De Wolfe shook his head in perplexity. 'Three guild members found dead inside a week. Admittedly, the first one must have been killed months ago, but it's still beyond my understanding.'
Having seen the body decently covered until the inquest could be held, John and Gwyn left St Bartholomew's, Thomas de Peyne staying behind. He had done his best to console Father Robin — a task that seemed better achieved with a flagon than with soothing words. Then the kindly little clerk took himself to the dead-house, where with much mumbling of Latin and signing of the Cross, he attempted to put the candlemaker's soul on the right path to Purgatory and thence onwards to Heaven.
John had been cheated of his afternoon rendezvous with his Welsh mistress, but fate allowed him to get down to the Bush that evening. Though Matilda had spent an hour that afternoon on her knees in St Olave's — and another hour gossiping with her matronly friends afterwards — she announced that as it was the eve of the celebration of Christ's birth, she was off to the cathedral that evening to attend the traditional special service leading up to Matins.
This was the cue for Brutus to need his daily exercise, and by the eighth hour, John was sitting comfortably at his favourite table near the firepit of the Bush.
Gwyn was at a nearby table when he arrived, just finishing a gargantuan meal, and again proclaimed the Bush to be the best cook-shop in Exeter. A boiled pork knuckle and a pile of fried onions, cabbage and carrots were being augmented by half a fresh loaf and some goat's cheese. He had failed to leave the city before the gates slammed shut at curfew and could not get home to his cottage in St Sidwell's, a village just beyond the east walls. There was nothing new in this, and his placid wife was used to his spending many a night in the soldiers' quarters at Rougemont, the eve of Christ Mass not excepted.
'Where's the little fellow?' asked John, as he sat with his arm around the landlady.
'In the cathedral, I'll wager,' declared Nesta. 'He said this is his first Christ Mass since he was restored to the priesthood and he's going to join the rest of them in the celebrations there tonight. I don't know how he manages it, for every day he has to get up before dawn to get to the cathedral and prepare his duties for the dead — yet he's always there at midnight to attend Matins!'
Gwyn came across and lowered himself to the bench opposite with a quart pot of Nesta's famous ale in his fist. Though he wanted to avoid playing gooseberry to his master's dalliance, he needed some guidance as to the morning's duties.
'What are we going to do about this candlemaker, Crowner?' he growled. 'Did you get any more news of him this afternoon?'
'No more than we did with the last one,' admitted John dolefully. 'He has a good house in the centre of the city and a plump wife and three strapping sons to carry on the business. But as to any clue as to why someone should use his head for target practice, there was not a whisper.'
Nesta squeezed his arm compassionately. She knew how de Wolfe hated having to give bad news to families.
'Did the poor woman take it badly, John?' she asked.
'If screaming and fainting is taking it badly, then yes, she did. Thankfully, I took Thomas with me, he is always good at such tragic moments.' He sounded sombre at the memory of that visit.
Gwyn swallowed the better part of a pint before coming up for air and then wiped his soaking moustache with his fingers. 'What about the other guild people — any opinions from them?'
'I spoke to the men in his workshop — he has a large place behind the house, where they make all types of candle, as well as wax for seals and dubbin and polishes for saddlery and leather goods. He was in a good way of business, with four journeymen and the same number of apprentices.'
One of the maids called across to Nesta about some problem out in the cook-shed and she rose to attend to it, but before leaving said, 'I knew Robert de Hokesham slightly. I bought candies, tallow and oil from him. He used to call regularly to collect the money due. He seemed a pleasant, honest man.'
As she hurried away, Gwyn pursued the matter. 'Did you gain anything about the guild aspect, Crowner? All three of these dead men were prominent masters and had been active in their guilds. Is that just a coincidence?'
De Wolfe sighed as he reached down to fondle Brutus's head under the table., 'Once again I consulted Hugh de Relaga, but he had nothing to offer. Of course, he knew de Hokesham well, he was a member of the city council, but as with the glazier Hamelin de Beaufort, there seems nothing whatsoever in his background to make him a candidate for such a gruesome killing.'
'So what happens next?' demanded Gwyn.
'As this obviously concerns members of guilds, I've arranged with Hugh de Relaga to have a meeting the day after tomorrow with the wardens of most of the major guilds in the city,' answered John. 'Maybe they can throw some light on this matter, as it concerns them so closely.'
Gwyn saw Nesta returning across the crowded taproom and hauled himself to his feet, as he diplomatically prepared to leave.
'What about the inquest on this fellow today?' he enquired as he shrugged his scuffed leather jacket around his massive shoulders.
'We can't hold it tomorrow, so arrange it for Thursday,' commanded the coroner. 'Though if the information is as sparse as with the other deaths, it will be another waste of time.'
Gwyn planted a kiss on Nesta's cheek, getting an affectionate smile in return, then lumbered towards the door.
She sat down again alongside de Wolfe and slid her hand under the table to rest on his thigh.
'Forget dead bodies for a while, John,' she pleaded. 'If I get a nice big bone for Brutus, maybe he can wait a while before you go back to Martin's Lane.' She gave his leg a hard pinch and looked meaningfully at the wide ladder that led to the upper floor.
That evening, in the great cathedral of St Peter and St Mary, one of the most important festivals of the religious year was being celebrated as the last hours of the eve of Christmas moved inexorably towards the day itself.
As the evening wore on, Matilda de Wolfe, attired in her best gown and a heavy hooded mantle of fleecelined velvet, left her house.in Martin's Lane and made her way across the Close to the cathedral doors in the West Front. Her maid Lucille dragged behind her mistress, as a reluctant chaperone. They joined the stream of several hundred other worshippers, many of whom had, like Matilda herself, forsaken their parish churches for the spectacle in the cathedral, which was now virtually complete, more than eighty years since Bishop Warelwast began rebuilding on the site of the old Saxon church, his huge twin towers pushing up into the sky as if they intended to last for a thousand years.
In the great nave, she pushed her way as far as possible to the front of the crowd standing on the bare flagged floor, so that she could get a good view of the great wooden screen that separated the common people from the quire and chancel, where the priests and their acolytes performed their mysteries. The cathedral was not intended to cater for the devotional needs of the general population, being a place where God could be praised endlessly by the clergy in the nine religious offices that punctuated every day and night. The twenty-seven parish churches and their priests were deemed sufficient to cater for the pastoral needs of Exeter folk, but the feast of Christ's birthday was an exception, when a show was put on by the cathedral chapter, partly for the benefit of the public. The usual time for Matins was brought forward from after midnight to the tenth hour, so that devotions could lead up to the vital first minutes of the new day, when Mass was celebrated, the only occasion in the year when it was so timed.
Matilda genuflected and crossed herself, then peered around in the dim light afforded by pitch-brands burning in iron rings on the main pillars, as well as by some soft candlelight percolating from the quire through the fenestrated carvings of the screen. In the distance, she could just glimpse the presbytery and the High Altar, but her gaze was mainly directed to identifying some of her friends from St Olave's, who had promised to be present this evening. As the bells in the great towers began to ring out, she shuffled across to where she saw some familiar figures and soon was with a group of her cronies, enjoying a subdued gossip while they waited for the service to begin. All around her, the crowd murmured, stamped their feet and rubbed their hands against the biting cold. High above, a few birds that had flown in through the unglazed clerestory windows chirruped as they squabbled for places on the roof beams — and occasionally, members of the congregation cursed as the sparrows fouled their best clothes.