Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) Page 21

  During the ride back, Thomas asked what he should do about recording the investigation on his rolls and whether there was to be an inquest.

  ‘This is a case well out of the ordinary,’ mused John. ‘I’ll do nothing until I confer with Hubert Walter. With someone who was both a canon and a senior Treasury official, found poisoned in a brothel, I have to tread carefully, especially as he may well be involved in the theft of the king’s treasure from the Tower.’

  The more he thought about it, the more delicate the situation appeared. Though he himself was presently in good grace with the Justiciar and even the king, neither were men to be trifled with or offended – and there were many other powerful men, especially on the Curia, who would be happy to use de Wolfe as a scapegoat if some great scandal erupted.

  Apart from that, John had no appetite for exposing the sexual inclinations of a pleasant priest through a public inquest. Though he was a stickler for applying the king’s will, there were issues such as the relative immunity of those in holy orders from the secular law, which gave them ‘benefit of clergy’. Especially since old King Henry’s conscience-stricken surrender to Canterbury over this issue, following the murder of Thomas Becket, one had to tread softly where priests were concerned and John was not going to put his head in a noose by doing the wrong thing.

  His silent cogitations lasted for most of the journey and both Thomas and Gwyn had learned not to disturb their master when he was in this contemplative mood. At the house in King Street, one of the grooms saw them coming and recognised the canon’s horse being led home riderless and drew the correct conclusions. He rushed into the house and by the time de Wolfe dismounted, Martin the steward and Chaplain Gilbert had come out to meet him, their faces full of anguished foreboding.

  The coroner solemnly confirmed their fears, and taking the chaplain aside explained the circumstances of the canon’s death. ‘It is up to you how much you tell the rest of the household, but I would advise you holding back some of the details, at least until I have discussed it with the archbishop.’

  Gilbert was a sensible man and through his grief – for it seemed that Simon had been a popular and caring master – he promised to be discreet about revealing the whole truth. He also promised to set in motion the process of retrieving the corpse from St Bartholomew’s and arranging a funeral, dependent on the coroner’s decision about an inquest. He would also send a messenger to Lichfield to inform the cathedral and any surviving family of the death.

  Promising to keep him informed, de Wolfe left the house to the stunned residents, who were no doubt wondering when they would be thrown out into the street following the collapse of their comfortable little world.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In which a lady calls upon Crowner John

  In the late afternoon, de Wolfe made enquiries at the Justiciar’s chambers and was told that Hubert Walter was expected back that evening and would be available for audience next morning.

  John had to make do with informing the most senior official he could find in the Exchequer building and he also told the Keeper of the Palace that Simon Basset was dead. He trimmed the truth by saying that the canon had been taken ill in the city and had died at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, where the body was still lying.

  Though the Keeper did not seem particularly interested, being swamped with work in anticipation of Queen Eleanor’s visit, the news caused some consternation in the Exchequer. Apart from personal sadness at his death, Simon Basset was an important functionary and his loss appeared to cause problems in their administrative routines. John also had the impression that Simon’s connection with the lost treasure made some of the other officials uneasy.

  That evening, de Wolfe decided not to go to the Lesser Hall for supper, as he knew he would be besieged by questions about the death of Simon Basset. The Westminster grapevine would have easily picked up the news from the Exchequer and he knew that Bernard de Montfort and the Lord of Blois and his wife would pester him for details. He would have liked to talk over the matter with Ranulf and William Aubrey, but that could wait until the morning – meanwhile, he would settle for Gwyn’s company and some of Osanna’s cooking in Long Ditch Lane.

  The fat Saxon did them well in providing a meal at short notice, for after a mutton broth she produced a pair of grilled trout each, stuffed with almonds. With young carrots and early peas, it was a good meal and the mazer of fresh barley and wheat bread with a new cheese that followed was washed down with ale by the contented coroner and his officer.

  They discussed the events of the day until it was apparent that they could not squeeze another ounce of significance from them. Eventually, after another full quart of ale, Gwyn fell asleep at the table and to avoid his gargantuan snores John climbed up to the room above and threw himself down on his mattress to think about Hilda.

  Later, as the red evening sun declined to the western horizon, Gwyn woke and called up the steps from below.

  ‘I’m off to a game of dice in the palace barracks!’ he announced. ‘I’ll be late home, no doubt. In fact, I may not be back at all!’

  After he had left, John wondered whether he had found a woman somewhere, though he knew that some of these gambling sessions went on until the early hours of the morning. Games of chance held no attraction for de Wolfe, but it takes all sorts, he thought philosophically. After all, Ranulf and William Aubrey were very keen on gaming and Gwyn had told him that the younger knights and esquires in the palace guard played for large stakes in their quarters.

  John dozed on fitfully for a while, his mind slipping in and out of slumber, wrestling with the problems of three unsolved deaths which seemed to have no obvious connection. He suddenly became aware of voices below and heard Osanna speaking to someone in the main room. Then her voice called up through the stair opening.

  ‘Sir John, there is someone to see you!’ Even at that distance, he could sense the disapproval in his landlady’s voice. Reluctantly, he hauled himself up from the pallet, thrust his feet into his soft house shoes and went to the ladder, raking his dishevelled hair back with his fingers. As he descended, expecting to see some messenger from the palace, he was astonished to find Hawise d’Ayncourt standing in the centre of the room, her silent maid lurking near the door. Osanna had planted herself near the bottom of the steps, in an almost protective stance, looking dubiously at the elegant woman who had invaded her house.

  ‘Lady d’Ayncourt, this is a surprise!’ growled de Wolfe, emphasising her title to reassure Osanna that this was no local strumpet, though this should have been obvious from her bearing and rich clothing. Hawise had ventured out in the warm evening in a long gown of pale-green silk, tied with a gold cord twisted several times around her waist, the tasselled ends hanging to her knees. Over this she wore a dark-green velvet surcoat with trailing cuffs that reached almost to the ground. A necklace of pearls encircled her slim neck and a snowy linen cover-chief was held in place by a gold band around her forehead.

  ‘My maid and I were taking a walk on this fine evening,’ she explained in her husky voice. ‘We found ourselves in this neighbourhood and I thought I would call to satisfy my curiosity as to where you lived.’

  This was a transparently false excuse, as no one in their right mind would want to come up the dismal deadend that was Long Ditch Lane. Surely the woman had not sought him out just to quiz him about the death of the Treasury canon? The alternative explanation was much more dangerous, though potentially exciting and titillating. Whatever the reason, he had common courtesies to perform.

  ‘Please be seated, lady. You must take a cup of wine after your long walk,’ he said, unwittingly sarcastic. Motioning to Osanna to put a stool in the doorway for the maid, he pulled forward the one good chair and Hawise lowered herself gracefully upon it.

  ‘Osanna, can you find some pastries in your cook-shed?’ he asked, but Hawise waved the offer away.

  ‘Thank you, but I have not long supped in the Lesser Hall. In fact, it was because you were abs
ent that I sought you out.’

  John busied himself at the side table with cups and a skin of red wine, thankful that he and Gwyn had not drunk it all with their meal, though they usually quenched most of their thirst with ale or cider. He was not sure whether the new protocol of courtly behaviour which was now all the rage, after being encouraged by Queen Eleanor, extended to offering wine to the maid. As he handed a pewter cup to her mistress, he raised his bushy eyebrows in her direction. Hawise d’Ayncourt shook her head firmly.

  ‘I have just realised that the evening is cooling quickly,’ she said. ‘I need my red brocade cape from my chamber.’ Turning her head, she gave rapid instructions to her maid to return to the palace and fetch it back to Long Ditch. Silently and rather sullenly, the girl rose and vanished without a word, closing the door behind her to leave Osanna scowling at what was an obvious ploy to get rid of the chaperone.

  John was also of the same opinion, but he was not going to let his landlady stand there while he talked to a guest, however uninvited she may be. He dismissed her as gently as he could and the Saxon wife shuffled out with an ill grace.

  ‘John, don’t stand hovering there like a bottler,’ commanded Hawise. ‘Come and sit near me.’ She patted a bench that stood alongside her chair. As he lowered himself not too reluctantly, he caught the scent of her flowery perfume and came close to her full lips and glowing eyes, framed by exquisitely long lashes. He rocked back out of temptation’s way, sudden images of the Lord of Blois and of Hilda of Dawlish flashing through his mind.

  ‘Would your husband not accompany you on your walk?’ he rumbled. ‘The streets are not always safe places for ladies on their own.’

  She laughed, a low throaty sound with seductive undertones.

  ‘Westminster is more secure than most towns!’ she countered, conveniently ignoring the fact that there had been several murders recently. ‘And in the daylight, the risk is surely small.’

  ‘But your husband?’ he persisted.

  ‘Oh, he is away, visiting some friend’s estate in Surrey,’ Hawise said dismissively. ‘He will be away all night.’

  She managed to imbue these last words with heavy invitation.

  John felt the hair on his neck prickle with excitement and he raised his wine cup to cover the flushing that spread across his face. He was no stranger to seduction and over several decades had had more women than there were weeks in a year. Yet none, not even the fair Hilda, were as exotic as this raven-haired beauty – and certainly none had exuded such blatant sexuality and availability as Hawise d’Ayncourt.

  She put down her cup and placed a slim hand on his knee.

  ‘Tell me what you have been doing lately, John. We have missed you at our pleasant suppers in the palace.’

  Was she angling for information, he wondered? Would her husband burst in just as she had managed to get his breeches off and blackmail him into revealing state secrets? Yet that was a ridiculous notion, he knew nothing of any use to a foreign agent.

  As the whole of Westminster would be buzzing with the news of Basset’s death by tomorrow, he decided there was no reason to withhold it from Hawise, as long as he offered no details of the circumstances. He told her briefly of the event, but she did not seem very interested, except to comment that surely he was the official who had received the missing treasure into the Tower, a fact that was common knowledge. Her attitude helped to reassure him that she was there to pillage his body, rather than his mind.

  ‘You are a famous knight, John,’ she breathed. ‘Tell me of some of your adventures. My husband, dear as he is to me, is a rather dull man, he spends his life in his counting house and patrolling his estates. I never hear tales of murder and battle from him.’

  She held her cup for more wine and took the opportunity to pull her chair nearer to his bench until her silk-clad legs were touching his. ‘And you were part of King Richard’s bodyguard when he came back from the Holy Land. Tell me of that and how you tried to save him from capture in Austria!’

  It was not an episode of which he was proud, as he had failed his king in Vienna, but he was flattered by having an attractive woman hanging on to his every word. Part of his mind told him that he was a silly old fool and was heading for trouble, but the humours that fuelled his masculinity overrode his common sense. Hawise next wanted to know about his exploits on many battlefields, from Ireland to Normandy and from Sicily to Palestine. Her eyes glistened at his descriptions of mayhem and carnage and when she pressed him to tell her of his work as a coroner in Devon, her pink tongue flickered over her moistened lips as he described morbid scenes of hangings, cut-throats and beheadings.

  Perversely, given that he knew it was unwise to encourage her, he could not resist feeding her obvious bloodthirsty fascination with violence. Her face coloured slightly and her prominent bosom rose and fell as her breathing hastened, when he told her of his discovery of a manor-lord crucified in his own forest and his head impaled on the rood screen of Exeter Cathedral.4

  Suddenly, as John rose to refill their wine-cups, Hawise jumped from her chair and pulled off her cover-chief, releasing a cascade of glossy black hair. She moved towards him and threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him.

  ‘Oh God, you are a real man, John!’ she gasped, almost with a groan. Although her head reached only to his chin, she stretched upwards and avidly pressed her hot mouth upon his, her tongue snaking between his lips. Surprised, but far from reluctant, de Wolfe abandoned any thoughts of restraint, as desire engulfed him. Images of Renaud de Seigneur and even Hilda of Dawlish vanished in a haze of lust. His own arms came up of their own accord and a wine cup fell uncaringly to the floor as he encircled her shoulders and waist and pulled her hard against him. They returned each other’s kisses as if each was trying to devour the other and he thrilled as he felt her firm breasts pressing into his chest.

  ‘For pity’s sake, John,’ she whimpered. ‘Take me to your bed!’

  With a growl of anticipation, his one hand slid down the waterfall of shining hair, while the other crushed her firm buttocks tightly against him. Hawise kissed him again, her serpentine tongue flickering, then she pulled away and began tugging him towards the steps to the upper floor.

  Then the deliciously wanton moment was shattered by a knock on the street door! A very unladylike oath spat from Hawise’s pouting lips and she shrieked a command towards where she assumed her maid was waiting. ‘Adele, go away, damn you! Come back in an hour!’

  But she was confounded from another direction, as the inner door opened and Osanna waddled in. ‘I heard a knock, sir,’ she declared, but her response had been so quick that John was sure that her ear, and perhaps an eye, had been pressed against the ill-fitting boards of the inner door.

  De Wolfe was inclined to roar at her to clear off, but the intensity of their passion had been spoiled and, flushed in the face, the two would-be lovers pulled apart. Hawise grabbed for her veil, which had fallen on the table and hurriedly pulled it over her head and settled the gilded band in place. Ignoring the scowls of the landlady, she stalked to the door and jerked it open.

  Adele was standing on the step, uncertain whether to obey her mistress’s command to vanish for an hour. Her doubts were solved when Hawise snatched the short cloak from her arm and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Come, girl! We are going home.’

  Her poise had returned rapidly, and as she left she turned to de Wolfe, who had followed them into the lane.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Sir John, but I think we have unfinished business!’

  The Chief Justiciar of England listened gravely to the coroner’s account of the events of the past few days. He had been away in Canterbury, trying to soothe the complaints of his own clergy, who were not overfond of their bishop, for they felt he was far more concerned with affairs of state than with the welfare of his diocese.

  ‘So do you think that the murder of Simon Basset is connected with the theft from the Tower?’ he asked, when John ha
d laid all the facts before him.

  ‘I hesitate to dismiss the possibility,’ replied the coroner. ‘The canon has lived and worked here for years with no problems or stains on his reputation. Then within a few days he becomes a suspect in the crime, as he is one of the only two key-holders – and then he is fatally poisoned! The coincidence is surely too great to be ignored.’

  Hubert Walter sat silently for a moment, staring out through a window at the river flowing past Westminster. They sat in his first-floor chamber adjacent to the royal apartments, with the murmur of clerks percolating through the door from the next room.

  ‘Matters are weighing ever more heavily upon me, John,’ he sighed. ‘The king makes increasing demands for money for his army, which becomes harder and harder to squeeze from resentful barons and merchants. This plays into the hands of the prince, who sees it as justification for his ambition to unseat Richard.’

  Walter’s fingers played with the small cross hanging around his neck.

  ‘Then I have the old queen descending upon us soon, though I am partly thankful for that, as there is no doubt that she is a powerful restraining influence upon her wayward son.’

  ‘Do you wish me to accompany the court on this journey – or remain here to continue investigating these crimes?’

  Hubert shook his greying head. ‘Come with us, I am sure that whoever is behind these acts is part of the court in some capacity or other. I cannot see that your staying behind can accomplish anything.’

  De Wolfe was relieved by his answer, as he did not relish being marooned in an almost empty palace – and the perambulation towards the West Country held the possibility of including a quick visit to Exeter. Also, a small roguish voice in his head whispered that Hawise d’Ayncourt would be going with them.