‘So here we have a law-abiding man, a tinner helping to guard the self-confessed murderer of another tinner, Henry of Tunnaford, as well as being the destroyer of God knows how many stream-works and blowing-houses.’ He leered around the audience, deliberately emphasising the tinning aspects to a jury who were virtually all tinners.
‘This poor man was then grossly assaulted by this Cornishman, who beat him senseless and left him to die. The motive need not concern us, for a coroner’s inquest is to determine what happened and who was responsible, not why it occurred. Suffice it to say that this Gwyn of Polruan was not acting under his master’s orders, for the Exeter coroner was far away by then.’
De Wolfe fumed at this distortion of the truth, but worse was yet to come.
‘Consider your verdict, then, you men of the jury. This honest tinner, who leaves a widow and five children, was done to death by a brute twice his size, who tried to disrupt and prevent a summary trial and execution of a killer, confessed out of his own mouth — crimes solely against Stannary interests and swift justice straight from Stannary men.’ Fitz-Ivo leaned back and gave a self-satisfied smile at Richard de Revelle, as if to canvass his approval.
The sheriff was looking uncomfortable at the way Fitz-Ivo was drumming up feelings in the heart of tinners’ country, but made no effort to intervene, his popularity in this area being so fragile.
With sweat on his podgy face from excitement at his own eloquence, the fledgling coroner turned back to his audience to reach the climax of his exhortation. ‘The verdict is yours, but consider it among yourselves now. This can only be murder, a violent death from grievous bodily harm, and a hundred witnesses can show it was Gwyn of Polruan.’ He took a deep breath then delivered his coup de grâce. ‘If that is your verdict, then the culprit must hang forthwith!’ he shouted.
There was a scatter of yells of approval from the hall, though quite a number of tinners looked uneasy at this premature turn of events.
De Wolfe’s patience snapped, worn to breaking point by rising incredulity and anger. He thrust his way across the floor below the dais to stand in front of Gwyn and glare at the new coroner. The platform was only knee-high and as Fitz-Ivo was sitting down, de Wolfe’s face was on a level with his.
‘Have you gone mad, you fool? Or are you just drunk?’ he yelled, in a voice so strident that a hush fell upon the hall, even among the more raucous elements who had just been applauding his officer’s death sentence.
Fitz-Ivo flinched, his protuberant watery eyes gazing at de Wolfe as if he was the devil just arrived from hell. He opened his mouth to protest, but John overrode his words. ‘Have you learned nothing about your duties and powers, man?’ he ranted. ‘A coroner cannot pass any sentence, let alone that of death. If your jury names a person as being responsible, then he must be committed to the King’s justices for trial.’
Fitz-Ivo lurched to his feet, trying to work up righteous indignation. ‘You have no right to disrupt my court, de Wolfe. A coroner you may be, but now you have no jurisdiction here.’ He looked around for support from the sheriff, but de Revelle sat stonily silent. He was well aware that his protégé was incompetent to the point of absurdity, but locked in a room with a few score ill-disposed tinners he was desperate to remain neutral for as long as possible.
De Wolfe glared directly into Fitz-Ivo’s protuberant eyes as he said, ‘Your appointment has not yet been confirmed by the King’s Justiciar or his judges — and after this fiasco, I intend to make sure it never will be!’ His voice rose in a crescendo of wrath.
Turning his back abruptly on the fat knight, he walked the few steps past the corpse to where Gwyn stood, and laid a hand solicitously on his arm. ‘How goes it with you, man? Are you sorely hurt?’
His officer managed a crooked grin. ‘I’m well enough, Crowner. It takes more than a few loose-fisted tinners to see me off — even when one of them uses a knife.’ He lifted a chained arm enough to show his master where the blade had sliced though his leather cuirass.
De Wolfe confronted one of the hulking men holding his officer, prodding him hard in the chest with a bony finger. ‘Get these irons struck from this man immediately!’
The tinner looked warily across at his companion, who gripped Gwyn’s other arm, then shook his head. ‘The crowner up there told me to fetter him,’ he growled uncertainly.
‘And the crowner here is telling you to unfetter him!’ snarled de Wolfe. ‘That fellow up there is no longer a coroner.’
Fitz-Ivo let out a howl of protest, and a few yells of dissent and abuse from the hall encouraged Richard de Revelle to rise and half-heartedly contradict his brother-in-law. ‘You have no cause to interfere in this, John!’
De Wolfe swung around to face him. ‘Indeed I have!’ he roared, in a voice that quelled the rising murmur in the court. ‘I am the only coroner in Devon appointed by King Richard and his justices. I had grave reservations, expressed to you, Sheriff, about even provisionally appointing this man to office, and I’ll prove to you that my misgivings were indeed well founded.’ His voice crackled with authority, and although Fitz-Ivo opened and closed his mouth a few times, he could find no words to utter.
‘First, my officer here was in Chagford expressly at my orders, to safeguard the coroner’s interest in the investigation of two murders. Thus he was acting on my behalf in all he did.
‘Second, the action of that unruly mob in hanging the Saxon was unlawful. They were well within their rights in seizing him if he was caught causing damage, but they had a duty to deliver him into custody until a proper trial could be held.’ He scowled at de Revelle and added, ‘I am surprised and concerned, Sheriff, that you, being present with men-at-arms, did not insist on — and enforce — this proper course.’ He turned to his now silent audience. ‘To hang that man without trial was a crime against the King’s peace equivalent to murder. I shall hold an inquest in Chagford on this Aethelfrith and will report those responsible to the King’s judges when the Eyre of Assize comes to Exeter in the near future.’
This provoked an angry response from certain parts of the gloomy chamber. ‘We live by Stannary law here, not yours, Crowner,’ yelled a voice from the back.
‘No, you do not!’ retorted de Wolfe, with a voice like a bull. ‘The King gave you tinners those special dispensations because of the value of the metal to the Crown. But you know well enough — and your Lord Warden here can confirm it — that Stannary law strictly excludes any jurisdiction over crimes of violence, those against life, limb or property.’
De Wolfe now fixed his eyes on Fitz-Ivo, who was as deflated as a pricked bladder. ‘Finally, you claimed in your fine speech just now that my officer cruelly beat this man to death!’ He pointed a quivering finger at the corpse lying on its bier. ‘Yet you did not invite your jury to inspect the body, as you should have done, and if they had, they would have noticed a strange lack of evidence about this cruel and fatal beating.’
De Wolfe bent down and grasped the shoulder of the stiff cadaver, turning it on its side to face Theobald Fitz-Ivo. ‘The face is unmarked, is it not?’ He pulled down the grubby sheet and pointed to the neck and chest, then hoisted the body half off the bier to display its back. ‘So where are the signs of this merciless beating, eh? A single bruise behind the ear!’ He let the body fall back and dragged the sheet over it.
‘The truth of the matter is that the deceased man struck my officer a sudden cowardly thrust with a dagger, as the bailiff of Chagford can testify, as well as Gwyn of Polruan himself — and, no doubt, a dozen witnesses, if they were honest enough to come forward.’ He turned to the Cornishman. ‘Show them your wound, Gwyn.’ Awkwardly, the officer lifted his chained arms to show the fresh slash in his thick jerkin. ‘Under that, Crowner.’