De Wolfe again took the bull by the horns, ignoring the scowls of the other tinners. ‘Where were you all day on Monday?’
Acland shrugged. ‘Out and about, as always. I’d be riding around my workings at this very moment if it hadn’t been for this news of Knapman’s death.’
‘Where are these workings?’
‘Mostly around Chagford and this area of the moor. I’ve not the great number of streamings that Knapman possessed, just half a dozen. That’s why I offered to buy some of his boundings from him.’
‘Can you be more exact as to where you rode on Monday? And were you alone or can someone vouch for you?’
One of the other men, a rough-faced fellow with a marked bend in his nose, came to his master’s aid. ‘If Stephen killed Knapman, which would have been a kindness, he’s hardly likely to tell you that he was riding near Dunsford, would he? And, anyway, I can swear for him, I was with him from dawn till dusk on that day.’
De Wolfe had the impression that, if required, the man would have sworn that he had been with Acland anywhere between Cathay and Iceland. Seeing that he was getting nowhere with this line of questioning, the coroner turned the conversation into other channels. ‘What will happen now about the Wardenship, with Walter gone?’
‘The sheriff will carry on as before, no doubt, screwing as much profit out of the office as possible,’ sneered Bentnose.
‘He’ll not be challenged this year,’ admitted Acland sourly. ‘I’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to carry on where Knapman left it — but the system must change. We are going to petition the Chief Justiciar for a review of the Stannaries. Both Geoffrey Fitz-Peters and William de Wrotham know that de Revelle is crooked, so they will support a plea for a commission of enquiry.’
De Wolfe nodded approvingly. ‘I know the Justiciar well, so if you need more support I am willing to help. Though, knowing the speed at which the Curia Regis works, don’t expect anything to happen inside a couple of years.’ With the King permanently in France, Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury, was virtually the regent of England and had so much to attend to that the Devon tinners would not be high on his list of priorities, unless the supply of the precious metal stopped flowing.
The coroner downed the rest of his cider and stood up. ‘No doubt you’ll be at the inquest in the morning. I will hold it in that shelter erected for the coinage in the square.’
‘You’ll have a large audience, Crowner, with all the tinners and merchants there, ready for the coinage straight afterwards.’
As the tin-master walked with de Wolfe around the house to the gate, the coroner expressed his pessimism as to the outcome of the inquest. ‘Like the one on Henry of Tunnaford, it can achieve little in solving the killing. I cannot even amerce Dunsford for the murdrum fine, though Walter was certainly attacked there, for the body was found twenty miles away. It would lack any sense to blame Teignmouth because it is at the mouth of the same river.’
The other man, who was walking behind them, picked up on this theme. ‘Crowner, at Henry’s inquest, you should have returned a verdict against that whoreson Aethelfrith!’ he grated angrily. ‘Yesterday another of our blowing-houses was damaged up near Throwleigh. A rock was jammed in the bellows, which stripped the teeth from the gears driven by the water-wheel. A shepherd boy saw someone running away who could only have been that damned Saxon maniac.’
As they reached the hurdle, Stephen Acland pulled it aside. ‘He would take some catching, but the tinners could organise a posse to find him, even up on the high moor where he hides out.’
De Wolfe went to his horse and untied the reins from the tree. ‘I’ll consider that, though we’ve no proof that he was Henry’s killer. It will be up to the sheriff to bring him in, although, as Warden, he could take advantage of your offer to supply a hunting party from your men. I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow, as he’ll be at the coinage.’
With the three men staring after him, he wheeled Odin round and trotted back towards Chagford.
Thomas de Peyne sat in the living room of the church house, which, though small, was the best accommodation for a parish priest that he had seen since coming to Devon almost a year ago. It had been built recently, at the same time as the renovation of the church and, like St Michael’s, owed much to Walter Knapman’s donations.
‘He deserves to be in paradise, after his generosity,’ said Paul Smithson devoutly. ‘It is a great tragedy that he has been so brutally taken from us.’
Thomas, sitting with a cup of watered wine by the fire in the centre of the room, crossed himself with his free hand. ‘But God’s will must be done, brother. His death must have been ordained for some reason that is not for us to question,’ he said sententiously.
The priest, worried about his future stipend and share of the tithes, was not so sure about God’s will but held his tongue and turned the conversation in another direction. ‘Tell me, how does a Winchester priest come to be a coroner’s clerk in Exeter?’
De Peyne had had plenty of practice in fending off this question. ‘My health has not been good. You see this stiff leg and this bent shoulder? These were a legacy of the old phthisis, which carried off my poor mother.’ He stuck as near to the truth as he could, finding this to provide the most convincing story. ‘The duties in Winchester became too arduous for me, so it was arranged though my uncle, the Archdeacon of Exeter, that I be granted a year’s leave of absence to regain my strength in the fresh air of Devon. My ability with pen and parchment seemed appropriate to serve the new post of coroner here, as Sir John de Wolfe was a close friend of John de Alençon.’
Smithson nodded understandingly and went on to tell Thomas of the arrangements for the burial, which would take place straight after the inquest. ‘Poor Walter’s twin brother and his stepson will both be here from Exeter, so there is no point in delaying their return.’ He sniffed rather delicately. ‘It seems that the widow has no need of their family support, being a most resolute lady.’
The coroner’s clerk gained the impression that the portly priest was not wholly in favour of Joan Knapman’s fortitude and decided to explore the matter further. ‘She has not been married long, I gather?’
‘Less than six months. She came from Ashburton, you see.’
He said this as if the place was somewhere beyond Arabia, instead of being the coinage town only a few miles away.
‘Would you say the marriage has been happy?’ asked Thomas, delicately.
‘On Walter’s part, certainly. He was besotted with his new wife. I fear he spoiled her, giving her everything she asked for — and much that she did not.’
‘And on her side?’ the little clerk probed.
‘She was so reserved that it was hard to know what went on in her mind. I married them in the church and it would be unChristian of me to cast any aspersions, but I felt that it was no love match on her side. Walter was a wealthy tin-master, likely to increase in stature as time went on, and Joan was attracted by his riches and his prominence.’
Thomas accepted more wine and, suspecting that the priest had already imbibed plenty before he arrived, gambled that the drink would relax his reticence. ‘Tell me, if you think it not too impertinent a question between two men of the cloth,’ he said, with a deprecatory little cough, ‘is it likely that the widow may have been casting her eye elsewhere?’
He need not have trodden so warily, for Paul Smithson, his normally waxy face pink with good wine, gave him a knowing wink from one piggy little eye.