Crowner's Quest (7 page)

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. ‘It 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.’

The Archdeacon had been staring at the cobwebbed roof-beams with an air of abstraction, but now brought down his bright grey eyes to fix them upon the coroner. ‘I wonder if another small fact fits into this puzzle,’ he mused.

The others waited expectantly.

‘A week ago, I was discussing our finances with the Treasurer, John of Exeter, partly to forecast our income in the new year that is about to begin. Among many other matters, he said that he had had a rather vague promise of a substantial sum from one of our canons. I didn’t press the matter to ask from whom it had come, as it is not uncommon for the more affluent of our brothers to make such donations – but it may tie in with de Hane’s promise to his confessor.’

Privately, the coroner felt all this talk of canonical riches too vague to be of any use, but so far it was all he had by way of background on the dead man. ‘So do you think that Robert de Hane had some hidden wealth, in spite of his outwardly modest style of living, and that he was killed in furtherance of its theft?’ he suggested.

De Boterellis shook his pudgy face. ‘When he confessed to me in such an indefinite way, the matter seemed in the future, that he was regretful for aspiring to keep what was going to come to him, rather than what he already possessed.’

There was another thoughtful silence among the circle of men perched on their high stools, until Jordan de Brent’s deep voice broke it. ‘One trivial matter,’ said the archivist. ‘Our brother Robert rarely left the cathedral Close. He was either at his devotions in the cathedral, or home, or here in the library. Yet in the past three weeks he vanished several times for a day on the back of a pony and returned with mud-spattered feet at dusk.’

‘And you say that was unusual?’ asked de Wolfe, who spent half his life on the back of a horse.

‘Very much so – he was a most sedentary person. I’ve no idea where he went, he merely told me that he would not be here in the library on those few days. His vicar-choral and secondary must have stood in for him at services. They or his manservants might know where he went.’

This added scrap of information seemed to exhaust the meagre pool of knowledge about the late Canon de Hane, and after de Wolfe had arranged with Jordan de Brent for Thomas to sift through de Hane’s manuscripts the hungry priests dispersed to their midday meals. The coroner and his clerk walked across to the house where the death had taken place. In it, there was an air of sadness that ill-befitted the festival of Christ’s birth. The body still lay on the bed as the coroner had yet to hold the inquest. Afterwards it would be removed to lie in reverence before the high altar in the cathedral.

Gwyn was in the kitchen, a lean-to built against the back of the house, projecting into the narrow garden. Most of the canons’ houses, originally wooden, had been refashioned in stone. They were long, narrow dwellings, one room wide with a main hall in front, then several small bedrooms, and various nooks and crannies for lodging guests and accommodating the resident secondary priest. The few male servants slept either in passages or in the shacks in the garden, which also had a stable, as well as the wash-house and the privy where the body had been found.

With the coroner’s officer were two servants of the deceased canon, as well as a young secondary and a vicar who deputised for de Hane at many of the daily services. They all looked uneasily at the swarthy coroner as he swept into the kitchen.

Gwyn eased his huge frame off the corner of the table where he had been sitting. ‘No one seems to have any light to shed on this affair, Crowner,’ he growled, scratching his crotch vigorously, a habit he had akin to Thomas’s tic.

De Wolfe’s black brows descended as he scowled round the assembled faces. ‘I’ve heard that the canon made some unaccustomed excursions on horseback out of Exeter these past few weeks. Did any of you accompany him?’

One of the servants, a young man named David, with muscles bulging through the sleeves of his plain hessian tunic, took a step forward. ‘I made his pony ready for him, sir, and offered to go with him, but the Canon was most insistent that he went alone.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘It was unusual for him to go anywhere at all, Crowner,’ replied David, who seemed too bright and intelligent to be a lowly yard-servant.

Then, unwilling to be left out of the picture, his older colleague cut in, ‘Though we have two good horses and a pony in the stable, they are hardly ever used. Their hoofs have to be trimmed for lack of wear on the road.’

‘Have you any notion of where he went?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘It couldn’t have been very far,’ said David. ‘The Canon, God rest his soul, was a timid horseman. The nag usually walked for him and rarely got up to a trot. On these trips, he never left the Close until the ninth hour of the morning, and he was back before the city gates shut at dusk, which is early this time of year.’