Sword of Shame (11 page)

‘The city water conduits!' exclaimed Nesta, at this point in Thomas's story. ‘The ducts come through the wall there, so I've been told.'

John nodded, having had a murdered corpse in there quite recently. ‘The water comes from the springs at St Sidwell–let's hope that Gwyn doesn't catch the jaundice from it, like his sons.'

‘He can't stay there long, poor man!' said Nesta in some concern. ‘A big fellow like him can hardly stand upright in those low passages. What's to be done about it?'

De Wolfe explained that he had already bribed a carter to smuggle Gwyn out of the city next morning, under a load of finished cloth being taken down to the port of Topsham, five miles down the river.

‘But he need only go halfway, as he can seek board and lodging at St James's Priory, where they know him from our previous visits. Even if the damned sheriff gets to discover where he is, he would have to desecrate sanctuary all over again.'

The one-eyed potman limped across to refill their mugs as Nesta asked the coroner how Richard de Revelle had taken this latest setback to his scheming.

‘He had his usual tantrum, shouting and screaming at me after Ralph Morin had told him that the bird had flown!' said John with satisfaction. ‘I had insisted
that Ralph and Gabriel search my house as soon as they had given up looking for Gwyn in the church. They were only too delighted to report to the sheriff that I had been asleep by my fireside and that there was no sign of Gwyn. Thank God that Matilda was on her knees in St Olave's while all this was going on!'

The Welsh woman still looked worried. ‘But the sheriff must surely know that, once again, you organized Gwyn's disappearance?'

‘He can think what he likes, but he can't prove it–and everyone from the castle constable down to the most junior soldier is being as stupid and obstructive as they can in helping him find Gwyn.'

De Wolfe leaned across the table towards his clerk. ‘Thomas, have you wormed anything yet from your cathedral spies?'

The unfrocked priest now lived on sufferance in the servant's quarters of one of the canon's houses in the Close, sleeping on a straw mattress in a passageway. However, lowly as his accommodation was, it was ideally placed for him to hear all the gossip of the cathedral and its many inhabitants, but so far, he had gleaned nothing about any scandal involving the Tyrell family.

‘Then I must confront Serlo and Christina directly,' growled John. ‘I will shake their tree and see if anything falls from it.'

‘What about this harlot in Waterbeer Street?' asked Nesta. ‘Those girls always have a man protecting them and taking the lion's share of the money they earn. Maybe he would know something, if the killing was almost on his doorstep?'

‘An excellent idea, madam! I'll do that tomorrow, without fail.' John squeezed her thigh under the table. ‘I've not seen the inside of a brothel for a long time!' he added mischievously.

 

Next morning, de Wolfe sent Thomas de Peyne down to St James's Priory to check that Gwyn had arrived safely and to hand over some money to the prior for his food and lodging. As soon as he had seen the little clerk jogging off on his pony, which he insisted on riding side-saddle like a woman, de Wolfe made his way to a substantial house near the East Gate.

The young maid who answered the door conducted him to an ante-room off the large hall, where Christina sat near a small fire-pit, a pewter cup of wine in her hand. She was still dressed in a grey kirtle, her husband's funeral having taken place only the day before. However, her widow's weeds were now lightened by a gold cord wound twice around her slim waist, its large tassels hanging down almost to the floor. She wore no veil or wimple around her head and throat, her fair hair being coiled in plaits over each ear and confined in gold-net crespines. Christina Tyrell looked more like a woman expecting her lover than a mourning widow and she seemed annoyed by the appearance of the county coroner.

‘Have you come to tell me that they have recaptured that rogue who murdered my husband?' The glare she gave him as she spoke was not a good start to their conversation.

‘That man had nothing to do with it, as you well know,' replied John bluntly. ‘I am fully aware of the deceit that was arranged between you and the sheriff over that blood-stained sword.'

The woman flushed and protested, but her eyes dropped, unable to meet the steely gaze of the coroner. ‘The fellow is guilty, so what does it matter?' she muttered.

‘I have a better candidate for the killing, mistress,' he boomed. ‘Or perhaps even two! What about you or your lover Serlo? Both of you had reasons for wanting Walter dead.'

Christina lifted her eyes to look defiantly at de Wolfe, a flush of anger flooding her face. ‘What nonsense is this? Are you mad?' she shouted.

‘Your husband frequented a whorehouse in the city–is that the habit of a devoted spouse? Did you want rid of him because of that–were you a woman spurned? It is well known that you hanker after his brother, a younger man.'

‘This is nonsense–you cannot speak to me like this!' she babbled.

John slammed one fist into the other palm. ‘I am investigating a murder, madam. I can ask what I want!' he roared.

Her response was dramatic, as well as unexpected. She bent to the circle of stones around the fire-pit and snatched up a heavy iron poker. Raising it over her head, she lunged at de Wolfe with a screech of fury and swung it at him. Startled, he backed away and lifted an arm to protect himself, receiving a stinging blow just above his wrist. With a bellowed curse, he retreated backwards towards the door, where the little maid crouched in terror at her mistress's sudden fury.

‘Get out, damn you!' howled Christina, lifting the poker for another blow. ‘Get out, you foul-mouthed, evil man!'

As he could hardly draw his dagger on a woman, John decided to evacuate and survive to fight another day. ‘You'll regret this, madam!' he shouted. ‘I'll be back when you've come to your senses.'

He slid through the door and slammed it behind him, making his way rapidly through the hall to the street. Thankfully the virago did not pursue him and he stopped a few yards away to recover his ruffled dignity. He would cheerfully fight a dozen of Saladin's warriors, but an angry widow with a fire-iron was too much of a challenge for him.

Determined never to let anyone else ever become aware of the ignominious defeat he had suffered, the coroner marched away and went through the city down to Exe Island and the fulling mills.

Half-afraid that his quarry had already left to visit the doughty Christina, he went straight to the clerk's hut to see if Serlo Tyrell was still there. He was gratified to find him leaning against a table, listening to a string of figures that Martin Knotte was reading out to him from a parchment. As with the vast majority of the population, Serlo was illiterate and, like most merchants, depended on someone in the lower religious orders to handle all accounts and correspondence.

The fuller looked up in surprise, which turned to irritation when he saw de Wolfe. ‘I've told you all I know, Crowner,' he snapped. ‘Why are you persisting with this, when everyone knows who the culprit is?'

De Wolfe looked pointedly at the clerk. ‘It would be better if I spoke to you in private, for your own sake.'

‘I have no secrets from Martin, you can say what you like. But make it quick, I have other things to do.' The fuller accompanied his words with a scowl.

‘Very well–but I have just come from the house of Christina,' John announced. He saw a flicker of apprehension pass over Serlo's face, before he jerked his head at his clerk. ‘Perhaps you had better leave us, Martin, if this is to be a personal matter,' he muttered.

When the man had left, the coroner made the same verbal assault as he had on Christina. ‘I am well aware of your connivance at the crude deception the sheriff tried with the chicken's blood,' he grated. ‘I also know about your liaison with your sister-in-law.'

Serlo paled, but his mouth set into an obstinate expression. ‘I deny both your impertinent allegations. The sheriff shall hear of this!'

‘He'll hear of it from my own lips, as soon as I can find him!' snarled John. ‘Don't play the innocent with me, I know from Christina that you are lovers!' This was stretching the truth somewhat, but he was past caring, with Gwyn in such danger. ‘Furthermore, I suspect that both you and she might be directly involved in Walter's death. You stand to gain the whole fulling business now that your mistress is available as a wife. And is she not revenged upon him, for preferring a whore in Waterbeer Street to herself?'

There was no iron poker available in the office, but Serlo looked as if he would have used one if it had been to hand. His pallor turned to red rage and a quivering finger was pointed at de Wolfe's face as he began a stinging tirade of denial and outrage at the coroner's accusations.

As with Christina, John's faint hopes of his frontal attack causing a breakdown and a confession came to nothing. Although the two men shouted at each other for several more minutes, the coroner knew that he had no more ammunition to throw at Serlo Tyrell and, once again, he was forced to beat a fruitless retreat. Outside the hut, he found Martin Knotte, who although now a few yards from the door, had obviously been listening to the heated exchanges inside.

‘I'll walk with you to the gate, Sir John,' he said obsequiously and pattered alongside towards the opening in the fence around the mills.

‘I was mainly Master Walter's clerk' he said carefully. ‘So I know quite a lot about his affairs, both business and private.'

De Wolfe stopped in his tracks and stared hard down at Martin's smooth face. ‘What are you trying to tell me?' he demanded.

‘I could hardly help hear a little of what was said in there,' he said, gesturing back towards his office. ‘As
a good citizen, I thought I should confirm that Walter used to frequent the city streets late at night,' he coughed delicately. ‘In fact, he used to visit a whorehouse very near where he was found dead. I regret to say that his marriage was not a happy one.'

‘I knew all this, fellow,' said John suspiciously. ‘Why should you be telling me now?'

‘Master Walter often carried large sums of money, when he was either buying or selling. The night he died, I know that he had gone to the New Inn to meet a master-weaver to receive payment for a consignment of best wool. Yet that money was never accounted for in my records and both Mistress Christina and Serlo say they have never seen it.'

‘There was no purse on his body when it was found,' agreed de Wolfe. ‘How much should it have contained?'

‘Four pounds, according to my invoicing–a great sum of money to go astray.'

‘Could this harlot have taken it from him? Yet he was found dead outside, he would not have let her rob him in the brothel.'

Martin Knotte shrugged. ‘Might she not have warned some accomplice that he was carrying such a sum?' he suggested.

‘I had considered that before, but I did not know then how much coin he was carrying,' admitted John. ‘I must have some words with this strumpet.'

They had reached the gateway and after Martin had smirked a farewell, John strode off in the direction of the West Gate, deep in thought.

Once back inside the city, he decided to follow up these hints that maybe Walter Tyrell's fondness for whoring had some connection with his death. He made his way to Waterbeer Street and, careless of who might see him knocking on the door of a house of ill-repute, was admitted by a toothless old crone who looked as
if she herself might have been a harlot around the time of Old King Henry's coronation!

She stared at him in consternation, unsure if the county coroner had come on business or pleasure. He soon cleared up her doubts by demanding to know if there was a girl here named Bernice, his harsh tone indicating that his interest in her was purely professional.

The dingy building had several small chambers downstairs and the upper floor was also divided into rooms that were little more than cubicles. The hag climbed laboriously up a flight of wooden steps and pushed aside one of the hanging sheets of thick leather that served as doors.

‘Bernice, here's a gentleman to see you,' cackled the old woman and stood aside to admit de Wolfe, who waved her away before he entered. The dismal cell contained a stool, a straw mattress on the floor and a surprisingly healthy-looking young woman of about eighteen. She was squatting on the stool, biting into a hunk of bread, a large piece of cheese in the other hand. Bernice immediately put the food on the floor, sprang up and smiled ingratiatingly at the visitor, assuming that he was an unexpected client.

‘I am the coroner, girl!' said John severely, though he had already taken in the fact that the girl was quite pretty, different from the usual sad drabs that worked in these stews. ‘Sit down, lass…I need to talk to you about Walter Tyrell.'

A succession of emotions passed across the young woman's face, surprise sliding into fear, then settling into wariness. ‘I know nothing about him, sir,' she said stubbornly, in a thick rural accent. ‘He was just a man who came here.'

‘But he always asked for you, didn't he?'

‘He did, sir. That's because I'm cleaner and prettier
than the others,' she added, with a simple honesty that contained no conceit.

‘Did he have to pay more for you, then?' asked the coroner.

‘Indeed, sir. He always seemed to have plenty of pennies.'

Bernice had a naive directness that John found both touching and rather attractive. He wondered sadly what she would be like after five or ten years in this place. ‘And to whom did he pay those pennies?' he asked. ‘Was it you or the old woman downstairs?'

The girl shook her head, her brown curls bouncing. ‘Neither, sir. He always came late on certain evenings and my man was always here to take the money.'