'God's guts, fancy Nick's woman living here in the city as bold as brass,' observed Gwyn. 'Can't you get her hanged for that, Crowner?'
John gave a rare grin as he shook his head. 'It's no crime, she's not the outlaw. And even if it was, Matilda would skin me alive if I as much as harmed a hair of her head, she's almost adopted this Joan as a daughter.' The thought suddenly came to him that maybe that was not too far from the truth. They had had no children, and given the little time John had spent at home with his wife over the past seventeen years it was not surprising — especially as for many a year now, their marital bed had been used solely for sleeping.
'So what's to be done, master?' asked Thomas, who had listened to the updated tale with interest. 'Are you going to bring this to the notice of Hubert Walter?'
'He should have known all about it, but we've not had a General Eyre visit the county since all this happened three years ago, so the judges would not yet have wind of the fracas in Hempston, even if they were made aware of it, which I doubt they would be. It was before I was made coroner, and with the bloody Count of Mortain nominally the sheriff, followed by Richard de Revelle, I'll wager none of it would have been reported to them anyway.'
That didn't answer Thomas's question about telling the Chief Justiciar, and when he asked again, the coroner sighed.
'I don't know what to do, I'll have to talk it over with the sheriff. My wife will badger me about it from now until kingdom come, but I need to get at the absolute truth first. These outlaws may not be the wronged angels some make them out to be, they could be the usual vicious pack of scum that infest the forests and moors.'
'And what's the connection between them and these murdered burgesses?' grunted Gwyn. 'If this bastard who attacked Lady Matilda hadn't dropped the word Hempston, we'd have no reason to link Nick o' the Moor with the killings.'
His words brought de Wolfe back to what was the more urgent of his investigations. 'Have you any better idea of what that iron spike was and where it came from?' he asked his officer.
Gwyn admitted he had made no progress. 'I feel it must have been part of a railing of some sort. I'll have a wander round the streets later and see if I can spot anything similar.'
John rapped irritably on the table with his fingers.
'I've got the feeling that Joan de Arundell knows more about her husband's whereabouts than she's admitting. She let drop a word or two about him saying how rough the life was up on the moor. I'll wager she has some way of getting in touch with him — and will probably do so now, to tell him that she has been exposed and she is trying to get him a pardon.'
The others considered this possibility. 'How's she going to manage it?' asked Gwyn dubiously.
'There would have to be some arrangement already in place,' observed the astute clerk. 'A rendezvous somewhere on certain days, perhaps?'
'And a go-between — or maybe more than one. There's no way she could go up on the moor herself,' added Gwyn, talking himself into agreeing with them.
John nodded. 'Neither would the cousin risk herself. The only other person is the manservant, an oldish fellow with a deformed face — but he looks fit and active enough.'
'We can hardly watch him day in, day out,' objected Thomas. 'And we might be totally wrong about the whole idea anyway.'
Gwyn stood up and reached for his worn leather jerkin which hung from a peg driven between the stones of the wall. 'I'll have a wander round the town — you never know what gossip I may pick up. I'll keep an eye out for that spike and see if any of the gatekeepers know of this servant.'
John thought it was a long shot and that Gwyn's investigations would undoubtedly be centred on a succession of city taverns, but he had no better suggestions and left the draughty chamber for the more comfortable room of the sheriff, where over a cup of good wine, he could inform de Furnellis of the latest twist in this tortuous tale.
CHAPTER TEN
Part of Gwyn's expedition was to prove successful, but his intention of trying to match the metal rod-that had killed the candlemaker was overtaken by events. Towards noon, John de Wolfe was making for his house, his mind on what Mary might have cooked for his dinner. Both he and Matilda were enthusiastic eaters and food played an important part in their lives. He allowed Mary a liberal allowance for her housekeeping and she was a seasoned hand at the market, as well as being a good cook. Soon after dawn each day, she would take her basket around the stalls and booths in Carfoix and Southgate Street and judiciously choose the best meats, fish and vegetables that were on offer. When he had broken his fast with gruel, boiled eggs and bread in her kitchen-shed early that morning, she said she had bought a fine hare for dinner and now he looked forward to having it boiled in its own blood, with red wine, lemon, onions and cloves.
This pleasant reverie was rudely ended when he saw his brother-in-law coming along the High Street towards him, just as they both reached the narrow entrance to Martin's Lane.
'I was just coming to see you, John,' he brayed, and brandished what looked like a short lance in the coroner's face. As they turned towards his house, John saw that Richard was grasping an iron rod seemingly identical to the one that had been stuck through the eye of Robert de Hokesham.
'Where the devil did you get this?' he demanded, taking the rusty metal from him.
'You may well invoke Satan, John,' cried Richard, with a touch of panic. 'It came from the side gate of my house in North Gate Street. And the one alongside it is missing, no doubt pulled out by the murdering swine to use on your candlemaker.'
Somewhat reluctantly, John took him into the house, and they stood in the small vestibule to examine the rod more closely. As Richard had claimed, it was the exact twin of the one used in St Bartholomew's churchyard.
'The gate is made of an oaken frame with holes top and bottom, into which half a dozen of these stout rods are fixed,' gabbled his brother-in-law. 'The gate must be old, and the bars are loose enough to be lifted out.' He grabbed at John's arm. 'I tell you, this proves that the killing was meant to be linked to me! Just as the first corpse was dumped in my college, then the next was Pomeroy's glazier. Matilda's assailant was telling the truth, God blast him — that bastard de Arundell is playing with us, telling us that we might be next. You must do something, John!'
Just then, the inner door to the hall jerked open and Matilda stood there, looking like some Old Testament prophet on Judgment Day.
'Richard. I thought I heard your voice,' she grated. 'Come inside, I have much to say to you.' Behind his bemused brother-in-law, John grinned to himself as he anticipated the tongue-lashing that Richard was going to get from his sister.
It was almost worth the delay in sitting down to his jugged hare.
Though Gwyn had failed to find the depredations to the gate of de Revelle's yard, he had made a fortunate discovery about Maurice, Gillian le Bret's servant. The Cornishman had visited a few alehouses and toured some sweets looking for suitable iron rods. One fellow — a drinker in the Anchor Inn — was acquainted with the servant at the le Bret house, who also patronised that tavern. Although he knew nothing of Maurice's comings and goings, he described the man graphically.
'Like a beanpole he is, tall and thin. Got this curse all down his face, poor sod. A great thick, purple patch — they say his mother must have been frightened by the devil when she was a-carrying of him.'