Morin pushed himself away from the fireplace on which he had been leaning, the huge sword that hung from his baldric clanking against a bucket of logs. ‘I’ll send Sergeant Gabriel out with a couple of men to twist a few arms – but if nothing was stolen, it’s useless making the usual search for men overspending in the taverns and brothels.’
John uncoiled himself from his stool and moved to the door. ‘I’ll talk to as many of the holy men as I can today, before the inquest. And my sharp little clerk is trying to ferret out any episcopal gossip for me – he’s picked up a few hints already.’ The coroner looked pointedly at the sheriff, but de Revelle met his eye without a flicker.
De Wolfe and his two acolytes stood at the great west end of the cathedral as the crowd streamed out after the high mass on this special morning of the year. Matilda had returned to St Olave’s for her devotions. John sometimes wondered if she fancied the parish priest there, even though he was a fat, unctuous creature.
After the worshippers had dispersed from the cathedral steps along the many muddy paths of the Close, the clergy came out, eager for their late-morning lunch. With black cloaks over their vestments, they walked in small groups back to their various dwellings. Some went towards Canons’ Row, others to houses and lodgings scattered throughout the precinct. Many of the vicars and secondaries walked down to Priest Street[1] on the other side of South Gate Street, not far from de Wolfe’s favourite haunt, the Bush tavern, whose landlady, Nesta, was his mistress.
The coroner was lying in wait for several of the senior clerics, to question them about last night’s events. The Archdeacon had promised to collect those canons who had best known Robert de Hane and deliver them to him before they vanished for their midday meal.
‘What about the inquest?’ demanded Gwyn, whose duty it was to round up a jury, whose members would include anyone who might have information about the sudden departure of the canon from this earthly plane.
‘Better let them eat first – half have disappeared already,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘Catch them before the next service begins. That’ll be vespers.’
The priestly staff of the cathedral were supposed to attend no less than seven services every day, beginning at midnight matins. The longest period free of devotions was between late morning and mid-afternoon.
‘There he is, with a few canons in tow,’ piped up Thomas, quickly making the sign of the Cross at such a concentration of senior clerics. Although he had been ejected from the priesthood, he ached to remain accepted as one of the brethren and he never missed an opportunity to be in their company and included in their conversations.
The Archdeacon came out on to the wide steps, his spare figure enveloped in a hooded cloak, which hid the rich alb and chasuble underneath. As he moved towards the coroner, a trio of cloaked men sailed behind him. First was the Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, then two other canons talking together, whom de Wolfe recognised as Jordan de Brent and Roger de Limesi. They were all residents of the row of houses where the death had taken place the previous evening.
John de Alencon greeted the coroner gravely, as did his three companions. ‘Let us go to the Chapter House for our discussion. It will be more private,’ he suggested.
Before they turned to re-enter the cathedral, de Wolfe told Gwyn to go back to Canons’ Row, question any servants he could find and arrange the inquest there for two hours after noon. Then, motioning the delighted Thomas to accompany him, he followed the four priests inside. The congregation had now left and the vast, flagstoned nave was empty except for a few sparrows and crows that had flown in through the unglazed windows to pick up the crumbs left by the hundreds who had gathered for Christ Mass before the great choir-screen that separated them from the choir and chancel.
The Archdeacon strode across to the south side of the building, where between the outer wall and the great box of the choir a passage passed the base of the south tower. Here, a small door led out to the Chapter House, a small two-storey wooden building. There was talk of replacing it in stone, once the Bishop had agreed to give up part of the garden of his palace, which lay immediately to the east.
‘We can use the library above,’ said de Alencon. ‘It is quiet – and most fitting, as poor de Hane spent most of his time there.’ He led the way into the bare room, the walls lined with pews, where the daily Chapter meetings were held. In one corner was a wooden staircase, leading to the upper floor, which acted as the library and archives of the diocese. They climbed up to find a musty chamber half filled with high writing-desks, each with a tall stool.
Thomas de Peyne made himself useful by opening two of the shuttered windows to let in some light along with the keen east wind. It allowed them to see that shelves around the walls were crammed with parchments and vellum rolls, with more on the desks and piled in heaps on the floor. There were some sloping shelves along one wall, with heavy leatherbound books securely chained to rings screwed into the wood.
The Archdeacon clucked in concern. ‘This place needs attention,’ he murmured.
Jordan de Brent sighed. ‘The place is too small, brother. It’s high time it was rebuilt and enlarged. Last year we had a great influx of old manuscripts from many of the parish churches, sent here for safekeeping. It was on these that Robert de Hane was working.’
Roger de Limesi nodded agreement. ‘I helped him when I could, but it was a hopeless task without proper storage.’ He waved a hand around the untidy chamber. De Limesi was a thin, almost cadaveric man, with two yellow teeth that protruded from below each end of his upper lip, fangs that gave the unfortunate man an almost animal-like appearance.
‘Find a seat, if you can,’ invited John de Alencon, clearing a space for himself on one of the stools.
When they were all settled in a ragged circle, with Thomas standing dutifully at his master’s shoulder, de Wolfe began his questions. In deference to his rank, he addressed himself first to the Archdeacon. ‘We need to find some reason for the death of this mild-mannered colleague of yours. Can you throw any light at all on this?’
De Alencon threw back his cloak, although the unheated room was as cold as the Close outside. ‘Even a few hours’ reflection has failed to bring anything fresh to my mind. Let us ask someone nearer to him if he has any comments.’ He turned his nobly ascetic face to Jordan de Brent, who was a complete contrast to his fellow canon Roger de Limesi: he was plump and had a round moon face with a rim of sandy hair around a shiny bald head. He wore a permanent smile of vague beneficence and it was something of a surprise to hear his deep, booming voice when he spoke.
‘He was indeed a gentle soul, devoted to the study of his beloved Church.’ De Brent waved a fat hand around the library. ‘For over a year he spent much of every day, when he was not at his devotions, sorting and studying the old records here, from all over Devon and Cornwall.’
De Wolfe shifted impatiently on his stool. ‘But why should such a man come to an evil death?’
Jordan de Brent lifted his ample shoulders in a Gallic gesture. ‘God alone knows, Crowner! But I will say that recently his manner seemed to change somewhat.’
The Archdeacon’s lean face inclined towards him. ‘In what way, Brother Jordan?’
‘For several weeks now, he had been – what shall I say? – well, excited. Normally he was quiet to the point of being withdrawn, a dreamy, contemplative fellow, his mind locked in the past.’
‘And do you know the reason for this change?’ demanded the coroner.
‘No, I can’t tell you that. But since, say, the first Sunday in Advent, he worked even longer hours. He was brisker, his eye shone – though sometimes he seemed almost furtive when I passed near his desk.’