‘To visit your fellow reeve, eh? The last time I saw you two together you almost came to blows!’
The sullen Ralph had no answer.
‘So did this horse have any saddle or harness?’
‘No, nothing – she was just wandering, I tell you, cropping the grass here and there among the trees. God knows how far she had roamed.’
‘And you made no connection between the singular arrival of this unusually patterned horse and the finding of a soldier’s body in your stream?’ asked John sarcastically.
‘Why should I? I found the beast days before the body appeared. I had no cause to connect the two.’
‘Of course not. Widecombe is such a busy place that a murdered nobleman and a valuable stray horse are everyday occurrences, I suppose.’
Again the reeve could devise no answer.
‘You lie, Ralph,’ thundered the coroner, ‘and I will check your story. First, though, I’ll talk to that other rascal, Simon, the reeve from Dunstone, to see what he has to say about it.’
Ralph crumbled. ‘He’ll know nothing of this. It wasn’t me that found the mare, it was Nebba. He sold her to me for six shillings. He wanted the money to leave the village.’
‘Ha, so Nebba’s name crops up again, eh?’ said John, sharply. ‘And where is he now? Are you telling me he’s left?’
‘He went the day you held the inquest, Crowner. Just up and went, we didn’t know where he came from and we don’t know – nor care – where he’s gone. The village has had nothing but bad luck since he walked in from the forest.’
John turned to be Bonneville and his squire. ‘That mare is forfeit to the Crown, as a chattel of a slain man – but I think you should take her home with you to Peter Tavy. Though in no way compensation for the loss of your brother, she may be some living reminder of him.’ He turned back to Ralph. ‘As for you, you’ve not heard the last of this.’
The reeve stared sullenly at the ground. ‘I’m tempted to drag you back to Exeter gaol as a suspect for the murder, but the city won’t thank me for another mouth to feed at public expense. I know where to find you and I amerce the village in the sum of a further ten marks to ensure that you don’t vanish into the forest as soon as my back’s turned.’
Gervaise de Bonneville and his squire had been talking together in low voices, their heads close together, when John interrupted them again. ‘I regret this, but the law must be observed. I will take down your depositions on my rolls. The murder of a Norman gentleman is a serious matter, as well as being a sad one for your family.’
Gervaise’s face was drawn, but he had recovered some of the colour he had lost during the exhumation. John realised that he had never been involved in any fighting or war campaign, which made violent death an unwelcome novelty.
‘Who could have done this terrible thing?’ he asked. ‘And how am I to explain it to my father? And to Martyn – he was devoted to his eldest brother.’
John clasped his shoulder in sympathy. ‘As to the perpetrator, we have much to do to investigate – the inquest is but a starting point. The forest is full of outlaws, as you well know, some of them dangerous and desperate men, yet your brother was a fully armed campaigner, well able to take care of himself unless he was outnumbered.’
Thomas returned and the sullen reeve assembled more than a dozen villagers to act as jury.
At the barn door, John took the evidence of Gervaise and Baldwyn as to the undoubted identity of the slain man, all of which Thomas scratched down on his parchment roll. As no other witness came forward, at Gwyn’s stentorian invitation, the coroner declared that death had been due to a murderous knife attack by persons unknown, and the formalities were concluded.
Before the jury dispersed to go about their business, Ralph had a blunt question for the coroner. ‘What about this amercement you put on the village last time, Crowner?’ There was a murmur of assent and much nodding by the surrounding peasants, who would have to find the money if the fine were collected.
‘It stays, of course,’ John asserted. ‘You failed to present Englishry at the first inquest and now that we know the dead man was a Norman, your manor is in more trouble even than before.’ He glared round at the ring of faces. ‘That amercement is now converted into a murdrum fine, for having a slain Norman on your land and not bringing forth the culprit.’
The village crowd dispersed with much grumbling and Gwyn noticed that the reeve received some jostling and more than one hard dig in the ribs.
After he had ensured that Thomas had inscribed everything on his parchment roll, John led his party up the valley to claim a night’s lodging from Hugh FitzRalph, the manorial lord who, though he must have heard about the murdered Crusader on his land, had until now kept aloof from the proceedings.
Next morning, soon after dawn, the two from Peter Tavy left, anxious to reach home and break the sad news to Martyn.
After their early-morning meal, the coroner and his men prepared to ride in the opposite direction. John had given his thanks to FitzRalph for his hospitality. However, if he had had any hope of getting home quickly to avoid further friction with Matilda, it was soon dashed. Just as a their horses and the mule were being led out from the pasture behind the stables, a solitary horseman, dressed in the conical helmet and leather cuirass of Rougemont Castle’s soldiery, came up the track at a fast trot and swung himself agilely from the saddle right in front of the coroner. John recognised him as one of the men who had brought back Alan Fitzhai from Honiton. He saluted and fished inside his belt-pouch.
‘The reeve in the village said you would be here, Sir John. The sheriff sent me last evening. I slept the night at the roadside.’ He held out a crumpled piece of vellum, which John, rather self-consciously, passed to Thomas to read.
The former priest unrolled it and scanned the few sentences. ‘It’s written by the sheriff’s scribe, at his direction. It tells of another body found by shepherds on Heckwood Tor, up on the moor, apparently another murder by knife. It was known about for some time, but a carter only brought news of it to Exeter yesterday. The sheriff wishes to know if you will deal with it as you are so near or …’ He trailed and looked somewhat furtively at the coroner.
‘Well, go on! How does it end?’ John was impatient.
Thomas cleared his throat. ‘It says do you want to deal with it or shall it be handled properly by the sheriff’s men?’
John spat on the ground, as if to rid his mouth of the taste of Richard de Revelle. Then he put a foot in his stirrup and hoisted himself up to Bran’s broad back. ‘I’ll show him “properly”, damn the man!’ he muttered. ‘Gwyn, find out exactly where this place is – and you, soldier, you’ve travelled all night so get some food and rest here at the manor house. Tell the bailiff that you’re the sheriff’s messenger.’
Within minutes, John, Gwyn and Thomas were moving off, back down the valley to Widecombe and then westward on to Dartmoor, following the track of the two who had left an hour before. Gwyn had discovered from the manor bailiff that Heckwood Tor was half-way to Tavistock, just off the road they had travelled the day before. The nearest village was Sampford Spiney.
It was three hours’ ride, especially as Thomas’s mule seemed less inclined to keep trotting than it had when they left Exeter. John wondered if he should have confiscated the grey mare for his clerk, instead of rashly returning it to the family – but he doubted that the puny Thomas could have handled it.
When they reached the place described by the bailiff, it seemed certain to the trio that the most prominent tor must be the one named in the note, but not a soul was in sight to confirm it.
‘What now?’ asked Gwyn, looking around the bare moor.