Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (10 page)

‘And what did he say?’ demanded the coroner. It was obvious that Basil had not spoken to the Purveyor, for that official knew nothing of it when told of the recovery of the body.

‘He said he would think about it, but was reluctant in case he was not believed or thought of as causing false rumours. And that was the last time I saw him!’ added Robin, bursting into tears again.

If there was anything that de Wolfe could not abide, it was weeping, especially if it came from a man. He jerked his head at Thomas to take the boy away and the soft-hearted clerk gently ushered him out of the room.

‘I’ll not call him at the inquest, for his evidence is not worth a bent penny,’ he growled. ‘And if there was any truth in what he said, there’s no point in alerting these mysterious conspirators, if they exist.’

He rose from his bench and stretched his long arms.

‘I’ve asked for an audience with our old friend Hubert Walter this morning. He’s back from his parish in Kent today, so I’m told.’

He was referring to the Chief Justiciar and Gwyn guessed that John’s attempt at levity about a parish concerned the Archbishop’s diocese in Canterbury.

‘He won’t be interested in a stabbed clerk, will he?’ objected Gwyn.

De Wolfe gave one of his rare grins. Hubert was effectively running England in the continued absence of King Richard and undoubtedly had more weighty matters on his mind.

‘No, but I want to bend his ear about these bastards in the city,’ he fretted. ‘If I’m supposed to be Coroner of the Verge, then we can’t have these arrogant sheriffs interfering. And what’s going to happen when the court goes out into the shires? Are the county coroners going to do the same?’

He pondered for a moment. ‘Mind you, if I was still Devon’s coroner, I’d be hopping mad if some outsider turned up and took my cases from me, just because the court is within a dozen miles of Exeter!’

Gwyn nodded sagely, knowing his master well enough to let him blow off steam. ‘When are you going to see him? That’s if you can find him again in this rabbit warren.’

They had ridden up to Westminster the previous year to see the Justiciar, when they needed a special dispensation against an injustice caused to a fellow Crusader.
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Gwyn recalled being led through innumerable passages to get to Hubert’s chamber, but he doubted he could find it again without help.

‘One of the Chancery clerks is coming to fetch me when he’s ready,’ replied John. ‘Until then, we’ll have a drop of the ale you’ve got hidden in that jar.’

It was the same austere chamber that they had sat in the previous year. Though as Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury, he was the most powerful man in the country, Hubert Walter did not flaunt his power with rich robes and ostentatious jewels. A lean man with tonsured iron-grey hair, he wore a plain dark-red tunic, belted at the waist, the only sign of his ecclesiastical eminence being a small gold cross hanging by a thin chain around his neck.

In spite of the difference in their stations in life, he was a good friend of John’s. They had first met in the Holy Land, when Hubert, then Bishop of Salisbury, was made chaplain to the Crusaders after Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, had died before the walls of Acre. Like many bishops, Hubert was also a seasoned warrior and became the king’s chief of staff, later being left behind to organise the withdrawal after Richard sailed for home on his ill-fated journey. John had been one of the royal bodyguard that had accompanied him and had suffered the same shipwreck in the Adriatic that led to the Lionheart’s ill-advised attempt to reach England overland, with only a few remaining knights and squires as protection. De Wolfe still felt guilty about being away from the king’s side when Richard was captured near Vienna, though the Lionheart had since airily absolved John from any fault.

‘At least it’s not about Richard de Revelle this time!’ said the Justiciar with a smile. On the two last occasions that they had met in England, it was over problems with John’s brother-in-law, the former sheriff of Devon, who had repeatedly sailed too close to the wind of treason and corruption.

‘No, but his sister is causing me problems instead!’ confessed John wryly. He explained the frustrating situation with his wife, who was in Polsloe Priory in Exeter, but had not committed to taking her vows nor indicating whether she would return to married life. However, his matrimonial affairs were nothing to do with his purpose today and he went on to explain in detail the confrontation with Godard of Antioch and his men.

‘I must know who has precedence, Your Grace!’ he ended.

Though the archbishop was an old comrade-in-arms, John was not one to ignore the formalities of address. ‘If the king requires me to be his court coroner in England, then I must know where the limits of my duty lie. There’s no point in having jurisdiction over the Verge, if the local officers deny me the right to investigate anything.’

The Justiciar leaned across the oak table that was half-buried in parchments. ‘They delight in being awkward, those strutting city folk!’ he complained. ‘I’m in bad odour with them at present, over that Longbeard affair in April, so no doubt they’ll take every opportunity to tweak my tail.’

He twisted a large golden ring on one of his fingers, one of the few signs of his religious primacy, for he had recently been made Papal Legate to England, the agent of the Holy Father in Rome.

‘Not only that, but the Mayor, Henry fitz Ailwyn, is annoyed that I am enlarging the defences around the Tower. He says I am encroaching upon his territory, so he’s trying to defy me in as many ways as possible.’

‘But where does that leave me as coroner?’ persisted de Wolfe. ‘Am I going to face the same opposition in the shires when the court moves out into the country? If so, I may as well abandon any hope of carrying out the king’s wishes.’

Hubert Walter shook his head decisively.

‘I am the Chief Justiciar, responsible for law and order in England. They cannot obstruct me, much as they would wish to.’

He stood up and strode about the room, rubbing his hands together. ‘As you well know, almost two years ago I instructed my judges at the Kent Eyre to appoint three knights as coroners in every county to keep the pleas of the crown. Straight away, London raised objections and the king gave in to them, wanting to keep them sweet, as they are a huge source of revenue to the Exchequer. We need every penny to pay off his ransom and to fund his wars across the Channel.’

‘I understand that one of the sheriffs also acts as coroner in the county of Middlesex,’ said John morosely. ‘Does that mean that even Westminster comes under their jurisdiction? If so, I may as well saddle up and go home to Devon right away!’

Hubert replied by ringing a small brass bell that stood on his table.

‘I’ll get this settled this minute,’ he promised, as one of his black-robed clerks hurried in from an adjoining room and stood waiting expectantly for instructions. ‘As for Middlesex, I don’t think you need worry about that. Westminster is an ancient liberty ruled by Abbot Postard, who is even more jealous of his independence than is the city. Even I as Archbishop have no say in abbey affairs, only through the Pope, but I doubt the abbot is interested in usurping the functions of a coroner.’

He turned to the elderly clerk. ‘Send me in one of your scribes, Martin. I want a letter to go out to every sheriff, when you next send monthly heralds out to the counties – and a separate one to the Mayor and aldermen of London.’

He plumped himself down again on his chair and looked across at John. ‘I will command them all in the king’s name to allow you access and every courtesy in investigating incidents that occur within the Verge, for that is what our Lord Richard specifically desired.’

A younger clerk came in and quietly sat at a small desk to one side of the Justiciar’s table, quill and parchment at the ready for dictation.

‘I’ll have a copy sent to you, with my personal seal attached, John. You can keep it with you and wave it under the nose of any belligerent officer who gives you trouble!’

De Wolfe recognized this as a signal to leave and rose from his seat, but as he bobbed his head in deference to the archbishop, Hubert had one last question.

‘This palace servant who was stabbed in broad daylight – have you any idea what that was all about?’

‘I am holding an inquest this morning, sire, though I doubt it will achieve much. The killer seems to have vanished into thin air.’

He hesitated, unsure whether it was worth mentioning the nebulous tale offered by Robin Byard. ‘There is a vague suggestion that it might have been connected with some intrigue within the palace, but I will keep you informed, if you so wish.’

Hubert nodded and waved his hand in dismissal, but just as John reached the door, he called him back.

‘I almost forgot, I need you for another task this week, one for which your reputation as a safe and trusted escort fits you well.’

De Wolfe waited patiently for enlightenment, though he had misgivings about being landed with some other unenviable job.

‘We have now brought almost every office of state here from Winchester, but there remain several chests of bullion which need to be safely moved to London. The Marshalsea will organise the transport, but I want you to make sure that nothing goes amiss. There are too many rogues and robbers about these days to take any chances. The under-marshals will give you all the details.’

John wondered what this had to do with being a coroner, though it was true that they could be a given a royal commission to carry out virtually any task which the monarch wished. However, he made no objection, as it sounded a welcome opportunity to get away from Westminster for a while.

As he muttered his agreement, Hubert Walter was already dictating to his clerk, so John quietly slipped away, hoping he could find his way back through the corridors of power.

As de Wolfe had anticipated, the inquest achieved virtually nothing, but doggedly he went through the routine, for his fervent loyalty to the Lionheart made him a stickler for keeping to the rules laid down by the king and his council.

It was held in the Great Hall. William Rufus’s massive edifice was used for a variety of functions, including great feasts and accommodating the higher courts of law. The side aisles of the huge hall were divided by movable screens, set against the double row of columns that supported the roof. The court of King’s Bench sat at the head of the hall, furthest from the main doors and in other areas between the pillars; various ad hoc tribunals sat as required. In other bays, lawyers were consulted by clients and some court officers used the space for their duties. There were even stalls selling parchment, pens and ink, cloth of various types and even several food booths, offering pies and pastries. These traders had their stalls near the main doors which opened on to New Palace Yard.

There was little attempt at privacy and all manner of people strode or wandered about the hall, some listening to the deliberations of the courts, often chewing on a mince pie as they did so. A babble of voices rose from all parts, but this did not appear to disconcert those who were deliberating on weighty matters. The royal judges, some being members of the Curia, sat with other Barons of the Exchequer on the King’s Bench and seemed impervious to the raucous atmosphere which would have been better suited to a marketplace or town square.

Today, Gwyn had commandeered a vacant space between two of the lofty pillars halfway up on the left side, where there were a few stools and benches left by the last occupants. At noon, the small crowd that he had chivvied into attending, turned up to form the jury, these reluctant members also acting as witnesses. Normally, Gwyn would have bellowed out the coroner’s summons, commanding ‘All ye who have anything to do with the king’s coroner for this county, to draw near and give your attendance,’ but he was nonplussed by the change in circumstances and decided to leave out any mention of a county.

De Wolfe sat on a bench with his back to the massive stone wall, facing the ragged half-circle of jurymen. Thomas had a stool on his right, with another between his knees to support his roll of parchment, quill and ink flask.

Gwyn wasn’t the only one confused about procedure, as John also felt uncertain about certain aspects, compared with the familiar routine back home in Devon.

Should he raise the ‘Presentment of Englishry’? The dead man’s relatives, if he had any, were a day’s ride away in Reigate, so there was no father or brother to declare that he might be a Saxon? The inquest was supposed to be held over the corpse, but he could hardly bring a dead body on a handcart into the Great Hall, especially as it had been lying in this torrid heat for a couple of days.

‘We are here to enquire into where, when and by what means Basil of Reigate came to his death,’ he began in his deep, sonorous voice. ‘I will hear what evidence is available, but then we must adjourn to the abbey for you to view the mortal remains, before coming to a verdict.’

The dozen men that Gwyn had mustered included the sergeant of the palace guard, the two monks from the landing stage, the Guest Master who supervised Basil, and Hugo de Molis, the Chief Purveyor, as well as a few random servants that Gwyn had summoned to make up the numbers. John had toyed with the idea of demanding that the city sheriff and his men should attend, together with the wherryman who had recovered the corpse – but he realized that his summons would be ignored, and the wherryman had doubtless vanished into the anonymity of his fellows on the river.