The Poisoned Chalice (26 page)

Hubert's lean brown face was following the discussion intently. He owed his power largely to having kept a firm grip on every topic and he had a compendious knowledge of every administrative quirk that the complex government of England and Normandy could devise. Today he wore none of the elaborate finery of the Church or his martial robes, but was dressed in a plain tan surcoat over a tunic of. cream linen. His head was bare, unlike many of the others whose more gaudy dress was topped by a colourful assortment of head-gear.

Eventually the discussion reached the matter that had been a source of friction between John and his brother-in-law for almost three months. The Chief Justiciar was well aware of it, for both the sheriff and the coroner had complained to the itinerant justices when they visited Exeter in October, and de Revelle had raised the matter again when he last went to Westminster with his county taxation accounts.

Hubert Walter picked up a vellum roll on which one of his clerks had penned a note as an
aidememoire
. ‘The problem seems to be this,' he summarised, with the clarity that had helped him reach the highest position in the land. ‘The sheriff has long been charged with keeping the King's peace in this county, which in olden days – even before William came from Normandy – included the trial and punishment of criminals. Are we agreed on that?'

There were nods all around and a smirk from Richard de Revelle, who felt that his case was already won.

‘But our last King Henry became disenchanted with the integrity of many sheriffs – you will remember the Inquisition of Sheriffs in the sixteenth year of his reign, which effectively dismissed them all for their corrupt behaviour.'

This time it was John's turn to smile and the sheriff's to scowl. Hubert went on with his lecture. ‘Then by the Assize of Clarendon and the Assize of Northampton, he set up the visitation of the royal judges, which should come to every county at intervals of a few months, taking over the shire court from the sheriff to try those serious criminal cases which are Pleas of the Crown, not minor local appeals.' He held up his hand. ‘I know what you might say, that these courts are irregular and often fail to keep to their timetable, especially in recent times. But judges are few and the distances are great.'

He stopped to drink some wine and water from a glass set before him.

‘Anyway, that is the strict law, yet I well know that all over England sheriffs are still holding the Pleas of the Crown, which they should not do.'
¹

One of the barons from East Anglia, a member of the Curia Regis, broke in at this point. ‘This is ancient history, Archbishop. What has it to do with these new coroners?'

Hubert did not like being interrupted, but tried to be patient. ‘You know well enough that there are two different perambulations of the King's Justices around the country. In the old days, any subject wanting justice from the King had to chase him around England and France. Old Henry improved that by sending the judges to the people, albeit slowly. The justices, who come, hopefully, several times a year to hold an assize in each county, deal with the serious crimes, but the Justices in Eyre, who come very much more infrequently, investigate all manner of financial and administrative problems in the land. It is those to whom the coroner's efforts are directed, to record every matter that may lead to an addition to the Royal Treasury.'

There was a silence, as not everyone understood his point.

Richard de Revelle spoke cautiously, picking his words with care as he did not wish to sound as if he was ignorant of the law which he was supposed to uphold in the whole of Devon. ‘How does this distinguish our roles in prosecuting crime?'

The Justiciar leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘Anything to do with money is the coroner's preserve – amercements, fines, treasure trove, deodands and, especially, the murdrum fine. This is why the justices at the September Eyre in Kent revived this old Saxon office –
Custos Placitorum Coronae
– Keeper of the Pleas of the Crown.'

Richard de Revelle was growing restless. ‘But how do we resolve this nonsense between us, Archbishop?'

Hubert again held up his hand for patience. ‘When an obvious killing takes place – let us call it homicide – and there is no doubt about the culprit, for he may be seen committing the crime or caught with blood on his knife, then the dead body is a matter for the coroner, but the criminal is the responsibility of the sheriff. He must arrest him, throw him into gaol and wait the next visit of the Justices in Assize, who will try the case, either by jury or by the ordeal of water or fire. Then, if found guilty, the miscreant can be hanged or mutilated or undergo trial by combat.'

He paused for breath and to check that everyone was paying full attention.

‘But if a dead body be found, in any circumstances, where no suspect killer is known, then the coroner must hold his inquest and the village or town must make presentment of Englishry, to prove the victim is not a Norman. If they cannot do this, then the coroner must record the facts for the Justices in Eyre – not the Assize judges – so that when they come in due course, they can decide whether that village shall be amerced for the murdrum fine, however many marks they decide.'

John and Richard eyed each other across the table, unexpectedly united in scepticism at the smooth explanation.

The coroner was the boldest in speaking first, as he knew Hubert of old. ‘That is all very well in theory, Justiciar. It may have worked well enough in old King Henry's time, but since then we all know that the visits of judges to both the Assizes and the General Eyre have become so infrequent that the system cannot work as you suggest.'

De Revelle was emboldened enough by this, to weigh in with his own doubts. ‘How can we accommodate all these suspects for so long? The county and the towns have to house and feed them – we will be spending more on building prisons than our taxes will allow!'

The Justiciar tapped his fingers tensely on the table. He did not relish criticism of his administration, yet he knew the dilemma that the law officers found themselves in. ‘There are too few judges and too many crimes and civil cases, Richard,' he snapped. ‘I appreciate your problem, but we have to live with it, in these times of financial stringency.'

Those were coded words for the profligacy of his monarch in demanding ever-increasing revenue to support his army in France.

John tried to be reasonable and conciliatory, while reserving to himself the duties with which he had been entrusted. ‘Where unnatural death is discovered, I must be able to present the matter to the justices, whenever they come. I see the sheriff's point, where obvious homicide exists, that speedy solution is required – but surely, not at the cost of summary justice. The Pleas of the Crown, homicide, rape, arson and the like, are too serious for arbitrary decision at a shire or burgess court. Those places have enough less serious matters to decide, without needing to burden themselves with murder. Surely that must be judges' work?'

The argument went back and forth and no real decision was made, but an uneasy compromise appeared, based on a division between serious crimes where the miscreant was caught red-handed and those deaths where no obvious culprit was in view.

The meeting eventually broke up, with the general unsatisfactory feeling that things would probably continue as they were and that the sheriff and coroner would remain at odds with each other. John remained to join a relatively simple meal with many of those who attended the council and at last had a chance to talk with Hubert Walter. They reminisced about their time in the Holy Land, and the Justiciar also wanted to know the full details of King Richard's capture outside Vienna. Hubert listened with interest, while the sheriff glowered in the background, jealous of John's easy companionship with the man who now ran England. Others broke into the talk and soon they got down to the serious business of eating and drinking.

At the end of the meal, the Archbishop was escorted back to the Bishop's palace and John had a chance to talk to Richard. ‘That was of little use in settling our problems, brother-in-law,' he said.

Richard's thin face showed his annoyance. ‘We will just have to try to work together, not against each other. If only these damned judges would put on a turn of speed, our job would be easier.'

John was philosophical about it. ‘We must stick to the law and not try Pleas of the Crown, however inconvenient it may be. So you carry on hanging your sheep-stealers and let the burgesses hang their coin-clippers, and leave the mystery killings to me and the judges.' Suddenly he changed the subject. ‘And what about Godfrey Fitzosbern? He will live, so the brothers at St John's tell me, but you have already arrested Edgar of Topsham. That won't please his father. You'll have Joseph around your ears before the day's out.'

The sheriff banged the nearest table with his fist in frustration. ‘What else could I do? The fellow has repeatedly threatened Fitzosbern, he attacked him and now it looks as if he's poisoned him! He must be put to the question, even if it does mean antagonising one of our most prominent merchants.'

‘What about Hugh Ferrars, his father, Reginald de Courcy and Henry Rifford?' asked John, pointedly. ‘They have all threatened Fitzosbern. Are you going to arrest and torture all of them?'

De Revelle looked pityingly at the coroner. ‘Can you really see me trying to throw Lord Ferrars into gaol, eh?'

John nodded, knowingly. ‘I see how your mind works, Richard. Start at the weakest and work your way up. I wonder you don't blame the poisoning on Fitzosbern's two workmen.'

The sarcasm was lost on Richard, who for a moment tried to work out some way of incriminating these non-threatening suspects. He gave up and returned to Edgar. ‘He will be interrogated as soon as the Justiciar has left tomorrow, I'm too busy until then. If he refuses to confess, then he will be put to the
peine forte et dure
until he does tell us something.'

‘Like Alan Fitzhay last month, whom you nearly killed?'

Richard's only response was to walk away, red-faced and angry, leaving John to march back to his chamber in the gate-house.

Later that Tuesday afternoon, John went down to the Bush for an hour's relaxation. His red-haired mistress was busy with the many guests who filled her upstairs accommodation, these being the lower orders of the Justiciar's entourage, who were distributed around the town. They were all leaving in the morning and Nesta was making sure that she had collected the rent for their bed, food and drink.

While she bustled about with her two serving wenches and Edwin, the old potman, John took his ease by the fire with a jar of ale, gossiping with two old men who had once been in the Irish campaigns. He knew them well, though he had not been across the Irish Sea at the same time. One had been on the first expedition from Pembroke in 1169 and the other had been with Strongbow, the Earl of Clare, in later campaigns. They had plenty of old soldiers' tales to tell and the warmth of the big room and Nesta's best ale induced a rare sense of well-being in the coroner that he never experienced at home.

Outside, the snow had gone, but the sky was dark and cloudy. There were gusts of wind and fitful showers of cold rain, which made the inside of the Bush a good place to be. He saw no chance of bedding Nesta today, but he was philosophical about that as later he had to go home and dress up to take Matilda to the final banquet for Hubert Walter at Rougemont, another event that was improving her state of mind to a point almost approaching benevolence. He feared that the anti-climax of sinking back into humdrum routine later in the week would set her off into her usual cantankerous mood.

Eventually, Nesta found a few moments to come and sit close to him on his bench, the two old soldiers tactfully moving off in search of Edwin for refills. She pressed her soft hip against him and laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Thank God the Archbishop of Canterbury doesn't come to Exeter too often,' she said. ‘Though the money is welcome, the work is just too much, without an able man about the house.' She looked up at him mischievously. ‘Any chance of you changing the post of King's crowner for tavern-keeper, John?'

He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to him. ‘Don't tempt me, lady. The way these deaths and assaults are piling up, I might consider it. Rather than lose you, I'd certainly leave home – but as for being an innkeeper, I might drink all the profits.'

They flirted and joked for a few moments, until a yell from upstairs brought Nesta to her feet to scream back at one of her maids, who was complaining that one of their lodgers was lying dead drunk and vomiting on one of their palliasses. ‘I'd better go and put the silly fool to rights!' she snapped, and ran off to settle the girl's problems.

Almost immediately, the door to Idle Lane opened and Gwyn and Thomas came in, looking damp and cold from the inclement weather outside. The little ex-priest, dressed in a frayed brown cloak, went off to order some food from Edwin, while Gwyn came and sat in the place just warmed by Nesta's bottom.

‘Did you find Bearded Lucy?' demanded the coroner.

The Cornishman held out his hand towards the fire and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘We did indeed – and she improved on what she told us last time.'

‘You didn't do her any damage, I hope?' asked John, knowing of Gwyn's frequent over-enthusiasm.

‘No, I didn't lay a finger on her. Didn't want to catch her lice, for one thing.'

‘But he threatened to push her hut into the leat if she didn't talk,' said Thomas, who had appeared with two wooden dishes of pork leg and bread. Edwin hobbled up behind with a quart of ale for Gwyn and a smaller jar of cider for Thomas, who claimed that ale tasted like donkey's water.