The Tinner's Corpse (36 page)

The crumpled figure tried to suck in air, his damaged chest heaving ineffectually. His eyes rolled up, exposing the whites, and de Wolfe thought he had died. But then the bloodshot lids flickered and the eyes refocused, but the man made no sign with his head. ‘You are dying. This is your last chance for redemption,’ he snapped, wishing he had Thomas here to coax the man with some religious cant. ‘Once again, did you attack a man near Dunsford Mill in a similar fashion?’

Foam appeared alongside the spittle on his lips but, slowly, the dying man nodded.

‘And who did you wish to slay today? The young man you struck?’

This time the head moved almost imperceptibly from side to side.

‘So it was the young woman?’

There was a pause and again John feared that death had forestalled him. But then there was a slow nod, before the eyes rolled up again.

‘He’s going, I reckon,’ observed Gwyn impassively.

‘Who set you to these crimes, fellow?’ shouted de Wolfe, desperately, though all too conscious that the man had no ability left to tell him. With a bubbling rattle, pink-stained froth welled from the false monk’s mouth and his head fell back, the face now almost black for want of air.

‘Dead as mutton. You’ll get no more answers from him,’ rumbled Gwyn, satisfied that his forecast of impending death had been correct.

De Wolfe straightened up and looked down at the now inert assailant. ‘At least we know who killed Knapman – though I’ll wager he was only some hired assassin. But where the hell have I seen him before?’

One of the men-at-arms from Rougemont stepped forward and peered again at the corpse. ‘I think I know him, Crowner. With his face blue and swollen like that it’s difficult, but I’m sure he was a porter who worked in Matthew Knapman’s tin-yard near the quayside. He’s part Saxon, by the name of Oswin.’

De Wolfe’s memory clicked, as he recalled the fellow humping tin bars in the warehouse when he called to tell Matthew of his brother’s death.

‘Come, Gwyn, back to the horses. We’ve urgent business to attend in Priest Street.’

However, once on the back of his borrowed mare, de Wolfe decided to call back at the priory to see if Widow Knapman had recovered sufficiently to say whether her assailant had given any clue as to who had sent him on his murderous mission. They found Philip Courteman still sitting on his bench, holding his aching head in his hands, and Lucy in the guest hall with the sisters, who seemed to have been highly taken by her aggressive courage.

The new knowledge he brought, that she had killed their assailant, seemed only to increase her satisfaction, and de Wolfe arranged for the new corpse to be brought to the tiny mortuary outside the infirmary wall until he could hold his inquest.

His hope of talking to Joan was quashed by Dame Madge, who opened the door of the infirmary cell to show her sleeping peacefully beneath an open window. ‘I gave her a sleeping draught to ease the discomfort of her bruised throat,’ explained the nun. ‘She’ll not be ready to talk until later today.’ With that de Wolfe had to be content, and after a few fruitless words with the lawyer’s son, he and his officer rode away towards the city.

Before he went to Matthew’s house and yard, John felt that a brief appearance at home might insure him later against Matilda’s disapproval. He called at Martin’s Lane and partially thawed her icy indifference with the latest news on the Knapman saga. Anything that involved family feuding, pregnancy and disputed wills was welcome nourishment to her curiosity, especially if she could later retail it to her circle of friends at the cathedral and St Olave’s.

His duty done, de Wolfe rejoined Gwyn, who had been skulking in the farrier’s opposite, and they rode down to Priest Street. Here they found that the sheriff had forestalled them: Gabriel had felt obliged to send a soldier post-haste to tell him of the events in Polsloe Wood. Another had been despatched to Matthew’s yard and then to the lawyer’s office, conveying to Robert Courteman the news about his son.

When de Wolfe arrived, two men-at-arms were holding Richard de Revelle’s horse outside the gate to the yard, from where furious shouting could be heard.

‘How, in God’s name, should I know where Oswin has gone?’ yelled Matthew, as they walked through the back gate. ‘He should be here helping to load these bars. I’m having to do it myself, as you can see.’

‘Perhaps he has gone on a murderous errand for you,’ retorted the sheriff. ‘Just as he did last week in Dunsford.’

Matthew looked blankly at de Revelle, whom he thought had gone insane. ‘Mary, Mother of God, what are you saying? Ask the bloody man yourself when he comes back – just before I tell him he’s lost his job here, leaving me in the lurch on such a busy day.’

John stepped forward, and the pair noticed his arrival for the first time. ‘Oswin won’t be coming back today – or any other day. He’s dead, Matthew,’ he said.

‘Where the devil did you spring from, John?’ exclaimed de Revelle, annoyed at the intrusion of the coroner into what he had hoped was to be a surprise arrest of his own.

Guessing that Gabriel had informed the sheriff of recent events, de Wolfe ignored his brother-in-law and spoke to Matthew, who was red-faced with outrage and confusion at de Revelle’s obscure accusations. ‘Your man Oswin attacked Joan Knapman and Philip Courteman today – and admitted killing your brother last week. Have you anything to say about that?’

Matthew’s colour changed from pink to greenish-white and he sank back weakly for support against a pile of ingots. ‘Oswin? Why should he do that? The man’s a moron! He’s only good for using his muscles to lift tin.’

‘Well, he used them to kill Walter and to try to strangle your sister-in-law today. But who put him up to it, eh? We know that two men were implicated in the killing. The lad at the mill was quite definite, simple as he is.’

The sheriff, strutting impatiently in his bright green cloak, thrust himself back into the fray. ‘This Oswin’s your servant, Knapman. He does what you bid him do. Admit it now, you used him to rid you of those who kept you from an inheritance.’

The tin-merchant goggled at de Revelle. ‘Me? Kill Walter? You’re mad! How could I slay my own twin, with whom I shared my mother’s womb?’

De Revelle smiled nastily at Matthew. ‘No doubt we’ll discover that at the Ordeal or during
peine forte et dure
,’ he threatened. He yelled for his men-at-arms to come into the yard. ‘Seize this man and deliver him to the gaoler in the castle keep.’

Exasperated by yet another act of dangerous foolishness on the part of the sheriff, John stepped forward and grabbed de Revelle’s arm. ‘Don’t be so hasty, Richard. You have no evidence that Matthew is involved in this.’

The sheriff sneered at his brother-in-law. ‘Motive and opportunity – isn’t that sufficient? He stood to gain a goodly part of a fortune by disposing of his brother – and of keeping far more of it by disposing of his widow. As for opportunity, whose servant is the confessed killer, eh?’

‘I have been here in this yard all day, with many witnesses to prove it. How could I have been involved?’ quavered Matthew desperately.

‘I don’t give a tinker’s curse for your alibi today. It was the man you paid to do your evil deeds who matters,’ brayed de Revelle triumphantly.

De Wolfe cast about desperately for something to prevent the sheriff persisting with his rash and impetuous prejudice. ‘Where were you on the morning your brother was murdered?’ he snapped.

Matthew drooped pathetically. ‘What’s the point? You’ll only say it doesn’t matter, as Oswin did my bidding, anyway!’

‘Answer me! Can others testify to your presence somewhere?’

‘Of course! That morning, before I rode to Chagford for my regular meeting with my brother, I was negotiating the sale of tin for Germany, with two merchants from Cologne.’

‘Who, no doubt, have now conveniently left England,’ sneered the sheriff.

‘No! As far as I’m aware their vessel still lies in the river, having sprung leaks that need recaulking,’ averred Matthew, with a return of his defiance.

De Revelle shrugged indifferently. ‘As you said yourself, it matters not. This Oswin did your dirty work for you.’

De Wolfe had his opportunity. ‘Not so, Richard! We well know that another person, apart from the self-confessed Oswin, was involved. Walter was struck from behind. He would never have suffered that had not another person been engaging his attention from the front, the one who led him off the road into the trees. It was almost certainly someone he knew, who would arouse no suspicion of attack. And it could not have been Matthew, who can prove that he was in Exeter until it was too late for him to be in Dunsford at the time Walter was attacked.’

But nothing would dissuade the stubborn de Revelle from his first conclusion and he beckoned again to the two bemused men-at-arms to advance on Matthew. The tin-merchant backed away behind de Wolfe, whom he saw as the more even-handed of the law officers. ‘Wait, I tell you!’ he shouted. ‘What about that damned brother of Joan’s, who can’t wait to get his hands on her money? He declined to go with his sister to Polsloe today, claiming he had urgent business in Ashburton – which I doubt.’ Emboldened by his theory, Matthew’s voice became more confident. ‘If he could get rid of her, after ensuring that Walter’s death and her pregnancy made her the heir, then as her nearest relative he could claim all the eight-tenths for himself. So why not discover where he was today – and on the day my brother met his death?’

This novel idea stopped both the sheriff and the coroner in their tracks. De Wolfe admitted to himself that since Joan had been attacked, the possibility of her brother’s involvement had not occurred to him.

As usual, Gwyn had remained silent while his superiors argued around him, but his ponderous body hid an astute brain. ‘No one has asked where Peter Jordan is today,’ he pointed out.

John stared at the hairy Cornishman, then at Matthew. ‘So where is he?’

The tin-merchant looked mystified. ‘He’s been here all morning, helping me since that damned Oswin failed to appear.’

‘Then where is he now?’ demanded de Revelle, shifting the target of his suspicion.

‘When that messenger came with news of the attack at Polsloe, he said he’d better go home to tell his wife that her brother had been injured. That was a few minutes before you arrived.’

De Revelle gave a shrug of indifference, but John felt a sudden frisson of worry.

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Rack Lane, not two minutes from here.’

Without a word of explanation to the sheriff or Matthew, de Wolfe hurried out with his officer. Minutes later they were rapping on the door that a water-seller had pointed out to them.

A serving-girl ushered them into a small but well-furnished hall and a puzzled-looking Martha Courteman came in from the yard at the back of the house. She was a plain woman, several years older than her husband. A downturned mouth above a receding chin suggested a sour disposition, and John found it easy to accept that she was the daughter of the dour lawyer. ‘We need to speak urgently to your husband, Mistress Jordan,’ he began, hovering over her like a thin black eagle.

Martha looked bewildered. ‘But Peter is at his work down at the warehouse.’

‘Matthew told us that he had hurried home to tell you of the injury to your brother.’

The young wife threw a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, her eyes as large as eggs. ‘Philip injured? I know nothing of it!’ she howled.

It took a few minutes to explain and calm her down, the maid fussing over her with a reviving glass of mead. De Wolfe was impatient to discover where her husband might have gone, but Martha had no idea. She began to cry, rocking back and forth on a stool.

‘I told him not to meddle in that testament. Nothing but ill could come of it!’ she wailed. De Wolfe seized on this, and prised the story from her. When Walter had remarried, Peter had been concerned naturally that his expectations from the inheritance were in danger, especially if Joan bore a child. His stepfather had refused to give him any hint of his intentions, either before or after the marriage, and Peter eventually persuaded Martha to approach her father, Walter’s lawyer. Robert Courteman refused outright, indignant at her attempt to undermine his professional ethics, so Martha went to work on the weaker party, her brother.

Reluctantly, he eventually agreed to ferret out what he could and secretly searched among his father’s rolls. He reported that the testament he discovered still gave Peter and Matthew virtually half-shares in the estate, but another parchment indicated that Walter had demanded a new will be drafted, giving Joan a similar share. There was no mention of the eight-tenths, should she conceive a child, but she was to share equally with Peter and Matthew.

‘Philip told me only two weeks ago that the revised testament had not been signed,’ whimpered Martha tearfully, ‘but he knew that it soon would be, after Walter had made some further amendments. But now it seems clear that he knew much less about his father’s business than he thought, for another version of the will must already have been signed.’

De Wolfe looked down gravely at her. ‘Is there anything else you should tell me?’

Now that the dam had been breached, she seemed resigned to letting slip other matters. ‘There has been ill-feeling between Matthew and Peter these past weeks, as my husband has long suspected that Matthew has been indulgingin sharp practices with Walter’s business. Peter has been checking secretly on the commissions that Matthew has been taking on the finished tin – especially that sent abroad, to Flanders and the Rhine. It became clear that, for years now, Matthew has been persistently robbing his brother.’

John wondered if this had much to do with the main problem, but felt he should probe further. ‘What was your man going to do about it?’

‘He confronted Matthew a couple of weeks ago, telling him he knew of the embezzlement. Matthew tried to deny it, but Peter said that unless it stopped straight away he would have to tell Walter. For one thing, the loss of income reflected on Peter, who might be accused of being party to the deception – and also we were losing money ourselves, as Peter lives on a small proportion of the remaining profits after Matthew had squeezed out his extra commission.’