Crowner's Quest Read online

  De Wolfe’s loping strides took him across the inner ward, surrounded by crenellated walls of red sandstone. As he walked through the frozen mud towards the keep, he heard chanting from the tiny chapel of St Mary on his right, where the castle chaplain was celebrating Christ Mass. On his left was the Shire Court, a bare stone box where the sheriff held his county court and the King’s Justices came at intervals to hold the Eyre of Assize. His destination was straight ahead, almost against the further curtain wall, which ran along the edge of a low cliff above Northernhay. The keep was a squat structure of two storeys above an undercroft, a semi-basement that housed the castle gaol. The entrance was up wide wooden steps that led to a door on the first floor. In times of siege, the stairs could be thrown down to prevent attack from ground level, though Rougemont had not been at war for almost sixty years.

  As John walked across the inner bailey, familiar sights, sounds and smells assailed him – the neighing of horses in stalls built against the walls where tattered huts also housed kitchens, wash-houses, and the shanty dwellings of senior soldiers and castle servants. Chickens, pigs and goats wandered through the mire, adding their ordure to the rubbish trodden into the mud, where hardly a blade of grass survived. The Yuletide holiday seemed to make little difference to the usual chaotic routine of life. Smoke rose from a score of cooking fires, while men-at-arms, their women and a few ragged children criss-crossed the busy area.

  A soldier, wearing a thick leather jerkin and a round helmet with a nose-guard, stood at the foot of the staircase to the keep. Like the man at the gatehouse, he stiffened and saluted the King’s law officer.

  In the hall above, there was a scattering of people, fewer than on a normal working day. Most were castle servants, clerks and squires, who were clustered around the great fireplace as the morning was raw and frosty. De Wolfe ignored them and marched across to a small door where yet another man-at-arms stood: Richard de Revelle liked to display his importance with a full contingent of largely unnecessary guards.

  Nodding absently to the soldier, de Wolfe pushed open the heavy studded door and walked into the sheriff’s chamber. This was the room de Revelle used for his official duties, and beyond it were his living quarters. He spent most of his time here, going home at intervals to Lady Eleanor at either Tavistock or Revelstoke near Plympton. His wife rarely deigned to stay in Rougemont’s bleak accommodation, but at the moment was reluctantly in residence for the festival of Christ’s birth.

  When the coroner entered, the sheriff was seated behind a large table near the fireplace, reading a parchment roll. A clerk was hovering at his shoulder, murmuring and pointing out something on the document. Richard ignored de Wolfe’s arrival, took a quill pen from the table, impatiently scratched out a word and wrote something alongside. John felt a stab of jealousy at the casual literacy of his brother-in-law, who in his youth had attended the cathedral school at Wells. The clerk took the corrected roll, bowed and scurried out, leaving his master to acknowledge the coroner’s presence. ‘No more dead prebendaries this morning, John?’

  ‘It’s no matter for levity, Richard,’ snapped the coroner. ‘That nest of churchmen down there has a great deal of power.’ He pulled up a stool to the opposite side of the table and sat glowering at his brother-in-law. ‘I’m going down to the Close shortly to hold an inquest, not that it’s going to advance us much.’

  De Revelle smoothed his pointed beard with a heavily ringed hand. ‘The deceased seems an unlikely candidate for murder. Are you quite sure it wasn’t a felo de se?’

  De Wolfe groaned silently at the sheriff’s persistence in pursuing the suicide theory. ‘And strangled himself first and gripped his own arms enough to bruise them?’ he reminded his brother-in-law.

  The sheriff was silent. He would have had little interest in the death except that he was a close friend of Bishop Henry Marshal and Thomas de Boterellis, the Precentor, whose job it was to organise all the services at the cathedral. They would want a full investigation of this sudden demise of one of their canonical brethren.

  ‘Do you know anything of the man, Richard?’

  ‘Nothing at all. To my knowledge, I never saw him alive. He sounded a very retiring man of God.’ He looked across at the dark, bony man opposite. ‘Have you any idea why he should have been killed? If, in fact, he didn’t die by his own hand.’

  The coroner shrugged. ‘God knows – presumably! Have any of the town watch or your men-at-arms heard of any undesirables in the city at this holiday time?’

  De Revelle laughed derisively. ‘Undesirables? Half the bloody population of Exeter is undesirable! Just go around the taverns or take a walk at night into Bretayne, if you doubt me.’ Bretayne was the poorest district, down towards the river, named after the original British who had been pushed there centuries before when the Saxons invaded Exeter. ‘But I’ll ask Ralph Morin if he has any recent intelligence.’ He yelled for his guard.

  A few moments later the constable of Rougemont entered the chamber. He was a large, powerful man, with a weatherbeaten face above a forked grey beard and moustache. They discussed the killing for a time with this Viking-like figure, but the constable had nothing to suggest. ‘The usual riff-raff are in the town, but no one who is likely to strangle a respectable priest. Nothing was stolen, as far as you can make out?’

  De Wolfe shook his head. ‘He lived a modest life, unlike some of his fellow canons. There seemed nothing worth stealing in his house.’

  De Revelle stood up and paced restlessly to one of the narrow slits that did service as a window. He looked down at the inner ward, where two oxen were laboriously hauling a large-wheeled cart through the mire. ‘Personally I don’t give a clipped penny for the life of some idle old cleric, but the Bishop is going to want answers when he gets back from Gloucester in a few days’ time.’

  Morin pushed himself away from the fireplace on which he had been leaning, the huge sword that hung from his baldric clanking against a bucket of logs. ‘I’ll send Sergeant Gabriel out with a couple of men to twist a few arms – but if nothing was stolen, it’s useless making the usual search for men overspending in the taverns and brothels.’

  John uncoiled himself from his stool and moved to the door. ‘I’ll talk to as many of the holy men as I can today, before the inquest. And my sharp little clerk is trying to ferret out any episcopal gossip for me – he’s picked up a few hints already.’ The coroner looked pointedly at the sheriff, but de Revelle met his eye without a flicker.

  De Wolfe and his two acolytes stood at the great west end of the cathedral as the crowd streamed out after the high mass on this special morning of the year. Matilda had returned to St Olave’s for her devotions. John sometimes wondered if she fancied the parish priest there, even though he was a fat, unctuous creature.

  After the worshippers had dispersed from the cathedral steps along the many muddy paths of the Close, the clergy came out, eager for their late-morning lunch. With black cloaks over their vestments, they walked in small groups back to their various dwellings. Some went towards Canons’ Row, others to houses and lodgings scattered throughout the precinct. Many of the vicars and secondaries walked down to Priest Street1 on the other side of South Gate Street, not far from de Wolfe’s favourite haunt, the Bush tavern, whose landlady, Nesta, was his mistress.

  The coroner was lying in wait for several of the senior clerics, to question them about last night’s events. The Archdeacon had promised to collect those canons who had best known Robert de Hane and deliver them to him before they vanished for their midday meal.

  ‘What about the inquest?’ demanded Gwyn, whose duty it was to round up a jury, whose members would include anyone who might have information about the sudden departure of the canon from this earthly plane.

  ‘Better let them eat first – half have disappeared already,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Catch them before the next service begins. That’ll be vespers.’

  The priestly staff of the cathedral were supposed to attend no less than s
even services every day, beginning at midnight matins. The longest period free of devotions was between late morning and mid-afternoon.

  ‘There he is, with a few canons in tow,’ piped up Thomas, quickly making the sign of the Cross at such a concentration of senior clerics. Although he had been ejected from the priesthood, he ached to remain accepted as one of the brethren and he never missed an opportunity to be in their company and included in their conversations.

  The Archdeacon came out on to the wide steps, his spare figure enveloped in a hooded cloak, which hid the rich alb and chasuble underneath. As he moved towards the coroner, a trio of cloaked men sailed behind him. First was the Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, then two other canons talking together, whom de Wolfe recognised as Jordan de Brent and Roger de Limesi. They were all residents of the row of houses where the death had taken place the previous evening.

  John de Alencon greeted the coroner gravely, as did his three companions. ‘Let us go to the Chapter House for our discussion. It will be more private,’ he suggested.

  Before they turned to re-enter the cathedral, de Wolfe told Gwyn to go back to Canons’ Row, question any servants he could find and arrange the inquest there for two hours after noon. Then, motioning the delighted Thomas to accompany him, he followed the four priests inside. The congregation had now left and the vast, flagstoned nave was empty except for a few sparrows and crows that had flown in through the unglazed windows to pick up the crumbs left by the hundreds who had gathered for Christ Mass before the great choir-screen that separated them from the choir and chancel.

  The Archdeacon strode across to the south side of the building, where between the outer wall and the great box of the choir a passage passed the base of the south tower. Here, a small door led out to the Chapter House, a small two-storey wooden building. There was talk of replacing it in stone, once the Bishop had agreed to give up part of the garden of his palace, which lay immediately to the east.

  ‘We can use the library above,’ said de Alencon. ‘It is quiet – and most fitting, as poor de Hane spent most of his time there.’ He led the way into the bare room, the walls lined with pews, where the daily Chapter meetings were held. In one corner was a wooden staircase, leading to the upper floor, which acted as the library and archives of the diocese. They climbed up to find a musty chamber half filled with high writing-desks, each with a tall stool.

  Thomas de Peyne made himself useful by opening two of the shuttered windows to let in some light along with the keen east wind. It allowed them to see that shelves around the walls were crammed with parchments and vellum rolls, with more on the desks and piled in heaps on the floor. There were some sloping shelves along one wall, with heavy leatherbound books securely chained to rings screwed into the wood.

  The Archdeacon clucked in concern. ‘This place needs attention,’ he murmured.

  Jordan de Brent sighed. ‘The place is too small, brother. It’s high time it was rebuilt and enlarged. Last year we had a great influx of old manuscripts from many of the parish churches, sent here for safekeeping. It was on these that Robert de Hane was working.’

  Roger de Limesi nodded agreement. ‘I helped him when I could, but it was a hopeless task without proper storage.’ He waved a hand around the untidy chamber. De Limesi was a thin, almost cadaveric man, with two yellow teeth that protruded from below each end of his upper lip, fangs that gave the unfortunate man an almost animal-like appearance.

  ‘Find a seat, if you can,’ invited John de Alencon, clearing a space for himself on one of the stools.

  When they were all settled in a ragged circle, with Thomas standing dutifully at his master’s shoulder, de Wolfe began his questions. In deference to his rank, he addressed himself first to the Archdeacon. ‘We need to find some reason for the death of this mild-mannered colleague of yours. Can you throw any light at all on this?’

  De Alencon threw back his cloak, although the unheated room was as cold as the Close outside. ‘Even a few hours’ reflection has failed to bring anything fresh to my mind. Let us ask someone nearer to him if he has any comments.’ He turned his nobly ascetic face to Jordan de Brent, who was a complete contrast to his fellow canon Roger de Limesi: he was plump and had a round moon face with a rim of sandy hair around a shiny bald head. He wore a permanent smile of vague beneficence and it was something of a surprise to hear his deep, booming voice when he spoke.

  ‘He was indeed a gentle soul, devoted to the study of his beloved Church.’ De Brent waved a fat hand around the library. ‘For over a year he spent much of every day, when he was not at his devotions, sorting and studying the old records here, from all over Devon and Cornwall.’

  De Wolfe shifted impatiently on his stool. ‘But why should such a man come to an evil death?’

  Jordan de Brent lifted his ample shoulders in a Gallic gesture. ‘God alone knows, Crowner! But I will say that recently his manner seemed to change somewhat.’

  The Archdeacon’s lean face inclined towards him. ‘In what way, Brother Jordan?’

  ‘For several weeks now, he had been – what shall I say? – well, excited. Normally he was quiet to the point of being withdrawn, a dreamy, contemplative fellow, his mind locked in the past.’

  ‘And do you know the reason for this change?’ demanded the coroner.

  ‘No, I can’t tell you that. But since, say, the first Sunday in Advent, he worked even longer hours. He was brisker, his eye shone – though sometimes he seemed almost furtive when I passed near his desk.’

  ‘You are in charge of this place?’ asked John, lifting a finger to point around the archives.

  ‘“In charge” is, perhaps, putting it too strongly. But for eight years the responsibility of caring for the books and parchments seems to have devolved upon me, for want of anyone else to do it.’

  The Archdeacon broke in. ‘Brother Jordan is too modest – he is looked on by the Bishop and the rest of us as the cathedral archivist. He has a thankless task – but, then, we need no thanks on this side of the grave.’

  ‘Have you any notion as to what he was working on that might have wrought in him this change?’

  De Brent lifted a hand to smooth the non-existent hair on his shiny red pate. ‘I can only assume that he found something of historical interest in the old rolls he was studying. He had written a few tracts on old churches from Saxon times, so I suspect he had made some new discovery.’

  Again de Wolfe looked around the cluttered room. ‘Have you no idea what he was working on, to become so elated?’

  De Brent glanced at Roger de Limesi, but the haggard canon regarded him blankly, although he said, ‘We could look through his parchments, I suppose. He always sat at that desk.’ He indicated one in the far corner, piled with vellum rolls and loose sheets.

  ‘That will take us a day or two,’ observed the rubicund de Brent. ‘His main interest was the early foundation of Norman parishes and how they were taken over from the previous Saxon incumbents.’ He looked around rather warily, then relaxed when he had confirmed that no Saxons were present.

  The coroner scowled at the lack of progress he was making. Then, deferentially, Thomas spoke up. ‘I could examine all the documents to see if they hold any clue to this matter – or help the canons to do so,’ he added hastily, afraid that in his enthusiasm he might have spoken out of turn.

  Before they could either approve or deny his offer, the Precentor spoke for the first time. Thomas de Boterellis had a round face, with an unhealthy waxy sheen, in which were set small, cold eyes. ‘I have something to add, though it may not be very helpful. I refrained from speaking before as the matter concerns the confessional – but as poor de Hane is dead I suppose no harm can be done.’

  Five pairs of eyes swivelled towards where he sat astride his stool as if on a horse, his chasuble flowing down to the floor on each side.

  ‘Carefully now, brother, if it is a sensitive issue of religious faith,’ warned the Archdeacon.

  The other canon shook his head. ‘I
t is not that – and may have some slight bearing on this affair. Some weeks ago, I cannot recall exactly when, Robert de Hane came to me after a Chapter meeting, as I am – I was – his confessor.’

  John de Alencon broke in to explain to the coroner. ‘Each of us – even the Bishop himself – is allotted a fellow priest to take his confessions. Often we pair up to take each other’s sins and give absolution.’

  De Wolfe thought this a convenient system and was glad that the heretical Gwyn was not there to give one of his scornful grunts at these ecclesiastical tactics.

  The Precentor continued with his story. ‘We went as usual to kneel before the altar of St Richard and St Radegund at the west end of the cathedral. He confessed a few minor sins, which need not concern us, but then he unburdened himself of a more specific matter.’

  ‘Have a care, Thomas,’ cautioned the Archdeacon again, concerned about the inviolacy of the confessional.

  Locked in his obsessional habit, the coroner’s clerk crossed himself jerkily in anticipation of some dread revelation, but no heinous sin of the flesh was forthcoming.

  ‘De Hane said that he had been guilty of greed and covetousness, but that he had seen the error of his ways in time so that his actions now would be for the glorification of God through his Church in Exeter.’ De Boterellis stopped abruptly. ‘That is all that was relevant but, coming from someone with such a lack of avarice as de Hane, greed and covetousness seemed rather incongruous.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘And he was never more specific about what he meant?’ asked de Wolfe.

  ‘No, he refused to elaborate, saying that all would be made clear in the fullness of time. But people do say odd things under the emotion of the confessional.’