‘You will not leave Exeter without my consent, Fitzhai,’ commanded the sheriff. ‘Your sword and your horse will be impounded and you will stay within the city walls until I give you leave to go. Is that understood?’
The spiky beard bristled with indignation. ‘Am I arrested, then? And under suspicion?’
John slid off the end of the table and looked down at him. ‘You are the only one who knew and can name the dead man. You confess yourself that you had no love for him, and in due course we will pursue that further – much further. Can you wonder that we wish you to remain within our sight?’
De Revelle added his own warning: ‘If you were not a Norman soldier recently returned from Palestine, you would be thrown into the castle gaol, so be grateful for our clemency.’ He gestured to the sergeant, who stepped forward and touched Fitzhai’s arm to motion him out of the chamber.
As he went to the narrow arch at the head of the stairs, the man turned for a last indignant complaint. ‘And what am I supposed to live on in Exeter, while you decide what to do? I need bed, bread and beer.’
John grinned at him cynically. ‘If I know anything about returning Crusaders, they’ll have a few gold coins sewn into the hem of their clothing. You’ll not starve!’
The sergeant urged Fitzhai out, and left John and his brother-in-law to take stock of the new situation.
‘Well, John, I have to say that our joint venture certainly turned up something, though I could have done just as well without your new-fangled coroner’s business.’
John bridled. ‘Without my inquiries in the first place, you’d never have heard of Alan Fitzhai. It was my initiative in sending my clerk to Honiton that flushed him out for us!’
The sheriff chose to ignore this obvious truth. He rose from behind the trestle table. ‘Is this our man, I wonder? I wouldn’t trust him beyond a sword’s length.’
This gave Thomas the courage to enter the discussion. ‘Until I told him that the man in green was dead, Fitzhai was quite happy to talk about him. Surely if he had been involved in his killing, he would never have mentioned him?’
John nodded at this. ‘I’ll not prejudge him, Richard. The first thing is to confirm that our dead man is, indeed, Hubert de Bonneville. For all we know, Fitzhai is spinning us a pack of lies.’
‘I doubt that, Crowner. Why should he involve himself in this affair if the corpse is not de Bonneville? Fitzhai was reluctant, but he admitted that he knew him. A pound to a penny that he’s responsible for his death, too.’
John scowled. ‘I’ll not presume in any inquest that the dead man is this Hubert until some relative confirms it. That will be the next step.’
Richard de Revelle pulled on an elegant pair of broad-cuffed gloves, ready to leave the chamber. ‘I care nothing for your inquests, John. All I need is a culprit, a trial and a hanging.’
John grunted, a habit he was catching from Gwyn. His opinion of the sheriff’s sense of justice was low, even in an age not renowned for the concept of fair play.
De Revelle had decided that he had given enough of his valuable time to humouring the coroner and marched out, followed by his sergeant, leaving John and his retainers to their own devices.
The taciturn giant from Cornwall stirred himself to pour them what was left of the pitcher of ale, and settled back on the window ledge with his mug.
John slid on to his stool, still warm from the sheriff’s backside. ‘We must go out to Peter Tavy to see these de Bonnevilles. They’ll have to come to Widecombe to view the corpse.’
Thomas shuddered into his ale and crossed himself. ‘But he’s buried and he’ll be putrid by now,’ he squeaked, with an expression of disgust. ‘How can a brother, or anyone else, be asked to look at a loved one in that state? And, anyway, could they tell who it was after he has become so corrupt?’
‘He’ll not be too bad after being in the ground for only a few days – keeps them cool, does moist earth.’ Gwyn seemed unmoved by the prospect of other folk’s revulsion.
The coroner agreed with him. ‘It’s been cool wet weather and a grave is the best place to slow putrefaction. Even if they can’t recognise his face, his build, his hair and, above all, this birthmark on the neck should satisfy them once they’ve seen his clothes and weapon.’
The clerk looked unconvinced, but no one cared much what he thought.
Gwyn sank the last of the beer in his jar and wiped the back of his hand across his luxuriant moustache. ‘There’s a lot more truth to be squeezed out of that Alan Fitzhai. He was telling us only half a story.’
Thomas nodded, like a bird pecking grain. ‘He’s keeping back something that’s to his disadvantage.’
John shrugged and rose again from his seat. ‘You may both be right, but we must move one step at a time. First thing in the morning, we ride across Dartmoor. You can stop off at Widecombe, Thomas, and organise the digging out of the cadaver. Gwyn and I will ride on to the Tavy valley, break the bad news to the family and bring someone back to identify the body.’
As the coroner left the chamber, the clerk was uncertain whether to feel relief at being spared the extra mule-ride across the moor or having qualms at seeing the rotting corpse hauled back to the surface at Widecombe.
Chapter Ten
In which Crowner John crosses Dartmoor
Sir John’s truce with his wife was short-lived. Though she had co-operated with him in persuading the sheriff to recover Alan Fitzhai from Honiton, her annoyance was still simmering at his continued neglect of her in favour of his duties. When he arrived home in the early afternoon and announced that he would probably be away for the next two days, Matilda’s mood reverted to abrasive sarcasm. Sitting, as usual, in her solar, as the acid-faced Lucille braided her hair, she glowered at her husband from under her heavy eyelids. ‘Yet another excuse to leave me alone while you go jaunting around the countryside! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Why can’t you send that great oaf of a Cornishman in your place or that perverted clergyman?’
John’s patience, ever parchment-thin, broke. ‘Jaunting about the countryside, you call it! An eight-hour ride across Dartmoor in the mist and rain, to visit an old, sick knight, then five hours back to Widecombe with a grieving family to view a putrefying corpse. Some jaunting, wife!’
Matilda was unmoved. ‘Alehouses, rough soldier comrades and whores – those are your main interests as I know from years of bitter experience.’
Her husband stood over her menacingly, a black hawk hovering above a fat pigeon. ‘What would you have me do, woman? Sit and embroider linen like you?’ he snarled.
‘Be like other men of substance!’ retorted Matilda. ‘Sit by the fire, have friends among the influential men of the town. Invite them to eat with us and be offered more invitations to their own halls and guild meetings. Play your part in the life of the town.’
John flung away from her. ‘Oh, yes, talk endlessly about the price of mutton or the latest scandals from Winchester! No, thank you, Matilda. I might do that in my dotage when I’ve lost my hair, my teeth and my wits but not yet, while I can still ride a horse and lift a hunting spear.’
Matilda threw down her needlework. ‘Riding, hunting, spears and swords! There’s more to life than those, husband. Why do you never go to holy service, except when forced? You never pray, you ignore the scriptures and treat the priests with scorn.’
John kicked a stool and sent it spinning across the room. ‘Untrue, Matilda! John of Alecon and John of Exeter are good friends of mine, as well as being among the most senior of the cathedral priests.’
His wife made a rude noise meant to convey her scorn. ‘The Chapter Treasurer and the Archdeacon! A fine pair, well known to everyone always to be at cross purposes with the Bishop and Precentor. Typical that you should ally yourself with the dissidents!’