At supper that evening, all the usual patrons were there, except for a few like Aubrey, who had gone off to Portsmouth. The lesson and grace were said by another priest, so Bernard de Montfort sat with them from the start. Renaud plodded in ahead of his wife, who had dressed herself with even greater care to enhance her undoubted beauty, her glossy hair encased in silvered crespines. John was sandwiched between the archdeacon and Ranulf, so she had to sit opposite with her husband, unable to press her shapely thigh against John’s.
A somewhat uninspired potage of leeks, beans and oatmeal was followed by a choice of boiled fowl, roast partridge and eels to lay on their trenchers. All through the meal, Hawise covertly made ‘cow’s eyes’ at John, raising her long lashes with her head demurely lowered, but he resolutely declined to respond and carried on with whatever conversation was in progress. Much of the talk was as usual about Eleanor’s arrival, though the subject of Canon Basset’s sudden demise cropped up again. Most of them knew him, as he had often supped in the hall when business kept him late at the Exchequer. They all knew the meagre facts divulged at the short inquest and were eager for more details from ‘the horse’s mouth’, the nag in question being John de Wolfe.
‘I cannot credit the fact that he was murdered,’ said de Montfort. ‘Though I cannot deny the verdict of your jury, Sir John, I feel sure there must be some other explanation.’
De Wolfe shook his head emphatically. ‘There can be no other explanation, I fear. The canon certainly did not kill himself, both the obvious facts against that and others that I cannot divulge make suicide an impossibility. And to suggest accidental foxglove poisoning in the centre of London is equally untenable!’
‘Facts you cannot divulge!’ trilled Hawise excitedly. ‘You are a man of mystery, coroner, but surely you can give us some hint as to what they may be?’
‘Sir John is a law officer, my dear,’ said Renaud. ‘You must not press him further.’
De Wolfe would not have been averse to being pressed by the delectable Hawise, but this was not the time or place.
‘No doubt our coroner’s reticence is related to the notorious theft of that gold,’ suggested the archdeacon, leaning forward to spear a small partridge and place it on the slab of bread in front of him. ‘It surely can be no coincidence that after a long and blameless life, Simon Basset’s death took place within days of an audacious crime, in which, inevitably, he must have been a suspect.’
There was a silence in which his listeners looked at each other uneasily. Though what Bernard had said was what all of them must have considered, no one had voiced it so outspokenly.
‘We cannot even hint at guilt in such a pious and upright man,’ said Renaud severely, though he could not have been acquainted with the canon for more than a few weeks.
‘A hell of a coincidence, though!’ muttered Ranulf, half to himself. The discussion went back and forth for a time, but covering the same ground that John and his two assistants had ploughed endlessly these past few days. Eventually, de Wolfe turned to another killing, this time intent on dropping some misinformation into the Westminster gossip machine, to see if anything was flushed out.
‘Talking of murder, I have had some intelligence that throws light on the death of that unfortunate clerk in your guest chambers, de Seigneur!’ he said casually. ‘Again, I cannot reveal its nature, but it gives me hope of soon being able to unmask the villain who was responsible.’
This set off another round of questions and pleas for more enlightenment, which John resisted easily, as in truth he had no information to provide. The parchment which Robin Byard had found was of no use without either an interpretation of its meaning or some clue as to who wrote it. Hawise d’Ayncourt was again giving her performance of hero-worship as she gave John looks of melting adoration and, in spite of himself, he could not avoid enjoying the sensation, even with her husband sitting almost within arm’s length. But wisely, he sat firmly on his bench until after Renaud had finished his meal and dragged Hawise off to their quarters, avoiding any dallying and possible embarrassment outside the hall.
He stayed on with the men from the Marshalsea and Bernard de Montfort, taking their time over the ale and remaining wine. They talked again about the imminent arrival of Queen Eleanor.
‘So she should be here within a few days, you think?’ asked Bernard. ‘I would have thought that the Justiciar would have gone to Portsmouth to escort her here himself.’
Martin Stanford, the most senior of the marshals, shook his head. ‘It was mooted, but Hubert Walter decided that he had more pressing business here — and, anyway, she will be accompanied from Normandy by William Marshal himself, who is almost the equal of the Justiciar in rank.’
The doughty old Marshal, who had already served two kings, was well known to de Wolfe, both from campaigns and even a visit to Devon not long ago. John was reminded that William’s main possession was Chepstow Castle, very near where Nesta had returned with her new husband.
He pulled his attention back to the Deputy Marshal, who was still speaking. ‘… so a welcoming party will be sent out to meet the cavalcade from Portsmouth and escort it back to Westminster. Many of the members of the Royal Council will form part of it and I think Hubert will want you included, de Wolfe, as Coroner of the Verge.’
John nodded, he was not averse to a ride in the countryside, with all the panoply of a royal procession.
‘Which day will that be?’ he asked.
‘I have fast riders coming ahead to warn me,’ replied Martin Stanford. ‘Probably by Tuesday, but we will have sufficient notice to get ready.’
By now, John reckoned that Hawise and her husband would be safely lodged in their rooms upstairs, so he could leave without fear of being accosted. He had been hunted by enemies many times during his violent career, but never before by a beautiful woman. The sensation was not altogether unpleasant.
In spite of being harassed by his numerous clerks over the impending visit of his monarch’s mother, Hubert Walter found time next morning to listen to de Wolfe’s update on the missing treasure. Though there was not a trace of it to be found, the Justiciar agreed that the news of Simon Basset’s murder was very relevant to the crime.
‘It can surely be no coincidence that he is slain so soon after this infamous robbery,’ he exclaimed. ‘But what is the significance of it, John?’ He sat behind his table and drummed his fingers on the wood, a sign of the strain that running England for the Lionheart was putting upon him. Over the previous twenty-four months to April that year, he had dispatched well over a million marks of silver to the king in Rouen, squeezed from the country by every means he could devise. Though the loss of nine hundred pounds’ worth of treasure was small in comparison with this, he could ill-afford to lose a single mark, with Richard breathing down his neck for every penny.
The coroner, hunched on a chair in front of the great man, scowled in concentration as he answered Hubert’s question.
‘It seems to mean one of two things, sire. Either the canon came to know or to suspect the identity of the thief and was therefore silenced before he could divulge it … or he was implicated himself and the other conspirators disposed of him in case he was a bad risk.’
The archbishop nodded. ‘And which of those do you favour, de Wolfe?’
John shrugged. ‘I have no means of knowing, sire. There is no real evidence that Basset was involved, as there is no sign of the treasure at his house, after thorough searching.’
‘He could have hidden it elsewhere,’ objected Hubert. ‘In fact, it would be more sensible than leaving incriminating evidence on his own doorstep, with the risk of the servants finding it — unless they too are guilty!’