The reeve looked furtive. ‘Seems a good man, sir. Walked into the village at harvest time, wanted labour in return for food and shelter. We needed extra hands and our lord’s steward said he could stay for the winter.’
It was unusual for a manor to shelter a stranger, other than the itinerant craftsmen that passed through. Probably some looted or stolen silver had changed hands as a bribe, but John felt that although he should drag the fellow to the sheriff for interrogation, he did not wish to interfere in a village matter.
He paused while his clerk caught up with the proceedings on the parchment roll.
‘And you have no idea who the deceased might be, reeve?’
Ralph shook his pigtail. ‘No, sir. But I reckon the corpse didn’t die where we found him – too rotten he was. We’d have seen him long before if he’d been there the week it would have took to get that foul. Next village dumped him there, I’ll swear.’
There was a commotion in the crowd as someone forced his way forward. ‘That’s a damn lie! We never laid eyes on him before.’ A big, red-faced man in a faded blue tunic pushed Ralph aside and stood truculently before John. He had a hare-lip, which added to the malevolent look on his coarse features.
‘I suppose you’re from Dunstone?’ asked the coroner.
The man grunted affirmatively. ‘Simon, their manor reeve. You sent for me, Crowner. But we know nothing of this. Widecombe is just trying to avoid your amercement by putting the blame on us. Might have known this here Ralph would try a trick like that.’
John grinned inwardly. It was typical that villages – even belonging to the same manor – should be at odds with each other when it came to avoiding a fine.
Ralph loudly contested the denial of the neighbouring village’s reeve. ‘It wasn’t there the night before, Simon, so how come a corpse corrupt more than a week suddenly appears in our stream, eh?’
‘I don’t know. That’s your problem. Just don’t go trying to put the blame on us in Dunstone, that’s all.’
‘Maybe you or one of your villagers killed him,’ Ralph sneered.
Growling with anger, the stocky Simon stepped nearer to take a swing at Ralph, who hopped out of range.
John nodded at Gwyn, and the Cornishman ended the developing dispute by pushing Simon back into the throng with a hand the size of a small ham.
The coroner thoughtfully stroked the dark stubble on his long chin as he deliberated about what to do next. He had decided that neither of the manor reeves was to be trusted and he put them firmly into his pool of suspects, which also included Nebba.
‘You both claim that neither Widecombe nor Dunstone know anything about this victim, yet even in this wet weather, his body could not have washed any distance down that tiny stream. And the killers would hardly return after ten days to shift the corpse. One of you is concealing the truth.’
An ominous silence followed.
‘I will therefore amerce both villages in the sum of ten marks, unless in due course some other explanation appears.’
There was a murmur among the crowd. A mark was two-thirds of a pound, more than thirteen shillings. Ten marks was a great deal of money for such small hamlets to find – and FitzRalph, their lord, would be unlikely to contribute to the fine. The only consolation was that it would not be payable until the King’s justices confirmed it, which might be a year or more in the future when the General Eyre next came to Exeter.
However, Simon was not one to leave the matter there. ‘Crowner, this foul death is surely nothing to do with our folk, neither Dunstone nor Widecombe. The woods here abound with outlaws.’ He scowled as he looked around for Nebba, who had vanished. ‘They steal our sheep and fowls year in, year out. Around Spitchwick and Buckland the forest is thick with them – escaped felons, abjurers and runaway serfs. Why should we get the blame for the evil they do?’
There was a mumble of agreement from the jury, though no one wanted to be identified as challenger to the coroner.
Ralph was emboldened by his fellow-reeve’s words and added, ‘There are other evil men up on the moors. They live by theft – and murder, if needs be.’
‘Men like that Nebba you’ve just heard from. Where did he come from, if it weren’t outlawry? What about him for a suspect, eh?’ Simon suggested.
At that another row broke out, Ralph defending Nebba, which Gwyn ended by pushing the two men apart and standing between them.
John de Wolfe jabbed a long finger at both reeves. ‘I’m not amercing you for the killing, as there is no proof. The fine is for trying to deceive me and for obstructing my duties by not raising the hue-and-cry much earlier. One of you knew of this body before the lad found it in the stream. Even if outlaws were responsible, they wouldn’t have kept a stinking body for near two weeks, then brought it to your village boundary. One of you is trying to shift the blame for a slain corpse to the other.’
There seemed no answer to that, and as no other witnesses had anything to say, the coroner thankfully eased his backside off the Bishop’s hard chair and walked back through the doors of the barn.
The jury straggled behind him, still muttering under their breath about the amercement money, followed by the women and urchins. Thomas gathered up his writing materials and scurried after them.
When the throng had assembled in a wide circle around the bier, John approached the head, his hands clasped behind his back. His tall, stooped figure was like that of a learned pedagogue about to give a lecture on anatomical dissection.
He intoned his findings for the benefit of the clerk’s quill. ‘I, John de Wolfe, Knight, King Richard’s coroner for the county of Devon, examined in the village of Widecombe on the third day of November in the year of our Lord eleven hundred and ninety-four, the corpse of an unknown man found yesterday in a brook between this village and Dunstone.’ He bent a little nearer, oblivious of the burgeoning odour of putrefaction. ‘The victim appears about five-and-twenty to thirty years of age, well built of medium height. Fair hair, not recently trimmed. Fair moustache, no beard. Eyes sunken, colour not discernible.’ He motioned to Gwyn, who picked up the limp hands of the cadaver. ‘Not the hands of a bondman or heavy craftsman, nor soft like a courtier,’ he added, with a hint of sarcasm.
Gwyn, aided by Ralph, began to undress the body as the coroner continued his commentary.
‘Wearing a good green tunic over an undershirt and linen shift. Black breeches, woollen hose, cross-gartered. No cloak present in spite of the season.’ Probably stolen by his attackers, John thought. ‘Leather belt, with embossed patterns, Levantine in style. Empty sword scabbard, curved shape – again from the East. Dagger in place in scabbard on back of belt.’
Here, Glyn drew out the dagger, a good but unremarkable weapon. ‘No blood upon it,’ he grunted, pushing it back into the leather sheath.
‘Riding boots, again hammered leather pattern, coming from Jaffa or Acre in my estimation.’ John could never resist airing his knowledge of the Levant. ‘Bandages wound around feet, the sign of an experienced horseman used to long distances. Marks of spurs on boots, but none present now.’ Also stolen, he thought.
Gwyn, well versed already in the coroner’s routine, held up in succession the tunic, the shirt and the shift for inspection. In each was a clean slit about an inch long, under the left shoulder-blade. There were further cuts in the left forearm and in the upper part of the right sleeve.
The clothing, which smelt of the corpse’s peeling skin and weeping body fluids, was bundled up and given into the care of the village, with instructions to wash and guard it safely until it was claimed by the victim’s family.
The crowd shuffled nearer as the now naked body, belly swelling with gas, was displayed on the bier.