As they walked down through the outer ward of Rougement, redolent with the smoke from fire-pits and the aroma of cooking from the huts of soldiers’ families and camp-followers, Gwyn echoed Mary’s concerns by raising the problem of Thomas’s presence. ‘Are we wise to have him at these interrogations, Crowner? I know he’s perfectly innocent, poor little sod,’ he added hastily, ‘but can it be held against us, if we have an alleged suspect as part of the inquisition?’
‘We need his knowledge, Gwyn,’ said de Wolfe wearily. ‘How is he, d’you think? Is his mind still unstrung?’
The officer shrugged his huge shoulders. ‘He still mumbles to himself all the time — and when he thinks I’m not watching him, I sometimes see tears running down his face. Thomas is in the depths of despair and I see no way of shaking him out of it, other than making him a priest again.’
There was no answer to this and they trudged on in silence until they reached the bottom of Fore Street and turned right by the West Gate, inside the wall.
‘We’ll call there next,’ said de Wolfe, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at St Mary Steps, behind them at the bottom of Stepcote Hill.
Ahead, he could see their clerk, standing forlornly outside the small church built into the city wall. His shabby black cassock, which reached his ankles, emphasised the slight hump over his left shoulder, weighed down by the strap of his bag of writing materials. He was oblivious of their presence, staring at the open church door, from which the final phrases of the Mass could be heard, chanted in a reedy voice by the priest they had come to interview.
As they came up behind Thomas, they heard a ragged response from the small congregation inside and as the last muttered ‘Amens’ were heard, Thomas joined in, crossing himself repeatedly as he stood in the dusty street.
He became aware of his master and Gwyn just as the first of the score or so parishioners came out of the simple building, most of them poorly dressed inhabitants of Bretayne.
‘Just the right moment, Thomas,’ said de Wolfe, with a brusqueness that tried to conceal his concern for his clerk. ‘The devotions are over, so he’ll be free. Do you know this fellow at all?’
Thomas pulled himself together with an effort. ‘Ralph de Capra? Yes, I’ve met him, Crowner. A strange man — like me, I think he is tired of life. He is a local fellow, his father was a silversmith who put Ralph to the priesthood as he was a poor specimen, with a hare-lip and some ailment of the skin.’
‘Why has the cathedral pointed a finger at him, then?’ asked Gwyn.
‘Only because he was said to be surly and unapproachable, not the ideal qualities for a parish priest,’ replied John, advancing towards the steps that led into the church.
Inside, the last of the few worshippers had left and the bare nave was silent. Gwyn followed with his usual reluctance to enter any religious premises but contrarily, Thomas bobbed his knees and crossed himself as enthusiastically as if he was entering St Peter’s in Rome.
De Wolfe peered around until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. He saw a figure up at the altar, pulling a white surplice up over his head, leaving a long black tunic similar to that worn by Thomas. As they made their way towards him, de Capra swung around, the discarded vestment dangling from his hand. He stared at them, then his gaze focused on John. ‘You are the crowner, sir. What brings you here?’
‘We are seeking the killer of three victims in the city this week. I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Why me? Why have you come here?’ The hare-lip slightly distorted his speech, which was high-pitched and querulous. He looked annoyed and apprehensive, so the coroner decided to temper his own tone, to avoid antagonising the priest.
‘The Bishop has given us leave to make enquiries among priests in various parts of the city, to see if any clues can be gained as to the identity of the killer. I’m sure everyone in Exeter knows by now that the perpetrator must be literate and have a sound knowledge of the scriptures.’
De Capra’s tense features relaxed a little. ‘I had heard something of the kind, though I do not indulge in common gossip. But I cannot help you, I know nothing of these tragedies.’
Gwyn moved to stand at the priest’s shoulder, as if his great bulk might intimidate the man into some indiscretion.
‘Did you know any of the victims?’ he boomed, almost into Ralph’s ear.
‘Of course I knew Arnulf de Mowbray, he was a fellow priest — though he was likely not to have been one for much longer, when the Consistory Court caught up with him.’ The sarcastic tone was quickly replaced by anger. ‘But why should you think I knew anything of a Jewish money-lender and a painted whore, eh?’
For several more minutes, the interchange continued in the same vein, with de Capra indignantly responding to questions concerning his whereabouts at the periods in which the murders took place. He knew nothing, he was always at his church or at his lodging in Priest Street. There was no one to vouch for this, but why should there be? He was a celibate priest! Agitated and outraged, he stalked up and down the chancel step, waving his arms, the surplice flapping like a battle flag. ‘I resent you pestering me like this, sir! I am charged with the care of my flock in this part of the city, God-forsaken area that it is, and I do my best to try to teach them about goodness and sin, the saints and martyrs, the Holy Virgin, the Blessed Son and God himself — if He exists.’
With this peculiar finale, he turned his back on them, dropped to his knees before the altar and burst into tears. Thomas involuntarily went to him and laid a consoling hand on his bent shoulder, whispering some calming words into his ear. As always, strong emotion embarrassed de Wolfe, who preferred to clash swords with a man rather than see him cry. Rolling his eyes at Gwyn in despair, he accepted that there was nothing useful to be got from the priest and waited impatiently until his clerk had coaxed the man back to his feet. Then he beckoned to Thomas and muttered into his ear. The clerk nodded, fumbled in his bag and produced a quill, an ink-bottle and a torn scrap of parchment pinned to a small square of thick leather for a support.
‘Father Ralph, we need a short note from you, for the records,’ lied John. ‘Just a few words to include with my inquest roll, to say that you have no knowledge of any of the circumstances of these deaths.’
Suspiciously and with bad grace, Ralph de Capra sniffed back his tears and went to the stone ledge that ran around the nave for the aged and infirm to rest on during services. He sat down, and when Thomas proffered the writing materials, irritably scratched a few sentences. De Wolfe noticed that he wrote with his left hand. When he had finished, he thrust the leather back at the clerk. ‘Is that all you want of me? I trust you will leave me in peace now.’
De Wolfe grunted some words of thanks and led his team out into the street, leaving the incumbent to glare after them.
‘That was no great victory for us,’ snorted Gwyn in disgust, as they walked back towards the West Gate. ‘I suspect that’s the kind of reception we’ll get from them all.’
The coroner was not so despondent — he had expected nothing more. ‘This is just the start. We need to get a feel for these priests one by one. Probably none of the names given to us is our man, but someone might let fall something useful.’
Gwyn looked less optimistic. ‘The only way we’ll find this bastard is by catching him red-handed or discovering an eye-witness.’
Thomas was pattering along behind the two longstriding men and now his voice piped up. ‘His script is nothing like the handwriting on the note left with the moneylender.’
They stopped and he showed them the pieces of parchment. Even though neither could read the words, it was obvious that the script was totally different.
‘He did that with his left hand,’ observed de Wolfe.
Thomas lifted his humped shoulder in a gesture of indifference. ‘That means nothing — if he is truly left-handed, he could have disguised his script by using his right. The note found on the Jew is much less regular than the usual quality of writing, so it was almost certainly disguised.’