The ginger-whiskered Cornishman looked again at the gaunt cadaver. ‘No one could identify this fellow by his face, that’s for sure. And if his clothing and property are from Outremer, they will be unfamiliar to anyone here at home.’
‘There’s this crucifix, though … It looks like Cornish tin.’ The coroner rolled up the thong and placed the ornament in his pouch. ‘It’s the best we have. Someone may recognise it. You had better bundle up his clothing and that dagger sheath as well – at least they don’t stink like the last one.’
As they walked to where Thomas was holding their horses, the coroner dwelt on his administrative duties. ‘We must get an inquest over with today, I can’t ride all the way out here again tomorrow.’ There was no sun, but he looked up at the sky to see where the clouds were lightest, reckoning that it was not yet noon. ‘Thomas, go down straight away with those shepherds to that village – what was it called?’
‘Sampford Spiney, according to the North Hall steward.’
‘Get them to send a cart up for the body – take it to the church there. Tell the clerk to raise a dozen souls for a jury and we’ll get the man’s pathetic remains put underground after a quick inquest – although with idiots like these living around here, it seems a waste of time. We’ll learn precious little from them.’
Chapter Twelve
In which Crowner John meets the Bishop
The coroner spent that night sleeping on the floor of his own hall in the house in St Martin’s Lane. He got home just before the city gates were closed at dusk, having ridden hard from the futile inquest on the second body. When he got back, Mary fed him at the long table in the hall, whispering to him that the mistress had been shut in her room all day.
Dog-tired, he trudged up the outside stairs, resigned to facing Matilda’s icy sulks, but when he pushed the door of the solar, it would not budge. He shoved harder, but it was barred on the inside. He hammered on the door, getting angrier by the second. He called and battered so hard on the stout panels that his neighbour, Godfrey Fitzosbern, a silversmith and master of his guild came out on the step of his own upper chamber.
Fuming, John reluctantly climbed downstairs and sought out Mary in the kitchen. ‘She’s locked me out, damn her eyes!’
The serving woman shrugged. ‘She’s been working up to it for days. You not coming home for three days and two nights has tipped her over the edge.’
‘Am I to leave her, Mary?’
The maid shook her head calmly. ‘No, it’ll all blow over. She’s too fond of being the wife of the King’s Crowner. She’d never survive the sneers of the other fine ladies. Sit tight a while and she’ll come round.’
‘So where can I sleep tonight, now that she has deprived me of my own bed?’ he complained.
Mary stood with her hands on her hips and spoke to him like a mother to her whining child. ‘Not with me, that’s for sure! You’ve got a choice. You can go to the Bush and creep under the blanket with your mistress or you can bed down in your own hall. At least it’s a roof over your head. Given the state your wife’s in, I’d suggest staying here, unless you want another week or two banned from your own bedchamber.’
John saw the sense of this and Mary brought him a spare straw palliasse from the store and laid it in front of the hearth. She stoked the fire with large logs, and threw a blanket over the mattress and a rolled-up cloak for a pillow. ‘I expect you’ve slept in worse places in Palestine and Austria,’ she declared, with what John thought was a lack of feeling. But he sank gratefully into the makeshift bed, pulled the blanket over him and was snoring within ten minutes.
Next morning, he felt obliged to report to the sheriff. Much as John disliked him, he knew that he must keep the man informed of this most recently discovered killing, especially as it might concern another Crusader. After a solitary breakfast, he trudged up to the castle and squelched across the ever-muddy inner bailey to the keep. He climbed the steps above the undercroft to reach the central doorway, men-at-arms and sundry hurrying minions stepping aside respectfully for him.
The sergeant on guard at the inner door to the sheriff’s chamber told John that Sir Richard was already closeted with someone from the cathedral, so with ill grace he paced the flagstoned floor.
In the crowded main hall, business was as brisk as usual, clerks at tables around the edge writing at dictation for supplicants who wanted some cause heard before the county court or some personal favour from the sheriff. Knights ambled about, looking lost without a local war or even a Crusade to divert them, and their squires, local landowners, merchants and guild masters sought contracts, curried favours or gossiped. One of these was his neighbour, a dissipated middle-aged man with a reputation for drink and wenching. John disliked him heartily and avoided him, to the annoyance of Matilda who was flattered by Godfrey Fitzosbern’s lewd compliments when they met outside their house-fronts. He was a person of substance and influence in Exeter, being Master of the Guild of Silversmiths. His first words did not endear him to the coroner. ‘What the devil was all that shouting on your stairway last night, de Wolfe? Did your buxom wife have her lover in there, eh?’
John muttered something under his breath and turned his back on Fitzosbern, a coarsely handsome man, now going rapidly to seed. He wandered off, impatient at the continued delay, pushing through the crowd until he saw Ralph Morin, the constable. John approved of him as a sensible, moderate man. Morin had been appointed by the King, not dependent on local politics for his office. Rougemont Castle was under the control of the Crown, a wise move made years ago when all the West Country was rashly given to Prince John as his own private kingdom. The castle was retained outside this grant and when Coeur de Lion over-generously forgave John for his sins the previous year, the Justiciar persuaded him to keep the major castles in his own hands.
As he waited on de Revelle’s pleasure, John chatted to Rougemont’s constable, which at least helped pass the time. Then Morin said something that jolted the coroner’s attention. ‘That fellow our sergeant brought back from Honiton a few days ago. I see you have him already in the castle gaol.’
John stared at him. ‘You mean Alan Fitzhai, the man from Palestine?’
‘Yes, I assumed it was your order that committed him.’
‘Not at all. I’ve been in the countryside these past few days.’
The constable shrugged. ‘Then it must have been the sheriff. You can ask him yourself – it looks as if he’s free at last.’
Grimly, John strode to the door of de Revelle’s chamber, where the guard had beckoned him to enter.
He was already talking as he walked up to the table, behind which sat his brother-in-law. ‘Why have you clapped Fitzhai into gaol?’ he demanded.
‘Because he is the prime suspect in this foul killing,’ replied Richard smoothly.
‘There is no evidence of that,’ snapped the coroner. ‘Nothing further has come to light since we spoke with him the other morning. Why lock him up now?’
De Revelle sighed dramatically and toyed with a sheet of vellum on his table. ‘My dear John, you are basically a soldier, no doubt a very good soldier but naïve in the ways of politics.’
The coroner scowled and brought his dark head nearer the sheriff. ‘Don’t patronise me, brother-in-law. What are you trying to say?’
‘That running a county – or even a country – is like a game of chess or a dance. There are certain set moves and gyrations that have to be made, according to the situation.’