Crowner's Quest (21 page)

De Wolfe had the same desire for the tavern in Idle Lane, mainly to consolidate the healing of the tiff with Nesta, but he felt obliged to go home first, to see how the land lay as regards his wife’s mood. But he and Gwyn were delayed again as they passed the wooden staircase to the keep entrance. A servant came to the rail on the landing above and called down, ‘Sir John, the constable asked me to look out for you. He has an urgent message for you.’

Though the sheriff was the King’s representative in the county, the castle had been Crown property since it was built by the Conqueror and its constable was appointed by the King. This was meant to avoid it being used as a base for revolt by the barons, who owned most of the other castles. De Wolfe and his henchman climbed the steps in search of Ralph Morin, and went into the main hall, where people were eating, drinking and making a general hubbub after the day’s work.

As soon as he saw them, Morin got up from one of the tables and came across. He was a big man, almost the size of Gwyn, and his massive face was crowned with crinkled grey hair. He had a bushy grey beard with a fork in it that gave him the look of one of the Viking ancestors of his Norman race. He was an old friend of de Wolfe and they shared a dislike of Richard de Revelle, although Morin had to keep that well hidden as the sheriff was his immediate superior.

The constable invited them to sit with him and have a jar of ale as they talked. ‘I saw you bringing in a man lashed to his saddle just now,’ he began. ‘Have you lodged him with that filthy old pig down below?’

De Wolfe told the story of the day’s ambush in Dunsford and its connection with the death of Canon de Hane. Morin made a sucking noise through his teeth. ‘De Revelle will have problems with that. He’s quite thick with some of de Braose’s friends out in the county.’

The coroner stared hard at him. ‘Is something going on that I don’t know about, Ralph?’ he asked.

The constable refused to elaborate, saying he had heard only rumours, and he changed the subject by passing on his own news. ‘While you were out jousting in the countryside today, a messenger rode in from Henri de Nonant’s place at Totnes. It seems we have another high-class death, for during a hunting party there yesterday Sir William Fitzhamon fell from his horse and was killed.’

The coroner stared at him again. ‘Just what in hell’s name is going on, Ralph? Only three days ago I was sought out by Fitzhamon, who complained about a violent dispute over land with Henry de la Pomeroy – and now he’s dead!’

The constable shrugged his great shoulders. ‘Hunting is a dangerous pastime, John. Men often fall from their horses and break either their legs or their necks.’

The coroner scowled in disbelief. ‘Mother of God, these coincidences are becoming more than I care to accept!’ He drained his mug and stood up. ‘I suppose I have to ride down there in the morning to settle this new death – my backside is raw from the saddle with all these corpses about Devon.’

Morin rose to see him off. ‘At least there’s no reason to think that your favourite culprits Fulford and de Braose are involved in this one.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that, Ralph. I’ve heard – and you’ve just hinted at it – that Jocelin de Braose is a creature of some of those barons down in deepest Devon. I’m keeping an open mind on this.’

‘Well, that’ll be more than Richard de Revelle will be doing,’ murmured the constable, as he walked de Wolfe to the door.

With that cryptic comment in his ear, the coroner went thoughtfully back to Martin’s Lane.

Riding out in the early morning from the West Gate seemed to be developing into a routine, thought de Wolfe, as he and Gwyn trotted out once again in the grey dawn light of New Year’s Day. This time, there was no messenger with them, as he had turned tail the previous afternoon and started back for Totnes, probably buying a pennyworth of food and lodging at some village on the way.

As they jogged westward along the tracks, John pondered on the differences between women. Last night, Matilda had kept up her unrelenting sullenness, glowering at him whenever he had tried to make conversation to heal the breach between them. Even her habitual fascination with tales of the county aristocracy, which was usually grist to the mills of her snobbery, seemed to have evaporated: his news of the death of William Fitzhamon and the extraordinary behaviour of Jocelin de Braose, who had tried to kill her husband that day, failed to stir her from her sulks. By contrast, when he had given up the effort and gone to the Bush Inn, he had found Nesta her normally affectionate self, quite recovered from her passing fit of jealousy. In fact, she was even able to tease him about his infidelities, poking fun at his sexual stamina and hoping, for her sake, that his rutting abilities would not be overtaxed.

He smiled ruefully to himself as Bran’s great legs ate up the miles to Totnes. He was stuck with Matilda, he had to accept that, but he was damned if he was going to spend the rest of his life worrying about it and enduring decades of domestic torture when women like Nesta and Hilda were able to offer him such amiable company and delightful passion.

Gwyn trotted alongside him in companionable silence, aware after twenty years with de Wolfe that this unfathomable man often needed to be left well alone, when he wished to churn something over in his mind. What it was, he didn’t know, nor did he much care: he was content to do what his master asked of him, even follow him into the jaws of hell. Gwyn’s domestic life was simple: he had a pleasant wife, who fed him, bedded him and had given him two boisterous children, never caring where he had been, whether it was to Dartmoor or Damascus.

This time, though, it was to Totnes Castle, twenty miles from Exeter, which took them three hours’ riding. They were met in the bailey below the great stockade by Henri de Nonant, who gave Gwyn into the care of his steward and brought de Wolfe into the hall, a substantial wooden building at the foot of the high mound. The lord of Totnes conducted him to the fireside, where he was fed and wined after the cold rigours of the journey.

‘We have the unfortunate lord’s body in the bedchamber next door,’ he said. ‘His son is here, waiting to claim it and take it back to Dartington for burial, but I know that your new crowner’s rules insist on some formalities before that can be done.’

His tone reminded de Wolfe of Richard de Revelle’s dismissive attitude towards coroners. ‘What happened to him?’ he asked tersely.

‘He didn’t return with the others from the hunt, so his reeve went looking for him and found him dead on the ground in the forest. His horse and hounds were wandering nearby.’

‘Any injuries on him?’

‘An obvious wound on the head, and I am told his neck seems broken. The ground is as hard as flint from the frost, as you know yourself.’

‘Anything else?’

‘When a number of the hunters went out there to retrieve the body, some noticed blood on an overhanging branch within a few yards of where he had fallen. It seems that he must have misjudged the height and struck his head on a bough. Naturally he was not wearing a helmet for hunting, only a cap.’

De Wolfe grunted, a favourite form of response he had picked up from Gwyn. Experienced riders had a sixth sense for overhanging trees and an old hunter like Fitzhamon would be unlikely to have been so careless – but the coroner had to admit that it could have happened that way.

After his refreshment, de Wolfe beckoned to Gwyn and they followed de Nonant into a small chamber off the hall. A still figure lay on a palliasse on the floor, covered by a linen sheet. A youth stood brooding by its side, his head bowed until they came in. ‘This is Robert, Fitzhamon’s only son,’ explained de Nonant. ‘We all feel for him in his loss.’

De Wolfe murmured something about having met the lad recently and expressed his own sympathy, none the less genuine for its brevity. Fitzhamon’s heir nodded grimly to the coroner, but said nothing.

John advanced to the bed and Gwyn pulled back the sheet to chest level. The dead man looked much the same as he had in life, apart from his eyes which were closed as if in natural sleep. A white cloth was draped over his forehead and when de Wolfe pulled it away, they could see dried blood matting the white hair at the crown of the head. The coroner and his officer crouched down one on each side of the bed and de Wolfe parted the hair with his fingers. ‘A deep tear in his scalp, running back to front, with bruised edges,’ he commented aloud, motioning to Gwyn to lift the corpse from the bed.

Robert Fitzhamon turned away to look through the window-slit, as his father came up into an almost lifelike sitting position. But as de Wolfe took his hands away from the corpse’s head, it rolled sideways in a most unlifelike fashion, lolling at an unnatural angle. Gwyn gave one of his grunts and the coroner placed his hands alongside the ears, to waggle the head on the neck.

‘Broken, as you suggested,’ he said, looking up at de Nonant. The baron assumed a knowledgeable expression. ‘Being hurled from a large horse after a blow against a tree is enough to snap a neck.’

De Wolfe pulled down the sheet and examined the rest of the body, arms, legs and trunk, dragging up the undershirt to see the chest and belly. ‘Not another mark on him,’ he muttered. As he was doing this, Gwyn supported the corpse with one hand and prodded about in the head wound with the fingers of the other. ‘Let him down. We can cover him again and leave him in peace,’ commanded the coroner, rising to his feet. He turned to the boy. ‘You wish to take him home for burial, I presume. I will have to hold a short inquest for the sake of formality but I can do that within the hour.’ He turned to de Nonant. ‘What happened to the First Finders? We need them, and anyone else who has any knowledge of this affair.’

De Nonant looked dubious. ‘His reeve, who accompanied him on the hunt, is still here, and one of the two men who went with him to find Fitzhamon. The other returned to his village with his own master, I cannot recall who. The only others were our hunting party who went out afterwards, but they could know nothing of the accident. Of those, only myself and Bernard Cheever are still in the castle.’

De Wolfe sighed, thinking that the King’s Justices who made up the rules for the holding of inquests had little idea of the difficulties of trying to carry out their orders. In a static village, where none of the inhabitants ever went anywhere, it was easy to assemble everyone who might know about a death, but where barons and knights were concerned, with all their equally mobile companions and servants, it was impossible to stick to the letter of the law.

‘Well, get everyone who might have even the most remote knowledge of this death together in the bailey as soon as you can. We will have to move the corpse out there. Then you, Robert, can arrange for a litter to take it to your home.’

The younger Fitzhamon came to life. ‘Is it necessary to parade my father’s body outside in the bailey, Crowner? Can he not rest here in peace and dignity until I can make arrangements for travel?’

De Wolfe shook his head, but spoke gently. ‘I’m sorry, the jury must be able to inspect the body and see the wounds before we can reach a verdict. It will be very brief.’ He turned again to de Nonant. ‘I need to see where this happened. Can someone take us to the spot?’

The best person to do so was Ansgot, the dead man’s reeve, and within minutes he was riding once again along the route he had taken two days before, followed now by de Wolfe, Robert Fitzhamon and Gwyn. They crossed the river and came to the place where the body had been found. He pointed to a place behind dead ferns where the frosted grass had been trampled by many feet. ‘He was there, Crowner, lying crumpled on the ground, face down, chin tucked hard against his chest.’

De Wolfe examined the spot, but found nothing of any significance.

‘What about this tree?’ he snapped. Ansgot walked a few paces back the way they had come and pointed up to an old oak, twisted and gnarled, its bare branches contorted into a variety of shapes. ‘This one here. It has blood upon it where a piece of bark is missing.’

Gwyn walked his mare up to the tree and, the tallest man there, measured his head against its height. ‘True, it comes to my face. Fitzhamon was shorter than me, so he could have struck it with his crown.’

Robert looked away in distress. To be where his father had met his death so recently was harrowing to the boy, who had loved and respected his father, even though he had been a stern and undemonstrative parent.

De Wolfe moved to Gwyn’s side and looked up at the offending branch. ‘There’s a smear of blood upon it – and a sliver of bark is missing at that point,’ he conceded.

Gwyn was silent and de Wolfe looked sharply at him. Even though the Cornishman had not said a word, after years in his company the coroner could sense that he was not satisfied. ‘Well, what’s the problem?’ he muttered.

Gwyn raised his bushy eyebrows and looked pointedly towards Robert. ‘I want to look at the body again,’ he murmured, through his moustache. ‘Look at the direction this branch grows – across the track, not in line with it.’

De Wolfe took the hint and they rode back to the castle, the subdued boy following in the rear.

In the bailey, Fitzhamon’s corpse had been brought down, still covered with the white cloth, and placed on two boards on trestles from the hall. A dozen people were assembled for the inquest, and young Fitzhamon, de Nonant, Bernard Cheever and Ansgot joined the circle around the bier. Before they began, Gwyn went with the coroner to the body. They lifted the sheet and spent a few moments in muttered conversation. Those nearest saw Gwyn again put a finger and thumb into the wound and show some tiny object to de Wolfe. They also looked long and hard at both sides of the head, turning it this way and that on the floppy neck. Then the officer stood back and called for silence for the King’s coroner, who took over the proceedings.

‘All here know the deceased for Sir William Fitzhamon but, for formality’s sake, I will have this confirmed by his son and heir. Robert Fitzhamon, is this the body of your father?’

Robert assented in a low voice and de Wolfe continued, ‘Equally, we can dispense with presentment of Englishry, as Fitzhamon’s Norman blood is known far and wide.’