He jerked his mind back to reality and pushed the door wider, aiming a kick at several small boys who had followed them across the green. Three other men came and stood a respectful distance from the group.
‘Here we are, Crowner, I threw this sack over him for decency.’ He flicked off the rough hessian from the still shape on the ground and stood at the head of the cadaver with an almost proprietorial air.
John de Wolfe and Gwyn stood each side of the corpse and bent to view it more closely, while the clerk crossed himself and stood further away, holding a grubby cloth over his nose.
‘Smells a bit, don’t he?’ muttered Gwyn. It was merely an observation.
‘Told you he was corrupt,’ said the reeve, triumphantly. ‘He never died in our stream night ’fore last, that’s for sure.’
John tilted his scabbard out of the way and squatted at the side of the body.
The front of the tunic and undershirt were ripped open and greenish-red veins could be seen across the swollen belly, making it look like marble. The face was slightly puffy and the open, sightless eyes were sunken and clouded.
‘His features are still fairly good, if we had someone who knew him,’ remained Gwyn.
‘They won’t be for long, though. Another few days above ground and his own mother wouldn’t recognise him.’ The coroner was an expert in corpses; he had seen thousands in all states of decay in the Holy Land and other campaigns. He prodded the flank with a finger, feeling the bubbling tenseness of the gas within.
‘Good clothing, as you said, reeve. Worn and dirty, but fair material. Looks French in style.’
‘What did he die of?’ grunted the ever-practical Gwyn, crouching on his large haunches alongside his master.
For answer, the reeve bent down and grabbed the shoulders of the body, oblivious to the wave of stench that came up as he heaved it over onto its face.
‘There, on his back. We saw it when we carried him in.’ Bending closer, John saw a bloody stain diluted with rain, on the green tunic. In the centre was a small tear, narrow and just over an inch in length, sitting obliquely between the man’s shoulder-blades.
‘Have you looked here under his clothing?’ he boomed at the reeve.
Ralph shook his head. ‘Left it to you, sir, like we were told,’ he said obsequiously.
The coroner grabbed the lower hem of the tunic with a bony but powerful hand and pulled it up. It would come no further than waist level. ‘Gwyn, let’s get this up.’
The ginger giant moved around to the other side to raise the limp arms, as they wrestled away the tunic and pulled the undershirt up to the armpits. At least the early putrefaction had got rid of rigor mortis, which would have made the process even more difficult.
As Gwyn let fall the left hand of the corpse, he grunted again, his favourite form of communication. ‘His fingers … they’re cut.’ He picked up the hand and pulled back the curled fingers to expose the palm and finger pads. Between the thumb and first finger was a deep slash to the bone, and across the inside of the first joints of all the fingers, the flesh was cut to the tendons.
Even the squeamish Thomas de Peyne was intrigued. ‘How did he come by that?’ he squeaked.
‘Caught hold of a blade, trying to defend himself. A knife or a sword,’ answered John shortly.
‘Perhaps the same blade that did this, then.’ Gwyn pointed to the now exposed back of the corpse, reddened and blotchy where the blood had settled under the skin as it lay on its back after death. Under the rip in the tunic and shirt, the surface of the body showed a clean-cut deep wound, an inch long, sharp at the lower end and blunt at the top. As they watched blood and gas blew slow bubbles out of the injury.
Without hesitation, the coroner poked his forefinger into the wound and pushed down until his knuckles were level with the skin. ‘A stab, deep inside him. Slashed his heart and lights, no doubt.’ There was a sucking sound as he withdrew his finger and wiped it clean on the hay that littered the floor of the barn. Thomas the clerk retched and John looked round at him with a scowl.
‘If your stomach is to be turned by every little thing like this, a useless clerk you’ll be to me. Pull yourself together, man, or I’ll get rid of you, even if the Archdeacon is your uncle!’
Thomas gulped back his bile, crossed himself and nodded. Since his trouble with the girl novitiates in Winchester, he had had no employment and only the intercession of the Archdeacon of Exeter had persuaded Sir John to take him as his clerk.
The coroner rose to his feet and looked pensively down at the corpse.
‘It’s clear how he died. What we need to know is where and when he died… and who he is.’
Gwyn ran a hand through his tangled hair, which so often looked like a haystack after a gale. ‘Murdered, no doubt. Stabbed in the back, a coward’s act with dagger or short sword by the size of the wound.’
He never called his master anything, not ‘Crowner’, not ‘Sir John’. Yet he was utterly loyal without being servile, a Cornishman deferring to a man with Saxon, Norman and Celtic blood in his veins.
The coroner stood scowling down at the body. ‘Stabbed in the back, yes … But he had the chance to grab the blade with his left hand, maybe setting aside a second thrust.’
Gwyn nodded in agreement. He, too, had had ample experience of the ways of assault and sudden, violent death. ‘That wound may not have struck him dead on the instant. Mortal though it was, he could have had time to turn and start fighting. I’ve seen men with three wounds worse than that carry on swinging a sword for five minutes before falling to the ground.’
John looked up at the reeve. ‘No pouch or wallet, was there? Nothing about him to say who he was?’
Ralph shook his head dolefully. ‘If they were robbers, they’d have taken anything of value. He has no ring, no brooch.’
The coroner shrugged and turned away. ‘Clerk, earn your keep by writing all this in your roll. Make a note of all his clothing, exactly as to nature and colour. His age – would you say about twenty-five or somewhat older? His eyes look brown, though it’s hard to tell when they’ve been clouded in death as long as this. Hair is very pale, though that’s common enough around here.’ He was still staring at the corpse, his lips pursed thoughtfully. ‘How long would you reckon he’s been dead, Gwyn?’
His henchman pursed his own lips and considered for a while. He was no man for rash judgements. ‘November? This weather, wet but not cold. At least a week, probably a few days longer.’
The coroner nodded: that fitted with his own estimate. ‘Yes – no maggots, but it’s late in the season.’
Gwyn pointed down at the body. ‘He’s also got that.’ It was a large brown mole, low down on the right side of the neck, from which a cluster of long hairs stuck out. ‘Some one may know it – it’s obvious enough.’
Crowner John nodded. ‘He was born with that, so his family would know of it – if we ever find them. Add it to your roll, clerk.’