Crowner's Quest by Bernard Knight Read Free Book Online

scorn with which the two big fighting men treated the stunted clerk, the arrangement worked well and Thomas’s undoubted skill with a pen was reinforced by his value as a seeker-out of information. He was incurably inquisitive and had a knack of worming information from people and sifting gossip, which the coroner had found invaluable in the tightly knit communities of Devonshire.
    Now, however, as Thomas tried to recall any recent rumours that might in any way be connected to the murder of the canon, nothing came to mind. ‘The only hints of intrigue I’ve heard in the Close concern outside matters – and they were political, rather than ecclesiastical,’ he said thoughtfully, tapping his chin with the end of the feathered quill.
    Gwyn, who was lifting a stone jar of cider on to the sill, was scornful of the clerk’s efforts to be useful. ‘We’ve got a dead canon to deal with, so what’s politics got to do with it?’
    ‘Let’s hear about it, anyway,’ countered de Wolfe. ‘We’ve nothing else to follow up.’
    Thomas made a rude face at the Cornishman before continuing. ‘It’s only a glimmer of a rumour, really, but I overheard it several times from different people. They were guarded and spoke in a roundabout way, but I had the impression that some of the barons and, indeed, some prominent churchmen are chafing at the way the King seems to have abandoned England for Normandy and left William Longchamp as Chancellor and Hubert Walter as Chief Justiciar.’
    De Wolfe was indignant. ‘King Richard would never abandon his country, for Christ’s sake! He has to fight that yellow-bellied Philip of France to keep Normandy intact, after John – that fool he has for a brother – tried to give it away when he was imprisoned in Germany.’ The coroner was almost obsessively loyal to Richard, after serving him so closely at the Crusade: he took any criticism of his monarch as a personal affront.
    Thomas was immediately on the defensive. ‘I’m only repeating the gossip, Crowner. Everyone hates Longchamp and though Archbishop Walter,’ he paused to cross himself, ‘is not himself unpopular, these crushing taxes he has imposed to support the King’s campaigns certainly are.’
    Gwyn joined in the argument as he reached for the loaf and hunk of cheese that were sitting in a stone niche in the bare wall. ‘People have always grumbled about their rulers and their taxes. It’s only natural.’ He hacked off a culf of bread for each of them with his dagger and chopped the hard cheese into three portions. ‘So what’s this to do with our dead canon?’ he asked, handing round the food.
    ‘Nothing, I suppose. I was only repeating what tittle-tattle is current,’ squeaked Thomas.
    De Wolfe stared suspiciously at his clerk. ‘Is it just idle talk, Thomas? I know you, and your crafty mind wouldn’t have brought this up unless you knew something more.’
    The scribe wriggled on his stool. ‘Not so much what is said, Crowner, as the way some people around the cathedral are talking. They look over their shoulders and lower their voices – or change the subject if they sense me eavesdropping.’
    ‘That’s no wonder, everyone knows what a nosy little turd you are!’ growled the Cornishman, pouring rough cider from a stone jar into three mugs set on the table.
    Thomas made a vulgar gesture at him with two fingers, borrowed from the archers who had escaped having their bowstring digits chopped off by their enemies. ‘More than that, Sir John, I overheard, at a small feast for St Justinian the other day, two vicars-choral who had their heads together over the wine. It seems one had heard the cathedral Precentor, Thomas de Boterellis, talking to another canon after Chapter. They were discussing some imminent meeting with the Count of Mortaigne, at which Bishop Marshal was to be present. They broke off when they saw they were being overheard.’
    The coroner chewed this over in his head. Prince John was the Count of