The Tinner's Corpse (24 page)

Matthew knew nothing of him and Joan remained silent, but then a voice from the doorway said, ‘I beg your leave, Crowner, but I heard something yesterday.’

It was Harold, who was lurking within earshot, like most veteran servants. ‘A man in the Crown Inn, when I was there, said he had heard that Aethelfrith had been seen up on Scorhill Down a few days ago.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘On the edge of the high moor, only a couple of miles from here, above the North Teign stream,’ offered Matthew, who had been raised in Chagford and knew it as well as his brother.

‘It seems he was trying to smash the furnace in a small blowing-house, but a couple of tinners arrived and he ran away,’ finished Harold.

‘Was it one of ours?’ demanded Matthew, and de Wolfe noted the possessiveness in his tone.

‘No, it belonged to Acland,’ said the steward, with a trace of satisfaction in his voice. His eyes slid to the mistress of the house.

Joan caught the glance and her smooth cheeks reddened, but she took her revenge on the old servant. ‘You may leave us now, Harold. These are private matters. Go and see that some late supper is set out for our guests.’

The Saxon scowled as he turned to leave, all too conscious that a new regime held sway, now that the master he had served for so long had been replaced by this enigmatic beauty.

De Wolfe spent a few more minutes in fruitlessly seeking more information, trying to discover if Knapman had had any specific enemies, but neither Matthew nor Joan could – or would – offer any suggestion. He changed his approach. ‘Did he own the entire business or were you a partner?’ he asked Matthew.

‘We were not exactly partners but were both wholly involved in the tin trade. When we were young we learned the business the hard way, working as ordinary tinners for our father. Then we became overmen. Eventually Walter and I shared in the profits, rather than getting a wage. When our father died about ten years ago, he left his half-dozen tin workings to Walter, but bequeathed me money to set up in Exeter as the outlet for Walter’s production. I dealt with the buyers, in England and abroad, and arranged transport and shipment, taking a share of the sale price for my efforts. It worked well and we were both happy with the arrangement. I handled some tin for others as well, but all Walter’s output goes through my warehouse.’

‘What will happen now that he’s dead?’ asked the coroner.

Matthew Knapman looked anxiously across at his sister-in-law. ‘I don’t know. We’ll just have to carry on as we were until something is settled. His stepson Peter Jordan will have to come up here for now and do his best to organise the stream-work gangs and the smelting. I must handle the Exeter end. Peter knows enough about tinning to keep the business afloat, while the overmen can handle the streaming teams and keep the tin coming.’

‘So who will inherit the business?

Matthew turned up his hands in a gesture of dismayed resignation. ‘God knows! Walter was in the prime of life and the best of health. We had made no plans for his sudden departure. I think that, long ago, he went to the lawyer to make a will, and if that’s true, it all depends on what’s in it.’

The serene widow, who had been listening silently to this exchange, decided it was time that she put her stamp of authority on the discussion. ‘Nothing can be settled until I visit Walter’s lawyer in Exeter. He told me some time ago that Robert Courteman handled his affairs, but I have no knowledge of what arrangements he made. We never discussed business matters. Now I have no choice but to seek out this man.’

De Wolfe noticed that she emphasised the ‘I’, subtly but effectively separating her own interests from those of the rest of the family.

Matthew must have noticed it too, for he tried to stake his own claim. ‘Indeed, we must clear these matters up as quickly as possible. Many men’s livelihoods depend upon the Knapman tin-workings.’ He shot another worried look at Joan, who was staring impassively once more at the planks of the oaken table.

De Wolfe wondered if anything could stir her emotions but, from his wide experience of women, decided that anyone who could crack that virgin-like veneer would find seething passion beneath. From the way she was behaving, he doubted that Walter Knapman had ever penetrated the shell that seemed to cocoon his lovely wife.

Her brother spoke for the first time. ‘Whatever a will says, it’s obvious that the bulk of his wealth should go to his wife. If the testament says otherwise, we’ll contest it – in the courts if need be!’

This time, John noticed the ‘we’, and again marvelled at how previously unknown relatives appeared out of the woodwork when there was so much as a whisper about inheritance.

Soon de Wolfe had run out of questions, especially since he had heard virtually no answers of any consequence. Taking his leave, he left the family to await the arrival of the corpse and strode out of the house.

Harold pattered after him, and as de Wolfe took Odin’s reins from a stable-boy, the steward came up close and glanced furtively over his shoulder towards the house. ‘Crowner, maybe it’s not my place to speak out of turn, but I fear that old Aethelfrith will get blamed for this as a scapegoat, whether he was involved or not. Crazy as he is, he’s a fellow Saxon and I can’t stand by to see him hanged by default.’

De Wolfe’s bushy brows came together in puzzlement. What was the man trying to say? ‘Well, what about it?’ he prompted brusquely.

With another backward glance at the closed shutters, Harold came so close that John could smell the onions on his breath. ‘The first person to call when it was known that the master was missing was Stephen Acland – he was even here when Matthew brought the news of his death.’ He paused, as if undecided whether to go the final yard. ‘At the last inquest, you saw the hate between Acland and my master over the tin-works. Well, it was not only streaming that Acland wanted to wrest from him but something more personal. I’m sure you’ll know what I mean, Crowner.’

With that, his nerve failed him and he dodged back to the house, bent almost double as if he was afraid of being seen.

De Wolfe put his foot in a stirrup and hoisted himself aboard Odin’s broad back. As he walked the horse away, his long face bore a frown of deep concentration as he digested Harold’s insinuations.

De Wolfe jogged up past Chagford’s church and along the fronts of several taverns to the small square, which was a hive of activity. Apart from the usual stalls and booths around the edge, a large temporary shelter was being erected in the centre, ready for the coinage ceremony, which was due to start the next day. A series of poles was being hammered into the packed earth, to support a flimsy roof of tightly woven reed panels to keep off the rain, should it sweep in from the moor.

The coinage would bring a great increase in trade apart from tin to Chagford: chapmen, hawkers, whores and other opportunists would arrive to take advantage of the hundreds of tinners who swelled the population for a couple of days, usually four times a year. The other Stannary towns of Tavistock and Ashburton experienced a similar periodic boom. Their coinage ceremonies took place at other times so that tinners who missed one occasion could travel further afield for their bars to be stamped and taxed.

However, de Wolfe had other things on his mind than coinage, and walked Odin sedately across the top of the square to reach the road that forked right then went downhill towards the small wooden bridge over the Teign, almost half a mile further on. He had asked directions near the square, and a few minutes later had left the straggle of houses and was passing between strip-fields and some common pasture leading into the river valley. The land all around was a random maze of hills and dells, deeply cut by streams. It was glowing with the pale green of spring, though in the distance the menacing grey-brown of the high moor was always visible.

A few hundred yards before the bridge, the track forked again and in the angle stood a long-house, with a substantial piece of land occupying much of the triangle between the two roads. Two cow byres and a couple of outhouses lay beyond the main building, which was of limewashed cob with a well-thatched roof. Long and low, there was a door and shuttered windows towards one end, indicating the living quarters, while the other half was for animals, with a large barn door in the pine end. A vegetable garden surrounded the house, and beyond a fence there was a paddock with some sheep, new lambs and a pen for swine. Though not on the same grand scale as the Knapman household, this looked a comfortable, prosperous dwelling.

There was a drystone wall around the land, with a loose hurdle acting as a gate across a gap in front of the house. John slid down from Odin and tied the stallion to a nearby sapling. He pulled aside the hurdle, and as he walked towards the door he heard voices at the back. Going round the stable end of the long-house, he saw three men sitting on a rough bench fashioned from a tree-trunk, each with a quart pot in his hand. They rose abruptly at his appearance and stood scowling at him suspiciously, until one recognised him. ‘Surely you’re the crowner, sir.’

De Wolfe walked along the back wall of the house towards them. ‘And you’re Stephen Acland – I saw you at my inquest and again at Crockern Tor last week.’

The powerful-looking man waved him to a place on the bench, and the other two, their suspicions allayed, waited until he was seated, then resumed their own places on the rough-hewn log.

Acland poured cider from a large crock into a spare mug and handed it to de Wolfe. ‘No need to ask why you’re here, Crowner. We were just chewing over the tragedy ourselves. These are are two of my overmen, upon whom I rely as much as I do on breathing and eating.’

The tough-looking pair nodded a greeting to the law officer, but said nothing.

‘You knew of the death very quickly,’ observed de Wolfe.

‘I happened to be in Knapman’s house last night when his brother arrived with the evil tidings. I was there to enquire whether anything had been heard of him since he vanished. By misfortune, I was there to hear the worst possible news.’

De Wolfe stared at Acland with disconcerting frankness. ‘You were very solicitous for his welfare, considering that the antagonism between you was common knowledge.’

Acland smiled thinly. ‘In times of peril and distress, neighbours in a small town like Chagford – especially fellow tinners – forget their rivalries and draw together for support, Crowner.’

‘It was just disputes over the tinning, then, nothing else?’ de Wolfe asked provocatively.

Acland refused to be drawn. ‘Of course! What else could it have been?’ he snapped, in a voice that was part-innocent, part-annoyed.

‘It is rumoured that you have a more than passing friendship with Mistress Knapman,’ de Wolfe said gently, only too conscious of his own problems where women were concerned.

‘This damned town thrives on rumour, Crowner! It’s true I have a great regard for Joan Knapman, more than her husband showed. She was lonely. Walter only married her to possess a beautiful ornament, to show off his wealth. I was sorry for her, stuck in that big house with only her feckless mother for company.’

John made no comment, but stored up the information for future use. ‘So have you any notion of who might have killed Knapman?’ he asked, using his well-tried method of shaking the tree to see what fruit might fall out.

Acland’s large face twisted into a wry smile. ‘Plenty of choice. He made many enemies while climbing to the top of the tinner’s tree.’

‘Any particular ones?’

‘Me for one, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling here, Crowner! The gossip has sent you to me quickly, I know that only too well. Yes, I had cause to detest the man. He was too greedy, he wanted the whole of Dartmoor tin for himself – you must have seen how he acted at the Great Court last week. But I’d not kill him for it.’ He considered his words for a moment. ‘This affair of the Lord Warden, it was Knapman who started the campaign against Richard de Revelle, and not just to get rid of the sheriff – though he should be ejected. It was a means to promote himself as Warden. Maybe you should put de Revelle on your list of suspects. He’s not taking kindly to any challenge to his authority in the Stannaries.’

De Wolfe again took the bull by the horns, ignoring the scowls of the other tinners. ‘Where were you all day on Monday?’

Acland shrugged. ‘Out and about, as always. I’d be riding around my workings at this very moment if it hadn’t been for this news of Knapman’s death.’

‘Where are these workings?’

‘Mostly around Chagford and this area of the moor. I’ve not the great number of streamings that Knapman possessed, just half a dozen. That’s why I offered to buy some of his boundings from him.’

‘Can you be more exact as to where you rode on Monday? And were you alone or can someone vouch for you?’

One of the other men, a rough-faced fellow with a marked bend in his nose, came to his master’s aid. ‘If Stephen killed Knapman, which would have been a kindness, he’s hardly likely to tell you that he was riding near Dunsford, would he? And, anyway, I can swear for him, I was with him from dawn till dusk on that day.’

De Wolfe had the impression that, if required, the man would have sworn that he had been with Acland anywhere between Cathay and Iceland. Seeing that he was getting nowhere with this line of questioning, the coroner turned the conversation into other channels. ‘What will happen now about the Wardenship, with Walter gone?’

‘The sheriff will carry on as before, no doubt, screwing as much profit out of the office as possible,’ sneered Bentnose.

‘He’ll not be challenged this year,’ admitted Acland sourly. ‘I’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to carry on where Knapman left it – but the system must change. We are going to petition the Chief Justiciar for a review of the Stannaries. Both Geoffrey Fitz-Peters and William de Wrotham know that de Revelle is crooked, so they will support a plea for a commission of enquiry.’

De Wolfe nodded approvingly. ‘I know the Justiciar well, so if you need more support I am willing to help. Though, knowing the speed at which the Curia Regis works, don’t expect anything to happen inside a couple of years.’ With the King permanently in France, Hubert Walter, the Chief Justiciar and Archbishop of Canterbury, was virtually the regent of England and had so much to attend to that the Devon tinners would not be high on his list of priorities, unless the supply of the precious metal stopped flowing.