A wiry man, poorly dressed in a hessian tunic and coarse breeches, skirted the group of jurates and advanced to where the coroner stood. He carried a bundle wrapped in a sack, which he placed at John’s feet.
‘Why should I want to bother with you now, fellow?’ snapped de Wolfe, annoyed at being interrupted in mid-flow. ‘Who are you? Do you know anything of this killing?’
‘I have just arrived, sir. I am Simon, I work at one of Walter Knapman’s blowing-houses near Chagford. As to Henry’s death, Crowner, maybe you should see this.’ Bending, he took the bottom corners of the old sack in each hand and up-ended it.
Out rolled what John took to be a large ball — until he saw the blood-soaked grey hair and pallid face above the ragged stump of a severed neck.
Much against his will, Thomas de Peyne had been dispatched on his pony to Chagford, with the sack containing the head of Henry of Tunnaford bumping against the other side of his saddle. He had orders from the coroner to deliver it to the vicar of the church of St Michael and have the sexton reunite it with the rest of the body in the recently dug grave.
After the shocked uproar caused by the production of Henry’s head had subsided, Richard de Revelle called another interval. Those who had the stomach for it — and there were many among the hardy tinners — began again to eat and drink, with plenty to talk about during their unexpected break.
Meanwhile, the sheriff, the coroner and the two manorial lords gathered around the craggy throne. The soldiers, clerks and the coroner’s officer were in close attendance and the jurates, still divided into their two factions, hovered nearby, just out of earshot.
The man Simon stood before them, Sergeant Gabriel’s horny hand firmly gripping his shoulder. ‘I found it last evening, hidden under a slate slab behind the blowing-house,’ he explained nervously. ‘I was coming to the Great Court anyway, so I thought it best to bring it and give it to someone in authority.’
De Wolfe stared down at the man, a stringy fellow of some thirty years, who looked ill. A hacking cough suggested that his life expectancy was not great, probably from phthisis of the lungs, the coroner decided.
‘You said Walter Knapman was your master, so which of his blowing-houses was this?’ demanded de Revelle, in his best Shire Court manner.
Simon shook his head. ‘It wasn’t ours, sir. I called at another to collect a friend, who was also walking here to Crockern Tor. Before he arrived, I went behind the hut to relieve my bowels. As I crouched, I saw blood on some weeds alongside a flat stone. When I moved it aside, that awful thing was there.’
‘So whose blowing-house was it?’ asked Geoffrey Fitz-Peters harshly.
‘It was one near Shapley, on the way from Chagford to the track over the moor that comes to here. It belongs to Stephen Acland.’
The eyes of all those in authority flicked briefly at each other to test their reactions. The sheriff was first to react. ‘Acland! Come here — and you, Walter Knapman!’
‘Don’t be too hasty, Richard,’ grunted John quietly, as the men advanced. ‘You’re too fond of jumping to convenient conclusions.’
His brother-in-law ignored his advice and glowered at Stephen Acland. ‘What have you to say about this, both of you?’
Knapman looked shaken, as might be expected after the face of an old acquaintance had been produced in such a macabre manner. ‘I have nothing but revulsion for this foul act — and sorrow for my man,’ he said. ‘I have known Henry of Tunnaford for most of my life. He worked for my father years ago, when we only had two stream-works.’
The sheriff turned his haughty face towards the other tin-master. ‘And you? This relict was found on your property, so what do you say?’’
Stephen Acland reddened with anger — an emotion that John observed was easily aroused in the man. ‘What should I say? This fellow says he found it behind one of my blowing-houses, but that means nothing at all. It had to be somewhere! It might as easily have been behind any cowshed or barn.’ He glowered at Knapman, who stared stonily back at him. ‘Again I’m being put in the wrong,’ roared Acland. ‘Walter of Chagford thinks he owns the whole industry. Any challenge he takes as a personal insult.’
The coroner looked from one man to the other. ‘What’s going on between you two? Why are you at loggerheads all the time?’
Acland stayed sullenly silent, but Walter Knapman was only too willing to explain. ‘This upstart is jealous of my position in the Stannaries. Because I have more than twice the number of stream-works and far more tinners labouring for me, his avarice wishes to deny me what my family has built up over these past thirty years.’
Richard de Revelle stroked his pointed beard ruminatively. ‘Why should that make such a violent feud between you?’
‘Because he wants to displace me as the chief tin-master,’ snapped Knapman. ‘He’s bought out a couple of the small independent workings and has tried to persuade me to sell him some of mine. When I refused, he became vicious and abusive.’
Red-faced, Acland denied this hotly and began to push forward towards Knapman, but was restrained by the sergeant. ‘What’s wrong with a fair offer by way of trade?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing — apart from the way you made it,’ snarled Walter, pushing his face aggressively towards the other man’s. ‘And when I refused, no less than three times, maybe you thought to intimidate me, by smashing my sluices and killing one of my best men!’
This started another shouting match between the two tin-masters, and the sheriff motioned the soldiers to pull them apart and lead them back to the main group of jurates, where they stood surrounded by their supporters.
‘This is a waste of time,’ grated de Wolfe. ‘Their petty squabble is none of our concern. I fail to believe that Acland would have a man beheaded just to further his chances of buying another stream-works.’
William de Wrotham, a rather corpulent man in middle age, with a classic Norman haircut — trimmed up to a shelf all round his head — uttered a caution: ‘Don’t underestimate these tinners, Crowner. Passions run high amongst them. They are all jealous of their independence and their status in the Stannary community.’
Geoffrey Fitz-Peters nodded agreement. ‘Competition between them is a matter of honour rather than commerce. If it were not for their belligerence and quick tempers, my new gaol at Lydford would be empty.’
De Wolfe was still unconvinced that a decapitation could be laid at the door of a frustrated business deal. He was quite prepared to include Stephen Acland in any list of suspects, but that applied to most of the population of Devon.
The court clerk was whispering into de Revelle’s ear and pointing up at the sun, seen erratically through gaps in the heavy cloud. ‘It’s long past noon, we must finish our business, as most will want to get on their road home,’ the sheriff announced, and led the way back to their places along the craggy ridge.
De Wolfe and Gwyn went back to the outer line to listen to the final items. After a dispute about labourers’ rates of pay, Walter Knapman again stepped forward and raised the most controversial issue of the day. In an eloquent and increasingly passionate manner, he demanded a halt to the increasing taxes on the tin they produced and, linked to this, repeated their desire for a warden elected by the tinners themselves and not one who was automatically the King’s own representative in the county, the sheriff. With no attempt to defer to Richard de Revelle, who sat as chairman behind him, he pointed out the conflict of interests. ‘How can we press for a stay or even lowering in the crippling coinage we pay to the Crown when the leader of this assembly is the very man who must collect it?’ he demanded in strident tones.
De Revelle glared down at the back of Walter’s head, but the leading tin-master was in full flow, to the accompaniment of shouts of support for him and jeers at the sheriff.