled at him. ‘Because I can think of nothing else to do at the moment. If the man’s gone, we can’t question him, so the next best thing is to search his dwelling.’
‘I’ll get myself around to the back lane,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘There may be some better chance of entering there.’ He vanished down the narrow passage between the house and the next building, which was a barn or storehouse.
A few moments later there was a series of distant crashes from the rear and soon the front door opened from inside. Gwyn stood there, a large axe in his hand.
‘This was in the woodshed, and the back door was not so tough as this one,’ he announced, with smug satisfaction.