‘I thought all moneylenders were Jews,’ grunted the Cornishman. ‘That’s all they can do, isn’t it, for they are banned from other trades? And doesn’t the Church forbid Christians to become usurers?’
The coroner shook his head. ‘The Templars are probably the biggest moneylenders in Christendom — though mostly on a grand scale to kings and princes. And there are some Englishmen, too. There was William Cade in old King Henry’s time, and we still have Gervase of Southampton.’
Thomas was mumbling something under his breath and Gwyn grabbed the back of his collar, lifting him from his stool. ‘What are you saying, dwarf?’
Shaking himself free, the clerk snapped indignantly, ‘I was quoting the Bible again — Deuteronomy this time.’
‘And how does that help us solve a murder?’ chaffed the Cornishman.
‘It shows that he wasn’t killed by a relative or even another Jew — the Old Testament says, “Unto a stranger thou mayest lend upon usury, but unto thy brother thou shalt not.”’
‘Well, no one’s suggesting that he was killed by a relative, fool!’ Gwyn rumbled.
De Wolfe had grown impatient at this bickering between his helpers. ‘Come, now, both of you, the man was killed during the night, so with the city gates shut, it has to have been someone in the city. And Thomas is right. It seems likely that some priest is at the bottom of this, with his writing and his knowledge of scripture.’
As an aid to thought Gwyn tugged at the ends of his drooping moustache. ‘So we need a clerk who is either a crazed killer or who hates Jews or who owes money to one.’
‘Plenty of the last two groups about — and senior priests are often borrowing money,’ observed Thomas. ‘But why leave behind a clue?’
The coroner eyed him piercingly. ‘You know all the priests in Exeter — is there a mad one among them?’
Thomas shrugged his hunched shoulder higher than usual. ‘There’s a few queer ones, to be sure, but I’d be hard put to say that one was a murderer.’
De Wolfe hauled himself to his feet and leaned his fists on the table, like some great black eagle. ‘We won’t discover anything by sitting here, that’s for sure. I’m off to tell the damned sheriff what’s happened, not that he’ll be too concerned about it. Gwyn, I want that inquest organised by the time the bell rings for High Mass.’ He flung his cloak loosely across his shoulders, stumped down from the chamber and walked across the inner ward of the castle towards the keep, a two-storeyed block built against the further curtain wall. The ground had dried out after a long, wet winter and, as he walked, his feet kicked up red dust mixed with animal droppings.
The castle ward was a cross between a military camp, a farmyard and a village, with huts and lean-to shelters all around the inside of the walls, housing families, armourers, carts, stables and all the paraphernalia of a castle in time of peace. There had not been an arrow fired or a sword clashed in anger here for half a century, since the civil war in the time of Stephen and Matilda. The castle was now mainly an administrative centre for the governance of the county of Devon, under its sheriff, Sir Richard de Revelle, the bane of John’s life.
The previous year, de Revelle had almost come to grief on a charge of treachery, for supporting the rebellious cause of Prince John, younger brother of the monarch, Richard the Lionheart. De Wolfe, a passionately loyal supporter of the King, had had it in his power to ruin the sheriff — perhaps even have him hanged — but the intercession of Matilda on her brother’s behalf had saved him. Yet de Revelle was still on probation for good behaviour and he resented John’s hold over him rather than feeling gratitude to him for saving his neck.
But however much the coroner despised the sheriff, he was still the King’s representative in the shire of Devon, responsible for law and order as well as collecting taxes. As county coroner, de Wolfe was obliged to keep him informed of serious crimes within their jurisdiction.
The hunched figure swept across the castle compound, brushing aside squawking geese, dogs and urchins from the garrison families, and skirting plodding ox-carts laden with hay for the soldier’s horses or blocks of stone for the endless repairs to the high walls.
He clattered up the wooden steps to the first-floor entrance of the keep and went into the main hall, a large chamber roofed by smoke-darkened beams and lit by high unglazed slit windows. Along with eating and drinking, much of the business of running the county was conducted here, between harassed clerks, merchants, lawyers, soldiers and tax collectors.
A small side door guarded by a bored man-at-arms led to the sheriff’s quarters. The coroner gave a perfunctory nod to the man and marched through into an outer chamber that served as de Revelle’s office; his dining room and bedchamber were beyond an inner door.
His brother-in-law was seated behind a trestle table covered with parchment rolls. Richard was a dapper man, with wavy brown hair and a neat, pointed beard. Always fastidious in dress, he wore a showy green tunic with elaborate gold embroidery around the neck. A darker green pelisse of heavy wool edged with brown fur was draped over the back of his chair.
A bald-headed scribe sat at one corner, scribbling furiously as the sheriff barked at him. On a small folding table near one of the two narrow window embrasures, another clerk wielded a pen over what seemed to be long lists of accounts.
De Revelle looked up impatiently at the visitor. ‘It’s you, John,’ he growled, his tone emphasising that the visitor was far from welcome. ‘The Justices are due next week and I’ve got to get all these documents ready for them. I hope you’re not going to interrupt me.’
Ignoring the rudeness, de Wolfe perched himself on a corner of the table, making it creak ominously. ‘You’re not the only one who has to appear before the King’s judges, Richard. I was appointed for the very purpose of presenting cases to them, remember?’
‘Bloody nonsense!’ muttered the sheriff. ‘We managed very well before this new-fangled idea of having coroners.’
De Wolfe sighed, but refused to rise to the bait. Last autumn, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury and K ing Richard’s chief minister, had appointed knights in every county as coroners, partly to keep an eye on the sheriffs, who were notorious for lining their own purses at the expense of the Royal Exchequer. Richard de Revelle was no exception: he had been up to all kinds of trickery and embezzlement and now strongly resented having John’s eagle eye upon him.
‘We complained long enough about the delay in the Eyre getting to Devon, Richard, so we can’t complain now that it’s actually coming.’
The sheriff nodded reluctantly. ‘At least we can clear the prison — hang a few people and get them out of the way.’ He shuffled his parchments impatiently. ‘Did you come just to talk about the Eyre?’
De Wolfe ran his hands over his long hair. ‘I came to tell you there’s been a strange killing in the city overnight — Aaron, the Jewish moneylender.’
The sheriff managed to look supremely uninterested. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I think a priest killed him. And the death was on cathedral property.’
Richard de Revelle scowled and tapped his fingers on the table in irritation. ‘Then surely this is a matter for the bishop or his Chapter,’ he snapped impatiently.
De Wolfe shook his head. ‘In matters of murder and violence, you know well enough that Henry Marshal has handed his jurisdiction to us,’ he said evenly. He explained about the biblical text and the fact that someone who could read and write must have been the culprit.
His brother-in-law frowned and pointedly picked up a parchment roll. ‘Then you must look for a mad priest, John,’ he said offhandedly. ‘Was there no hue and cry raised?’
‘What was the point? His body was found almost stone cold this morning so it happened during the night.’