Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries)

by Bernard Knight

  This led his thoughts to another topic and he broached it to Hubert.

  ‘Your Grace, I hear various rumours about spies seeking secret intelligence from the court. It may well be overimaginative gossip, though that stabbing of the young worker from the guest chambers produced an allegation that he was concerned about something of that nature.’

  John explained the fears Basil had, as related by the young novice from the abbey. ‘He claimed that he had overheard some seditious conversation, whatever that might have meant. It might have been something trivial or just an exaggeration by a fertile imagination. But the fact remains that he was stabbed to death a day later for no obvious reason.’

  This was the first that Hubert Walter had heard of this and he took it seriously. ‘We are always beset by spies, John. Every embassy that visits us has some agent attached to them whose prime purpose is to gain intelligence to take home – and to be truthful, so do we when we send deputations abroad.’

  ‘But is there anything they can learn from just residing in the palace for a while?’ said de Wolfe doubtfully.

  ‘There is always some chance of picking up useful snippets. There are servants to be bribed and I fear that even some members of the Curia or their clerks and esquires can become loquacious after indulging in too much wine.’

  ‘But what is there to learn?’ persisted John. ‘In matters of warfare, surely all the action is across the Channel, not in Westminster.’

  Hubert Walter rose and paced restlessly to the window and back again. ‘Not everything concerns battle, John. Our treaties and agreements with other countries are of great concern to Philip Augustus, as are matters of trade. How much silver and tin we produce relates to Richard’s ability to wage war – and the current mood of potentially rebellious barons reflects on what support the French might expect if the Count of Mortain comes out of his present suspiciously good behaviour to again foster revolt.’

  He sat down again and laced his fingers together over his parchment-cluttered table.

  ‘As I said, I am glad that Eleanor is coming to add her strictures to her younger son’s ambitions. You ask what secrets might be sought? Well, she has advised me privately that Philip and his son Louis favour an attack upon the south coast of England, perhaps to coincide with any move that Prince John might make to seize power. Philip still controls a stretch of coastline below Boulogne which could be a jumping-off point for an invasion, so we are making defensive plans for Kent and Sussex that would certainly be of interest to any French spy.’

  He leaned forward in a confidential manner. ‘In fact, that was one reason why I went to Canterbury during these past few days, spending time with various barons and commanders, to the annoyance of my brothers in the cathedral!’

  Then leaning back again he abruptly changed the subject, as if he had been too indiscreet. ‘Now, John, what are we going to do about this damned treasure? Is there any hope of getting it back, for I do not relish the king’s temper when he discovers its loss. He covets every half-penny that could go towards financing his campaigns.’

  The coroner’s long face darkened into a scowl. ‘At present, it defeats me, sire! But it is a point of honour for me to retrieve it somehow, for it was in my care almost up to the point when it vanished.’ He angrily rasped his fingers across his bristles.

  ‘Simon Basset is dead and he is inevitably a suspect in the theft. He cannot now be questioned or even tortured – not that the Church would allow it – so the whereabouts of the gold cannot be extracted from him. His house needs to be searched as a matter of urgency to see if there is any sign of it there – though again I am not sure if there would be some ecclesiastical prohibition on that?’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, John,’ said Hubert grimly. ‘I know that Abbot Postard considers himself the Emperor of Westminster, but theft of the king’s gold is treason and no one in England can be exempt from investigation.’

  Relieved at having the Justiciar’s support, John was still dubious of success. ‘I doubt the treasure will be there, but there may be some clue as to his involvement, if he was guilty. But what about the Constable of the Tower, sire?’

  Hubert turned up his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘I really cannot see old Herbert de Mandeville as a thief, John! He has been there for many years and could have stolen before, if that was his inclination. But neither does Canon Basset fit the image of a master criminal – yet it looks as if one of them is the culprit.

  ‘So take whatever measures you think fit to get to the bottom of this – use the king’s name and warrant freely.’

  The archbishop stood to indicate that the meeting was over.

  ‘Do your best, John, I am depending upon you. We live in treacherous times and there are few such as you that the king can trust. You have proved your worth in the past and God knows that we need you again now!’

  He remembered his episcopal status sufficiently to give de Wolfe a brief benediction as he left, then yelled for a clerk to come and set about the documents on his table.

  With Hubert Walter’s accolade and exhortation ringing in his ears, de Wolfe strode back to his chamber that Tuesday morning, determined to make progress in this apparently insoluble mystery, even if it cost him his reputation or his life.

  It even drove from his mind most of the recollection of the previous evening’s seductive fiasco with Hawise d’Ayncourt. He had been both relieved and frustrated, as his common sense told him that cuckolding a foreign nobleman was unwise, to put it mildly – especially as Renaud de Seigneur was living on the spot. Yet the allure of Hawise was so great that his lust was in danger of defeating his usual wisdom. Though a dour, rational man in all other respects, attractive women were John’s Achilles’ heel and had got him into trouble several times.

  However, he now had urgent matters to distract him and as he burst into his chamber, he almost shouted at Gwyn and Thomas to get moving. ‘No need for horses, we’re only going up the street! I want to turn the canon’s house inside out to look for that bloody gold!’

  Gwyn hurriedly swallowed the last of his ale, washing down the last mouthful of his morning bread and cheese. ‘Do you want me for such a task?’ asked his clerk timidly, hoping to avoid being party to such desecration of a fellow priest’s domicile.

  ‘Yes, come along and bring your bag of writing contraptions,’ commanded his master. ‘If we find anything, it will need to be recorded – and you are always useful where priests and chaplains are involved.’

  Reluctantly, Thomas followed the two bigger men as they left the palace and went across to the gate into King Street. A few hundred yards brought them to the canon’s dwelling and with a rare touch of sensitivity, de Wolfe sent his clerk in ahead to announce diplomatically that they were there to search the premises. After a couple of moments, he followed with Gwyn and was faced with the doleful faces of the chaplain and steward, who were subdued but obviously indignant at this intrusion.

  ‘My clerk has explained that there are important issues at stake and that it is imperative that we look amongst the canon’s belongings to check on certain matters,’ said John, his discomfiture making him sound a little pompous.

  Martin, dressed in a black tunic as a mark of mourning, nodded his understanding. ‘We cannot prevent you, coroner, we were merely servants of our late master and have no status now.’

  ‘And though nothing has been said openly,’ added the chaplain, ‘we know full well that this must be connected to the loss of that treasure, which is now common knowledge.’

  ‘You’ll find nothing here, sir, our master was a fine and honest man,’ added the steward defiantly.

  De Wolfe applauded their loyalty, but was firm in his resolve.

  ‘That’s as may be, but there might be some clue here as to what happened and I am charged specifically, in the name of our king, to leave no stone unturned in seeking the truth.’

  The steward sighed, but moved back and with a gesture indicated that the house was thei
rs. ‘I will tell the servants to give you every assistance in showing you whatever you wish to see,’ he said.

  John began in the chamber which Simon used as a sitting room and an office, for there was a table with numerous parchments and a sideboard carrying half a dozen books. He called Thomas in to look through all the written material, while Gwyn searched the servants’ quarters, the stables and various outhouses such as the brew-shed, the laundry and the kitchen. The Cornishman poked into the privy and the pigsty, even putting his head inside the fowl-house to make sure there were no gold candlesticks hidden in the nestboxes.

  John found nothing at all in the effects of the late canon, though he was again impressed by the quality and indeed opulence of most of the furniture and fittings in the house. All the floors downstairs were paved, rather than having rush-strewn earth, as was usual. The walls had costly hangings and in the bedroom upstairs there was actually glass in one of the smaller windows, an almost unheard-of luxury.

  But of treasure there was no sign, apart from Simon Basset’s own possessions. The documents that Thomas scanned revealed nothing suspicious – they were either detailed household accounts or letters on ecclesiastical topics from other priests, especially in Lichfield. Some of the parchments related to his duties in the Exchequer, but there was nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion of involvement in an audacious robbery.

  After a last half-hearted scanning of the backyard and paths surrounding the house to see if there was any disturbed soil that might indicate something having been buried, de Wolfe admitted defeat. He made his peace with the chaplain and steward before leaving.

  ‘There will probably be an inquest in the next day or so,’ he announced. ‘I will require your presence for the formalities.’

  ‘His poor body was brought back from St Bartholomew’s last evening,’ said Gilbert, crossing himself, which of course set off Thomas in copying his actions. ‘He now lies before a side altar in the abbey until he can be buried. In this weather, it is not practicable to take him home to Lichfield, but we have sent word by courier and in the fullness of time maybe his family or the Chapter there may wish to have his coffin translated there.’

  There was nothing more to be done and the coroner’s trio began walking back to the palace. Suddenly, Thomas de Peyne stopped so suddenly that Gwyn, walking behind him, stumbled against the little clerk.

  ‘Surely there is something odd, Crowner?’ said Thomas, looking quizzically at de Wolfe.

  ‘Yes, you are bloody odd, stopping in my path like that!’ complained Gwyn, but John silenced him with a gesture. He had learned long ago that any thoughts of his clerk were usually worth listening to. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘We found no keys in the house. The canon still had his normal duties with the Exchequer, so where are his precious keys, including those for any chests still in the Tower?’

  There was a silence while the others digested this.

  ‘Important keys such as those should have been on his person for safe keeping,’ said John. ‘Just as I did when we travelled from Winchester – they never left my pouch, thank St Michael and all his archangels!’

  ‘So where are Basset’s keys?’ grunted Gwyn.

  John punched a fist into his other hand. ‘Damn! He was dressed in a hospital gown when we saw his body. I never thought to ask for his clothing. We must get back there at once and enquire. Let’s hope they’ve not been destroyed or given away to the poor.’

  The astute brain of their clerk saw a flaw in this. ‘They would hardly give a priest’s cassock away nor send him back to the abbey dressed in an infirmary shroud. I’m sure the Austin canons would have more respect for one of their own and include his personal belongings when they dispatched the corpse back to Westminster.’

  Gwyn slapped his diminutive friend on the back. ‘Clever little sod, aren’t you! Are we to try at the abbey, Crowner?’

  De Wolfe had no doubt that they should and in a few minutes they were in the lofty nave of Edward the Confessor’s great church. They found Simon Basset on a bier before a shrine in the north transept, still with the contented expression on his round face, confounding the common misapprehension that those who died an unnatural death had contorted features.

  Tall candles burned at his head and feet and a fellow Benedictine knelt in prayer on a prie-dieu nearby.

  Thomas gently interrupted him to ask where they might enquire about the canon’s personal belongings and the monk directed them to a deacon who sat in an alcove near the west door. He in turn took them into the wide cloisters south of the church where a side room contained all manner of odds and ends, including broken furniture, processional banners and incense censers. The old man opened a battered chest and lifted out a cloth tied in a knot at the top. It had a scrap of parchment attached which Thomas checked, confirming that it belonged to Simon Basset.

  ‘We are waiting to hear from his chaplain as to whether it needs to be sent to Lichfield,’ explained the deacon, handing it over. John untied the knot and spread the contents on to the lid of the chest. A belt, a rosary and several kerchiefs were of no interest, but there was a bulky scrip, a leather pouch attached to the belt. John undid the small strap and buckle and tipped out the contents. There were about twenty silver pennies, a medal of St Christopher and two bunches of keys. One of these immediately caught the coroner’s attention, being several large keys on an iron loop.

  ‘Two of these have got those spots of coloured paint we saw before,’ he said. ‘The codes for the locks on the treasure chests.’

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they,’ said Gwyn gruffly. ‘He’s one of the key-holders, he should have them.’

  ‘But he shouldn’t have two, he should only have one,’ squeaked Thomas excitedly.

  ‘Possibly, but we can’t be sure that these keys relate to the chest from which the objects were stolen.’

  De Wolfe gnawed his lip in indecision. ‘I need to make sure! This could either confirm or exonerate Simon Basset as the culprit. We owe it to his memory to clear any suspicion, if he is innocent.’

  The other bunch was an assortment without spots and some may have been his house keys. However, John took them along with the two larger ones and left the abbey. It was now approaching noon and surrendering to the rumblings of Gwyn’s stomach, he reluctantly delayed their journey to the city so that they could all eat their dinner at Long Ditch. After swallowing Osanna’s potage of vegetables and shreds of some unidentifiable meat, followed by boiled pork knuckles, they collected their horses from the marshal’s stables and rode to London.

  At the Great Tower, the production of his royal warrant, with the impressive seal of the Chief Justiciar dangling from it, immediately gained them admission and they were conducted at once to the Constable’s chamber. Once again, Herbert de Mandeville was not pleased to see them, as a visit from the dark, gaunt Coroner of the Verge was a reminder of the failure of his responsibility as guardian of the Tower. In addition, there was the lingering suspicion of his own involvement, as one of the two key-holders.

  After an abrupt greeting, John went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘Have you heard yet of the death of Simon Basset?’

  De Mandeville nodded. ‘Only that he had some kind of seizure and died in St Bartholomew’s. I suppose he was too fat and well fed for his own health.’

  The coroner saw no reason not to tell the Constable the truth, though he left out the part about the brothel, as it seemed an unnecessary darkening of the canon’s memory.

  ‘He was murdered – poisoned with foxglove.’ John watched Herbert keenly, to see how he took this news. The Constable’s brows came together in surprise, but he seemed not too dismayed by the canon’s death. ‘And is this connected in any way with the theft of that treasure?’ he asked evenly, giving away nothing in his manner.

  The coroner reached into his scrip and produced the two large keys with the painted spots.

  ‘This is why I am here, de Mandeville. I need to know if these ke
ys found on Basset’s person fit the locks on that damned chest.’

  The older man took the keys from him and examined them.

  ‘They carry coloured marks, like those on that box – but that is not unique, it is often done for other chests.’

  ‘I want you to check these, either on the locks themselves or by comparing the shapes of the wards with those you keep in that secure cupboard there.’ He pointed to the large flat cabinet on the wall of the chamber.

  Herbert de Mandeville glared at the coroner almost triumphantly. ‘Can’t be done!’ he declared complacently. ‘The strongroom below is completely empty, for once. That chest, with what remained of its contents, was yesterday dispatched with the other boxes by ship to Normandy. It was needed to carry some additional coinage that had been in the care of the Templars – and, naturally, its keys went with it, in the care of another Treasury official.’

  John glowered at the news. Now how in hell am I ever going to resolve this? he asked himself. Short of going to Rouen, there was now no way of knowing if Simon had been up to no good.

  Once again, Thomas’s nimble brain came to the rescue. ‘Sir Herbert, when such chests arrive or depart from your keeping, are the two keys to each box always kept together on one ring?’

  The other three men stared at the clerk, unsure of his reasoning.

  ‘Of course! It would cause great confusion if they were jumbled together,’ replied the puzzled Constable. ‘Sometimes, after the sheriffs have delivered their county farms twice a year, I may get a dozen chests or more brought here.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ persisted the little priest.

  Herbert stared at Thomas in perplexity. ‘Well, after the contents are checked I separate the pair of keys. Simon or whoever it might be, takes one and I lock up the other in that cupboard.’

  ‘So afterwards neither you nor the Exchequer official has any reason to have two keys paired on a ring?’ asked Thomas.