'Did anything occur on that voyage that might have led to his murder?'
Martin Rof turned to spit contemptuously into the river mud. 'I don't know what goes on in the forecastle, man! Maybe one of the crew had some sport with the pretty lad - how would I know? He left the ship with his voyage money and was due back two days later, but he never showed up. We had to find another shipman to take his place ... not that he was much bloody use, anyway.'
'What d'you mean, not much use?' snapped de Wolfe.
'He was not cut out to be a sailor! I heard tell he wanted to be a flaming priest! Soft he was, seasick half the time and too afraid to climb his own height up the rigging! Just as well he never came back, he was a dead weight.'
'He was soon dead, right enough,' retorted de Wolfe. 'Strangled and buried! Now, let's have it straight, did anything happen on that trip to make him a target for some killer? We know he was upset and acting strangely when he got home to Seaton after leaving this vessel.'
Martin shrugged indifferently. 'I told you, I'm a shipmaster, not a bloody nursemaid! I don't know - nor do I care - what goes on amongst the crew.'
John made one last effort to get some information. 'Where did you come from on that voyage?'
Rof's pale blue eyes glared at the coroner. 'What's that got to do with anything? We took wool out of here to Dunkerque, then called at Barfleur on the way home to pick up some wine, though we had a very light load returning - didn't earn us much money. Satisfied?'
De Wolfe was far from satisfied, but short of getting Martin Rof put to the torture under the keep of Rougemont there was little more he could do. He made a final effort. 'What about your crew? Are these the same ones who sailed with Makerel that time?'
'They are indeed!' boomed the captain. 'You can ask them the same silly bloody questions if you like,' he sneered. He turned and yelled at his men in a voice like thunder, calling each by name. Half a dozen came to the bulwarks or stopped carrying bales up the plank to listen to what their master had to say.
'Tell the crowner here what he wants to know, lads,' he said in a jeering voice. 'Did any of you upset young Simon? Maybe somebody bent the ship's boy over the rail for bit of fun, eh?'
Their coarse laughter was cut off by de Wolfe's voice, which easily matched Rof's for volume and carried a sting like a whiplash. 'Enough of that, damn you all! This is serious - a young lad came to a shameful death! Now, do any of you have any knowledge of what may have happened to him, either before or after he left this ship?'
There was a silence, in which each man looked at his fellow and shook his head. They were a ruffianly bunch, even for shipmen, and John could sense straight away that even if they had anything to tell, he would never hear it from them. With a gesture of disgust, he turned away, with a valedictory threat. 'If I find that you are concealing anything from me, it will be the worse for you. So think on that!'
He stalked away and, feeling the need for some sustenance, led the way to the Harbour Inn, just inside the lower gate, opposite the church. A surly innkeeper sold them some indifferent ale and cider and put two loaves, butter and cheese on a table, along with a wooden board carrying a half-eaten leg of mutton. De Wolfe had the distinct impression that the king's law officers were unwelcome in Axmouth.
The five men sat around the food in the dingy taproom, ignored by the half-dozen others who crouched on stools or leant against the lime-washed walls. They hacked at the bread and meat with their eating knives and discussed in low voices their lack of progress.
'Now that we are here, I'm going across to Seaton to see if that widow has any further idea what was ailing her son before he died,' said John. 'Thomas, you can tackle that parish priest over there once again. Someone must know something, for Christ Jesu's sake!' His voice betrayed his exasperation at the wall of silence that seemed to surround this village.
'Looking in that warehouse got you no further,' observed Gwyn to Luke de Casewold. He was fond of baiting the choleric Keeper, who he thought was a rash idiot.
'I doubt that anything in the other buildings would tell us anything either,' replied Luke. 'False listings are easy to make and I suspect that the portreeve is an expert at deception. Looking at a pile of goods tells us nothing, it seems. All of it may have been pillaged out at sea and brought in in the guise of legitimate cargo.'
As they finished the last of the food, de Wolfe asked the Keeper what he intended to do next, now that all his avenues of enquiry seemed to have run dry.
'That pedlar who was killed - he must have fallen foul of an illicit load of goods,' exclaimed de Casewold. 'They have to move all their loot out of this village or it is worth nothing to them, so I'm going to lie in wait and see what trundles out of this cursed place at dead of night - and where it ends up.'
The coroner was worried that the fellow might rashly stick his nose into a wasps' nest and come to serious harm.
'Have a care, de Casewold! Someone has already seen off a shipman and a pedlar, with little compunction. Why don't I suggest to the sheriff that he sends a few men-at-arms to back you up?'
Luke made a deprecating gesture. 'I can spy out the situation first, Sir John. Then if I detect a pattern, maybe your idea might be the answer. Set up an ambush with king's men and catch the bastards in the act!'
Their uninspiring meal over, de Wolfe gave the sullen landlord a couple of pennies and they left the alehouse, where Luke and his clerk took themselves off up the valley towards Axminster. John and his companions made their way to a rickety wooden jetty just outside the wharf gate and spent another half-penny on a ferry-ride across to Seaton. The tide had just turned, and the old man who rowed the flat-bottomed boat had to pull manfully to broach the incoming flood. On the other side of the wide estuary, the village of Seaton stretched down to a stony beach, where fishing boats were pulled up on the pebbles. Thomas went off to the whitewashed church to seek the priest, while Gwyn asked directions to the cottage of Widow Makerel.
This turned out to be a small hut near the strand, with a roof of flat stones to ward off the winds that swept in from the sea. Behind, they could see the chalk cliffs of Beer, riddled with quarry caves from which came the white stone that formed much of Exeter's cathedral.
In the cottage's single room they found Edith Makerel gutting some fish that a neighbour had given her, while the fat girl who had been Simon's betrothed was carrying in wood for the fire that glowed in a pit in the middle of the room. Against one wall a young man lolled on a bench, which together with a table and a couple of stools formed the only furniture in the house, the corner beds being bags of hessian stuffed with ferns and feathers.
The family looked anxious when the two large men appeared but hospitably offered them the bench, the man who was Simon's elder brother moving off to make way for them.
John politely accepted some ale, and the thin brew was poured by the girl into two misshapen mugs of coarse earthenware.
'I dislike disturbing you and reminding you of your great sorrow, mistress,' he said in a voice that was unusually soft and gentle for him. 'But we must get to the bottom of this tragedy, one way or another. I wondered if you have any fresh recollections of what may have been troubling your son when he came home from the sea?'
Edith Makerel, a gaunt woman dressed in a black kirtle with a crumpled linen apron over it, dropped on to a stool and began nervously twisting the cloth belt of her apron. 'Thinking back on it, sir, I am more convinced than ever that it was the pangs of conscience that preyed on his mind. Something he had done or even witnessed, was my guess - though he would not admit it, even to me, his mother.'
De Wolfe listened gravely, quite willing to believe that a woman's intuition was to be relied upon, especially when it concerned her son. 'Have you no idea what this thing might have been? Did he have the marks of a fight or of some injury he could have sustained?'
The widow shook her head sadly. 'He would say nothing, Crowner. He just sat and stared at the fire, seeming mostly bereft of speech. Not like
him at all; he was usually a pleasant, cheerful lad. It was going on that damned ship that ruined him.' Edith sounded bitter, as well she might be.
John questioned both the dumpy girl, whose name was Edna, and the elder brother, but they had nothing to add, just confirming the mother's opinion.
'Was there anything else that was out of the ordinary?' asked John, desperate to avoid the usual blank wall that seemed to face him when he made enquiries into this case.
'He seemed to have more money that usual,' said Edith Makerel slowly. 'He gave me ten pence and told me to buy some good food. On his first voyage, he came back with only a shilling for all those days at sea.'
The girl and the brother confirmed that Simon seemed to have more money. 'He gave me six pence and told me to buy a new shift,' said Edna with a tearful sniff. 'He said the coins might as well be put to some use, as he couldn't give them back. It seemed an odd thing to say.'
'He brought nothing back with him from the voyage?' asked Gwyn. 'No trinkets or a flask of brandywine or suchlike?'
There were puzzled shakes of the head, and soon John realised once more that they had exhausted what little there was to be learnt. They left the sad little family and went out into the spring sunshine, as the weather had improved again.
'We'd better wait for the little fellow,' said Gwyn. 'Let's hope he has better luck with the priest.'
They walked down to the beach and squatted on the pebbles, watching the gulls wheeling over the small boats pulled up on the stones, where men were stacking fish into wicker baskets, ready for carting to markets as far away as Exeter and Yeovil. A small island of sand and stones projected from the sea just in front of them, looking like another whale about to surface.
'We've not learnt much about this lad's death in two weeks,' complained Gwyn, throwing a flat stone to skim across the calm sea before them.
John rubbed his bristly chin, which was again overdue for a shave. 'He comes back from his sea trip different from the one before, as then he seemed quite happy,' recounted the coroner. 'But this time he is anxious, worried and depressed, as if something lies heavy on his conscience.'
'And he has considerably more money than before,' added Gwyn. 'So what was different about the second voyage?'
There was a long silence, then de Wolfe offered his opinion. 'I reckon he witnessed something violent or shocking. And that something was lucrative, as even though he was a lowly ship's boy he gets a hand-out as a part-share in whatever happened.'
Gwyn threw another stone and a seagull rose, screaming indignantly. 'And though smuggling might pay well, it's hardly likely to upset him - so what else is most likely?'
The two old friends looked at each other as they sat on the pebbles.
'Piracy!' snapped John. 'He must have seen some bloody deeds, and a sensitive lad, aiming for the cloister, might well be shocked and revolted.'
His officer nodded his agreement but still had some doubts. 'But why strangle him much later onshore? If he had kicked up a fuss at the killing of another crew, they could have just slit his throat and chucked him overboard. I'm sure that bunch of ruffians on The Tiger would do that without a second thought.'
The coroner climbed to his feet. 'There must be a reason, but we just don't know what it is - yet! Let's find this damned clerk of ours and see what he has to offer.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
In which Crowner John defeats an ambush
What Thomas de Peyne learnt was repeated that evening over supper at the house in Martin's Lane. John had to be circumspect in what topics he launched with Matilda, as some sent her into a rage, such as any mention of the Bush Inn or Dawlish. Even a mention of Gwyn or Thomas provoked heavy sarcasm, as she considered one to be a Celtic savage and the other a pervert, even though the little priest had long been restored to grace. Many other subjects failed to stir her from her almost permanent mood of sullen depression, but he could usually depend upon tales concerning the Church or the aristocracy to spark her attention. He had previously related to her the mystery of the seaman's death in Axmouth, without getting much response, but now he added what had been obtained from Father Matthew, the parish priest of Seaton. He refrained from telling her that it was Thomas who had interviewed the incumbent and craftily embroidered his tale with a description of the church.
'For such a small and mean village, the church is surprisingly neat,' he observed as he cut some slices from a boiled fowl with his dagger and slid them on to her trencher of yesterday's bread. 'Built of stone, quite small, but a bell-cote at one end and a little porch on the south.'
Matilda stopped chewing for a moment and nodded at him. 'Size is not, everything, even in a church. It is the quality of the priest that matters. At my St Olave's, which is tiny, we are blessed with a saint in the shape of Julian Fulk.'
Fulk was her hero in a cassock, and if John had not known her better he might have suspected that she had amorous designs on Julian Fulk. As far as he was concerned, Fulk was short, fat and oily. He had once even been a suspect in a series of murders, and John regretted that he had not turned out to be the culprit. However, he stifled the thought and carried on with his tale.
'This Father Matthew, who seemed an upright and venerable man, did his best to help us over the killing, but of course his vow of silence concerning confessions severely limited what he could tell us.'
Matilda visibly bristled. 'I should think so, indeed! I trust you did not badger the man to break his faith ... the confessional is inviolate, John! ,
'I am well aware of that, wife,' said de Wolfe in his most placatory tone. 'But there is surely a difference between what is said with the intention of it being within the doctrines of the Church and other comments made outwith that rigid rule.'
Matilda glared at him suspiciously. 'What d'you mean by that?'
'Well, a man confessing his sins to a priest is one thing. But if the same man casually tells the priest that he has bought a pound of pork for his dinner, then the priest would hardly refuse to repeat that to someone else on the grounds that it was a sacred secret!'
'I think you are being facetious, husband! Trust you to try to poke fun at the Holy Church. And what sense does this make to your story?'
'The good man admitted that the dead youth had come to speak to him on two occasions after he had returned from his voyage. As you clearly say, he could tell us nothing of the nature of his discourse with the lad, but he told us that Simon was very distressed and fearful for his immortal soul.'
'That doesn't help you much,' grunted Matilda, who had hoped for something more dramatic.
'No, but though the priest could not tell us the substance of the ship boy's anguish, he said that Simon's concern was his dilemma about disclosing it to the authorities outside the confessional. It also seemed a dilemma to the good father as well! '
Matilda scowled down at her chicken. 'I'm not sure that this priest should have told you as much as he did, John. He seems to have steered very close to breaking his vow of secrecy.'
John struggled to keep his impatience in check. 'Look, if what happened was what I think, then there are about six murders as well as the slaying of the young man to be accounted for! Should one solitary priest stand between these heinous crimes and the retribution of the law?'
He had picked the wrong person to whom that question should have been posed. Matilda flared up like a pitch-brand thrust into the fire. 'Of course he should! God is the final judge, not a bunch of barons or Chancery clerks at the Eyre of Assize! Where would we be if it was common knowledge that a priest would go running to the sheriff or coroner with every bit of tittle-tattle heard in the confessional?'
Her husband muttered something under his breath and concentrated on his food, abandoning any further attempt to hold a conversation. He kept it in his head, however, and aired it again later, when he took Brutus for his constitutional down to Idle Lane. When he repeated the story to Nesta, she asked him what he made of the Seaton cleric's response to his questions.
'The fellow was worried himself, that was clear,' said John. 'I felt that he was wrestling with his own conscience, as he knew something that would explain Simon Makerel's murder - and possibly other deaths. Even more, he knew that his silence might lead to similar tragedies in the future, but his vow of silence was too powerful for him to tell me. All he could do was hint.'
The red-headed innkeeper looked up at him with her big hazel eyes. 'And what do you think happened, Sir Coroner?' she asked.
'I think this Simon was so shocked by what he had witnessed on his last voyage in The Tiger that he was trying to nerve himself to tell someone, such as the Keeper of the Peace. But someone learnt of his indecision and decided to silence him before he could give them away.'
'And the shocking thing he witnessed?' persisted the Welshwoman.
'Piracy, of course! The seizing of a ship and the murder of her crew. That was why Simon had more money than usual. It was a forward payment in anticipation of the profits - and a sweetener to the crew to keep their mouths shut.'
Nesta reached across her lover to refill his ale-mug from a jar on the table. 'But this is all supposition, John. You have no proof of it?'
He shook his head. 'Nor likely to get any, but it seems the only explanation of what happened. Why else would some dull lad get himself strangled, a lad who has been to his priest to seek solace and advice? If only the bloody clergy would weigh up human life more sensibly against their so-called religious morals, then justice would be better served!'
Nesta smiled at him. 'You are beginning to sound more like Gwyn every day! They'll have you for blasphemy or heresy if you sound off like that too often!'
De Wolfe shook his head impatiently. 'It riles me to think that this Father Matthew holds the key to the mystery in his head, yet because of some edict centuries ago from some bloody Pope, he can't tell me!'
His mistress put a consoling hand on his arm. 'Why don't you talk to your good friend, the archdeacon. Maybe he can get this priest to relax his silence?'
The Manor of Death Page 15
