‘He has had a grievous blow to the cranium,’ declared John. ‘There seems to be no breakage of the bone, but certainly he would have lost his senses.’ He motioned to Gwyn, who let the head drop with a thump.
‘Show them the bag,’ he commanded. Gwyn reached under the legs of the body, pulled out the leather money-bag and held it up to show the jury, pushing a fist inside to display how wide and deep it was.
‘This pouch was over his head, the drawstrings tightened about his neck.’ He gestured again to Gwyn, who handed the leather bag to the nearest member of the jury, who took it gingerly, as if it might bite him. As it was passed from hand to hand, de Wolfe continued, ‘You will see that it is strong and has tight seams. It would easily have cut off the victim’s air, especially if he was out of his wits from the blow on his head and could do nothing to save himself.’
Gwyn retrieved the money-bag, restored it to the cart, then covered up the old man for decency’s sake. The jury gaped up at the coroner, waiting for the finale of his performance.
‘I have no other evidence to offer you,’ rasped de Wolfe, who had decided to omit the news about the Gospel text as being none of their concern. ‘Now, does any man among you know anything useful about the death of this man?’ He glared along the row of faces huddled around the handcart. He expected the jury to provide information as well as a verdict.
There were a few muttered denials. The less any man became involved with the law, the safer it was for him. Every step of the legal process was beset with penalties if things went wrong.
‘Did any of you know anything of Aaron’s life? Some of you were traders in that street and must know something of him,’ snapped de Wolfe. He glared at the man Gwyn had appointed foreman, a cloth merchant from a shop near the Jew’s house. ‘You, surely you had some knowledge of him?’
The serge-trader shrugged dismissively. ‘I knew him slightly, Crowner, just to pass the time of day. He kept very much to himself.’
‘All his clients came to him so he didn’t need to venture out much,’ added a stall-holder from Southgate Street. ‘Some of us borrowed a few marks from him when times were difficult. He was a fair man, given the trade he was in.’
There were murmurs of agreement.
‘Anything else? Was there ever any trouble in his shop? Did anyone ever attack or threaten him?’
There was silence as each man looked at his neighbour and shook his head.
‘Do you know if any priests were customers of his?’ demanded the coroner.
This obscure question was met with some blank stares, and a few titters.
The stall-holder spoke up again. ‘It would be a strange usurer who didn’t have clerks as clients, Crowner. Some of our canons have expensive tastes in food and wine.’
‘And women!’ came a hoarse whisper from behind someone’s hand.
‘People who patronise Aaron and his like don’t wish to advertise their visits,’ the foreman went on. ‘They tend to slink into his doorway like a fox into a culvert, for there’s shame in being short of money.’
A few more questions soon confirmed de Wolfe’s expectations that nothing new would be learned, so he directed the jury briefly as to their verdict: ‘This inquest has established that the deceased was Aaron of Salisbury and that he was not a Norman, even though no presentment of Englishry can be made. It is also obvious that he met his death in his domicile in this city of Exeter on …’ He paused and cleared his throat noisily, while he turned to flick his fingers at Thomas who was writing busily. ‘On whatever date it is, in the seventh year of the reign of King Richard.’ He jutted his chin at the jury as if challenging them to contradict him, then concluded, in a loud voice, ‘It is obvious that he died of a blow to the pate and mortal suffocation from that bag being tied over his head. That cannot be an Act of God, or an accident or self-inflicted, so it has to have been murder.’
He raised his voice almost to a shout at the end and glared at the cluster of citizens below him. ‘Now give me your verdict, foreman.’
There was a hurried hissing of whispers. Then the cloth merchant raised his face to the coroner. ‘We find it was murder, Sir John, by persons unknown.’
After the unsurprising result, the jury hurried away, eager to make up for an hour of lost business, while Gwyn trundled the handcart back to the shed on the opposite side of the inner ward. In the Shire Hall, John de Wolfe and Hugh de Relaga sat down at the trestle table to wait while Thomas completed the inquest roll in his impeccable script.
‘This is a strange business, John, if you say that the old fellow wasn’t robbed,’ said de Relaga. He knew most of the commercial gossip of the city, being a Guild Master as well as a leader of the council, and the abrupt cancellation of debts, now that the lender was defunct, might help several of his fellow merchants. ‘Had you better go through his ledgers, John, to see if anyone might have profited considerably by his death?’
De Wolfe had already decided to ask Thomas to do this, but he felt obliged to tell his friend about the parchment found on the body. ‘So it looks as if some aggrieved priest might have killed him,’ he finished.
The wool-merchant dabbed again at his round, red face. ‘That could be a bluff, John, making it look like some deranged cleric to cover up the real purpose of escaping from a money bond.’
John shrugged. ‘It could be, I suppose. But how many of your burgess friends can read, write and quote the Gospels?’
‘Many can pen a few words or have some clerk who is more proficient — not all accounting is done on tally-sticks these days. But I admit you have a point. Few of my acquaintances could quote you more than two lines from the Holy Book.’
When Thomas was ready to pack up his writing materials, the coroner and his gaudy friend stepped down from the platform and strolled outside into the spring sunshine. As they crossed the castle bailey towards the gatehouse, Hugh reflected again on the death of the moneylender. ‘What will you do with the corpse? He obviously can’t be buried in the cathedral Close like everyone else.’
‘I’m going down to see the Archdeacon now. He’s most likely to know about such things.’
‘Has the old man got relatives? I seem to remember that the Jews have strict rules about quick burials. There are a few others of his faith in the city that could be asked.’
‘There is a daughter in Honiton. The castle sergeant sent a messenger this morning to seek her out, but even if he finds her, she’ll not get to Exeter before tomorrow.’
They walked in silence, until de Relaga spoke again. ‘This note from the scriptures … Is it possible to name a man from his penmanship?’
De Wolfe stopped in his tracks and looked down at the Portreeve. ‘I don’t know, Hugh — I’ve never thought about it. Isn’t all script much the same?’ As neither man could write more than his name, differences in handwriting were outside the experience of both.
‘I’ll ask that snivelling clerk of mine,’ said John. ‘He knows all about pens and parchment and suchlike. Though how we’d go about such a test is beyond me.’
It was approaching the time for the midday meal and when they reached the corner of Martin’s Lane, de Relaga trotted off to his comfortable house near Carfoix to enjoy his usual large dinner.
De Wolfe walked past his own home, glancing furtively at the door in case Matilda appeared. He carried on past the farrier’s opposite, where his horse Odin was stabled, then continued across the front of St Martin’s church on the corner of the Close. Though he saw the small building several times a day, he looked at it now with renewed interest, as he had at every one of the parish churches he had passed that day. Did this one house a murderous priest, he wondered.
He loped past the first few houses of Canon’s Row, which was the continuation of Martin’s Lane forming the northern boundary of the Close, with the huge bulk of the cathedral towering above him to his right. His gaze rose unbidden to the narrow builder’s gallery that ran along the outside of the nave, just below roof level and almost forty feet above the ground. Just before it met the massive projection of the North Tower, there was still a faint pale smear running down the masonry, where Thomas’s cloak had rubbed off some of the lichen from the stones when he had made his unsuccessful suicide bid some weeks earlier. If that garment had not snagged on a protruding water-spout halfway down and broken his fall …