The Manor of Death (13 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

In which the coroner visits the Bush

John de Wolfe did not in fact get to see his family at their home manor that day. When he reached the alehouse, he found - wonder of wonders - Gwyn standing outside, staring at the small estuary where the stream poured out across the beach into the sea. The tide was now right out and the vessels were high and dry, tilted over slightly on their flat keels. He realised from the low water that he had been with Hilda much longer than he had anticipated.

'We could easily get across the ford at Teignmouth,' said his officer. 'But we'll not get back again! By the time you reach Stoke and have a decent talk to your kin there, the tide will be in full flood on the return journey. We'd never reach Exeter before curfew.'

There was no argument with this, as it would take too long to go up the Teign on the other bank to the first bridge and then find the inland road back to the city. Resignedly, John went with Gwyn to get their horses and soon they were back on the road. This time they avoided Kenton and went over the marshes to the ferry, where they and their horses were carried across the Exe to Topsham on what was little better than a large raft. They reached Exeter's South Gate much earlier than John had expected, and rode straight up to the castle, where de Wolfe decided to call on the sheriff and bring him up to date on events.

Henry de Furnellis was a veteran of even more wars than de Wolfe, a big man of sixty with a face like a sad hound, jowls hanging below his chin. He had been sheriff previously, as when Richard de Revelle was suspended two years earlier he had been appointed for a short time as a stopgap, until de Revelle was reinstated. After Richard's second dismissal, de Furnellis was again wheeled in, but he fervently hoped that it would be for a short time, as he wished to return to retirement at his manor near Crediton. Most of his time was occupied with sorting out the finances of the county, which was one of the sheriff's main responsibilities on behalf of the king. During his predecessor's shrievalty, de Revelle had deliberately obscured the true accounts, as part of his methodical embezzlement. The other prime task, the maintenance of law and order in Devon, Henry was content to leave to the coroner, even though it was not strictly his duty.

John found the grizzled knight in his chamber at the side of the large hall that occupied most of the lower floor of the keep. Below was the dismal undercroft, which was both the castle prison, storehouse and quarters for Stigand, the obese gaoler and torturer. Above the hall were various rooms for clerks and living accommodation for Ralph Morin, the garrison commander, for Rougemont had been a royal castle ever since it was built by William the Bastard after the 1068 rebellion.

Henry de Furnellis was listening to a long and boring explanation by his chief clerk Elphin about evasion of taxes by a manor-lord near Okehampton. He greeted John's arrival with relief and waved the sour-faced Elphin away to obtain a respite from the accounts. Inevitably, the wine flask and cups were produced and parchments pushed aside on the sheriff's large table to make room for them.

When John had lowered himself into a sling-backed leather chair opposite Henry, they chatted for a while, then he told him of the events of the past couple of days, concentrating on the strange goings-on along the River Axe.

'It's not only this murder, but the rumours of corrupt practices there,' concluded de Wolfe. 'Doubtless there's much evasion of the king's Customs, but the possibility of piracy is more serious.'

The sheriff ran a hand through his wiry grey hair and glanced shrewdly at the coroner. 'They're a strange lot over there, right on the edge of the county. A mile or two further and they'd be Dorset men, and you know what that means!'

It was a hoary old joke that those in the next county were all rogues and villains, most of them being not quite right in the head. It arose from the bad reputation of the shipmen of Lyme, who had often preyed upon both fishermen and ships from Devon.

'Who suggested that there might be piracy involved?' asked Henry, refilling their pewter wine cups.

'This new Keeper of the Peace, Luke de Casewold. He's a pain in the arse!' added John, suddenly aware that the phrase had personal relevance to himself, though thankfully his backside seemed to be improving by the hour.

The sheriff nodded, leaning back in his chair. 'Luke de Casewold, eh? I installed him in the post some months ago, on the strength of an Article of Eyre that came from the royal justices at the last session in Taunton. There are half a dozen of them now scattered around the county. There should be more, but no one wants to take on the job. Like you coroners, they are forbidden to take any salary, though I suspect they make up for it in other ways!'

'I doubt this fellow is corrupt; he's too keen to make his mark,' grunted John. 'Wants to chase every neer-do-well in Devon but has no one to back him up. The bailiffs and serjeants in those Hundreds over there don't seem keen to give him much help in keeping the peace.'

'What do you intend doing about it?' This confirmed John's impression that the sheriff had no inclination to stir himself out of his chamber to keep law and order, when he had a coroner stupid enough to do the job for him.

'Nothing can be done, unless some new information comes to hand,' he growled. 'I'm waiting for this cog
The Tiger
to return to Axmouth, so that I can talk to the shipmaster about the dead youth. I've not much hope of anything useful coming from it; these sailors will hardly give you a good morning, let alone confess to a murder.'

As Elphin came back into the room clutching a sheaf of parchments and looking accusingly at his master, Henry sighed. 'I'd better get back to work, John. Maybe de Casewold will turn something up. He seemed a ferreting kind of man, by what I recall of him.'

John threw down the last of his wine and stood up. 'He'd better watch his step over there, or he'll end up floating face down in the river,' he grumbled.

On leaving Rougemont, John walked to North Street through the back lanes of the city, intent on visiting an apothecary to make sure that his boil was really on the mend. Of the several men in Exeter who claimed proficiency in pharmacy, Richard Lustcote was the acknowledged leader, being warden of their guild and the longest-established apothecary in the city.

An avuncular man with greying hair, he kept premises on the ground floor of his house in North Street, where a journeyman and two apprentices were kept busy making potions, lotions and all manner of salves to sell to the more affluent citizens. The poorer majority were content to seek their medical care from local 'wise women' and from members of their family who claimed to possess some degree of familiarity with herbal remedies. There were no doctors in Exeter, the nearest thing to a physician being provided by the priories.

The coroner entered the aroma-reeking shop of the apothecary, its walls lined with shelves and compartments filled with dried herbs and packets of powders and salves. Lustcote sat at a table, decanting liquids into phials; in the room behind, several youths were rolling pills and pounding concoctions in a pestle and mortar. Richard was an old friend of John's, and after a brief explanation of his complaint the coroner was taken behind a curtain in a corner of the room to expose his nether regions to the apothecary.

After some gentle prodding and probing, accompanied by a muttered commentary to himself, Lustcote fetched a pottery jar of some green foul-smelling salve and applied it liberally to the brawny swelling on the coroner's buttock. Covering it with a pad of wool, he bound it in place with a long length of linen and presented the pot of ointment to his friend.

'Get someone to replace this each day under a new pad,' he advised. 'It's getting better slowly, so it'll not turn into a purulent abscess now. In a week it will be entirely gone.'

John pulled up his hose and lowered his grey tunic back to calf level, then looked at the pot suspiciously. 'What's in this stuff?' he asked.

'It's quite innocuous,' said Lustcote reassuringly. 'Strong sea salt to draw out the poison, together with pounded leaves of marshmallow, cabbage and a little myrrh.'

As John was fumbling in the scrip on his belt for the two pence that was all that the apothecary requested for his fee, he asked him where he obtained all the raw materials for his medicaments.

'Most come from the fields and woods of the countryside,' replied Lustcote. 'I send my apprentices out to seek them, but others I buy from dealers whose trade it is to collect them. And of course some have to be imported. They can be very expensive, like the myrrh that's in that salve I gave you, which comes from Africa.'

John was intrigued by the notion that some exotic substance from the almost mythical continent of Africa could find its way to his left buttock. 'How in God's name do you get hold of such rare products?' he asked.

'There are some dealers who supply me at intervals but I also give lists to certain merchants who have ships trading across the Channel. They bring me certain goods I need - I don't ask how they get hold of them.' He winked and tapped the side of his nose as if half revealing some secret.

A small warning bell rang in John's head. 'Do these marvellous substances carry any levy or tax when they come into England?' he asked.

Richard shrugged. 'I don't ask. I just pay the price demanded. Merchants and ship owners in this city pass on the lists to their traders, and in the fullness of time the packages arrive.'

'And which merchants would be involved in this trade?' queried John, wearing what he hoped was a guileless expression.

Richard Lustcote began to wonder what earthly interest the coroner could have in the means by which he obtained his medicaments, but he had no reason to prevaricate. 'There are a few of them. Edward of Yeovil for one - and some come on the ships of Robert de Helion, whom I know quite well.'

This name cropping up again made de Wolfe decide to call upon the merchant at some early opportunity. Though he had no idea if medical supplies carried any Customs duty under the new financial regime of Hubert Walter, the rather secretive manner of the apothecary made it worthwhile to enquire, as Luke de Casewold had seemed convinced that Axmouth was involved in some dubious business.

With his bottom now more comfortable, John bade his friend goodbye and walked back to Martin's Lane in the gathering dusk. After his supper, the usual silent meal opposite a morose Matilda, John sat for a while staring into the glowing logs of a small fire in the hearth. He had his customary cup of wine in one hand, the other fondling Brutus's ears as he squatted beside his master's knee. Predictably, it was not long before Matilda called for her maid Lucille and went off to her solar, to be undressed for bed after a long session on her knees in prayer.

John gave her another half-hour, then rose and, with his hound padding expectantly after him, took his sword and a short cloak from the vestibule and stepped out into the lane. When he turned right into the Close, the two great towers of the cathedral were dark silhouettes against the remaining pale light in the western sky, which was clear enough to give a chill to the evening. One of the bishop's proctors was lighting the pitch-brand that hung in an iron ring over Bear Gate on the other side of the wide burial ground that fronted the great church. John walked across towards it, past the imposing West Front of the building, Brutus ambling from place to place, cocking his leg against any projecting structure.

The Close was a warren of overgrown burial mounds, piles of rubbish and a few open grave-pits, ready for tomorrow's corpses. Beggars crouched in corners, and respectable citizens were loath to walk alone there at night, for fear of the cutpurses that often lurked in the darkness. John had no fear for himself, as it would be a very bold robber who would tackle this tall, formidable man with a sword at his belt and a large hound at his heels.

He strode the familiar path out into Southgate Street , and then across to the smaller lanes that sloped down towards the western wall and the river beyond. Crossing Milk Lane, he went down Priest Street, where Thomas lodged, and then turned into the short lane that joined it to Smythen Street, where the iron workers had their forges. This lane had almost no buildings, as they had burnt down in a fire some years earlier, and the empty ground around the Bush Inn gave it its name of Idle Lane. The tavern, itself substantially rebuilt after a fire the previous year that had almost claimed the life of its landlady, was a whitewashed stone structure with a steep thatched roof that came down to head height. A low door flanked by two shuttered window-openings graced the front, with a large fenced yard at the back containing Nesta's brew-shed, kitchen, privy and pigsty.

De Wolfe bent his head to enter the low room that occupied all the ground floor, making for his favourite bench at a table near the central firepit. It was sheltered by a wattle hurdle from the draught from the front door and was so well known as the coroner's personal seat that anyone already sitting there would hastily move out of his way. Brutus slid under the table, aware that he would soon get a bone or some scraps from a platter, while John eased himself down on to Lustcote's new woollen pad. Almost immediately, a quart jar of best ale was set in front of him by the potboy. This was old Edwin, who had not been a boy for fifty years - an old soldier with a crippled foot and one eye, the other being a ghastly white globe in a scarred socket, the legacy of a spear-thrust in one of the Irish wars. The garrulous old fellow saluted John in semi-military style, calling him 'captain' by virtue of their being in the same campaign in France many years ago.