'God's guts, what's been going on here?' boomed Gwyn, standing with his hands on his hips, looking at the bizarre scene. Thomas, peering fearfully around the Cornishman, crossed himself vigorously and began muttering under his breath in Latin. De Wolfe said nothing and, without touching the body, walked around the tree and looked at the chain which was supporting the body. He saw that it was of rusty iron with links each about two inches in length, typical of those used on ploughs or cart harnesses. The two end links had been joined together by a wooden spike jammed through them, and another, thicker piece of branch had been forced between the chain and the tree trunk, tightening it closely against the corpse's neck.
Coming back to the front of the body, de Wolfe bent and grasped the hair, pulling up the head against the rigor so that he could see the face. Several of the villagers gasped when they saw the features, and Thomas fell to crossing himself again, for the tongue was protruding and the face was mottled with red and purple patches.
'When was he found?' demanded the coroner, glaring at the group of men peering at the corpse.
'Just before dusk last evening, sir,' gabbled one of the men. 'I was searching for a goat that had strayed and came across him as I walked down the track.' Gwyn bent down and lifted one of the arms, nodding knowingly. 'Stiff as a plank!' he declared.
As it was obvious that death had occurred many hours earlier, de Wolfe did not bother to pursue the matter.
What concerned him more was the method of death, and he prised up the eyelids to confirm that the whites were spattered with tiny blood spots.
'Untie that damned chain, Gwyn,' he commanded.
His officer pulled out the pieces of wood and the chain fell free, the dead body slumping forwards as its restraint was removed. The Cornishman lifted it with surprising gentleness and laid it flat on the ground, though death stiffness kept the knees bent upwards.
'No doubt he was throttled by that thing,' Gwyn grunted, holding up the chain by one end and displaying its length, which was considerably more than a yard.
De Wolfe was crouching again, examining the neck of the corpse. A pattern of blue bruises lay across the front of the neck, each one corresponding to the links of the chain. Below this the skin was pale, but above it the blueness was marked, and was peppered with small bleeding points in the skin. 'This chain was tightened while he was still alive, the poor bastard!' he snapped.
Standing up again, he glared at the handful of men who were staring bemused at the body. 'Anyone here know who he might be? And how he got to this spot?'
There was a shuffling and a murmuring, then the reeve spoke up. 'Not anyone from Chudleigh, sir, that's for certain. And by his dress, he's a townsman, not grand, but certainly no pauper.' He gestured at the decent clothing and the good pair of riding boots on the corpse. 'The poor fellow must have been on a horse, but God knows where that is by now.'
This was a veiled hint that any good beast left wandering in the wilds of Devon would be spirited away by anyone lucky enough to catch it, for a decent nag was worth a good many shillings.
Thomas ventured his usual good sense in a practical suggestion. 'He has a scrip on his belt, Crowner,' he offered. 'Maybe there is something in that which might tell us who he was.'
A large leather purse was attached next to the buckle on his belt, which was plain, but of good quality. Gwyn crouched and undid the laces which held the flap of the purse closed, then poked his fingers inside.
'He's not been robbed, that's for sure,' he said, displaying a handful of silver pennies and a crude fin medallion of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. 'That didn't do him much good, did it?'
'Anything else in there?' demanded de Wolfe.
Gwyn fished around again and produced a piece of parchment, folded into four. Knowing that the only one who could read was their clerk, he handed it up to Thomas. 'See if there's anything on that, genius!'
The little priest opened out the yellowed sheet and rapidly scanned it. 'It's a merchant's order, Crowner. For window glass and lead fixings, with a list of shapes and sizes, with some drawings.'
John's black brows came together in surprise. 'He must be a glazier, then. Is there any name we can put to him?'
Thomas shook his head. 'No, but we know where this came from. It's from Berry Pomeroy Castle. Sealed with de la Pomeroy's crest in wax.'
John's bushy eyebrows went up. 'Odd! One of my damned brother-in-law's partners in crime. He must be wanting to spend some of his ill-gotten gains.' Glazing was extremely uncommon, only the houses of rich merchants, a few barons and some of the wealthier cathedrals and churches having anything but wooden shutters or oiled linen screens across their windows.
'The steward or bailiff there would be able to tell us his name,' grunted Gwyn.
'But the victim must surely be from Exeter,' exclaimed Thomas. 'There can be no more than two glaziers in the city, so it should be easy to identify him.'
De Wolfe pondered the best plan of action. Though he was supposed to hold the inquest where the body was found, it was obvious that these country bumpkins would know nothing of the circumstances of the victim's death. There was no one else in the vicinity to ask, and it seemed pointless to go through the rigmarole of sending for a jury from the four nearest villages and determining presentment of Englishry. However, the law was the law and he made up his mind quickly, deciding at least to make a gesture at the proper formality.
'I will hold a short inquest here and now, using these good folk as the jury. Then we will take him back to Exeter, where he surely must belong. Thomas, quickly record the names and place of dwelling of all these men here — and you, Forester Lacey.'
Within minutes, he had raced through a form of inquiry, getting Thomas to record the few salient facts.
He directed the vestigial jury to return a verdict of murder and then turned to Gwyn, waving a hand at the corpse on the ground.
'Wrap him decently in his cloak and lash him across your mare, behind the saddle. And bring that length of chain with you — we'll see what we can discover about him back in the city.'
After such an early start, they were back at Rougemont by noon. The dead merchant was temporarily laid to rest in a cart shed, one of the lean-to shacks that lined the walls of the inner ward. John went back to Martin's Lane to stable Odin with the farrier opposite his house, then went in to dinner.
Matilda was still in what was for her a relatively benign mood, and as they ate their poached salmon, she deigned to listen to his story about the corpse on the Plymouth highway. When he mentioned the likelihood that the victim was an Exeter glazier, her interest was aroused.
'What was his appearance, John?' she snapped, with apparent concern.
'Difficult to say, as his face was discoloured and distorted by the mode of his killing. Why do you ask?' His wife looked genuinely worried. 'One of my friends at the church is the wife of a glazier, the warden of his guild and a man in a very good way of business, too.' Even in such circumstances, Matilda could not resist emphasising the importance of her acquaintances. 'There are only two master glaziers in the city; may God grant that he is not her husband.'
'The victim was of middling height and had thin, fair hair,' answered John. 'He looked about fifty years of age, though it was hard to tell.'
Matilda heaved a sigh of relief. 'Then it is not him, thank Jesus Christ! I have seen Adele's husband occasionally at St Olave's and he is tall, fat and, like you, has an abundance of black hair.'
At least, thought de Wolfe, this seemed to point to the other glazier, though Matilda could not put a name to him. As soon as the meal was over, he grabbed his cloak and hurried round to Hugh de Relaga's burgage in North Gate Street, a fine town house that befitted a rich merchant. De Wolfe's portly friend was in his hall, digesting his dinner over a glass of wine imported from Gascony. After John exchanged a few pleasantries with his wife, she tactfully withdrew to her solar to leave the men to their talk, and soon John was sitting across the firepit from Hugh, a glass in his own hand. Without preamble, he told his friend that another of his guild masters had met a violent end, and soon the shocked portreeve had named the strangled victim as Hamelin de Beaufort, a glazier with a house and workshop in Rack Lane, which led down towards the quayside. Hugh was horrified to hear of the cruel method of killing and as with Matthew Morcok, was totally mystified as to why such an unremarkable craftsman should have been murdered.