Eventually, the sheriff had to succumb to the pleas of his chief clerk and reluctantly go back to his chamber to give audience to the many people who were waiting impatiently to see him. John strode back to the gatehouse and sat behind his table, watching Thomas carefully scribing away at his manuscripts. The little clerk's tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth as he hunched over his quill pen, concentrating on forming the excellent script that would be put before, the royal justices when they next came to hold the Eyre of Assize.
One of the main functions of the coroner system was to record all legal events in each county for presentation either to the judges on their infrequent visits or to the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery, lesser officials who came more often to clear the endless backlog of cases, whose alleged perpetrators languished in the prisons.
Though juries of men from every hundred had to present their local cases to the courts, anything in which the coroner was involved had to be documented on his rolls for examination by the justices. It was Thomas's pride that ensured that his yards of parchment were the neatest and most legible of all the documents presented.
De Wolfe had been trying to learn to read and write, taught both by a vicar from the cathedral and by Thomas, but his lack of patience made him a poor student and he had hardly progressed beyond being able to read a few simple sentences and sign his name. Now he looked with wonder, rather than envy, at his clerk's dextrous fingers forming the regular lines of Latin script on the creamy parchment before him.
After a few minutes, boredom began to overtake him.
He missed Gwyn's boisterous company, as the officer was still down in Smythen Street organising the inquest which John would hold just before noon. At this time of morning, the three of them would usually have a second breakfast, but with Gwyn away, there was no bread and cheese and the large jug of cider on the floor was empty.
De Wolfe drummed his fingers on the table and shivered as a cold blast of air whistled through the slit-shaped windows. The snow had held off, but it was frosty and the wind was rising from the east.
Thomas looked up, his pointed nose bright red with cold, the beginnings of a dewdrop forming at its tip.
He sensed that his impatient master wanted some diversion.
'How will you pursue this killing, sir?' he asked.
'Start by discovering more about this saddler,' replied John. 'Search his dwelling for a start, then question those who knew him in life, I suppose.'
'He seems to have been a stalwart guild member,' offered Thomas. 'I heard Walter Pole mention that this Matthew had once been the treasurer of the Cordwainers, which includes all kinds of leatherworkers.' The coroner had learned over the sixteen months since he had taken office that his clerk was both intelligent and perceptive, so that anything he suggested was usually worth considering.
'The guilds! We must follow that aspect. I'll speak to Hugh de Relaga about it, he has his finger in every scheme the merchants devise in Exeter.' De Relaga was the garishly dressed portreeve, one of the two leaders of the city council, as well as being John's business associate in their wool-exporting business. When de Wolfe returned home from Palestine, he had invested his booty wisely and had become a sleeping partner in this enterprise with Hugh. They bought fleeces from all over the Southwest and shipped them across to Normandy, Flanders and even as far as Cologne. Recently, they had invested in three ships so that henceforth, instead of the partners paying freight, their own crews would sail the Channel when the new season began in the Spring and come back with finished cloth as well as wine and fruit, to make a steady profit on the transaction.
'The present warden of that guild might be worth questioning, Crowner,' suggested Thomas. 'I took the liberty this morning of finding out who it was. He's Archibald Wasteper, a master cordwainer. He sells his footwear from a shop in North Gate Street.' John nodded. 'I know of the place, my wife has bought shoes there — and damned expensive they were,' he added, with feeling.
The clerk sensed that the coroner still wanted some distraction until Gwyn returned, so he kept the dialogue going.
'Sir, do you think that there is anything in this claim of Sir Richard, that this outlaw has some part in the death?'
John scratched his head; a flea was irritating him. 'I don't rule out anything, but it's a pretty unlikely story.' Thomas nodded his agreement. 'And there is the problem of a Dartmoor outlaw getting into the city.'
Here de Wolfe declined to agree with his clerk. 'Not as difficult as you might think, Thomas. With the many hundreds of folk in and out of the gates each day, it's impossible to check everyone, even if those idle porters on the gates made an effort to do so — which they don't.' He gave a lop-sided grin. 'Outlaws not uncommonly squirm their way back into society. I've heard of several who rose to become respected pillars of society again, under new names and in a different city.' The sounds of heavy feet on the stairway heralded Gwyn's return and a moment later his large figure pushed its way through the doorway curtain. He was clutching a gallon jar of cider and three hot mutton pasties, bought from a stall outside the castle gate.
As they ate and drank, Gwyn reported that the inquest was set up and a jury had been impounded from all the neighbours in Smythen Street, as well as the occupants of the school.
'Properly put out, was that magister fellow,' he chortled. 'Said it would disturb his lecture on Homer, whatever the hell that is!'
Thomas pursed his lips in academic disapproval. 'You ignorant Cornish savage. Homer was probably the most famous writer in history.'
Gwyn leered at the little priest. 'Well, he wasn't too well-known down in Polruan, I can tell you!'
John raised a hand imperiously. 'That's enough, you two. After dinner, we'll talk to some people about this Morcok fellow. Surely someone should know what he did to get himself killed.'
The inquest was a low-key event, with few people present apart from the jury whose members had been reluctantly dragged in from the surrounding area. Though in the countryside, all males over twelve from the four nearest villages were supposed to attend an inquest in case anyone had any information about the death, this was impossible in the more populous towns and cities.
Here, it was only practicable to round up a score or so of those from the immediate neighbourhood to act as jurors. Their duty was not only to consider a verdict, but also to act as witnesses, as local people were most likely to have knowledge of what went on in their street.
Gwyn had been around all the nearby houses and workshops to order their attendance, on pain of fines if they failed to turn up, and now a couple of dozen men and older boys had shuffled into the yard of the smithy. They stood in a ragged half-circle outside the open doors of the outbuilding, looking sheepish and uncertain of their role in this legal ritual. The coroner's system was little more than a year old and few people understood it — though anything connected with the law was always to be avoided wherever possible, as fines and even imprisonment were an inevitable result of falling to abide by the tortuous rules.
At the end of the line of men stood Magister James Anglicus and his pompous acolyte Henry Wotri. Behind them lurked a dozen students, ranging from fresh-faced boys of fifteen to some serious young men of twenty, all dressed in black clerical habits similar to that of Thomas de Peyne, who was seated on a box just inside the doors.