'Surely it must have been highway robbery?' he protested. 'Our roads are becoming unsafe for honest folk to travel upon. I don't know what the world is coming to!'
De Wolfe shook his head firmly. 'His purse still contained a good handful of silver. No footpads would have left that behind. And the garrotting was utterly unlike what some thieving outlaw would inflict.'
The portreeve seized upon John's words. 'Outlaw! What about Richard de Revelle's claim I've heard rumoured, that this Nick o' the Moor was responsible for the killing in Smythen Street? This spot on the Plymouth road is not that far from Dartmoor.'
John shrugged. 'I see not the slightest reason to give that any credence, Hugh. Why should an outlaw want to slay a glazier, for God's sake? And with Morcok, how would a Dartmoor outlaw carry a body to a loft in the middle of the city?'
Hugh threw down his unfinished glass of wine and hauled his rotund body to its feet. 'I must go down to Rack Lane this instant,' he announced. 'Perhaps de Beaufort will be there, perhaps it's all some horrible mistake. If not, I must convey the sad news to his wife and offer her some comfort on behalf of the guilds.' The coroner laid a restraining hand on the impetuous merchant's arm. 'If you know this Hamelin by sight, it is best that you come with me to Rougemont and look at the body just to make sure. We don't want to upset his wife needlessly if it's not him.'
The hope was ill-founded, however, and half an hour later, a pale-faced Hugh stood outside the cart shed in the castle, wiping his clammy forehead with a gaudy silk kerchief.
'Poor fellow, it's him right enough. But what a ghastly way to die. There are some evil bastards about, John!'
De Wolfe gently steered his friend across the inner ward towards the keep. 'We had better have a word with Henry de Furnellis first, then go down to the glazier's shop to break the news and ask a few questions.'
The sheriff was equally concerned and mystified at this second death of a senior guildsman and in spite of his usual reluctance to get involved with investigations, he decided to accompany them down to Rack Lane.
'At this rate, we'll be getting short of masters to run the merchant guilds,' he said as they marched down Castle Hill, with Gwyn and Thomas trailing behind the three senior officials. 'Maybe Bridport or Southampton are trying to rid themselves of Exeter as a trading competitor.'
His weak attempt at levity fell on deaf ears and they hurried on through the chill afternoon down to the bottom end of the city where it sloped sharply down towards the fiver. Near the Water Gate which led directly to the quayside, many workshops and storehouses had congregated. They were thriving on Exeter's economic growth, which was based mainly on the export of tin, wool and cloth, though many other trades flourished in the city.
Almost at the bottom of the slope was a house with a shop at the front, the wide shutter on the large window of the ground floor being let down on hinges and legs to form a display stall for the wares of Hamelin de Beaufort's business. Some fine glass drinking goblets imported from Cologne, a few chalices for religious use and a number of glass ornaments and bowls were carefully placed on view, as were some small panels of leaded light, segments of coloured glass intended for rich men's houses or some church where money had been donated for a window, in return for masses said for a departed soul.
De Wolfe turned in to a door at the side of the stall and entered the front workshop, where several craftsmen and a couple of young apprentices were working away at glass panels set on benches. In a room behind, he could hear the rhythmic squeak of a bellows and see the glare of a small furnace where glass was being reheated by a journeyman and another apprentice.
Looking around the faces raised expectantly towards him, he chose the eldest, that of a heavily built fellow of about forty wearing a thick leather apron scarred with burns down the front.
'Your master is not here?' he asked neutrally, in a last faint hope that there had been some error about identity. The man's swarthy features took on a worried expression, as he recognised both the sheriff and the county coroner.
'I wish he was, sir. There's business to attend to and he should have been back from his trip last evening.'
De Wolfe soon confirmed that it was indeed Hamelin de Beaufort who had gone to Berry Pomeroy Castle and failed to return. The workshop was thrown into turmoil when the coroner gravely explained that their master was dead. John assumed that their panic was due to the thought of losing their employment, but it transpired that the glazier's business was a partnership with Hamelin's brother, who would no doubt carry on trading.
Hugh de Relaga, discovering that Hamelin's wife now his widow — was in the living quarters upstairs, took himself off to deliver the sad news, much to de Wolfe's relief, as he hated and almost feared that task and the emotions it provoked.
Henry de Furnellis, feeling that perhaps he should make some contribution to the case, asked a number of questions about Hamelin's movements and affairs, but the journeymen and apprentices knew nothing to throw any light on his murder.
'He was a strict master, but a fair one,' said the older craftsman. 'We had no cause for complaint. He was a good guild member and abided by the rules to the letter. It's a real tragedy that he should be struck down so foully.'
Further enquiries amongst all the workers yielded nothing. The coroner's team took a description of de Beaufort's missing horse, which was a tan-coloured gelding, but John suspected it had probably been sold already by whoever had caught it after it ran from the scene of the killing. There were plenty of unscrupulous horse dealers who would not hesitate to spirit away a stolen horse to Totnes or Tavistock and sell it well away from anywhere where it would be recognised.
The sheriff and de Wolfe left the portreeve with the family to console them and to make arrangements for the burial of the dead man, which the guilds would organise. As they were near the Bush tavern, the pair decided to call in for refreshment. Gwyn came with them, though Thomas, never keen on drinking, made his way to his lodgings in nearby Priest Street.
The inn was fairly quiet at that hour of the afternoon and Nesta had time to sit with them near the fire. As always, her soft heart was saddened to hear of the death of Hamelin, though she had never met him.
'I grieve for his poor widow, suddenly being told of his cruel death,' she said sadly. 'I sometimes worry about you, John, also putting yourself at risk with all these unsavoury people you have to deal with.' She was thinking particularly of last month's escapade down on the south coast, when John had rescued his wife and brother-in-law from a very dangerous situation.
Henry de Furnellis, bluff and to the point as always, leaned forward, his bloodhound face staring into the glowing logs. 'Why two guildsmen, killed in such strange ways? Are we going to see more such deaths?' De Wolfe shrugged as old Edwin limped across to refill his ale jar. 'We've not the slightest notion as to why these two were slain, so no one can answer that,' he grunted. 'I had better talk to some more guild wardens, to see if they can throw any light on the mystery.'