'Look at this, Crowner,' he muttered as he gave a last wipe with his rag. John shifted his gaze from the hands and saw that around the front of the neck across the prominence of the Adam's apple was a livid line the width of his little finger. It passed back under the angles of the jaw and disappeared behind the ears.
'Turn him back on to his face!' barked the coroner, and when his officer had done so they looked at the back of the neck. When the skin was wiped clean, they saw that the dark lines, which had chafed the skin into brownish grooves, crossed over each other at the nape of the neck.
'Looks like a thin rope, with a spiral pattern,' observed Gwyn.
Anticipating his master, he turned the body over yet again and they both studied the face. It was in good condition as far as decay was concerned, as though the weather was mild it was still typically April and together with being buried in cold earth no decomposition had yet set in. The face was puffy and reddish-blue with congested blood, especially the lips. More of the tiny pinpoint bleeding spots that John had seen in the eyes were clustered around the mouth and temples.
Experts in modes of death from two decades on the battlefield and eighteen months of dealing with the corpses of Devonshire, the coroner and his officer had no doubt how this young man had died. John looked up at the ring of expectant faces looking down into the grave.
'He was strangled by a rope, held by someone standing behind him!' grated de Wolfe. 'So much for your drowned sailor, portreeve! Keeper, you were right: this is murder!'
Sir Luke de Casewold smiled smugly. 'I knew it from the outset, though the earth prevented me from seeing that strangling mark. But what innocent death ends up in a hole behind a bush, eh?'
De Wolfe rose to his feet, feeling the twinge in his bottom that he had mercifully forgotten for the past few minutes. 'Have you a dead-house or somewhere where we can lay this poor fellow until I hold the inquest?' He directed his question at the whole group of onlookers, but it was the old priest who answered.
'We have a shed in the churchyard where we lay cadavers awaiting burial. Will that suffice, sir?'
Within minutes, a handcart was fetched from the quayside. It stank of fish but was good enough to transport the corpse past the gawping villagers back to St Michael's Church, a sturdy stone edifice that had replaced the earlier wooden chapel of Saxon times. When the body was safely parked in the ramshackle lean-to against the north wall of the building, with a couple of barley sacks thrown over it, John turned to face the men who had trailed behind the cart.
'Now I need to get some sense out of you all!' he rasped, glowering around them, some obviously not disposed to be particularly cooperative.
'What the hell do we know about it?' growled the bailiff. 'He's a stranger here. I've never set eyes upon him before.' Elias Palmer, the lanky portreeve, nodded his agreement, for he seemed to go along with anything Edward Northcote decreed.
'We need to know who he is, as soon as possible,' said de Casewold with an air of authority. 'The coroner here has to enquire into his death without delay.'
Again John was exasperated that the self-important Keeper seemed intent on doing his work for him. 'There are many issues to be settled, apart from his identity, though I admit that is of prior urgency.' He fixed his stony stare on the parish priest. 'Father Henry, you say he is not one of your flock from this village. Have you any other suggestions?'
The cleric rubbed his bald pate as if to stimulate his ancient brain. 'He was buried more than a mile from the river mouth, so is unlikely to have been washed up from the open sea.'
'He showed no signs of being in the water - at least not for more than an hour or two. And he certainly didn't drown!' snapped de Wolfe.
'It suggests that he is from the locality, if he's not a shipwrecked sailor,' mused the priest. 'Yet he wears a seaman's garb'.
Gwyn leant towards his master. 'If he's not from this port, what about those other havens nearby?' he whispered hoarsely.
John nodded at the suggestion. 'What about the village on the other side of the river, almost on the shore?'
The portreeve seemed anxious to keep in favour with all sides of the debate.
'Seaton, you mean, Crowner?' he asked eagerly. 'There are certainly ships and shipmen there, though most are fishermen. He could have come from there, I suppose.'
'And equally from Sidmouth or Budleigh - even from Lyme, in the next county!' countered Northcote, intent on being difficult.
De Wolfe next addressed the Keeper, determined to show him who was in charge here. 'I suggest, Sir Luke, that you send your clerk across the river to enquire if any man has gone missing from there in the past few days. The state of this corpse suggests that he has been dead less than a week, even though cold earth slows down the pace of corruption. '
De Casewold looked slightly affronted at being told what to do by a law officer he considered to be of equal status, but he made no protest and sent Hugh Bogge, with one of the villagers, to find his way across the water to Seaton.
'Meanwhile, I and my officer and clerk need some sustenance after the long ride from Exeter,' declared the coroner. 'Where can we be fed and rested for an hour?'
Normally, a king's officer such as de Wolfe would claim hospitality from the local lord in his castle or manor house - or failing that in an abbey or priory. As Axmouth had none of these, it fell to the bailiff to grudgingly offer his own house for the purpose, rather than suggest one of the many taverns that catered mainly for seafarers. 'I can't offer much. I have no wife to cater for me, only an idle servant,' he warned.
John and his two companions followed him from the church back up the short street that lay within the walls to one of the better buildings in the village. Luke de Casewold attached himself to them without invitation, as did Elias Palmer.
Like most of the other cottages, the bailiff's house was built of cob plastered within stout oak frames, but it was in good condition, with fresh whitewash on the walls and new thatch on the roof. It consisted of one large room, the end partitioned off for his bed, a luxury indicative of his position in the community. In view of the mild weather, only a small fire glowed in the clay-lined pit, ringed with stones, in the centre of the floor. What little smoke there was wafted upwards to find its way out under the eaves, as there was no chimney. No cooking was done here, as there was a separate kitchen-hut behind the house, with a larger fire tended by his servant.
A table with benches and a few stools completed the furniture, except for another long table against the wall which bore tally-sticks and some parchments as well as quill pens and an ink-bottle. These caught Thomas's eye as he entered, as it was unusual to find anyone in a village who was literate, apart from the priest. Edward Northcote noticed the clerk's interest and gruffly explained.
'Elias, my portreeve, uses this room to make his manifests, the lists of cargo going in and out of the port. He's the only man who can read and write, apart from the old priest.'
He waved them to the table, and his servant, a toothless old man with a bad limp, brought in clay cups and a pitcher of ale. While they waited for him to bring some food, John enquired about the port. 'I've not been here before. It seems a busy, thriving place.'
The portreeve hastened to broaden the coroner's knowledge, the pride in his voice being almost proprietorial. 'Axmouth has long been an important harbour, sir. We know that the Romans used it, but doubtless it was known before that.'
As usual, the erudite Thomas could not resist airing his own knowledge. 'Indeed it was! The classical writers tell of Phoenicians sailing here to collect tin, long before the birth of Our Saviour.' He paused to cross himself at the mention of the Holy Name.
The bailiff, his own pride in his little town not to be denied, nodded his agreement. 'It is one of the major ports of England, with its estuary safely tucked under the long headland behind the town. We rarely have fewer than half a score of vessels moored here during the sailing season.'
'What is their main trade, then?' asked John
. His interest was not prompted by his role as coroner but as a partner in a wool-exporting business with Hugh de Relaga, one of the portreeves of Exeter. They used the Wharves of that city to send their bales abroad, mainly to Flanders and the Rhine.
The portreeve answered him, a frown on his narrow face. 'On the outward voyages, fine limestone from the quarries of Beer, but mostly wool, Crowner, though this tax that King Richard has imposed has begun to stifle the trade.'
De Wolfe caught a warning glance pass from the bailiff to Elias Palmer and assumed it was a hint that it might be undiplomatic to criticise the monarch in front of two of his law officers.
'And what do they bring in to this place?' asked John. The bailiff shrugged his big shoulders. 'All manner of goods, depending on where they come from. French wine from Barfleur or Bordeaux, dried fruit from France - and of course finished cloth from Flanders or the Rhine.'
John nodded. It was the same with the ships he and his partner employed, though much tin was also exported from Exeter, being one of the smelting and assay towns.
Their talk was interrupted by the old servant bringing in a board bearing a haunch of cold mutton, two loaves, butter and cheese. He set it on the table, and Northcote cut thick slices of meat with his dagger, laying them on the board for the others to take. The portreeve slashed the loaves into quarters, and each man started to eat, picking up the food with their fingers or with small eating knives from the pouches on their belts.
'I live simply,' growled Northcote. 'I have been a widower these past five years and live alone, apart from that old fellow in the kitchen.'
'You keep the records and accounts, bailiff?' ventured Thomas, nodding towards the other table with its parchments and writing materials.
'I am the prior's creature in that respect. He is insistent that everything is properly recorded.' Edward Northcote picked up another piece of mutton and held it before his lips before continuing. 'The portreeve here does most of the organising of the town's trade and deals with the shipmasters, and as I am unlettered he also scribes all the records.'
They fell silent as the rest of the food was devoured.
Then the ale-pots were refilled and Sir John returned to the matter in hand.
'My officer and I will finish our examination of the body, then I wish to see that every effort is made to put a name to the victim.'
Luke de Casewold, who had been quiet for the duration of the meal, looked doubtful. 'I doubt my clerk will return this afternoon. By the time he crosses the river, makes his enquiries in Seaton and gets back again, you will not have time to return to Exeter tonight.'
Though the coroner would dearly have liked to get back to the city before the gates closed at the dusk curfew, he accepted that their horses would not relish a forced march after already covering twenty miles that morning. He resigned himself to a mattress in one of the inns, no hardship for such seasoned campaigners as Gwyn and himself, though Thomas would probably whine at the discomfort. He told de Casewold that he would stay over and hold an inquest in the morning, hoping that the corpse's identity would be established by then.
'For now, I will just spend an hour looking at the quayside and questioning some of the shipmen. If this poor lad was a sailor, they may know him.'
The coroner left the bailiff, the parish priest and portreeve together in the house and walked with his assistants and the Keeper of the Peace back to the church. Here Gwyn stripped the clothing from the corpse and, together with John, examined it closely from head to toe. The young man was slim but had plenty of muscle in his arms and legs. His dark hair was plastered to his scalp and forehead by the dampness of his makeshift grave, but there was nothing abnormal to be seen apart from the ligature mark around the neck and the clear signs of strangulation in the face. Gwyn searched the scanty clothing and found nothing useful. 'No belt or pouch, not a coin or badge to help us,' he muttered, as for the sake of decency he pulled the garments back over the corpse.
'How long would you say he's been dead?' ruminated de Wolfe. 'A few days?' He often had a contest with his officer, both reckoning themselves experts in all aspects of death.
'His death stiffness has passed off. It was cool in that grave, but I doubt he was croaked earlier than about Saturday.'
It was now Tuesday, and de Wolfe nodded his agreement. He turned to Thomas, who was hanging about outside the mortuary shed, still queasy about dead bodies even after a year and a half as coroner's clerk.
'There's nothing to write on your roll until we hold the inquest, so I suggest you find Father Henry again and see if he has any useful village gossip. You are usually good at wheedling information from your fellow clerics.' Thomas wandered off, not sure whether the coroner's remark was a compliment or a jibe.
When Gwyn had covered up the corpse again, still lying on the fish-barrow, they began walking towards the quayside. Luke de Casewold still strode alongside them, as John was unable to shake him off. He could hardly order a fellow law officer to go away, especially as this was an obvious murder on the Keeper's own territory. No one seemed quite clear how far the functions and powers of these new officials extended, as far as de Wolfe could make out; only a few knights had been appointed around the country on a somewhat random basis, depending on who could be persuaded to take on the job. Like the coroners, they were unpaid, with expenses doled out from the sheriff's funds, but no salary. The trio walked out through the other town gate, just beyond the church. Here the road turned sharply to the left and carried on along the water's edge, where, on their right, half a dozen ships were settling on to the mud as the tide receded. On the landward side, there was a narrow belt of land under the loom of the large ridge above the estuary. Here were more cottages and taverns, as well as barn-like buildings with thatched or stone-tiled roofs.
'These are storehouses for goods either brought in or waiting to be loaded on to the ships,' said Luke helpfully. 'Though that one is the fish market.'
He pointed to an open-fronted shed where a dozen men and women were gutting fish and dropping them into baskets. The estuary here was wide and open to the sea, and on the other side the villages of Seaton and Fleet also had small ships beached along their banks. Nearer the sea, which shimmered in the distance in the early-afternoon sun, John could see pebble and shingle banks around a tiny island set off the shore at Seaton.
As they walked, John saw that some parts of the water's edge had been strengthened by stone, forming wharves where the cogs could be tied up at high tide and supported when it dropped, so that loading and unloading could be carried on more easily. Elsewhere, at low tide, the vessels leant over a little on their keels, but still the crew and other labourers managed to hurry up and down planks laid to the shore with their sacks, bales and kegs. It was a busy scene, with some of the cargoes being stacked on the ground or loaded into the many ox-carts that trundled back and forth. Still more was being moved in and out of the warehouses on the other side of the track, and John was particularly interested in one that was half filled with bales of wool. Many of these were being carried across the road to a larger ship, to be stacked in the single hold that gaped in the middle of her deck.
The tall, gaunt figure of the king's coroner received many curious stares from both the porters and seamen. His hunched figure, dressed all in black, was an unusual sight on a harbour wharf, especially as he was accompanied by a ginger giant with a large sword. The Keeper of the Peace aroused no interest, as he had been a frequent and usually unwelcome visitor to Axmouth since his appointment.
They walked the length of the quayside and continued for almost half a mile down to where the estuary met the open sea, beneath the cliffs of the headland rising on their left. It was a calm day, and only low waves rippled in across the wide harbour mouth, petering out as they travelled upstream.
'This place would look mightily different in a westerly gale,' observed Gwyn, his maritime past making him a confident expert. 'But these vessels would be safe enough, especially if they moved further upr
iver if it got really rough.'
De Wolfe grunted. He was not much interested in the ships, but rather in their crews. 'That corpse must have been a seaman, dressed as he was,' he ruminated aloud. 'We should make some enquiries of some of these shipmasters.'
'Checking on gossip in the alehouses might be the quickest way,' suggested his officer, ever keen to find some excuse to enter a tavern. The only tavern John was keen to enter was the Bush in Exeter to see his mistress, but that was twenty miles away.
'You go, then, Gwyn; see what you can discover. I'll have words with a few of these shipmen and we'll meet in the village in an hour.'
With the Keeper still in tow, he loped back to the cog that was loading wool, as Gwyn vanished across the road to a shack that had a wilting bush hanging over the doorway. The blunt vessel was leaning a little towards him, but men were padding across from the storehouse over the road, each with a large bale of wool on his back, securely trussed with coarse twine.
As they clambered up the gangplank to the deck, a man in a russet tunic and green breeches stood at its foot, staring at each load and muttering to himself.
'Who's this fellow?' grunted de Wolfe.
'That's John Capie,' answered Luke de Casewold. 'He's the tally-man who reckons up the Customs dues though I suspect that far more gets past him than he records!' he added cynically.
John looked more closely and saw that the sallow-faced Capie had a long cord in his hands, which had a multitude of knots tied along its length. As each man hurried past with his burden, his fingers moved on another knot, his lips moving as he counted.
The coroner nodded in understanding. Now he knew how his own export taxes were calculated on the quaysides of Exeter and Topsham. The lucrative wool business he shared with Hugh de Relaga would be even more lucrative if they could avoid the Customs dues that the king's Council had imposed upon England in order to pay for the Lionheart's adventures overseas. Like de Casewold, he had his suspicions that not all the tax due on the bales that sailed out of the River Exe was actually declared, but this was something he did not wish to know about.
The Manor of Death Page 4
