This provoked a babble of protest from Matthew, Peter Jordan and Joan’s brother. Peter sprang to his feet, almost upsetting his wife seated on the other end of the bench. ‘How, then, can we benefit for at least five years, if we are unable to sell our holdings?’ he demanded.
The lawyer sighed, a veteran of many other testaments and family squabbles. ‘You should be rejoicing at your good fortune, not complaining, Peter. You have a third share in whatever is in his personal treasure chest, coin, jewellery or whatever, which is yet to be accounted. And you will have a third of the income from his extensive business, which wisely — and on my own advice to Walter — will be kept intact for five years, and far longer if you heed my counsel.’
Peter remained on his feet, pale but determined. ‘This is not the will that my stepfather told me about, sir.’
Robert Courteman scowled at the young man. His face conveyed annoyance and suspicion. ‘And how would you know that, boy? Walter demanded that I kept his affairs absolutely secret, especially from his family.’
At the back of the room, the priest noticed that Philip Courteman’s face had reddened, and that Peter Jordan had shifted his angry glare from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law.
Robert Courteman might also have recognised Peter’s switch of hostility, had not Matthew, with a perturbed expression on his fleshy face, interrupted, ‘You said there were two conditions attached to the bequests and you’ve given us only one. What’s the other?’
The elder lawyer aimed his gaze at the tinner’s agent. ‘Whereas, apart from the house, Mistress Joan shares equally with you and Peter in the present circumstances, Walter had made provision for future circumstances, when her share would increase from one-third to eight-tenths of the substantial fortune, leaving you and his stepson one-tenth each.’
Matthew’s jaw dropped, and Peter went white above his dark moustache. ‘What possibility could that be?’ said Matthew, in a strangled voice.
‘If Mistress Knapman had had a child before Walter’s death.’
There was an audible sigh of relief from the other two beneficiaries and a snarl of disapproval from Lucy and her aggressive-looking son.
Matthew murmured to his spouse that he thanked God that his brother had remarried only five months before his death.
But the lawyer had not yet finished. ‘Or if she was found to be with child at the time of Walter’s death.’
There was a sense of anticlimax at this and both Matthew’s and Peter’s heartbeat had begun to subside to normal.
Until Joan spoke up from her seat in front of the table. ‘But I am with child — and have been these past three months!’
That evening, the coroner and his two assistants met together for the first time in several days. When Thomas de Peyne and Gwyn called at the narrow house in Martin’s Lane, they timed their arrival to avoid meeting Matilda, who detested them. She considered one a Celtic savage and the other an irreligious pervert. They knew she always attended the Sunday evening service at St Olave’s, which took place after the rigid series of Offices at the cathedral had finished. The two men, today sharing a common bond of aches and pains from their recent injuries, made doubly sure of her departure by skulking behind the corner of St Martin’s Church until they saw her leave the house.
Inside, John was contemplating leaving his hearth for a lonely drink in his new haunt, the Golden Hind, when Mary put her head around the door screens. ‘I’ve got two battered knaves in my kitchen, saying they want to talk to you.’
The coroner followed her into the vestibule, then down the covered passage to his backyard, where he found his clerk and his officer sitting by Mary’s cooking fire, eating hot wafers. Brutus was crouched adoringly at Gwyn’s feet, having his ears scratched by the dog-loving giant. They jumped to their feet, but de Wolfe waved them down as he joined them on a stool and took a pot of new ale from Mary, who wandered off across the yard to another shed where she did the washing, ignoring conventions about working on the Sabbath.
After enquiring about their various cuts and bruises, John was reassured that both men were recovering well. He was particularly glad to see that Thomas remained cheerful — he even had an air of expectant optimism, as if his recent ‘miracle’ was soon going to blossom into good news. But now he had other news to report, and proudly disclosed the results of today’s spying in the cathedral precinct.
‘After Compline, there was a short mass to celebrate St Botolph, and afterwards some of the vicars and secondaries adjourned to the refectory for sweetmeats and a glass of wine. I managed to get myself invited to both functions,’ he added evasively, leaving the others to wonder how he continually managed to insinuate himself into the ecclesiastical life of Exeter, especially within a day of attempting suicide.
‘Get to the point, midget,’ rumbled Gwyn placidly.
‘Well, one of the visiting guests was the Chagford priest — that fat fellow we saw at the inquest. After a few cups of Anjou red wine, he began telling us of a meeting he attended this morning at a lawyer’s office in Goldsmith Street.’
Thomas then related, fairly accurately as it later turned out, the provisions of Walter Knapman’s will and the reactions of those assembled to hear it. ‘The priest was delighted with the bequest to his church, which will see him secure for a long time — but he described with ungodly glee the reactions of some of the other beneficiaries.’
De Wolfe was intrigued by the account, and Thomas became almost euphoric at the curt praise his master bestowed on him for bringing such useful intelligence.
‘So the inscrutable Widow Joan is not as virginal as she looks, eh,’ chortled Gwyn.
‘That’s what the rest of the family want proven,’ replied Thomas waspishly. ‘According to Smithson, there was the devil of an outburst from Matthew and Peter when she claimed to be with child — and an equally loud condemnation of their doubts from Joan’s brother and mother!’
‘So what happened then?’ demanded de Wolfe.
‘Matthew, with Peter, who are both set to lose about two-thirds of what they would have had if she had failed to produce an heir for Walter, voiced their doubts as to who might be the father. They insinuated that Stephen Acland was more likely to have sired the pup. That provoked much shouting and abuse from the widow’s relatives, but the priest said that Joan herself just sat with that faint smile of hers on her pretty face.’
De Wolfe rubbed his itching cheeks — he had missed his Saturday shave the day before and had had to scrape off a budding beard that very morning. ‘Then what happened?’ he persisted.
‘It seems the old lawyer, Robert Courteman, stuck his own finger in the pie. Obviously he has an interest in the matter beyond his legal obligations, as his own daughter’s fortune would be affected by how much Peter gets from his stepfather’s estate. He claimed that the terms of the testament can only be fulfilled when it is proven that Walter’s wife is indeed with child.’
Gwyn cackled coarsely. ‘Does he intend proving it personally?’
Thomas gave him a prim look of disapproval. ‘He said he could not approve the bequests until the pregnancy had been confirmed by someone of repute.’
‘He only has to wait a month or two for it to be obvious to everyone,’ grunted the Cornishman, but Thomas ignored him.
‘The lawyer insisted that the widow be examined by a woman wise in these matters — and the obvious choice is our Dame Madge from St Katherine’s in Polsloe.’
John recalled the formidable nun from the small priory a mile or so north of the city. She was skilled in all matters relating to women’s ailments and the problems of childbirth. He had had reason to be grateful for her services before, when she had helped him investigate a fatal miscarriage and a rape. ‘So the fair Joan is to be put to the test,’ he mused. ‘But does this help us to put a finger on who is the most likely candidate for Walter’s murder?’