The Witch Hunter

by Bernard Knight

  On Monday morning the sheriff still had not returned from his manor at Revelstoke, which was on a lonely part of the coast a few miles east of Plymouth. John wondered whether Richard had decided that the game was up and had retired permanently to the country, leaving the shrievalty vacant, but on reflection rejected this attractive notion, as the wily sheriff was not one to abandon all his privileges and rewards without a fight.

  John’s own functions had to carry on and he dispatched Gwyn to round up juries so that he could hold his inquests upon Henry de Hocforde and Bearded Lucy, as well as reopening those on Robert de Pridias, Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole. This should be a day to clear up a record number of cases, he thought with sombre satisfaction. By the ninth hour, all the jurymen and other witnesses were assembled in the barren chamber of the Shire Court, with John sitting on the low platform in the sheriff’s chair. Thomas was at a trestle table to one side, armed with quills, ink flasks and a pile of palimpsests, previously used parchments from which the old writing had been scraped off and the surface dressed with chalk. The coroner had no expense budget, having to find everything out of his own pocket, so his thrifty clerk rarely bought the much more expensive new parchment or even more costly vellum.

  On the other side, Ralph Morin, John de Alençon and the castle chaplain sat along one of the benches. They had no official reason to be there, but the archdeacon felt that, given the circumstances, the cathedral chapter and the bishop should be represented, if only to show their concern. The castle constable was there in case there might be some further disturbance – and Brother Roger was just plain nosy. Gwyn lumbered around the people in the hall, like a sheepdog herding his flock, and Gabriel stood at the back with a couple of men-at-arms, keeping a wary eye out for any trouble.

  Eventually Gwyn strode to stand on the dusty floor below the coroner and opened the proceedings with the formal calling summons, bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘All ye who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon touching the deaths of various persons, draw near and give your attention!’

  De Wolfe’s first inquiry was into the death of Henry de Hocforde. His wife had died in childbirth many years before and his two adult sons stood at the back of the hall, apparently not in any deep state of mourning and anxious to get back to the mill, which was now theirs. The coroner avoided the issue of ‘presentment of Englishry’, as although it was patently obvious that de Hocforde was of Norman, not Saxon, blood, it would be impossible to levy a ‘murdrum fine’ on the whole of Exeter, as would have been done in a village.

  The ‘First Finder’ was accepted as Avise Hamund, as although technically the first person to see Henry dead was Brother Saul, she was there at the moment of the fatal knife thrust. Of course, by definition, Cecilia was also there, as she held the knife, but de Wolfe thought it better to distance the culprit as much as possible.

  The jury consisted of a dozen men and boys from the streets around Cecilia’s dwelling, where the death had occurred. John called the widow, her daughter and son-in-law, who all stuck firmly to their account of Henry’s angry descent on their household and his unprovoked assault upon the wife of Robert de Pridias, over the dispute about disposing of their mills. Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn of Polruan attested that the deceased man had made a dying declaration, but had not said anything that indicated that he had been attacked by Cecilia.

  There being no further evidence, the jurors were marched out to one of the cart-sheds that leaned against the wall of the inner bailey, where they solemnly paraded past the body of Henry de Hocforde, which lay on the floor under a canvas sheet. Gwyn whipped this off and they were shown the fatal wound in his chest.

  Back in the hall, John de Wolfe told the bemused twelve that death was undoubtedly due to a knife wound to the belly and that there was no evidence to contradict the story of the family witnesses that it was inflicted in self-defence. In tones that suggested that any argument would not be acceptable, he directed them to bring in a verdict of ‘justifiable homicide’, and after a few seconds of whispered discussion the man appointed foreman agreed and they left the court with signs of obvious relief.

  The inquests on Walter Winstone and Elias Trempole were taken together and were equally brief. The jury included the First Finders and those who saw Hugh Furrel in the vicinity of Waterbeer Street and Fore Street around the times of the attacks, together with the same jurors who had been empanelled for the indeterminate first inquests. Once again, Gwyn and Thomas were called to verify the dying declaration of de Hocforde and to confirm that he admitted paying Hugh Furrel to murder them.

  Both victims had been buried some time ago, but the same jurors had viewed the bodies at the earlier inquests, which satisfied the legal requirements. With no difficulty, the verdicts were returned as wilful murder by Henry de Hocforde and Hugh Furrel – and in due course the latter would be declared outlaw at the county court, except in the unlikely event of him showing up there.

  Now trickier matters had to be settled. The first hitch was when the coroner enquired of his officer why Canon Gilbert de Bosco was not visible in court, as he had been requested to attend the inquest on Lucy. In answer, a young priest approached the dais and looked up nervously at John de Wolfe.

  ‘I am Peter de Bologne, vicar to Canon Gilbert de Bosco, sir. He has instructed me to tell you that he is not well enough to carry out your summons to attend this court – but also that, even if he had been in good health, he would have refused to come, as you have no jurisdiction over a member of the cathedral chapter.’

  He stood back warily, as if afraid the messenger might be punished for bringing unwelcome news. John, with a face like thunder, pondered this for a moment. He did not know whether Gilbert’s impertinent claim was true or not, as he had never before needed to summon a senior cleric to an inquest. He turned to de Alençon, who sat near by. ‘John, what do you say to this?’

  The wiry archdeacon shook his head. ‘The Church lawyers have not yet caught up with this new office of coroner. You must admit, the Article of Eyre that promulgated it last year was more than a little short on detail. It ran only to one clause, you know!’

  ‘But can this bloody man just thumb his nose at the King’s courts like this?’

  ‘He cannot be tried by any of them, that’s for sure, being able to claim benefit of clergy. Whether or not that extends to inquests, where no one is actually being tried, I suspect no one yet knows. Perhaps this is the first test case?’

  John made his rasping throaty noise, which he did when he could think of nothing civil to say, but the archdeacon carried on.

  ‘In any case, the man is ill, there’s no doubt of that! The whole town knows that he was struck by a minor seizure when he stood to preach yesterday. What with that and his carbuncle, everyone is whispering about the hag’s curse!’

  John sighed and had to accept the inevitable, which was to adjourn the inquest on Bearded Lucy, whom he referred to as ‘Lucy of Exe Island’, remembering then that the town constables had reported that after the fire at the Bush, part of the mob had gone down to the marsh where she had lived and tipped her pathetic dwelling into the river, where it broke up and floated downstream to the sea.

  It was not only Gilbert’s absence which decided him to wait until another day, but also the failure of the sheriff to turn up. He wanted him present when he interrogated Heloise and her immoral sister, to establish that Richard de Revelle had had a hand in the attack on the Bush.

  All that was left was the much-delayed inquest on Robert de Pridias, for which Cecilia had been pressing since his death. Her own narrow shave with a murder charge made her less triumphant than would otherwise have been the case, but she still managed a smirk of satisfaction when she heard the coroner call the matter before the court. He used the same jury as for the last cases, as it was impractical to get a score or even a dozen men in from Alphington at that time on a Monday morning, but Gwyn had got Gabriel to send a couple of soldiers to fetch in the t
wo men who saw Robert drop from his horse and the ale-wife who announced that he was dead.

  They gave their simple testimony, then John called Richard Lustcote, the master apothecary.

  ‘This blackening of the gums, especially around foul teeth – what can that signify?’ he asked him.

  The benign seller of pills and potions beamed at him, as if this were some kind of riddle.

  ‘Almost certainly plumbism – which means lead poisoning, Crowner.’

  ‘And could that occur in any natural way?’

  Lustcote shook his head. ‘Impossible! The poison would have to be given in repeated amounts over a period. Something like sugar of lead, also called Plumbum acetas.’

  ‘Could this be given in food? Is it tasteless?’

  ‘It has no particularly obnoxious taste, but in any case, if supposed medicaments were being administered, it could either be added or even totally substituted.’

  ‘And could it cause sudden death, as in this man who tumbled from his horse?’

  The apothecary looked dubious. ‘It would be unusual, though I hesitate to say impossible, never having killed anyone with lead myself!’

  He thought for a moment. ‘But of course, if a man already had some disorder of his humours or a weakness of his heart, then I suspect that plumbism might finish him off.’

  With that John had to be content, and he shied away from any suggestion that necromancy may also have contributed, much to Cecilia’s disappointment. Still, she was satisfied that she had had her inquest after all, and vindicated when the coroner brought in a verdict of murder by the hand of Walter Winstone, at the instigation of Henry de Hocforde – both of whom were beyond earthly justice, whatever awaited them in the valley of death.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In which Crowner John sees justice prevail

  The rest of the week following his inquests seemed interminable to John de Wolfe. The weather remained hot and sultry and on Wednesday there was a brief thunderstorm, with torrential rain for an hour, then the heatwave returned. He had a few new cases, including a man who was caught in the cogs of a watermill when he was oiling them. The mill-master fled and sought sanctuary, because he thought he would be held responsible for the death. He later abjured the realm, but when the case came much later to the justices, they absolved him and the King’s pardon had to be sought to allow him to return home from Scotland.

  Apart from this the week was quiet and every morning John looked anxiously for any signs of a messenger from Winchester. Even though Hugh de Relaga had claimed that his courier was faster than any other, it was well over a hundred miles to the city, which shared capital status with London. Even an almost immediate turn-round there – an impossibility, as John was well aware of the bureaucracy that reigned in such places – would still require a full week for the return journey.

  By Thursday his patience was wearing thin, especially as Richard de Revelle had not shown up at Rougemont. He half hoped that news would come from Revelstoke that the sheriff had taken the honourable way out and fallen upon his own sword to escape the shame of being disgraced and dishonoured. This had happened two years earlier, when Henry de la Pomeroy, Lord of Berry Pomeroy near Totnes, had fled from Richard the Lionheart’s retribution for supporting Prince John. He had gone to St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall on hearing that the King had been released from captivity in Germany. The constable of the Mount had dropped dead of a heart attack on hearing the famous message ‘Beware, the Devil is loose!’ and de la Pomeroy had made his surgeon open the veins in his wrists so that he bled to death.

  But de Wolfe knew that his brother-in-law would never take that way out – he must be waiting for some news or other, possibly for messages to go to the Prince or others among his supporters, to gather ammunition to fight back against any censure from the royal council.

  Unable to sit idle any longer, after dinner John left the morose Matilda and walked through the clammy afternoon heat to Hugh de Relaga’s house in High Street. He found him in a purple silk robe, sitting in a chair in his solar, cooling himself with an oriental fan made of woven palm fronds.

  ‘No news from Winchester, I suppose?’ John asked. ‘When do you expect this Mercury-heeled messenger back?’

  The rotund burgess wiped the perspiration from his face with a linen kerchief. ‘Expect him back? Not for another week, John. He’s riding to Rye and Dover after Southampton, with letters to other ship-masters.’

  Crestfallen, the coroner explained that he had hoped for some response very soon and thought that Hugh’s courier might have brought back at least some indication of whether the justiciar intended acting on the urgent information.

  ‘Be patient, John,’ advised the placid portreeve. ‘Maybe the first you hear will be Richard Coeur de Lion’s hoofbeats coming up the street!’

  De Wolfe went home and continued to be fretful about the complete lack of any activity in this tense situation. His brother-in-law, the sheriff, was on the verge of disgrace and possibly a charge of treachery which would carry the death penalty – but he had vanished.

  Canon Gilbert was lying low, refusing to see anyone, according to the archdeacon, on the grounds that he was ill. John de Alençon said that the infirmarian confirmed that his carbuncle was in a horrid state of weeping purulence, but that his minor stroke seemed to have resolved itself almost completely.

  De Wolfe was also anxious about Nesta, though he knew that she was safer with his family than anywhere else. However, he missed her, not only for the adventures in the now incinerated French bed, but for her pleasant, loving company, not to mention her cooking and superb ale. He also missed the Bush, which had become more than a second home to him. There was nowhere quite the same when he wanted an excuse to take the dog for a run or to have a quiet quart of ale or cider. He took to going to the Golden Hind or the New Inn in the high street, but he felt a stranger there – and the ale was far inferior. However, he went out each evening, mainly as a respite from the silent, withdrawn Matilda, who spent most of her time either in her solar or in church.

  Gwyn and Thomas felt the tension in their master and did their best to humour him, with little success. As the coroner’s work had declined that week, Thomas suggested that he might help de Wolfe with his reading lessons, which had recently fallen by the wayside.

  John had no great appetite for this, but as he did not want to snub his little clerk, he made a few half-hearted efforts to master some of the work that the vicar in the cathedral had been trying to din into his head for the past few months.

  Thomas had his own preoccupations, too, though he was wise and considerate enough not to burden his master at the present fraught time. He was still yearning for news of any restoration of his ordination, following the revelations at Winchester. It would be too much to hope for that the response from that city to the coroner’s urgent message might also contain some reference to Thomas’s reinstatement, but nevertheless he could but hope.

  The weather continued to suit their tense mood, as every day was hot and still, without a breath of wind. The sky was a glassy blue, although on the far horizon, when seen from high up in the gatehouse tower, a line of piled-up dark clouds gathered towards evening and during the clammy nights the growl of thunder could be heard far away.

  It was late afternoon on Friday before the impasse was broken. John was at his table with Thomas at his shoulder, laboriously writing his name repeatedly on a scrap piece of parchment. He had managed it six times, one after the other, his tongue outside his lips, moving in time with the scratchy pen, as the clerk twittered encouraging noises.

  The peace was broken by the familiar clump of boots on the stairs and the hessian curtain was jerked aside by Gabriel’s head, flushed with heat, exertion and suppressed excitement.

  ‘He’s back, Crowner. Just ridden in with some fellow who looks like a minor lord from somewhere. Not from these parts, talks like he might have come from Gloucester or the Marches.’

  John threw down his q
uill and jumped to his feet. ‘Is he in his chamber?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John. By the state of his horse, he’s ridden up from Revelstoke without drawing breath. Poor beast is near dropping in this heat.’

  Gabriel caught Gwyn’s eye, as the redhead sat on his window ledge, whittling a stick with his dagger. The eyes swivelled to the cider jar in the corner, but de Wolfe was already starting down the stairs.

  At the keep, he thrust open the sheriff’s door and barged in to confront his brother-in-law. Still dusty from his journey, Richard was pouring wine into one of a pair of pewter goblets. The other cup was not in expectation of John’s visit, but for a man who lounged in a leather-backed folding chair placed in front of the desk. De Wolfe had never seen him before, but he was about thirty, of slim build and elegant in his dress. Black haired and clean shaven, he had a sallow, almost Spanish complexion, his face long and smooth with high cheekbones. Although he was not wearing clerical dress, he had a small gold cross on a chain around his neck.

  De Revelle’s head jerked up at the sudden intrusion and he scowled at John, although the look was mixed with wary apprehension. ‘Do you never knock at a door, Crowner?’ he snapped.

  ‘I probably will when the next occupant is here. It seems likely to be Henry de Furnellis once again.’ Courtesy inhibited John from starting his tirade against the sheriff in the presence of a guest, so he began cautiously. ‘I hear you have ridden hard from Revelstoke today.’

  The stranger picked up his goblet and languidly intervened. ‘We have ridden from Glastonbury – we left Gloucester yesterday.’