The Grim Reaper

by Bernard Knight

  Gwyn had wandered over to where the neighbours were still pouring water over the sizzling wreckage. There were two shuttered window openings on the ground floor and John saw his officer bend to stare at something on the stone sill of the one furthest from the fire. After a moment’s close scrutiny, Gwyn turned and beckoned to the coroner. ‘Does this mean anything? It looks like writing’

  De Wolfe stooped alongside him and Gwyn pointed out a series of fresh scratches in the soft limestone of the window surround. Though shallow, they were clean and distinct, looking as if they had been made with the point of a knife, like the letters on the millstone in Fitz-William’s well.

  A growing unease pervaded John’s mind and he cursed that Thomas was not here to offer his usual expertise. ‘It’s writing surely enough, but I can’t read it.’

  ‘Let me see, then,’ came a voice from behind and there was the ubiquitous Brother Rufus. Somewhat reluctantly, Gwyn moved aside for him and the heavily built priest peered short-sightedly at the sill.

  ‘Is it another Biblical quotation?’ demanded de Wolfe impatiently. If it was, their killer had radically changed his modus operandi.

  ‘It is indeed, this time from the Epistle of St Paul to the Romans.’

  ‘And what does it say, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘It was for Christ’s sake, Crowner. But I fear that our scribe has a warped sense of religious faith, for this one is hardly appropriate to an attempt at murder.’ De Wolfe felt like murdering the monk himself, as he seemed as long-winded as Gwyn in getting to the point. But before he could bellow his frustration, the chaplain continued. ‘It reads, “Vengeance is mine – heap coals of fire on his head.” ’

  ‘That seems apt enough in the circumstances – though it doesn’t tell us why it was done and against whom.’ De Wolfe choked back the fact that the occupants had included a corrupt sheriff, an appropriate target for a self-appointed avenging angel.

  Gwyn, insensitive to the careful path his master had to tread, stated the obvious in a loud voice: ‘But there was another bloody harlot there, Crowner! Our killer has done for one already, so he must be having a crusade against loose women.’

  De Wolfe reflected that the identity of the girl who had climbed naked down from the balcony must surely have been known to half the men who saw her in the yard, but as long as the sheriff’s presence was kept secret, no harm was done.

  ‘Why did you say that the quotation is not right for a murder?’ growled Gwyn, who did not take to any priests, apart from Thomas.

  ‘To the best of my recollection, the full sense of that passage from Romans is that “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,”’ answered Rufus. ‘But it goes on to tell us ordinary mortals not to take the law into our own hands, as the Almighty is quite capable of doing his own work when it comes to retribution.’

  ‘What about these “coals of fire”?’ demanded John. ‘They seem to fit this scene.’ He waved his hand at the glowing embers and the clouds of smoke still wafting around the yard.

  The monk smiled knowingly. ‘But Paul said, “If thine enemy hungers, feed him, and if he thirsts, give him drink – for in doing so, you shall heap coals of fire on his head.” This is hardly such an act of kindness, trying to burn him to death.’

  De Wolfe noticed that Rufus said ‘him’ even though only a girl had been seen escaping from the house – but perhaps he had been referring to the ‘enemy’ in the scriptures. However, he had a gut feeling that the nosy priest knew that Richard de Revelle had been inside. ‘How came you to be in this yard so quickly tonight?’ he snapped.

  Brother Rufus looked at him guilelessly. ‘I was on my way back to Rougemont from the cathedral, to prepare for Matins in my little chapel. I saw the flames and, being curious, followed these other good men in case I could be of some assistance.’

  Waterbeer Street was by no means on a direct route from cathedral to castle and the coroner told him so. The affable monk took no offence at this oblique expression of suspicion. ‘You’ll remember that I have lately come from Bristol and previously had no knowledge of Exeter. So I make a point of varying my path each day, to build up my familiarity with the city.’ The man seemed to have an answer for everything.

  De Wolfe turned to Gwyn. ‘Stay here until you have questioned as many people as you can about the start of the fire. Catch some in the street before they leave – and talk to the neighbours. See if they remember any strangers loitering about. Then find the owners and other residents of this place – if there are any who stay longer than it takes to drop their breeches!’ He dipped his hands into a nearby bucket of water and rinsed the soot off them.

  ‘You’ve got more on your cheeks, and your hair is singed at the front,’ said Gwyn.

  As de Wolfe sluiced water over his face, he gave more orders to his officer. ‘Find Thomas and get him up here to check on those words under the window.’ He looked sideways at the priest. ‘I mean no slight on your biblical prowess, Brother, but I have to hold an inquest on all fires in the city, even when there’s no corpse, so my own clerk needs to record any evidence.’

  He rubbed his face dry with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Now I’m going down to the Saracen to see that girl, and then I’m off to Rougemont to talk to the sheriff. He’ll not be pleased that this has happened on the very night the King’s Justices are here.’

  After he had been to the Saracen, de Wolfe barged into the sheriff’s chamber unannounced. He found de Revelle slumped morosely behind his table, a large goblet of wine in his hand, for once ignoring the profusion of parchments spread before him. He had already washed the smuts from his face and hair and was swathed in a plum-coloured velvet house-gown. He raised his head slowly to the coroner, a scowl on his petulant face. ‘Come to crow over me again, I suppose?’

  John grinned at him, though it was more of a leer. ‘How you enjoy yourself at night is none of my business – unless it involves plotting against the King whom you represent in this county.’

  The sheriff tried to counter this veiled threat with haughty bluster. ‘You are in no position to preach about morals! It’s common knowledge that you have been betraying my sister for years with that woman from the inn – and God knows how many others.’

  De Wolfe kept his grin in place. ‘But, Richard, I don’t pick up painted whores and have to flee almost bare-arsed from burning buildings in full view of our worthy citizens.’

  The sheriff seemed to sag in his chair, his attempt at defiance crumpling. ‘I need a woman now and then! My wife is never here and a man has natural desires. You should know that above all people.’

  The frosty Lady de Revelle kept away from Rougemont and her husband as much as she could, though she would have to put in an appearance at the feasting this week.

  ‘I’ve just come from the Saracen, where I had a few words with your paramour,’ announced John, planting himself in a folding chair opposite the sheriff.

  De Revelle drunk the rest of his wine and banged down the pewter cup. ‘I never even got my money’s worth, damn it! We’d hardly got started when that fire began.’ He stared wildly at the coroner. ‘What the hell is going on, John? Was that sheer coincidence?’

  De Wolfe shook his head slowly. ‘You’re not going to like this – and neither are the royal judges, if they get to hear of it.’

  With his brother-in-law becoming more incredulous as he went on, John related their findings in the backyard at Waterbeer Street: that naphtha had been used in a deliberate arson attack and an ambiguous Biblical text had been scrawled at the scene, reduced Richard to a state of furious agitation.

  ‘Why should this murderous swine want to kill me? And what is that damned nonsense about vengeance and coals of fire?’ He jumped up and shakily poured more wine, without offering any to his saviour.

  De Wolfe watched him stalk about the room, his fair hair and beard spiky from its recent wetting, his small head sticking out of the long red gown like a globe atop a tournament tent. ‘There’s plenty of f
olk who’d be happy to see you dead or shamed,’ he said. ‘You send men to the gallows every other week from your shire court, and their families might want vengeance. Even the tinners have threatened violence to get rid of you as Lord Warden of the Stannaries.’ He paused. ‘To say nothing of those who despise you for your adherence to Prince John.’

  Richard’s face flushed with anger and shame. ‘But if what you say is true about this poxy message scratched on the window-ledge, this is the same man who’s been killing sodomites, whores and Jews. What’s that to do with me?’

  ‘He seems to have a private crusade against evildoers – and that includes you!’ answered de Wolfe, with some relish. ‘At least you are unique.’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’ snarled the sheriff.

  ‘You’re his first failure – thanks to Gwyn and myself!’

  De Revelle muttered something under his breath, which sounded far removed from an expression of gratitude, but he sat down and seemed to remember his duty as a host: he poured some wine for his brother-in-law. ‘Is any of this going to come out?’ he mumbled anxiously.

  ‘The fact of the fire is already common knowledge, and as for the rescue of the girl, a dozen men saw that – much to their delight.’

  ‘You say you’ve spoken to her?

  ‘Just now, at the Saracen. She was more frightened of my threats of retribution if she talked about you than she was at the shock of almost being burned alive like a witch.’ He took a deep swallow of the good red wine. ‘And I promised her that you will send her a purse of silver, to make sure that she stays silent.’

  The tight-fisted sheriff scowled again, but managed to hold his tongue.

  ‘As far as I can make out, no one has realised that you were in the house with her – except the would-be assassin, of course. I can’t believe he would go to those lengths just to dispose of another common harlot.’

  ‘He did so before, with that red-headed strumpet,’ the sheriff objected.

  ‘I suspect he’s choosing to punish one example of each sin,’ said John. ‘If he intends eliminating every prostitute in Exeter, he’ll be working full-time until Christ Mass! Anyway, that text from the Gospels fitted you better than the girl, with its talk of vengeance.’

  ‘Vengeance for what?’

  ‘There’s plenty to choose from, Richard. Sheriffs are the least popular people in the land. Maybe your good wife hired an assassin?’

  De Revelle groaned. ‘I hope by all the saints in heaven that she never gets to hear of this! She will be here by noon tomorrow.’ The chill prospect of his wife’s acid tongue caused him to think of his sister. ‘And Matilda? What about her? Does she have to know?’

  This was one score that de Wolfe was not going to let pass. When he had caught out her brother in his attempted treachery last year, Matilda had pleaded with him to save the sheriff from disgrace and perhaps even execution. He had agreed, and in return gained several months’ respite from her domineering abuse. Now he had the chance to build up a little more credit, by telling her how he had saved her brother from both cremation and ridicule.

  ‘There can be no secrets between husband and wife, Richard,’ he said, with a straight face but with underlying glee. The sheriff groaned and pleaded for his silence, but John cut across his words. ‘There are more important things at the moment. How did that new chaplain of yours happen to be around Waterbeer Street at the wrong time? Could he have known you were in the house?’

  De Revelle’s eyes widened. ‘Was he there? He didn’t see me, did he? He’s an inquisitive bastard. I don’t know why William the Marshal sent such an unsuitable fellow to us. It must have been some arrangement with his brother, Bishop Henry.’ Then a further thought struck him. ‘A priest … well lettered, knows the Gospels. John, do you think …?’

  De Wolfe knew well enough what the sheriff meant, for the same idea had cropped up in his own mind, but there was no real evidence for incriminating the genial Franciscan.

  ‘But it can’t be him. He’s from Bristol and knows almost no one in these parts,’ went on de Revelle. ‘Though he may have followed me down from the castle out of sheer curiosity.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t believe it was Rufus. What about that other priest, though?’

  De Wolfe stared at him. ‘What other priest?’

  ‘Your damned clerk, that twisted little runt with the evil eye. Where was he when all this was happening tonight?’

  He said this with a return of his old spitefulness and John was incensed, not only because of the slight against Thomas but because he had no answer. He had no idea where Thomas de Peyne had been that evening, after he left the Bush to fetch his belongings. ‘He’s well accounted for,’ he lied brusquely, but vowed to check this as soon as he next had Thomas and Gwyn together.

  A crafty look came into his brother-in-law’s eye. He moved across to his littered table and produced a small leaf of parchment from under a ledger. ‘This was delivered to me today, John. I know you have no understanding of letters, but I’m sure you’ll accept it when I read it out. You can have it checked by someone else later.’

  De Wolfe glowered suspiciously at him, ignoring the slur on his literacy as he nodded brusquely for the sheriff to continue.

  ‘It reads as follows. “I saw the short clerk who scribes for the crowner running away from the house of the cordwainer, soon after the Matin bells on the night he was slain.” So what about that, Crowner?’ The triumph in his voice was evident.

  ‘Very good, Richard. Did you write it yourself?’

  De Revelle leered back at his brother-in-law. ‘You can’t shrug it off so easily. It was handed to your friend Sergeant Gabriel, no less, by some street child who was given a coin by some nameless man in the town.’

  ‘Great evidence, sheriff! Unsigned, uncorroborated, unproven – and who could have seen my clerk or anyone else in the city in the pitch darkness of midnight?’

  ‘I don’t care about that. The very fact that someone has sent this note strengthens the suspicions against your clerk. The finger is pointing, John.’

  Though inwardly he felt more concerned than he dared show, de Wolfe again dismissed the message with an airy nonchalance. ‘God forbid that we should take any notice of some mischief-maker who can use a pen and ink. In fact, this almost certainly points to a literate priest – and there is a whole clutch of those who are aggravated by being named by the cathedral as suspects.’ He slammed his palm hard on to the table in front of the sheriff. ‘I should worry more about the Justices in Eyre, if I were you. They may well hear of the fire and even the fact that our resident Exeter murderer left his trademark behind once again. Of course, your part in this must never come to light – unless you do something stupid.’

  He drank the rest of his wine and left for the gatehouse, leaving a chastened de Revelle behind him.

  It was past midnight when de Wolfe reached home, but for once he cared nothing for his lateness or for the noise he made when he clumped up the solar steps and dropped his boots with a thump on the bedroom floor. Tonight, he cared little for Matilda’s scowling face at the disturbance he caused, as he usually tiptoed in stockinged feet to escape her withering tongue. A single rush light burned in a dish of water on the floor, giving enough light for him to see her sitting up in bed, her hair confined in twisted wires and parchment scraps, to be wrestled into ringlets by Lucille for the banquet next evening.

  As soon as he dropped on to the edge of the bed to pull off his hose, he went on the attack. ‘I have disturbing and distressing news for you, wife,’ he began, and launched into a full and accurate version of the evening’s events, sparing her no details of her brother’s dishonourable part in the affair. Matilda listened in frozen disbelief as he finished his catalogue of Richard’s misdemeanours. ‘All he was concerned with, was his own escape and the concealment of his presence there,’ he concluded.

  Matilda was still bolt upright in bed, her back against the wall. Her face was grim and, although he waited
for her denials of everything he had said and a diatribe about his wanting further to discredit her brother, she said nothing. She knew that what he had told her must be the truth. Matilda was not blind to the weakness of men when it came to women, but the shame he had narrowly escaped that night would weigh heavily on her for a long time to come. John could imagine the verbal lashing that her brother would get from Matilda in the very near future.

  ‘Will this melancholy tale become common knowledge, John?’ were the only words she could find. There was ineffable sadness in her voice and suddenly her husband abandoned any trace of satisfaction in possessing this weapon against her. His voice softened as he said, ‘I promised you before that I would protect him as best I can and I will keep my word – short of him becoming involved in any more acts of treason. This affair tonight was conduct unbecoming a senior law officer, but carnal weakness is a lesser offence than seditious leanings against the King.’

  He took this opportunity to hint that amorous exploits were of little consequence, compared to the important activities in life. Matilda, for all her many failings, was an intelligent woman and the message was not lost on her.

  A simple ‘Thank you, John,’ was her uncharacteristically short response, as she heaved herself down under the blanket and turned away from him.

  He stripped off the rest of his clothes and slipped into his side of the bed. As they lay there, one on each edge, he listened uneasily to her muffled sobs as she cried herself to sleep over her repeatedly fallen idol, Richard de Revelle. Once again, his emotions were confused. She was his wife and would be until death – or until she took herself to a nunnery: his iron sense of duty would keep them bound together in this loveless union. Yet he would never allow her to be harmed and – except when he was in a temper – he had no wish to see her unhappy. At times like this, when she cried into her pillow, he felt guilt, shame, and almost tenderness for the woman who had shared his life for sixteen years. But he knew that in the morning, she would be grim old Matilda once more, throwing his feeble attempts at companionship back in his face and driving him down to the Bush, where humour, love and understanding would start the cycle of his emotions turning full circle once again.