Free Crowner's Quest by Bernard Knight Page B

had loaned her money and paid for help in the tavern, until her own hard work had turned it into a successful business. It was only then that friendship had become passion, but she was well aware that it would never go beyond that: it was unthinkable that a Norman knight would leave his wife – especially a de Revelle – for a mere alehouse-keeper. Nesta also knew that he had other women tucked away around the county, but once again she settled philosophically, if reluctantly, for what she could get and was content to believe that she was his favourite.
    She was silent long enough to make him look down at her and give one of his smiles, which was all the warmer for its rarity. ‘Sweet woman, you know most of the gossip in this city. Are there any new whispers?’
    She pretended to pout at his lack of romance. ‘Crowner John, do you only want me for a spy? Am I of no use any longer to warm your bed – though it always seems to be my bed that you try to wreck in your frenzy?’
    He slid a hand on to her plump thigh, smooth through the green woollen kirtle she wore under a white linen apron. ‘I’ve no time today to warm your bed, more’s the pity, my love. Gwyn will be chasing me before long for this inquest. But I wondered if your sensitive – and very pretty – nose had smelt any intrigues that may have a bearing on this murder. It seems like the work of men who knew what they were about, to make such an attempt to conceal murder as self-destruction.’
    The Welsh woman grew serious. ‘I know nothing remotely to do with dead canons, John. But there has been a strange atmosphere abroad these past few weeks, even for a month or two.’
    ‘What do you mean – strange?’
    ‘All manner of men come in here, from the city and further afield. From Cornwall going east, and from Southampton and London going west, as well as shipmen from Normandy and Brittany. I listen to all their chatter – many a contract is made in here and not a few dark plots, I’m sure.’
    ‘What are you trying to say, woman?’
    ‘Lately, there have been more furtive conversations, ones that break off when you pass their table. And more among the soldiering class, knights, squires and a few mercenaries, who would sell the use of their sword for a couple of marks.’
    ‘How can you tell, if you can’t hear what they say?’ he objected.
    Nesta turned up her hands in supplication. ‘Just a woman’s instinct – or maybe an inn-keeper’s instinct. This doesn’t affect the merchants and workmen but a higher class of customer, especially those who have a sword clanking under the table. Even old Edwin has noticed it, he says. He’s the nosiest man this side of Windsor and he tries to eavesdrop on people’s talk, but he has been warned off more than once.’
    ‘By whom, for instance?’ persisted the coroner.
    ‘There are some mercenaries, out-of-work squires, who sometimes pass through. They go to Plymouth or the eastern ports, seeking recruitment for wars in France or even from barons this side of the Channel. One threatened to cut off Edwin’s ears if he persisted in hanging about their table.’
    De Wolfe considered this, his black brows lowered in thought. ‘This is interesting, though for different reasons than our deceased canon,’ he murmured. ‘Keep your ears open, Nesta love, this may be a return of the old trouble that afflicts England.’

CHAPTER THREE
In which Crowner John holds an inquest
    A few minutes later, de Wolfe was back in the cathedral Close, where Gwyn and Thomas waited for him at the front of the dead canon’s house.
    ‘There are too many folk to fit inside so I moved the cadaver out into the backyard,’ explained his officer. ‘I’ve laid him on a bier we borrowed from the cathedral porch.’
    They walked through the house and out at the kitchen door. Gwyn had taken a chair from the hall and set it against the wooden fence. In the centre of the yard was the bier, a stout wooden stretcher with four legs