The Manor of Death (21 page)

The two old friends looked at each other as they sat on the pebbles.

'Piracy!' snapped John. 'He must have seen some bloody deeds, and a sensitive lad, aiming for the cloister, might well be shocked and revolted.'

His officer nodded his agreement but still had some doubts. 'But why strangle him much later onshore? If he had kicked up a fuss at the killing of another crew, they could have just slit his throat and chucked him overboard. I'm sure that bunch of ruffians on
The Tiger
would do that without a second thought.'

The coroner climbed to his feet. 'There must be a reason, but we just don't know what it is - yet! Let's find this damned clerk of ours and see what he has to offer.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

In which Crowner John defeats an ambush

What Thomas de Peyne learnt was repeated that evening over supper at the house in Martin's Lane. John had to be circumspect in what topics he launched with Matilda, as some sent her into a rage, such as any mention of the Bush Inn or Dawlish. Even a mention of Gwyn or Thomas provoked heavy sarcasm, as she considered one to be a Celtic savage and the other a pervert, even though the little priest had long been restored to grace. Many other subjects failed to stir her from her almost permanent mood of sullen depression, but he could usually depend upon tales concerning the Church or the aristocracy to spark her attention. He had previously related to her the mystery of the seaman's death in Axmouth, without getting much response, but now he added what had been obtained from Father Matthew, the parish priest of Seaton. He refrained from telling her that it was Thomas who had interviewed the incumbent and craftily embroidered his tale with a description of the church.

'For such a small and mean village, the church is surprisingly neat,' he observed as he cut some slices from a boiled fowl with his dagger and slid them on to her trencher of yesterday's bread. 'Built of stone, quite small, but a bell-cote at one end and a little porch on the south.'

Matilda stopped chewing for a moment and nodded at him. 'Size is not, everything, even in a church. It is the quality of the priest that matters. At my St Olave's, which is tiny, we are blessed with a saint in the shape of Julian Fulk.'

Fulk was her hero in a cassock, and if John had not known her better he might have suspected that she had amorous designs on Julian Fulk. As far as he was concerned, Fulk was short, fat and oily. He had once even been a suspect in a series of murders, and John regretted that he had not turned out to be the culprit. However, he stifled the thought and carried on with his tale.

'This Father Matthew, who seemed an upright and venerable man, did his best to help us over the killing, but of course his vow of silence concerning confessions severely limited what he could tell us.'

Matilda visibly bristled. 'I should think so, indeed! I trust you did not badger the man to break his faith ... the confessional is inviolate, John! ,

'I am well aware of that, wife,' said de Wolfe in his most placatory tone. 'But there is surely a difference between what is said with the intention of it being within the doctrines of the Church and other comments made outwith that rigid rule.'

Matilda glared at him suspiciously. 'What d'you mean by that?'

'Well, a man confessing his sins to a priest is one thing. But if the same man casually tells the priest that he has bought a pound of pork for his dinner, then the priest would hardly refuse to repeat that to someone else on the grounds that it was a sacred secret!'

'I think you are being facetious, husband! Trust you to try to poke fun at the Holy Church. And what sense does this make to your story?'

'The good man admitted that the dead youth had come to speak to him on two occasions after he had returned from his voyage. As you clearly say, he could tell us nothing of the nature of his discourse with the lad, but he told us that Simon was very distressed and fearful for his immortal soul.'

'That doesn't help you much,' grunted Matilda, who had hoped for something more dramatic.

'No, but though the priest could not tell us the substance of the ship boy's anguish, he said that Simon's concern was his dilemma about disclosing it to the authorities outside the confessional. It also seemed a dilemma to the good father as well! '

Matilda scowled down at her chicken. 'I'm not sure that this priest should have told you as much as he did, John. He seems to have steered very close to breaking his vow of secrecy.'

John struggled to keep his impatience in check. 'Look, if what happened was what I think, then there are about six murders as well as the slaying of the young man to be accounted for! Should one solitary priest stand between these heinous crimes and the retribution of the law?'

He had picked the wrong person to whom that question should have been posed. Matilda flared up like a pitch-brand thrust into the fire. 'Of course he should! God is the final judge, not a bunch of barons or Chancery clerks at the Eyre of Assize! Where would we be if it was common knowledge that a priest would go running to the sheriff or coroner with every bit of tittle-tattle heard in the confessional?'

Her husband muttered something under his breath and concentrated on his food, abandoning any further attempt to hold a conversation. He kept it in his head, however, and aired it again later, when he took Brutus for his constitutional down to Idle Lane. When he repeated the story to Nesta, she asked him what he made of the Seaton cleric's response to his questions.

'The fellow was worried himself, that was clear,' said John. 'I felt that he was wrestling with his own conscience, as he knew something that would explain Simon Makerel's murder - and possibly other deaths. Even more, he knew that his silence might lead to similar tragedies in the future, but his vow of silence was too powerful for him to tell me. All he could do was hint.'

The red-headed innkeeper looked up at him with her big hazel eyes. 'And what do you think happened, Sir Coroner?' she asked.

'I think this Simon was so shocked by what he had witnessed on his last voyage in
The Tiger
that he was trying to nerve himself to tell someone, such as the Keeper of the Peace. But someone learnt of his indecision and decided to silence him before he could give them away.'

'And the shocking thing he witnessed?' persisted the Welshwoman.

'Piracy, of course! The seizing of a ship and the murder of her crew. That was why Simon had more money than usual. It was a forward payment in anticipation of the profits - and a sweetener to the crew to keep their mouths shut.'

Nesta reached across her lover to refill his ale-mug from a jar on the table. 'But this is all supposition, John. You have no proof of it?'

He shook his head. 'Nor likely to get any, but it seems the only explanation of what happened. Why else would some dull lad get himself strangled, a lad who has been to his priest to seek solace and advice? If only the bloody clergy would weigh up human life more sensibly against their so-called religious morals, then justice would be better served!'

Nesta smiled at him. 'You are beginning to sound more like Gwyn every day! They'll have you for blasphemy or heresy if you sound off like that too often!'

De Wolfe shook his head impatiently. 'It riles me to think that this Father Matthew holds the key to the mystery in his head, yet because of some edict centuries ago from some bloody Pope, he can't tell me!'

His mistress put a consoling hand on his arm. 'Why don't you talk to your good friend, the archdeacon. Maybe he can get this priest to relax his silence?'

John shook his head. 'The tradition is too well ingrained in the Church. A mere archdeacon would have no power, nor even a bishop. But I have to speak to John de Alençon soon on another matter, so perhaps I'll raise it with him.'

That 'other matter' was one that caused the little devil from Dawlish to peep over his shoulder unbidden.

Though most activities came to a halt on the Sabbath, certain of the more unscrupulous members of the population were willing to forgo their day of rest, given that the rewards were sufficient to make it worth their while. So it was that at dead of night a certain ox-cart creaked its way along the lonely track that ran from Honiton towards Ilminster. The moon appeared fitfully through broken cloud, but at the speed the beasts walked there was little danger of the cart going off the highway, especially as the ruts of hardened mud kept the big wooden wheels on the track.

On the driving-board, two men sat hunched, silent and sleepy. The one on the right held the reins, though they had little function, as the pair of oxen plodded on regardless of human intervention. Behind them, the canvas hood was squared off over a framework of hazel rods to leave a roomy interior. Part of their original cargo had been off-loaded at Honiton, and the rest was destined for Ilminster, a few miles further on. They passed through the usual varied countryside, dimly seen in the moonlight. Where there were hamlets, strip-fields ran off away from the road. Then common land and waste alternated with long stretches of woodland, where the forest had not yet been assarted to increase the acreage of cultivated ground. The road undulated like the country it passed through, but there were no steep hills to challenge the oxen.

There was no other traffic, every God-fearing person being sound asleep. With no monastery or cathedral within many miles, even the midnight office of Matins was lacking, as parish priests kept to their beds until dawn, many of them having done a hard day's work in the fields alongside their parishioners.

The only accompaniment to the creaking of the axle-pins was the hoot of an owl, the distant bark of a dog-fox and the occasional snuffle of a badger at the side of the track. They passed the village of Rawridge, but if any of the inhabitants were still awake they took care not to peer out at the trundling cart but pulled their sheepskins over their heads and pretended that they were deaf.

Yet a mile further on, the dozing driver and his companion were suddenly confronted by someone who was well and truly awake. In the road ahead, a dim light was waving, and as the patient oxen slowed to a halt a voice rang out in the still night air.

'Halt, in the name of the king!' The feeble candleglow from the horn lantern reflected off the steel blade of a sword held by the man who had shouted, and it dimly revealed another figure standing behind him wielding a pike.

'Can't be another thieving pedlar!' muttered the driver to his mate. Aloud, he demanded to know who was holding them up. 'If you are seeking to rob us, you'll have to answer to the bailiff of Axmouth - and the Prior of Loders. '

The two men standing in the middle of the track approached, and as they did so the moon slid out from behind a cloud and gave a far better light than the lantern.

'I am the Keeper of the Peace for this Hundred, fellow,' snapped Luke de Casewold. 'I want to know what you are doing hauling a cart around the king's highway at this hour of the morning?'

'There's no law against that, is there?' growled the driver truculently. 'This isn't a borough or city with a curfew.'

The Keeper brandished his long sword. 'Get down from there! I want to know who you are and what you have in that wagon. Quickly now!' He motioned to Hugh Bogge to go around to the tailboard of the cart. 'See what they have in the back. Here, take the lantern!'

The driver, a thickset man with a face like one of his oxen, made no move to climb down, and his companion, an equally ruffianly fellow, also ignored the law officer's demand.

'We are just delivering goods from Axmouth,' growled the carter. 'One of the wheel bearings cracked in Honiton and we wasted hours finding a blacksmith. I have to deliver the rest of the goods to Ilminster by morning, so we had no choice but to travel all night.'

De Casewold cackled derisively. 'Don't give me that, you liar! Do you crack your wheel bearings regularly, then? Several times now I've seen a cart like this on the roads late at night.'

The driver looked at his companion and shrugged. 'We've done our best,' he muttered cryptically and began to climb down from the driving-board.

There was a cry from the back as Bogge unlashed the cords holding down the tail-flap and the Keeper hurried around to him, followed closely by the two men. Luke found his clerk holding up his lantem and staring aghast into the back of the wagon. Two men, brandishing long daggers and heavy cudgels, were advancing towards them past a pile of kegs and bales. As they stepped back, the law officer and his clerk found that the driver and his mate were blocking their retreat, both now having wicked-looking knives in their hands.

It was Tuesday before the bodies were found. A mile outside the hamlet of Rawridge was a large area of common land, rising to the edge of dark forest. Soon after dawn, a shepherd had rounded up several score of his flock to check on new lambs that were appearing late in the season. His two black bitches had done their work, and the sheep were safely inside a crude pound with a hurdle across the entrance.

An old man of almost sixty, he squatted with his back against the dry-stone wall and pulled a hunk of bread and a piece of cheese from a cloth pouch on the belt that clinched his ragged tunic. His dogs lay nearby, watching him intently with their pink tongues hanging out, until he shared the scraps with them. Then, with an effort, he hauled himself to his feet and forced his aching joints to take him up towards the trees, where a clear spring bubbled out of the hillside. As he bent to scoop water to his lips with his cupped hands, one of the bitches ran off into the woodland. When he called sharply to her to come, she stood uncertainly, whining and looking back at him.