The Grim Reaper Read online

  Then his musing turned to more pleasant things, his delight at the reconciliation with Nesta. The greyness of the past weeks had lifted and he looked forward to his visits to the Bush like a child with a new toy. He hardly dare admit to himself that he loved her, his self-image of an ageing warrior too world-weary and cynical to indulge in such adolescent fancies. But being with her and enjoying her open nature and affectionate manner, lifted his spirit like nothing else could. Even their coupling in the big bed – glorious though it was – was no longer the main attraction at the Bush Inn.

  He never wished Matilda dead – in truth, the thought had never crossed his mind – but he hoped that one day her religious mania would lead her to its logical end and she would enter a nunnery. He was not sure if that was enough to annul the marriage that neither of them had wanted – he must tactfully sound out his friend the Archdeacon one day. Sometimes, he even contemplated throwing up this life in Exeter and running away with Nesta – maybe back to Wales, where she would feel at home and where he had many friends.

  Suddenly his musing was interrupted by a change in the muffled sounds from below. The chanting ended and a young chorister came far enough up the steps to summon him down to the meeting. With Thomas slinking unobtrusively behind, John descended into the hall, with a score of faces upturned towards him. The vicars and other minor orders had gone, leaving almost the full complement of Exeter’s twenty-four canons to offer their advice.

  John de Alençon stood at the lectern in the centre, with the Precentor, Treasurer and two other senior canons seated behind him. The other double rank of benches formed a square around the chamber, filled with black-cloaked priests, an occasional flash of white surplice showing underneath. The Archdeacon invited the coroner to sit opposite the lectern, and as he did so, Thomas rapidly slid behind him. The sonorous voice of de Alençon began the proceedings.

  ‘Brothers in God, you are all well aware of the reason for this unusual extension of our session. Regretfully, our brother Arnulf now lies before the altar of St Paul in the cathedral, done to death by someone of evil intent who, even more regrettably, may also be a priest.’

  A buzz of concern whispered about the Chapter House, as although everyone knew of de Mowbray’s death, the actual circumstances were not yet common knowledge. De Alençon held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Though the crime occurred in a church and to a man in Holy Orders, it was outwith the confines of the cathedral precinct. In any event, our Lord Bishop is well known to have delegated his ecclesiastical jurisdiction in cases of violent crime to the secular authorities – though if the culprit truly is a priest, then he will decide whether or not the Church will deal with him.’

  He paused and looked around the silently attentive throng. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to see if Chapter can assist the king’s sheriff and coroner in discovering the identity of this madman. This cruel and blasphemous death seems to be one of a series committed by the same perpetrator, who is well versed in Holy Scripture.’ He went on to outline the circumstances of the three deaths, with emphasis on the biblical quotations. After more shocked murmuring had subsided, he beckoned to the coroner and stepped aside for him to take his place at the lectern.

  De Wolfe’s tall figure stooped over it, a hand braced on each edge. He scowled around the expectant faces, feeling almost as if he was about to deliver a sermon. ‘There is no doubt that the man who committed these foul deeds is indeed one of you, in that he must be in Holy Orders,’ he began, his voice echoing harshly in that bare chamber. ‘Moreover, he must be a priest within these city walls. My inquests on these crimes against the King’s Peace have revealed nothing to put a name to the killer, so the sheriff and I need your help to bring him to justice – and, indeed, to prevent further tragedies.’

  He gazed around the chamber as if trying to spot the villain by the sheer intensity of his gaze.

  ‘We need to be told of any of your colleagues, either in the cathedral or in the city churches, who might be so unbalanced in their minds as to be capable of these awful acts.’

  There was a silence as each member of Chapter looked covertly at his neighbours, as if expecting to see the mark of Cain on their brows. Then de Wolfe stepped aside from the lectern and the Archdeacon took his place again. ‘If there is any brother who wishes to speak, let him do so now.’

  Once more, a wave of murmuring swept along the benches, heads going together and eyes shifting this way and that, but no one volunteered anything. De Alençon repeated his exhortation and eventually an older canon stood up from his place in the front row. He was Simon Lund, a corpulent man with fleshy lips, drooped on one side from a slight stroke. ‘I presume that, with this request, you are not inviting us to break the sanctity of the confessional, Archdeacon?’ he brayed, rather indistinctly. ‘Not that I have anything useful to divulge myself,’ he added hastily.

  John de Alençon shook his head decisively. ‘Indeed not, Simon. That remains inviolate, as always. But no one should be inhibited from adding names to a list of priests whose habits and preferences may make them worthy of some enquiries. We are not seeking accusations, only some leads as to who might merit investigation.’

  This was followed by another silence and the Archdeacon became impatient. ‘I appreciate that it might be difficult for you to speak frankly on such a sensitive issue at such short notice and in such a public fashion. So let me say that the Precentor, the Treasurer, the King’s coroner and I will form a small group which you may approach confidentially at any time. We will be meeting with the Lord Bishop later today to discuss this matter further and hope that before then some of you will feel able to offer us some suggestions.’

  He stood down from the lectern and the meeting broke up, with groups of canons animatedly discussing the drama, which had brought some welcome excitement into their otherwise humdrum routine.

  The two Johns walked out into the May sunshine, and moved out of the crowd’s earshot.

  ‘I gave them no idea of what steps we were likely to take in this matter, John,’ said de Alençon with a wry smile. ‘Mainly because I have no idea what can be done. Let’s hope that some will provide a few clues as to the more unbalanced of our clerical community before we meet the bishop this afternoon.’

  The coroner grunted, he was not hopeful that anything useful would come out of his friend’s appeal to his colleagues. De Alençon noted his silence. ‘Give me until this afternoon, John,’ he said. ‘I will speak with the other canons and see what we come up with. I think I will ask our archivist, Jordan de Brent, to join the Precentor and Treasurer when we go to meet Bishop Marshal. Jordan has the best knowledge of the other churches in Exeter and is an astute, wily old fellow.’

  All the members of Chapter were rapidly vanishing in search of their midday meal and the thought of food was suddenly attractive to the coroner. With a final exhortation to his priestly friend to think hard about renegade clerks, he decided to abandon any thought of returning to Martin’s Lane and set off in happy expectation for the Bush, leaving the forlorn figure of his clerk standing in the doorway of the Chapter House, his lips still moving in silent conversation with himself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In which Crowner John meets the Bishop

  De Wolfe’s visit that day to the tavern in Idle Lane was more gustatory than amorous. With a meeting at the Bishop’s Palace in mid-afternoon, as well as an increase in the Bush’s business with the imminent arrival in the city of the Justices in Eyre, there was no time for dalliance in the big French bed. However, he was more than content to be back in favour with his mistress and settled happily for a large bowl of onion soup, boiled salmon, half a loaf and cheese, all washed down with a brew of ale that exceeded even Nesta’s usual excellence.

  The auburn-haired Welshwoman came to sit with him in between harassing her serving maids and potman. She had recovered now from the shock of tripping over the corpse of Joanna of London and was eager to hear details of the latest bizarre slaying in St
Mary Arches, word of which had flashed all over the city. When John had described the weird event, Nesta astutely seized on one aspect that he had not so far considered. ‘I wonder why these killings have started now?’ she pondered. ‘They seem to be getting more frequent. Is he going to kill every day?’

  ‘I hope to God not, though we cannot prevent it until we get some clue as to who is responsible,’ he said fervently. ‘But what you say is interesting, my love. The man must have been here in Exeter for some time so why did they start now? No new priests have arrived lately, according to John de Alençon, apart from Brother Rufus, the castle chaplain.’

  ‘The only thing that is soon to happen is the arrival of the judges,’ she mused. ‘Could that be connected in any way?’

  De Wolfe broke the last chunk of bread in half and used his dagger to hack a thick slice of hard cheese to go with it. ‘Perhaps he’s trying to point out that his type of justice is better than that of the country,’ he grunted. ‘Though his victims so far have been offenders against the scriptures, rather than against the King’s Peace.’

  Nesta picked up a jug of ale and slid along the bench to refill his pot. John took the opportunity to slip an arm around her waist and knead her breast gently through her green gown. In the shelter of the wattle screen that backed on to his table, she gave him a quick peck on his stubbly cheek. ‘Can you come down tonight, John? Since I’ve got you back, I want you more than ever,’ she whispered into his ear.

  He gave one of the lopsided grins that lit up his usually grim features and dropped his hand to caress her smooth bottom. ‘I’m so out of favour with Matilda that she’ll not care where I am until next week, when she’ll be desperate to get invited to these bloody banquets that I’ll have to attend. So I’ll be down here, bonny woman, as long as our resident murderer doesn’t get up to his tricks again tonight.’

  A crash from the other side of the room as a quart pot hit the floor and a babble of abuse from one of the maids, abruptly took Nesta away to pacify the girl and to throw out a drunken customer. John looked around to see if his help was needed, but the landlady was well in control, jabbing at the staggering patron with the handle of a broom, urging him out with a stream of invective in mixed English and Welsh. As soon as the door slammed behind the bemused drunk, she propped the besom against the wall and calmly walked back to John, accompanied by a chorus of laughing approval from the other customers.

  ‘Damned fool, he shouldn’t drink so much in the middle of the day if he can’t hold it,’ she observed equably, sitting down again alongside John. He looked at her admiringly. This really was a woman to be treasured, he thought happily, regretting even more the months that had been wasted when they were at odds with each other.

  ‘Will this meeting today with the priests be of any use?’ she asked, taking a drink from his clay tankard.

  ‘I doubt it. They stick together like horse droppings, each guarding the others’ backs against the unordained,’ he answered cynically. ‘But we need the consent of Henry Marshal to question his precious priests.’

  ‘Do you think the Archdeacon’s plea for information will yield up anything?’

  John shrugged. ‘Maybe a couple of clerks will use the chance to vent their spite on the brother they hate most. It will be a good opportunity for old scores to be settled, denouncing a colleague as a pervert or rogue. We need some names, that’s for sure, but whether any we get are anything other than the victims of petty spite and jealousy remains to be seen.’

  ‘Who’s going with you to see the Bishop, then?’ Nesta’s curiosity seemed unbounded.

  ‘De Alençon, of course, and my old friend the Treasurer.’ He scowled at the lump of cheese in his hand, thinking of the other men he disliked.

  ‘Then there’s the bloody Precentor, together with my damned brother-in-law, who won’t be able to resist fawning over Henry Marshal.’

  Both the sheriff and Precentor Thomas de Boterellis had been involved with the Bishop in the last abortive attempt by Prince John to seize power from the Lionheart during his absence abroad. As fervent supporters of the King, the three Johns – the coroner, the Archdeacon and John of Exeter, the cathedral Treasurer – were at permanent odds with the others and regarded them with suspicion. However, in this matter of multiple murders, de Wolfe had to admit that politics was unlikely to cause dissent between them.

  As he finished his meal, a distant bell sounded for afternoon Vespers, so he knew he still had some time before the meeting to be held immediately after Compline, the last of the canonical hours. He began to think about the room upstairs, but at that moment Nesta dashed away again to settle some new shouting match between one of the serving-girls and a customer. Then the door opened and the light was momentarily blocked by the huge frame of Gwyn of Polruan, who ambled in and sat himself down opposite his master.

  The coroner glared at him suspiciously. ‘Don’t tell me there’s been another killing?’

  Gwyn shrugged off his cracked leather jerkin, dropped it on to the floor rushes and signalled to Edwin for a pot of ale. ‘No, Crowner – just an assault in the Crown tavern up at Eastgate. A cutpurse tried it on with a pig-herder from Clyst St George and got his skull cracked for his trouble.’

  ‘Will he die?’

  ‘I doubt it – the skin’s not breached and he was already getting his wits back when I left. The pig-herder was dragged up to Rougemont by a constable for Stigand to lodge in his cells, though he was pretty indignant about being arrested for whacking the thief who tried to rob him.’

  ‘Do I need to see this fellow now?’

  ‘No, after the meeting at the palace will be soon enough.’ The Cornishman smacked his lips at the arrival of a quart jug of ale. ‘Everyone’s sympathies are with the pigman, so you can probably let him go home.’

  In such a case, de Wolfe usually felt inclined to commit the injured man to the care of the assailant, as the latter had a vested interest in keeping the victim alive to avoid a murder charge.

  Nesta came back and punched Gwyn’s shoulder affectionately as she sat down. Gwyn beamed at them like some benevolent uncle, delighted that his master and the Welsh woman had made up their differences.

  ‘Has he told you all the news, cariad?’ he asked, using the language that the three always spoke when together.

  ‘Yes, we’re all on the look-out for a malignant priest now – though whether he has two heads and horns, John hasn’t yet confirmed.’

  For once, her light-hearted manner failed to strike a similar response from the Cornishman. ‘Talking of strange priests, I’m getting increasingly worried about our Thomas,’ he said soberly. ‘I fear he may do something rash, like trying to jump off the cathedral roof again.’

  Nesta, who pitied the scrawny clerk as she would a stray dog, was instantly concerned. ‘He looked sadder than ever when I last saw him. Is there something new about his low spirits?’

  ‘The fellow mutters to himself all the time and he’s even stopped insulting me, so there must be something radically wrong with him,’ said Gwyn. He sucked down almost a pint of Nesta’s best ale before continuing. ‘And I heard a couple of comments among those damned vicars when I was waiting for you outside St Mary Arches today – they were saying that the crowner should look nearest to home for a wayward priest. And that’s not the first time I’ve heard the name Thomas de Peyne mentioned in that direction, God blast them!’

  Nesta protested vehemently at the idea that the clerk could be involved. ‘The poor man is too frail to be the killer, anyway,’ she concluded, nudging de Wolfe to prompt him into joining their denials.

  ‘Of course the little turd has nothing to do with it,’ he agreed, ‘but that won’t stop tongues wagging, especially those of certain persons who would delight in using any means to discredit or discomfort me.’ He crumbled some bread absently between his long fingers. ‘The awkward fact remains that Thomas was out of sight during each of the three occasions when the deaths occurred – and it takes little strength
to crack an unsuspecting victim on the head with a rock.’

  ‘And he, above all people, knows the Gospel inside out,’ added Gwyn, reluctantly acting as devil’s advocate.

  However, Nesta was robust in Thomas’s defence. ‘What nonsense you talk, both of you!’ she snapped. ‘He’s a sad, disillusioned young man who deserves our help and sympathy, not stupid remarks like that, which could do him even more harm if they were overheard.’

  Chastened, the coroner and his officer mumbled some excuses, but privately both felt a niggle of concern deep in their minds.

  Later that afternoon a line of priests and their juniors straggled out of the cathedral after Compline and went their various ways, free of any more services until the midnight Matins. As arranged, de Wolfe met the Archdeacon and his colleagues outside the Chapter House, where the sheriff was already deep in conversation with his crony the Precentor. The latter was responsible for the order of services, the music and much of the other ecclesiastical rigmarole that de Wolfe found so tedious. The other canons were John of Exeter, the Treasurer and Jordan de Brent, the library archivist.

  John de Alençon led the way through an arched gate into the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace, set on the south side of the cathedral. This time, Thomas de Peyne was unable to infiltrate the meeting, much to his chagrin.

  The palace was a two-storeyed building of a stone that matched the massive cathedral that overshadowed it. Apart from the several chambers that housed the prelate, there were guest rooms for visiting dignitaries, which might range from other senior churchmen to the monarch. The place was underused, as Henry Marshal was rarely in residence, preferring to live in one of his many manors dotted around England when he was not dabbling in state affairs in Winchester or London. His brother was William, the Marshal of England, who, after Hubert Walter, was probably the most powerful statesman and soldier in the land. He had already served two kings faithfully and perhaps would serve another, if Prince John’s fortunes improved.