Free Figure of Hate by Bernard Knight Page B

become of us, with no one to serve?'
    Though undoubtedly regretting the violent demise of his master, looming unemployment seemed his main concern.
    John, though not lacking in sympathy, had more urgent matters in mind. 'Who was this customer he was to visit in Topsham?'
    The smith gave him a name, but had no address, though this was of little consequence in such a small town as Exeter's seaport.
    Within the hour, the coroner and his two henchmen had gone back to the city to fetch their horses and were on their way down the river road to seek news from the purchaser of Scrope's silverware. Even slowed down by their clerk's awkward riding - for Thomas had reverted to his side saddle in spite of Gwyn's efforts to get him to sit on his steed like a man - they covered the six miles well before mid-morning. The busy quayside was at the end of the single street that straggled past the new church, and here John reined in to sit on his horse Odin, looking at the boats while Gwyn went off to seek William le Bas, the shipman.
    The tide was now out, and he looked across an expanse of mud to the flat marshes on the other side of the river, which widened out into the estuary on his left. In the distance, low hills marched down towards Dawlish on the coast, and for a moment his mind strayed to the woman who lived there, the delectable Hilda, the passion of his younger years and, until recently, still his occasional lover. He wondered idly whether her much older husband, Thorgils the Boatman, was away on a voyage at the moment. Then the image of Nesta floated into his head, and with an almost guilty sigh for days gone by he pulled Odin's great head around and waited for Gwyn to come lumbering back to where Thomas was holding the reins of both their horses.
    'We've had a wasted journey, Crowner,' called the Cornishman, as he came up to his mare. 'I chanced upon the man himself, outside his dwelling. He says he's seen neither hide nor hair of the silversmith and is wondering what's happened to his wife's gift.' De Wolfe cursed under his breath as Gwyn and Thomas hoisted themselves back up on to their steeds. It now seemed obvious that August Scrope had been waylaid on his way down from Exeter and had never reached Topsham. There was nothing to do but return to the city, so he walked Odin across to join the others.
    'What about this servant of his, what can have happened to him?' asked Gwyn, as they weaved between carts and heavily laden porters in the busy main street.
    'God knows! Probably his body lies rotting in the woods alongside the road - unless they threw him into the river along with his master,' replied de Wolfe angrily. He was frustrated by the lack of progress concerning this death, as well as the time wasted in a futile ride to Topsham.
    After a couple of miles, Gwyn's habitual need for food and drink began to plague him and he bemoaned the lack of an alehouse on this stretch of road. John also felt that he could do with a jug of ale.
    'The priory will oblige us, I'm sure,' squeaked Thomas, always eager for the chance to visit any religious establishment. They were just coming up to a side lane which led down to the river where St James' Priory was situated. It was a small Cluniac house, a cell of the Abbey of St Martin in Paris, with only four brothers under a prior. John had had dealings with them before, on one occasion when a sturgeon had been caught near by. As a 'royal fish', along with beached whales, it belonged to the Crown, and as such became the subject of a coroner's inquest to determine its value.
    There were no fish today, but as a mild excuse to seek refreshment, de Wolfe thought they might ask the brothers there whether they had heard of any robbery or assault on the Topsham road. As they turned down the lane that dropped off the low escarpment down to the riverside, he sent Thomas ahead, knowing that he would relish the chance to bob his knee and cross himself in the little chapel.
    For once, the little man