The Awful Secret by Bernard Knight Read Free Book Online Page A

Barnstaple to report a murdered man on a wrecked ship at Ilfracombe.’
    John whistled through his teeth. ‘A wreck and a killing? Both of those are crowner’s business, Gwyn. Any more details?’
    The big man shook his shaggy red head. ‘The messenger knew little. He had been riding since noon yesterday. The body was found the night before, it seems.’
    The coroner lifted a gloved hand to rub the bridge of his beaked nose, a mannerism he had that seemed to aid thought, much as Gwyn scratched his groin and Thomas crossed himself when agitated. ‘A dead man on a ship means either mutiny or piracy. We must go and discover which.’
    His officer looked concerned. ‘The north coast is a long way on the back of a nag when you have a poorly leg, Crowner. Let me go in your stead.’
    The coroner leaned across and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Not nearly so far as Palestine, man! We’ll set off within the hour and take it easily. We can get to Crediton by nightfall, find a night’s rest there and get an early start to Barnstaple in the morning.’
    The Cornishman still looked doubtful. ‘Your good lady’s not going to like it, you being away for at least three days.’
    But de Wolfe was rejuvenated by the prospect of a return to activity and was in no mood for Matilda’s strictures. ‘To hell with her grumbling, Gwyn! Go and tell that little turd of a clerk to meet us on his pony at the North Gate by the fourth bell.’
    He touched Odin’s flanks with his heels and wheeled him around, heading back for the walls. ‘And bring some food and drink in your saddle pouch. It’s a long ride to Ilfracombe.’

CHAPTER TWO
In which Crowner John inspects a corpse
    All the next day the coroner’s trio rode steadily across the county, following the main track north-west from Copplestone, about thirteen miles from Exeter, where they had spent the night bedded down around the hearth at the small manor house. The weather remained chill but dry, and the going underfoot was good. The winter mud had hardened, but not yet dried into the dusts of summer. The bushes and trees alongside the narrow road were budding into the first signs of spring, and a few primroses and violets lurked in the undergrowth on this tenth day of March.
    Though he would not admit it, by midday de Wolfe’s leg had begun to ache, from jolting incessantly in the stirrup, but he had suffered far worse after two major and countless minor injuries in past campaigns. Even so, he was glad when Gwyn suggested then that the horses needed a rest, some water and half an hour’s grazing. They had been on the road since first light and even at the modest pace set by John’s leg and Thomas’s pathetic riding, they had covered almost twenty miles. Now in the valley of the Taw, they were well over half-way to Barnstaple.
    In a clearing just before the forest gave way to strip-fields near the manor of Chulmleigh, they slid thankfully from their saddles and hobbled the horses, letting them crop the short new grass that was now appearing after winter. A stream nearby offered men and beasts the chance to slake their thirst. Thomas, who rode his moorland pony side-saddle like a woman, staggered about, holding his backside and complaining about long journeys, which he detested.
    ‘Come on, dwarf,’ teased Gwyn, grabbing the clerk by his waist and holding him kicking and yelling in the air. ‘Forget your sore buttocks and get us some bread and cheese from that bag.’
    They were soon seated on a tree-stump, eating heartily and drinking from a leather flask filled with coarse cider. Even if the little ex-priest hated travelling, the coroner and his henchman were glad to be out on the road again: they had shared thousands of leagues over the past two decades, in Ireland, France and the Levant.
    ‘We’ve made better time than I expected,’ growled de Wolfe, between mouthfuls of hard crusts, even flintier cheese. ‘At this rate, we’ll not need to stop on the road tonight. We