Crowner Royal (Crowner John Mysteries) (9 page)

There was Hilda of Dawlish, of course, who he loved as well, but now she was on the other side of England – and Matilda, though equally distant, was still his wife, more’s the pity! He was forty-one years of age and felt as lusty as ever – but unless he went whoring, he would have to put up with the frustrations of celibacy. This depressing thought brought the image of Hawise d’Ayncourt into his mind again and he briefly wished that he had forsaken Osanna’s promise of roast pork for another meal in the Lesser Hall.

He was jerked out of his musing by Gwyn, who had been staring out of the unglazed window at the street outside.

‘What’s this? Here’s our favourite dwarf coming.’

His affectionate slander was directed at Thomas de Peyne, who a moment later sidled into the tavern with a guilty look. Though many clerics were as fond of drink and women as the next man, Thomas was a shy, reserved little fellow, who looked on alehouses as a halfway stop to Hades. His skinny body, slight limp and hunched shoulder made him unattractive to women, except those who wanted to mother him. He was content with a world that revolved around his beloved Church and books of history and learning. His skill with pen, ink and parchment was exceptional and his insatiable curiosity had given him an encyclopaedic knowledge.

‘What brings you to this den of iniquity, Thomas?’ asked de Wolfe. ‘Are you pining for our brilliant company or have you something to tell us?’

Gwyn reached out and dragged another stool for the clerk to sit on. ‘Do you want a cup of wine, Thomas?’ he asked solicitously. ‘It’s lousy stuff, the ale-wife says it’s from the Loire, but I think she means just taken out of the river there!’

His friend shook his head, declining to compound his visit to a tavern by actually drinking there.

‘I just called in to tell you something I heard about the dead man we saw today,’ he said earnestly. He dropped his voice and looked covertly about the taproom, though the other patrons seemed indifferent to their conversation.

‘At supper tonight in the abbey refectory, the death of Basil of Reigate was a favourite subject for conversation, as everyone knew that his body had been brought back for burial. Then afterwards, I took a turn around the cloister, as did many others to aid their digestion and gossip some more.’

‘Mary, Mother of God, get to the bloody point, will you!’ hissed de Wolfe, who was afraid that Thomas was getting as long-winded as Gwyn when it came to telling a story.

‘Well, a novitiate that I know slightly, took me aside and said that he was very distressed, as Basil had been a close friend.’ Thomas hesitated and looked a little embarrassed. ‘In fact, I rather think that they might have been more than good friends, may God forgive them.’

The coroner was not interested in the morals of Westminster clerics. ‘What are you trying to tell me, Thomas?’ he snapped.

‘This young man knew I was the coroner’s clerk and said he wanted to do all he could to bring his friend’s killer to justice. He told me that a few days ago, Basil had confided in him that his life might be in danger because he had overheard a seditious conversation in the palace.’

Gwyn stared at him through the ginger frizz on his lumpy face.

‘What in hell is a “seditious conversation”?’ he grunted.

‘And why should it put this Basil in mortal danger?’ added de Wolfe.

The little clerk wriggled uncomfortably. ‘He was quite vague about this, Crowner,’ he said apologetically. ‘It seems Basil was not very forthcoming about the matter – and then the novitiate, Robin Byard by name, was also quite furtive when he told me.’

‘You must know more that that!’ snapped de Wolfe. ‘Or why bother to tell us at all?’

Thomas almost twitched with nervousness at his master’s impatience. ‘It seems that during his duties in the guest chambers, Basil was behind a screen in one of the rooms, checking blankets in a chest. Two people came in and were unaware of him, but started speaking of something that would get them hanged if it was made known!’

‘So what was this something?’ demanded Gwyn, before John could get out the same words.

‘That’s the problem, Basil wouldn’t tell Robin, for fear of putting him in similar jeopardy,’ gabbled Thomas. ‘Neither would he say who the people were.’

‘So why did he bother to mention it at all?’ rasped the coroner.

‘He wanted help and advice, for it seems that in his anxiety to hear what was said, he tipped over the screen and the two persons saw that he had been listening,’ explained the clerk. ‘Basil gabbled some excuse and ran away, but they obviously knew who he was – and ever since he had been expecting to be silenced – which seems to have happened, for this killing was no robbery.’

John and Gwyn looked at each other over the rims of their ale mugs. ‘Sounds a tall story, but the fact is that the fellow
was
stabbed!’ said Gwyn. ‘And you’ve no idea what this secret conversation was about?’

‘We’d better have a word with this fellow Byard,’ rumbled John. ‘But why did Basil tell this apprentice monk, rather than someone in authority?’

‘He was seeking advice, as he was his best friend,’ said Thomas carefully. ‘Robin Byard told him he must tell either the Guest-Master or the Purveyor – or even the Keeper of the Palace. But Basil said he was afraid he would either be disbelieved or be disciplined for eavesdropping on guests.’

‘How did a clerk in the guest house come to be so friendly with a Benedictine novitiate?’ asked John suspiciously.

‘It seems they are both of an age and come from the same village in Surrey. This Basil had decided he wanted to enter the abbey as a novice – perhaps to be with his best friend,’ Thomas added with a blush.

‘What sort of secrets might justify the risks of stabbing a man in broad daylight?’ queried Gwyn.

De Wolfe chewed this over in his mind for a moment. ‘Unless this is all a figment of the fellow’s imagination, there’s some palace intrigue behind this. I’ve heard that the place is a hotbed of corruption, embezzlement, theft, adultery, fornication and God knows what else!’

‘What about spying?’ added Thomas. ‘I know the king’s directing his war against Philip from Rouen, but it’s from here that England has to defend its coast against invasion. And the French are always trying to stir up the Scots and Welsh against us.’

‘Perhaps they were planning to steal the Crown Jewels!’ offered Gwyn facetiously.

‘They should be safe enough in the crypt of the abbey,’ replied John seriously, impervious to his officer’s humour. ‘Thomas, tell this new friend of yours that I want to talk to him tomorrow, before I hold the inquest. And Gwyn, in future I think I had better forsake Osanna’s cooking in the evenings and eat in the palace. You never know what we might pick up there.’

With a picture of a certain lady in mind, an obvious answer came to him, but he managed to convince himself that dining in the Lesser Hall was now part of his duty.

The next day, though the sun was already warming the lanes, it was still early when the coroner and his officer walked from their house to the palace. As they went from Tothill Street through the rear gate of the abbey precinct and strode across Broad Sanctuary, the sounds of chanting came from the chancel, as the monks celebrated Prime, the first office of the day.

‘I suppose our clerk is amongst that lot,’ said Gwyn gruffly, jerking a thumb towards Edward the Confessor’s great building.

John had never managed to discover the cause of the Cornishman’s disenchantment with the Church. He himself was a reluctant worshipper, especially since he no longer had his wife to drag him to devotions, but compared to his officer he was an ardent believer.

‘Let him enjoy it, poor fellow,’ he advised. ‘There’s nothing for him to do until the inquest an hour before noon.’

They passed the small church of St Margaret, built by the monks for the use of the local population, to avoid interruption of their endless devotions in the abbey. A small gate in the wall between the monastic and secular areas, led them into New Palace Yard, where already clerks, men-at-arms and members of the public were criss-crossing the wide area, dodging ox-carts and mounted men coming and going from the main gate on King Street.

Up in their chamber, Gwyn threw open the window shutter and leaned out to study the strip of scrubby grass between the base of the wall and the river’s edge. Feet had worn a path of dusty earth along it, the same one along which he had chased the killer two days before. The tide was dropping now and the sullen brown water swirled downstream. Across the wide expanse, he could see more marshes and some farmland visible on the opposite bank at Lambeth, now disfigured by some large building activity.

‘Too bloody flat around here for my liking,’ he grumbled, determined to find fault with everywhere that was not his native West Country. Coming from the steep fishing village of Polruan in Cornwall, he missed the slopes and cliffs of his youth.

He raised his eye to the sky and frowned. ‘I reckon this weather is soon going to end in a storm,’ he added. ‘Instead of dust, we’ll have mud everywhere!’

‘Jonah had nothing on you, Gwyn,’ growled John, sitting behind his table. ‘I think you’ll soon need a trip back home to see your wife and family. I might come with you, to try to discover what this bloody wife of mine intends to do.’

His officer left the window and sat on a milking stool, which creaked ominously under his weight. ‘If this whole court is going to shift itself to Gloucester when the old queen comes, maybe we’ll have a chance to slip off to Exeter from there – it’s nearer than this place.’

De Wolfe shrugged, doubtful if the distance would make much difference, but not wanting to dishearten Gwyn. They had spent over twenty years together away from Devon, on campaigns in Ireland, France and the Holy Land, without being too bothered by homesickness. However, three years back in England seemed to have softened them up. He decided to shake off this morbid mood and changed the subject.

‘Thomas said he would bring this fellow Robin Byard here when they had finished singing and praying over in the abbey.’

‘D’you think there could be anything in this story?’ grunted Gwyn. ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched to me, a clerk being afraid that he’s overheard something to endanger his life!’

De Wolfe shrugged, running his hand through his over-long hair. ‘Nothing would surprise me in this damned place! I know both France and our own country have a bevy of spies in each other’s camps. But this might just be some petty intrigue about one man bedding someone else’s wife – or even some swindle over an official selling meat from the kitchens.’

For a while there was silence in the bare chamber, as John settled down to try to re-learn some of the Latin that Thomas had written out for him in simple phrases on a roll of parchment. When in Exeter, a vicar in the cathedral had coached him until the patience of both of them had run out. Now his own clerk had taken on the task, but at his age, John’s mind was too set to absorb much learning. He was a physical man, active and energetic, but lacking the concentration and willpower to apply himself to academic pursuits.

He muttered under his breath, his lips forming the unfamiliar words as his finger slowly traced out the perfect script of his clerk, while his officer perched back on the windowsill, gazing out across the Thames. A barge drifted downstream, piled with bales of raw wool, four men keeping it in the centre of the river with long oars. Above, the sky was taking on a leaden hue towards the south, and the weather lore that Gwyn had learned from his fisherman father told him that a storm was brewing.

After about an hour, the silence was broken by Thomas entering the room. He ushered in a pale young man dressed in Benedictine black, his shaven tonsure having removed most of his fair hair. Robin Byard looked nervous and ill-at-ease as he looked from the ginger giant at the window to the menacingly dark figure of the coroner sitting behind the table.

‘My clerk tells me that you have something to tell us about Basil of Reigate,’ began John, trying to sound affable.

To his embarrassment, Byard promptly burst into tears. ‘He was my best friend, Sir John! Perhaps there was something I could have done to save him.’

The ever-sympathetic Thomas placed a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Just tell the coroner what you know,’ he advised.

‘I told your clerk the little I know yesterday,’ he snivelled. ‘Basil was afraid for his life, in case the people he heard plotting decided to silence him.’

‘Yet I’m told you have no idea either who these people were – nor what was said between them to make him so fearful?’ snapped John, already forgetting his attempt at being gentle.

Robin cringed at the coroner’s tone. ‘He said he had no wish to drag me into danger, sir.’

‘And you have no other suspicion as to who these people might be. Were they both men or a couple, for instance?’

The novice shook his head miserably. ‘All he wanted was some advice as to what he should do. He was even talking about running away, back to our village.’

‘And what did you advise him?’

‘He worked in the guest chamber of the palace, so his immediate superior would be the Guest Master, who was one of the Lord Chamberlain’s staff,’ explained Byard. ‘Yet he was concerned only with supplies, so he was directed mainly by the Purveyor. I told him he must confide in either of these – or go to the Keeper of the Palace himself.’