The fair was still in full swing, though a few stalls had closed up, their owners having either sold all their wares or started on a long journey home. There was no rival attraction on Bull Mead today so the crowds were thronging the booths as thickly as on the two previous days.
Terrus and his fellow craftsman, Alfred, walked behind the coroner and his officer as they slowly paraded up and down the lanes between the stalls, the survivor of the assault swinging his head from side to side as he peered at faces in the press of people. They completed two circuits without result, and John began to wonder whether they were wasting their time. Going back up the centre again, they came to the stage and stopped to watch a performance of Moses ascending the mountain to receive the Ten Commandments. The onlookers were mightily amused when the false-bearded prophet slipped and put his foot through the lath-and-plaster simulation of Mount Sinai, giving vent to some colourful unbiblical oaths that drew cries of outrage from the vicar, who was chanting the appropriate commentary from the Old Testament.
John grinned and Gwyn added his belly-laugh to the jeers of derision from the crowd, but suddenly the coroner felt an urgent tugging at his sleeve.
'That's one of the bastards, I'm sure,' hissed Terrus.
He half hid behind de Wolfe as he covertly pointed across the front of the platform at the crowd clustered on the other side. 'That thick set fellow with the leather cape!'
John saw a heavily built man of about thirty with a narrow rim of mousy beard running around his face, which bore a surly expression, even though he was watching the hilarious fiasco on the stage. His clothing was plain but of fair quality, a short, tightly belted tunic under a black shoulder cape that had a dagged lower edge and a pointed hood hanging behind his thick neck. To the coroner, he looked like a retainer in a household, either a bailiff or a manor-reeve.
'Are you sure? No sign of the other one?' Terrus scanned the crowd almost fearfully, painfully reminded of the beating he had already suffered, then shook his head. 'No, just that one. But I'm certain it's him, even his garments are the same.'
'Right, you stay here until we call you.' He nudged Gwyn and together they walked behind the crowd to reach the other side of the stage where the man stood.
They moved into position, one on either side of him.
'We want a word with you, fellow.'
Surprised, the man turned around, his square face creased into a scowl. He had short, bristly hair the same colour as his beard, and his small dark eyes were deeply set under heavy brows.
'And who the hell might you be?' he rasped, showing a set of uneven brown teeth.
'The King's coroner - and this is my officer. Come over here where we can talk.' John waved a hand at an empty booth a few yards away, where there was no one to overhear them.
The man's scowl deepened. 'I'm coming nowhere! State your business here.'
For reply, Gwyn grabbed his arm and twisted it up behind his back, shoving him across the lane to the place his master had indicated. Though the man was burly and tough looking, he was no match for the Cornishman's strength and, cursing and wriggling, he was propelled under the striped awning of the deserted booth.
The coroner regarded him coldly. 'You can talk here - or in the gaol in Rougemont, it's your choice.'
'Holy Mary, what's the world coming to that a man can't watch a mystery play without being set upon by law officers?' he seethed, but John noticed a shifty look in his eyes which might suggest a lurking anxiety. Gwyn loosened his grip, but watched for any signs of escape.
'What's your name and where are you from?' was de Wolfe's first demand.
'It's none of your bloody business, but I'm Robert Longus, an armourer.' There were many such men about the town this week - they came either as freelances or as retainers to their knights, attending to the weapons and armour used in the tournament.
'Where are you from, armourer?' asked Gwyn gruffly.
'Again, it's not your concern, but I come from near Tiverton. What in hell is all this about?'
For reply, John beckoned to Terrus, and hesitantly the man approached, but stopped a few feet away from them, out of range of Robert's fist.
'This man claims you were one of pair who attacked him and killed his partner near Topsham on Monday morning,' snapped the coroner. 'Do you deny it?' The upshot of his reply, peppered with oaths as foul as any that the two hardened campaigners had heard in two decades of soldiering, was to the effect that it was pack of lies and that he had never been near Topsham in his life.
John turned to the silversmith, who was cringing like a rabbit before a ferret. 'What do you say to that, Terrus?' he demanded.
'It's him, I'm certain of it!' babbled the man. 'I'll remember his face for the rest of my life.' He dodged behind Gwyn's large bulk as Robert Longus made a sudden movement towards him, but the Cornishman held out a hand the size of a salted ham to hold him back.
'Calm down, fellow! Just pay attention to the coroner.'
'So where were you early on Monday?' demanded de Wolfe. Something about this man didn't ring true, for all his protestations.
'I was working for my master and minding my own damned business!' cried Robert furiously. 'Ask him yourself, if you don't believe me.'
'We'll do just that, Longus. Where can we find him?' The armourer hesitated for a moment. 'He should be at his lodging, no doubt breaking his fast at this hour.' It was late for most people's morning meal, but that was no concern of de Wolfe.
'Where's he staying? We'll go there now and settle this once and for all.'
Robert grudgingly told them that it was in High Street, and they set off up to the East Gate, which was the nearest entrance into the city from where they were.
With Terrus following reluctantly behind, keeping his distance, they marched off, John and Gwyn staying close behind the man, to see that he didn't give them the slip. Once through the gate, de Wolfe was somewhat surprised to see the armourer making for the left side of the street, where the New Inn was situated. This was the largest and most expensive of the hostelries in Exeter, where the judges and other visiting dignitaries stayed.
'Who is your master, anyway?' John called out to the fellow's back.
'There he is - you can ask him yourself!' retorted Robert, rudely. He pointed to two figures standing outside the door of the inn, wearing riding cloaks and seemingly waiting for an ostler to bring their horses around from the yard at the back.
'It's that bastard Peverel!' muttered Gwyn in surprise. 'Who's that with him?'
'His younger brother, by the looks of it,' replied de Wolfe bitterly. With so much to do today, the last thing he needed was another quarrel with Hugo. Robert Longus had put on a spurt and hurried ahead. By the time the coroner and his officer caught up with him, he had managed a few gabbled words to the Peverels.
Hugo scowled when he saw John approaching.
'Are you intent on persecuting me, de Wolfe? You've caused me trouble enough these past two days!'
The coroner ignored his words. 'Does this man belong to your manor?'
'He does indeed! Robert Longus is my armourer and a very good one at that. What concern is that of yours?'
His tone was as abrasive as he could make it, almost a snarl to denote his contempt of de Wolfe's meddling in his affairs.
'My concern is that he is accused of assault, robbery and possibly murder.'
Hugo glowered at the coroner, then turned to the younger man, who could only be his brother.
'Ralph, see how I am treated by these Exeter people! They lose no opportunity to persecute me with trumped-up charges, anything to discomfit me.' His brother shrugged but made no reply, and John gained the feeling that little love was lost between the two men. Ralph was a younger version of Hugo, probably in his late twenties, thought John. He had the same set to his features, but a less aggressive expression.
'There's no persecution, Peverel,' snapped John. 'Until this moment, I had no idea that this man was in your employ. Just give me a straight
answer. He says you can vouch for his whereabouts early on Monday morning, when I have been told he was some miles away, perpetrating robbery with violence.'
As Hugo glared back, an ostler appeared, leading two horses by their bridles. 'I've no time to bandy words with you, Coroner. But if it gets you out of my hair, then yes, of course Robert was with me on Monday morning. We were preparing my equipment for the tourney. So you can forget any malicious nonsense about him being elsewhere.'
He reached up for the pommel of his saddle and swung himself up on to the beast's back, his brother doing the same behind him.
'Now I'm going home and am glad to be shaking the dust of this miserable city from my feet. I've met with nothing but insolence and antagonism ever since I arrived.'
He snatched up the reins, but at a sign from John, Gwyn grabbed the bit-ring and pulled the horse's head down to stop it moving on.
'That's not good enough, Peverel!' snapped the coroner. 'I am holding an inquest this morning into the death of a silversmith and I need the attendance of anyone who can offer any evidence on the matter.' For a moment, it looked as if the inflamed Hugo was going to give Gwyn's hand a crack with the riding staff that he held in his hand, but he restrained himself.
'That's no concern of mine! I've never heard of this dead man and have not the slightest interest in your problems.'
'Then your armourer here must attend. He has been accused of being involved in the death and needs to defend himself,' snapped de Wolfe.
'Indeed he will not' shouted the manor-lord. 'I need him at home. Robert, get back to your lodgings, fetch your horse and follow us. We'll wait for you at St Sidwells.'
With that, he wrenched his steed's head away from Gwyn's grasp and, touching its belly with his spurs, jerked it away from the inn, his brother following impassively behind. On foot, there was nothing John could do to detain them and, glowering with frustration, he watched them trot away towards the East Gate.
Then he swung round to Robert Longus, who was sidling away in the opposite direction.
'Hey, you! Don't you dare try to make off or I'll have you in shackles in the castle gaol.'
Gwyn strode after him and seized him by the shoulder.
'You'll be up at the Shire Hall in two hours' rime, understand?' continued John. 'If you're not there, I'll have you attached and arrested, even if I have to come to Sampford Peverel to do it myself!'
The Shire Hall was an austere stone box on the left side of the inner ward in Rougemont. A virtually empty shell, its architecture was similar to that of a barn, a single large chamber with an earthen floor, entered by a high arched doorway that could have admitted a haycart. The rough roof beams supported a covering of stone tiles, and the only furnishings on a low wooden platform facing the entrance were a couple of trestle tables, a few benches and some stools.
For all its unprepossessing appearance, it was an important place, and one in frequent use, not only for the fortnightly Shire Court, but for meetings of freeholders to conduct county business and for the periodic visits of the King's judges and Commissioners for the Eyres and Gaol Delivery. Coroner's inquests were often held there, as well as other functions to do with the forest law, frankpledge and many other legal, political and administrative meetings.
Today, John had little expectation of making much progress with his inquiry, but the formality had to be gone through, so that the corpse could be released for burial. When he went across to the hall from his chamber, he found that Gwyn had marshalled the reluctant jurymen into a straggling line below the dais, where Thomas was already sitting at a table with his pen, ink and parchment at the ready. To one side of the jury stood an elderly man and two youths, together with a middle-aged woman, who was quietly weeping into her hands. De Wolfe assumed that these were a brother, two sons and the leman of the silversmith, who Gwyn had said had travelled from Totnes to collect the deceased. In spite of John's threats, there was no sign of the armourer Robert Longus, and the coroner vowed to make him pay dearly for his flaunting of the law.
When two men-at-arms had dragged in a handcart on which the body lay shrouded under a sack, they were ready to start, and John pulled a stool to the edge of the platform and sat down while Gwyn bellowed out the customary opening call.
'Oyez, oyez, all persons having anything to do before the King's coroner for the county touching the death of August Scrope, draw near and give your attendance.'
As the dozen men were already drawn as near as they wished to be to the now foul-smelling cadaver, this produced no response, and the coroner went straight into the proceedings. He briefly described the circumstances of the death, then called forward the 'first finders', the two men from the quay-side. Haltingly, they described how they found the body in the river, which caused the men of the family to mutter angrily and the mistress to snuffle more heart-rendingly.
Then Alfred, the second silversmith, stated that his master and Terrus had left Exeter early on Monday morning to deliver expensive silverware to a client in Topsham and had not returned as they had promised.
Terrus himself then came forward and displayed his injuries and related how he and his master had been attacked by two mounted men. He failed to recall what had happened to August Scrope, as he himself had been knocked unconscious, his wits not returning until he found himself in St James' Priory.
'But do you recollect the faces of the men who assaulted you?' demanded de Wolfe, leaning forward on his stool. The craftsman nodded vigorously.
'That I do, Crowner - at least, one of them! He was the man I pointed out to you in the fair this morning.' John straightened up and directed his voice at the family members, as well as the jury. 'He was a fellow from Sampford Peverel, who calls himself Robert Longus. I warned him to attend this inquest but he has defaulted, and I therefore attach him in the sum of five marks to attend either a resumed inquest or the next county court. If he fails to appear then, he will be arrested or, failing that, attached to appear before the King's justices or his commissioners when they next visit Exeter.'
'Can't you arrest the swine now, Crowner?' called out the elder man from Totnes, obviously in a state of angry agitation. John explained the problem.
'Regrettably, all we have by way of evidence is the accusation of Terrus that this Robert was one of the assailants. The man denies it, so it is one man's word against another - and the fellow's master, the lord of Sampford, backs up his denial by claiming that he was with him at the time.'
The brother and sons growled again among themselves, but the coroner tried to reassure them. 'When I can get this man before a court and put him on oath, then we will see what further we can do to get at the truth. I will talk to the new sheriff about ways of bringing that about, for it is his responsibility to detain the man.'
Some hope of that, John thought privately, It was clear that Henry de Furnellis was going to leave all the leg-work to others.
The rest of the inquest was rapidly concluded, as John directed the jurors to file past the body on the cart, so that they could view the corpse's injuries. They did so with alacrity, none of them lingering near the body, which was beginning to swell and discolour. At a sign from his master, Gwyn covered the dead man again with the hessian sheer, and the soldiers trundled it outside to wait for the relatives to transfer it to the oxcart that they had brought from Tomes.
'In view of the absence of good evidence, especially the defection of Robert Longus, I have to adjourn this, inquest until further information comes before me, said John to the assembled court - though under his breath he added, 'If that ever happens.' He glared at the sheepish jury, who were wondering what purpose had been served by taking them from their labours for an hour.
'A coroner has to determine who the deceased was, where, when and by what means he came to his death.
The identity has clearly been established and though it is obvious that no presentment of Englishry can be made, I will not levy the murdrum fine, as the corpse was discovered in the river and thus no
particular vill can bear the blame. It is obvious that August Scrope was murdered. The time was last Monday and the place was on the high road between Topsham and St James' Priory. The cause of death was grievous wounding, and although the cadaver was found in the river I have no proof that he finally drowned. There is no evidence yet as to who attacked him and threw him into the water, so I will not demand a verdict from you the jury until I resume this hearing, hopefully when better information is forthcoming.'
After this long speech, de Wolfe nodded curtly to the faces below the platform, then turned to see how Thomas was getting on with his transcript. Leaning over his humped shoulder, he scanned the parchment on which his clerk was speedily inscribing his neat Latin calligraphy. Though John could not read more than a few words, he liked to check the length of the script, to make sure that Thomas was getting down an adequate description of the proceedings. He need not have concerned himself, as the little man was most diligent and took a pride in both the appearance and the content of his rolls, copies of which would be sent to the King's justices at the next Eyre of Assize, and eventually end up in the archives at Winchester or London.
When the jurymen had shuffled away and the grieving relatives had gone for their cart, Gwyn came across the empty hall to join them, his ever hungry stomach causing him to suggest adjourning to their chamber for their usual bread, cheese and ale.
As they walked across the inner ward to the gatehouse, Thomas ventured a comment. 'At least fears of multiple slayings this week have not come to pass, Crowner,' he said. 'The tournament passed off without a death - and the fair ends tonight, so ho fully only this one killing can be blamed on it.'
'Don't tempt fate, Thomas,' growled de Wolfe. 'We'll have to wait until tomorrow morning before we can congratulate ourselves on getting off so lightly.'
Figure of Hate Page 12
