The Grim Reaper Page 23

  As the priests were plotting over their wine, de Wolfe and his companions were only a few hundred paces away in the Bush, telling Nesta Thomas’s tale of woe.

  ‘Of course you must stay here, Thomas. I’ll give you a corner upstairs – there’s a spare straw pallet hanging across the rafters. No doubt Edwin and the girls can find you some victuals – you eat hardly enough to keep a mouse alive.’

  ‘I’ve twopence a day from the crowner, lady,’ said the clerk anxiously. ‘Will that do for now?’

  John grinned at him. ‘I think I can persuade the landlady here to accept that, so don’t fret, young fellow. Just do your tasks, get your body and your mind sound again and all will turn out well.’

  This was a long speech for the taciturn coroner and Nesta beamed at him, her eyes, for some reason, filling with tears. ‘You just go down to the Close and get your belongings. Bring them back here and I’ll tell Sarah to show you where you can sleep.’

  Thomas grabbed her hand and, with a quick bob of his head, kissed it. Then he crossed himself jerkily and, his pinched face working with emotion, ran off to collect his meagre possessions from the canon’s house. All he owned was his scribe’s bag, a spare under-shirt and hose and a couple of books.

  Gwyn hauled himself from the table where they sat and, with a tact unusual for him, said that he would go with Thomas to his lodging in case he was set upon by spiteful vicars. His real motive was to leave his master alone with Nesta, as he recognised the look in the crowner’s eye.

  Gwyn was hardly out of the door before John slid his arm around Nesta’s shoulders and was whispering in her ear, his eyes rolling suggestively towards the floorboards above. ‘Let’s slip upstairs so that you can show me where poor Thomas will be lodged – and then maybe we can rest awhile in your room before we come down again.’

  She dug him hard in the ribs with her elbow, but slid off the bench with no sign of reluctance and pulled the white linen coif from her head to let her dark auburn hair cascade over her shoulders. ‘You’d better be quick then, Sir Crowner – it’s but a short walk for him from here to the Close and back!’

  As it happened, Gwyn returned before Thomas. He had called at the Crown tavern on the way back to give his master long enough to inspect the upper regions of the inn. He found the coroner sitting decorously in his usual seat, with a jug of best ale and a satisfied expression on his long face. Nesta sat complacently by his side.

  ‘The little fellow has gone off to reclaim one of his precious books, which he loaned to some secondary, lodging in Goldsmith Street. He says he’ll be back to claim his bed within the hour.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace the way they treat that poor man.’ Nesta was still indignant at the heartless eviction of Thomas. ‘It wasn’t much they gave him, and then to get him thrown out on some trumped-up excuse like that!’

  ‘The Precentor sees it as yet another way to goad me, I’m afraid,’ grunted de Wolfe, ‘so poor Thomas suffers on my account. De Boterellis knows of my hold over the sheriff because of the Prince John affair and attacks me out of spite on his behalf.’

  Nesta signalled to the old potman to refill their mugs. ‘Are you no nearer discovering the madman responsible for these killings?’ she asked. ‘Until you do, Thomas will be for ever under a cloud.’

  John shook his head glumly. ‘Whoever it is is too clever for us so far. I thought that with the drowning of William Fitz-William, we might have a chance, but nothing came of it.’

  The Welshwoman’s pretty round face screwed up into a scowl at the mention of the dead merchant. ‘There’s been so much gossip about that evil man and those poor boys that it’s a wonder something like that hasn’t happened before. His treatment of them was no secret in the town, but the lads had no one to speak or act for them. So much for the caring nature of the parish priests – it’s a wonder a few more of them haven’t been murdered like that Arnulf de Mowbray.’

  De Wolfe reflected that Nesta was always one to help the afflicted and the neglected.

  ‘Have you questioned all the priests that your friend the Archdeacon suggested?’ she demanded.

  ‘We have indeed – and much good it did us,’ he replied glumly. ‘They either told us to go to hell, or played dumb, or looked shocked that we should even think they were not perfect angels.’

  Gwyn sucked down some ale and squeezed the dregs from his huge moustache. ‘We’ve not seen Walter le Bai yet. He’s a skivvy to one of the canons, isn’t he?’

  ‘He assists Hugh de Wilton, according to the Archdeacon, but they are both out of the city until tomorrow. If they have been away for a couple of days, that clears him anyway, as Fitz-William was killed during that time.’

  They sat talking for another hour, with Nesta jumping up at intervals to speak to a favoured customer or to sort out some problem with Edwin or the serving girls. As well as being a popular ale-house, the Bush provided the best tavern food in Exeter and offered the cleanest lodging for travellers. Nesta’s hard work and her pride in keeping a decent house had amply repaid de Wolfe’s help in the desperately difficult days after her husband’s death.

  The May evening was sinking towards dusk and reluctantly John had to think about leaving the comfortable company of his friends for the frosty atmosphere of Martin’s Lane. ‘Are you heading for the gate before curfew tonight?’ he asked Gwyn, as they hauled themselves to their feet.

  A rueful grin spread over the hairy officer’s ruddy face. ‘I’d better go home once in a while, Crowner, though one of the wife’s sisters is staying to have yet another baby and I’ll probably have to sleep with the dog.’

  John knew that Gwyn lived in a one-roomed hut at St Sidwell’s, with two young sons and a huge hound – but he also knew that they were as happy a family as could be found anywhere in the county.

  There was still no sign of Thomas returning, but Nesta had promised to give him a meal and lay him a mattress in the roof space above, so the coroner gave her a last hug and a peck on the cheek then followed Gwyn out into the twilit city. They walked in companionable silence up through the lanes towards Carfoix, the central crossing of the main streets. Though it was still dry, clouds had rolled in to make the evening seem darker. Suddenly Gwyn noticed a faint glimmer above the roof-tops. ‘Is all that good drink affecting my eyes, or can I see a red glow up ahead?’

  De Wolfe, whose mind had been on Nesta’s fair face and body, looked up. Between two steeply pitched roofs on the corner of the high street, he could just make out a pulsating redness, then a few rising sparks. In every city, where most of the buildings were still made of timber, fire was the ever-present fear. Few boroughs had escaped being burned to the ground over the years, many of them repeatedly.

  ‘It’s towards St Keryan’s, I reckon,’ bellowed Gwyn, and began a lumbering run across Carfoix to reach the street that led to the North Gate. The small church he had named was almost halfway to the gate on the right-hand side, but it was soon clear that the fire was in a side-street that turned off before it. Other townspeople were running in the same direction, partly from curiosity and partly from dread of a widespread conflagration.

  ‘It’s here in Waterbeer Street!’ called Gwyn, as he skidded round the first corner into the lane that ran parallel with High Street to join Goldsmith Street. About four houses up from the turning, on the opposite side of the alley, smoke and flame were pouring from behind the upper storey of a house. Luckily, it was half-timbered rather than just wood, with stone walls on the ground floor and plastered cob between a timber framework on the upper part. It was roofed with split stone, rather than thatch or wooden shingle, which again delayed the flames taking hold.

  De Wolfe ran close behind the galloping Cornishman until they halted before the closed front door. A score of neighbours and gawking sightseers were clustered there, shouting and gabbling, but with no apparent plan of action.

  ‘Is anyone inside?’ roared de Wolfe above the clamour of voices and the crackle of flames from the back. He knew that most
of the houses in Waterbeer Street were let as lodgings and several were known to be brothels, so the occupants tended to be a shifting population.

  Gwyn pushed at the stout oaken door, but it was barred from inside.

  ‘Around to the yard!’ snapped John.

  The house, typically tall and narrow, was very close to its neighbours on either side, but on the right there was a passage wide enough for a person or a handcart to get through. They pounded down it, ignoring a shower of sparks that a gust of wind sent at them. A handful of people stood at the back, including Theobald, one of the town constables. Also, to John’s surprise, the robust figure of Brother Rufus was there in his black robe, gazing up like the others at the upper floor.

  ‘It’s the bloody steps that are burning!’ yelled Gwyn. Like John’s own house, a substantial wooden staircase rose from the yard to a balcony that gave access to the two solar rooms at first-storey level. It was burning briskly, and the flames were spreading across the part of the balcony supported on beams projecting from the house wall. Someone up there was screaming, regularly and repetitively. It was a woman’s voice, but no one could be seen on the balcony.

  As no one on the ground seemed keen to launch a rescue, de Wolfe jabbed Gwyn in the back and ran across to stand under the end of the balcony that was not on fire. A pair of thick posts ran up from the ground to take its weight, braced by a series of cross-beams.

  ‘Here’s a ready-made ladder! You go round and see if you can batter in that front door, while I shin up this way.’

  Reluctant to leave his master to the more dangerous job, Gwyn hesitated, but a steely look in de Wolfe’s eye made him shrug and lumber back down the passageway. They had been in many tighter corners than this over the years and, with a little thrill at a rerun of their old adventures, he felt sure that the coroner could look after himself.

  By now, de Wolfe was climbing the cross-braces, ignoring the twittering protests of Theobald, who had run across as soon as he had seen what the coroner was doing. De Wolfe yelled at him to stay where he was. ‘No need for extra weight on this thing – the damned lot will fall down once the fire spreads a bit more,’ he yelled.

  Once on the slatted planks of the balcony, the fire and smoke were almost overpowering, but thankfully the breeze blew them away from him. The screaming was still coming from behind the nearest of the two doors that opened off the platform. Without hesitation, de Wolfe raised his foot and crashed his boot against it near where the inside latch would be. The flimsy fixing gave way, the door flew open with a bang and the screaming stopped. He dodged a wave of flame as the wind momentarily changed direction, and dived for cover into the room. Though it was dark inside, the reflection of the flames outside gave enough flickering light for him to see two frightened occupants – a sight that almost felled him with surprise!

  Cowering against the wall, alongside a disordered bed, was a young woman clutching a crumpled blanket around her, which failed to hide the fact that she was naked beneath it. On the other side of the bed, frantically pulling on a pair of long woollen hose, was Sir Richard de Revelle, the King’s sheriff for the county of Devon.

  The room was filling with a strangely scented smoke through the open door. A quick glance backwards showed that the fire was creeping rapidly along the boards of the balcony and had almost reached the threshold.

  ‘We’ve got to get out fast!’ snapped de Wolfe, putting aside his astonishment in the urgency of the moment.

  ‘I can’t go out there,’ hissed de Revelle, frantically. ‘not with her and those people watching down below!’ By now he had pulled his tunic over his head and grabbed his shoes.

  For a split second, de Wolfe exulted that his brother-in-law was, once again, in a tight corner, but the vision of Matilda rose up in his mind’s eye and he knew he had to do something fast to save her shame, if not her brother’s.

  In the further corner of the room was a curtain-covered doorway. He sped across and pushed his head through the opening. Beyond was a small passage leading to the room opposite. In the dim light, he could just see a pair of hinges and a ring set in the floor. When he pulled it open, he found he was looking down into a similar passage behind the front door. Thunderous blows told him that Gwyn was busy forcing it open. There was no ladder in place, but this was no time for such luxuries.

  He dodged back into the upper room and pulled Richard to the trap-door. ‘Drop down there and hide somewhere. When Gwyn gets the front door open, slip outside and pretend you’ve just arrived to investigate the fire.’

  The desperate sheriff swung down, his hands gripping the edge then dropped. The fall was too low to cause him any damage. Dropping the trap and rushing back into the bedroom, John unceremoniously grabbed the woman, who had started to scream again. He slapped a hand over her mouth and wrapped a sheepskin from the bed-coverings over her blanket. ‘Come on, my girl! Out of the door and keep going!’

  He bundled the terrified wench on to the balcony, then pushed her to the right, a wayward pulse of flame singeing the curly wool of the sheepskin, as they ran the few steps to the further end. He hoisted her over the rail on to the upper cross-member, and a dozen faces gaped up at them from below as the girl felt with her bare feet for the lower bars. Halfway down, both sheepskin and blanket fell off her and the bemused audience gaped as she scrambled stark naked the rest of the way to the ground. The constable threw the fallen coverings back over her shoulders and led her across the yard, away from the fire, as de Wolfe shinned more expertly down from the balcony.

  Several onlookers had found leather buckets and large pottery jars, which they filled from the well in the yard and threw on to the fire – to no avail, for with a crash and an explosion of sparks, the burning balcony collapsed as the supports burnt through. This removed the danger of igniting the whole house and brought the flaming timbers down within reach of the water carriers.

  Meanwhile, John had hurried over to Theobald and the girl, who were huddled against the wall of the next house. He saw that she was moderately attractive and under the smuts on her face, her lips and cheeks were reddened with rouge. It was time for urgent action if he was to save the sheriff from shame and dishonour. ‘Are you from the Saracen, girl?’ he asked, in a low voice. She nodded. ‘Then say nothing to anyone, d’you hear? Nothing as to who was with you. Do you understand?’

  The tone of his voice penetrated her shock and she nodded again, her teeth chattering with delayed terror. John turned to the constable. ‘Take her back to the Saracen straight away and see that she speaks to no one – especially the landlord, Willem the Fleming. Stay with her, get her some clothes and drink. I’ll come down to talk to her within the hour.’

  Mystified, but obedient to the coroner’s commands, the constable led the young harlot away, swathed in a blanket. After a quick glance to see that the fire was now no longer a threat to the house or its neighbours, de Wolfe hurried round to the front, where a large crowd was now thronging the narrow street. He found Gwyn blocking the doorway.

  ‘What in hell’s name is going on, Crowner?’ he growled. ‘I found the sheriff lurking inside. How did he get there?’

  De Wolfe groaned – things were getting out of hand. ‘Let me past, I’ll speak to him. Say nothing to anyone outside.’

  Inside the dark passageway, he found de Revelle skulking inside the doorway to one of the lower rooms, which appeared to be vacant lodgings.

  ‘I told you to slip into the street and look as if you’d just arrived!’ he hissed, in exasperation.

  ‘That hairy monster that attends you refused to let me out until he’d spoken to you,’ spat de Revelle, as ungrateful as ever, even after John had once again saved his reputation and possibly his life.

  The coroner looked his brother-in-law up and down in the gloom. ‘Are you respectable now? If so, we will pretend to examine these rooms together, then go out as if we have been companions here all along.’ For a few moments, they strode about – thankfully, the sparsely furnished rooms were
empty of their transient lodgers and fornicating couples. In the meantime Gwyn had understood the subterfuge, and was pushing back the curious crowd loudly demanding that they make way for the coroner and the sheriff. When they came out of the door behind him, John hissed again into Richard’s ear. ‘Just drift away now, back to Rougemont and say nothing. I’m off to see that girl and make sure of her silence. You’d better pray hard that none of this comes out. And there’s probably no need to tell your confessor – Brother Rufus is in the backyard!’

  He walked up the lane with de Revelle until they were past the crowd, then left him and came back to Gwyn. ‘Let’s get round to the yard again.’

  As they hurried down the side passage, his officer broached a matter that had concerned de Wolfe.

  ‘Did you notice that smell, Crowner? I can still get a whiff of it even now. It reminds me of that Greek fire that was used in the battle at Acre.’

  In the yard, the flames were dying under endless buckets of water from the well, but hissing steam was rising from the blackened wreckage of the balcony. An aromatic pungency hung in the air and both John and his officer sniffed deeply.

  ‘It’s naphtha, that’s what that smell is!’ said a deep voice behind them. The burly chaplain from the castle was sniffing at his fingertips. ‘I pulled away some of the timber for them to throw water on it and now my hands are stinking of it. They used to use it in flares when I was a chaplain with William Marshal’s troops.’

  De Wolfe nodded at this confirmation of Gwyn’s identification.

  ‘So that means the fire was set deliberately,’ he said. ‘Those stout timbers wouldn’t have caught fire just from a flint and tinder or the light from a candle. Someone has lit a block of naphtha against them.’

  The three men stared at each other, trying to make sense of this arson.

  ‘Why try to burn down a lodging house in a mean street like this?’ asked the priest.

  De Wolfe studied his face for any sign of duplicity or sarcasm, but saw none. Yet he wondered if the monk, Richard de Revelle’s chaplain and confessor, had known of his master’s clandestine presence in the house that night.