The Grim Reaper Read online

  De Revelle looked up at him, his cold eyes signalling his dislike. ‘John, if it’s a mad priest you’re seeking, you needn’t look further than your own clerk. I hear he tried to kill himself the other day, but maybe he’s turned his attention to others.’

  De Wolfe growled in his throat and slammed the door as he went out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which Crowner John visits the Bush Inn

  De Wolfe had instructed Gwyn earlier to round up all those involved in the discovery of the moneylender’s body and have them at the Shire Hall in Rougemont by the tenth hour of the morning.

  He arrived at the bare stone building as the distant cathedral bell was tolling for High Mass, the sixth of the nine daily services. The hall was the venue for the sheriff’s fortnightly County Court and would also house the long-awaited Eyre of Assize and General Eyre the following week. John used it for most inquests in the city: desolate though it was, at least it provided a roof over his head. A n open archway led into a large barren chamber, with an earth floor and a knee-high wooden platform at one end, with trestle tables, stools and a high-backed chair favoured by the sheriff. De Wolfe hoped that de Revelle and the castle constable, Ralph Morin, would make some effort before next week to improve the place for the King’s Justices. However, it was adequate for the brief inquest that he was obliged to hold on the moneylender.

  As he arrived, Gwyn was marshalling a score of men in front of the platform, cursing good-naturedly and pushing them into a ragged line. These were the jury, dragged reluctantly from their daily work in Southgate Street. As John climbed on to the dais and sat down, he saw that the fletcher who had found the body and the Saxon constable were present, along with a couple more faces he recognised as having been at the scene of the death. Thomas de Peyne was seated at a table, already pulling out his ink, pens and parchments.

  De Wolfe yawned as he waited for Gwyn to get organised – he had been roused from his bed earlier than usual and was beginning to feel the effects. As the gingery giant harassed the motley crowd into some sort of order, a garrison soldier arrived with a small handcart, on which a long shape was covered with a coarse cloth. The man wheeled it into the hall and left it immediately below the coroner, where he sat in the centre of the platform. ‘Here’s the corpse, Crowner. I was told to bring him from our cart-shed.’

  De Wolfe nodded and the man-at-arms left, passing a rather dandified figure in the archway. De Wolfe was surprised to see that the newcomer was Hugh de Relaga, one of Exeter’s two Portreeves, the leaders of the city burgesses. Some cities were now electing mayors, but although there was talk of it, Exeter had not done so yet. The short, rotund merchant strutted to the platform and hauled himself up to sit on a stool alongside the coroner.

  ‘What brings you here, Hugh?’ asked John, with one of his rare grins. ‘You should be in your counting house, increasing our fortune.’ He and the Portreeve had a wool-exporting business with a warehouse on the quayside. De Wolfe played no part in the trading, but had invested in it much of the loot he had accumulated in foreign campaigns, and the burgess’s skill in buying and selling made them both a comfortable profit each year.

  The fat little merchant was puffing with the exertion of hurrying up to the castle and produced a yellow silk kerchief to mop his brow. ‘I heard about Aaron’s murder from our constable. He lent money to a number of tradesmen in the city, including one or two burgesses, I suspect.’

  De Wolfe looked down at him from his chair. ‘I doubt he was killed because of any money transactions, Hugh. He certainly wasn’t robbed.’

  De Relaga, resplendent even at mid-morning in a scarlet tunic and a blue mantle, with a close fitting helmet of red silk tied under his chin with tapes, dabbed at his face. ‘Thank God for that, John. I was afraid that some debtor had decided to cancel the loan by beating him to death.’

  By now, Gwyn was yelling for silence and when the jurymen and witnesses had quietened down, he yelled out the Royal Summons in a voice that sent the starlings flapping from the roof-beams: ‘Anyone having anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon touching the death of Aaron of Salisbury, draw near and give your attendance!’

  The jurymen shuffled uncomfortably, raising dust which danced in the shafts of bright sunlight that struck through the archway. De Wolfe leaned forward, like some great black bird about to strike with the long beak of his nose. ‘Let the First Finder step forward.’

  The small man who had visited the Jew early that morning was prodded by Gwyn to stand alongside the death cart, just beneath the forbidding figure of the coroner. He confirmed that he was Rufus Fletcher, and when Gwyn lifted the cloth over the cadaver’s face, he identified the dead man as Aaron of Salisbury. Then he repeated the story he had told de Wolfe a few hours earlier. ‘… I knocked up the four nearest householders, then sent for the constable,’ he concluded virtuously. Here he paused to consider the safest course, then added, ‘We didn’t start a hue-and-cry, Crowner. It was pointless as the old fellow was as stiff as plank so he must have been dead for hours.’

  This echoed what de Wolfe had told the sheriff, and after a few more questions, which produced nothing useful, the arrow-maker stepped back thankfully into the crowd, relieved that he hadn’t been amerced for some legal transgression, which had become so common at inquests as to be almost a routine form of taxation.

  The coroner looked over his shoulder to check that Thomas de Peyne was keeping the record, then turned back to his captive audience. ‘As to presentment of Englishry, it is both impossible and unnecessary,’ he barked. ‘It is well known that the dead man was a Jew, which is sufficient for the law.’

  Since the Conquest, anyone found dead was presumed to be a Norman and a heavy ‘murdrum’ fine imposed on the surrounding community as a penalty for assassinating one of the invaders. The process was fast becoming ridiculous, as it was well over a century since the Normans had seized England and it was increasingly difficult to define who was a Norman, rather than a Saxon or Celt. However, the fines were a lucrative source of income to the Crown and the only way they could be avoided was for the family of the deceased to swear before the coroner that he was English. De Wolfe took a fair, common-sense view of the issue, unlike some coroners who would do their utmost to extract the fine, especially if they could divert some of it into their own purse.

  Now de Wolfe gestured to Gwyn, who again dragged the covering from the upper part of the old man’s corpse, then walked to the edge of the dais, with Hugh de Relaga peering inquisitively alongside him.

  ‘You jurymen, gather round,’ he commanded, in his sonorous voice. ‘You have a duty to examine the cadaver with me, every one of you.’

  The jury shuffled closer, some of them rheumy old men, others just lads; all males over the age of ten were eligible for this service.

  ‘Gwyn, lift up his head!’

  The officer grabbed the ears of the corpse and lifted it clear of the table. Rigor mortis had stiffened the neck and the shoulders rose from the cart, so that the matted blood at the back of the head was visible to the gaping jury.

  ‘He has had a grievous blow to the cranium,’ declared John. ‘There seems to be no breakage of the bone, but certainly he would have lost his senses.’ He motioned to Gwyn, who let the head drop with a thump.

  ‘Show them the bag,’ he commanded. Gwyn reached under the legs of the body, pulled out the leather money-bag and held it up to show the jury, pushing a fist inside to display how wide and deep it was.

  ‘This pouch was over his head, the drawstrings tightened about his neck.’ He gestured again to Gwyn, who handed the leather bag to the nearest member of the jury, who took it gingerly, as if it might bite him. As it was passed from hand to hand, de Wolfe continued, ‘You will see that it is strong and has tight seams. It would easily have cut off the victim’s air, especially if he was out of his wits from the blow on his head and could do nothing to save himself.’

  Gwyn retrieved the money-bag, restored
it to the cart, then covered up the old man for decency’s sake. The jury gaped up at the coroner, waiting for the finale of his performance.

  ‘I have no other evidence to offer you,’ rasped de Wolfe, who had decided to omit the news about the Gospel text as being none of their concern. ‘Now, does any man among you know anything useful about the death of this man?’ He glared along the row of faces huddled around the handcart. He expected the jury to provide information as well as a verdict.

  There were a few muttered denials. The less any man became involved with the law, the safer it was for him. Every step of the legal process was beset with penalties if things went wrong.

  ‘Did any of you know anything of Aaron’s life? Some of you were traders in that street and must know something of him,’ snapped de Wolfe. He glared at the man Gwyn had appointed foreman, a cloth merchant from a shop near the Jew’s house. ‘You, surely you had some knowledge of him?’

  The serge-trader shrugged dismissively. ‘I knew him slightly, Crowner, just to pass the time of day. He kept very much to himself.’

  ‘All his clients came to him so he didn’t need to venture out much,’ added a stall-holder from Southgate Street. ‘Some of us borrowed a few marks from him when times were difficult. He was a fair man, given the trade he was in.’

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Anything else? Was there ever any trouble in his shop? Did anyone ever attack or threaten him?’

  There was silence as each man looked at his neighbour and shook his head.

  ‘Do you know if any priests were customers of his?’ demanded the coroner.

  This obscure question was met with some blank stares, and a few titters.

  The stall-holder spoke up again. ‘It would be a strange usurer who didn’t have clerks as clients, Crowner. Some of our canons have expensive tastes in food and wine.’

  ‘And women!’ came a hoarse whisper from behind someone’s hand.

  ‘People who patronise Aaron and his like don’t wish to advertise their visits,’ the foreman went on. ‘They tend to slink into his doorway like a fox into a culvert, for there’s shame in being short of money.’

  A few more questions soon confirmed de Wolfe’s expectations that nothing new would be learned, so he directed the jury briefly as to their verdict: ‘This inquest has established that the deceased was Aaron of Salisbury and that he was not a Norman, even though no presentment of Englishry can be made. It is also obvious that he met his death in his domicile in this city of Exeter on …’ He paused and cleared his throat noisily, while he turned to flick his fingers at Thomas who was writing busily. ‘On whatever date it is, in the seventh year of the reign of King Richard.’ He jutted his chin at the jury as if challenging them to contradict him, then concluded, in a loud voice, ‘It is obvious that he died of a blow to the pate and mortal suffocation from that bag being tied over his head. That cannot be an Act of God, or an accident or self-inflicted, so it has to have been murder.’

  He raised his voice almost to a shout at the end and glared at the cluster of citizens below him. ‘Now give me your verdict, foreman.’

  There was a hurried hissing of whispers. Then the cloth merchant raised his face to the coroner. ‘We find it was murder, Sir John, by persons unknown.’

  After the unsurprising result, the jury hurried away, eager to make up for an hour of lost business, while Gwyn trundled the handcart back to the shed on the opposite side of the inner ward. In the Shire Hall, John de Wolfe and Hugh de Relaga sat down at the trestle table to wait while Thomas completed the inquest roll in his impeccable script.

  ‘This is a strange business, John, if you say that the old fellow wasn’t robbed,’ said de Relaga. He knew most of the commercial gossip of the city, being a Guild Master as well as a leader of the council, and the abrupt cancellation of debts, now that the lender was defunct, might help several of his fellow merchants. ‘Had you better go through his ledgers, John, to see if anyone might have profited considerably by his death?’

  De Wolfe had already decided to ask Thomas to do this, but he felt obliged to tell his friend about the parchment found on the body. ‘So it looks as if some aggrieved priest might have killed him,’ he finished.

  The wool-merchant dabbed again at his round, red face. ‘That could be a bluff, John, making it look like some deranged cleric to cover up the real purpose of escaping from a money bond.’

  John shrugged. ‘It could be, I suppose. But how many of your burgess friends can read, write and quote the Gospels?’

  ‘Many can pen a few words or have some clerk who is more proficient – not all accounting is done on tally-sticks these days. But I admit you have a point. Few of my acquaintances could quote you more than two lines from the Holy Book.’

  When Thomas was ready to pack up his writing materials, the coroner and his gaudy friend stepped down from the platform and strolled outside into the spring sunshine. As they crossed the castle bailey towards the gatehouse, Hugh reflected again on the death of the moneylender. ‘What will you do with the corpse? He obviously can’t be buried in the cathedral Close like everyone else.’

  ‘I’m going down to see the Archdeacon now. He’s most likely to know about such things.’

  ‘Has the old man got relatives? I seem to remember that the Jews have strict rules about quick burials. There are a few others of his faith in the city that could be asked.’

  ‘There is a daughter in Honiton. The castle sergeant sent a messenger this morning to seek her out, but even if he finds her, she’ll not get to Exeter before tomorrow.’

  They walked in silence, until de Relaga spoke again. ‘This note from the scriptures … Is it possible to name a man from his penmanship?’

  De Wolfe stopped in his tracks and looked down at the Portreeve. ‘I don’t know, Hugh – I’ve never thought about it. Isn’t all script much the same?’ As neither man could write more than his name, differences in handwriting were outside the experience of both.

  ‘I’ll ask that snivelling clerk of mine,’ said John. ‘He knows all about pens and parchment and suchlike. Though how we’d go about such a test is beyond me.’

  It was approaching the time for the midday meal and when they reached the corner of Martin’s Lane, de Relaga trotted off to his comfortable house near Carfoix to enjoy his usual large dinner.

  De Wolfe walked past his own home, glancing furtively at the door in case Matilda appeared. He carried on past the farrier’s opposite, where his horse Odin was stabled, then continued across the front of St Martin’s church on the corner of the Close. Though he saw the small building several times a day, he looked at it now with renewed interest, as he had at every one of the parish churches he had passed that day. Did this one house a murderous priest, he wondered.

  He loped past the first few houses of Canon’s Row, which was the continuation of Martin’s Lane forming the northern boundary of the Close, with the huge bulk of the cathedral towering above him to his right. His gaze rose unbidden to the narrow builder’s gallery that ran along the outside of the nave, just below roof level and almost forty feet above the ground. Just before it met the massive projection of the North Tower, there was still a faint pale smear running down the masonry, where Thomas’s cloak had rubbed off some of the lichen from the stones when he had made his unsuccessful suicide bid some weeks earlier. If that garment had not snagged on a protruding water-spout halfway down and broken his fall …

  De Wolfe sighed at the memory, and forged on past the large, closely packed houses until he reached the dwelling of Archdeacon John de Alençon. There were four archdeacons, each responsible for one part of the huge diocese of Devon and Cornwall. De Alençon’s responsibility was the city of Exeter, the most populous area with some four thousand inhabitants served by those numerous parish churches.

  The house was tall and narrow, and stretched back a long way to the yard behind, with a privy, kitchen-shed and laundry-hut. The canons’ houses were all different, with varying fro
ntages and roofs, but all were spacious enough to accommodate a priest, sometimes his vicar, and a number of servants.

  The canons were expected to offer hospitality to visitors and to hold regular feasts for the benefit of prominent citizens and senior clergy. Many enjoyed this festive existence, being fond of luxuries and good living. The Spartan precepts of Bishop Leofric who, in the previous century, had introduced the strict Rule of St Chrodegang had long been forgotten by most, but John de Alençon was an exception. An ascetic man, he kept his house simply furnished, had but three servants and, apart from a moderate appreciation of fine French wine, appeared free of vices.

  His bottler showed de Wolfe into the Archdeacon’s study, which was also his bedroom. The only furniture was a pallet in one corner, a plain table with two chairs and a large wooden crucifix on the wall. De Alençon rose from the table where he had been studying a bulky leatherbound book. His thin face broke into a warm smile as he greeted his friend, the lined brow and cheeks lit up by the bright blue eyes. He grasped de Wolfe’s arm in welcome, and motioned to his servant to bring wine.

  Moments later, they were seated across the table from each other, a cup of best Anjou red in their hands, with a stone jug between them for replenishment.

  ‘How is that poor nephew of mine faring?’ asked de Alençon.

  ‘I sometimes fear for his sanity,’ said John. ‘He’s taken to talking to himself a lot and he glares at the world as if he hates its very existence – but at least he’s not tried to kill himself lately.’ He took a long sip from his cup, savouring the flavour of the French grapes. ‘I suppose you’ve heard nothing more about any possibility of his being received back into the Church?’

  The Archdeacon shook his head sadly. ‘As I told you before, John, it seems quite impossible. There are forces working against him because they wish to see you shamed.’ There was a short silence as he refilled their cups then looked at his friend with a quizzical smile. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about Thomas?’