Free A Plague of Heretics by Bernard Knight

and Thomas huddled over the brazier. The wind had dropped outside, and it was marginally warmer but still miserable.
    ‘A lot to do today,’ he announced cheerfully. ‘We’ve got the Shire Court first, though that should be disposed of quickly. Then there are hangings to attend out on Magdalen Street as well as this murder to pursue.’ As he stood rubbing his hands above the charcoal glowing in the iron bucket, he sensed that Thomas was itching to say something.
    ‘I went down yesterday to attend the burial of those poor souls in Bretayne,’ said the clerk with a return of the slight stutter which afflicted him when he was excited. ‘I saw something curious.’
    John frowned at him. ‘You’re a devil for danger, Thomas!’ he said sternly. ‘First at Lympstone, now here in Exeter. I would be very sad if you took in whatever noxious vapour causes this plague.’
    ‘And I’d be sorrier still if you brought it back to us!’ grumbled Gwyn, thinking of his family.
    The little priest shook his head stubbornly. ‘God will protect me. I was afraid that those people might have been buried without so much as a prayer, let alone a proper shriving.’
    ‘And were they?’ demanded de Wolfe.
    Thomas looked a little abashed. ‘No, as it happens. The old priest from St Bartholomew’s was there, God bless his soul. He was sober enough to say a few words as they threw the bodies into the pit.’
    ‘So what was this that aroused your curiosity?’ asked John.
    The clerk ran a finger over the tip of his sharp nose to remove a dewdrop. ‘For some reason, maybe shortage of cloth in that poverty-ridden place, the bodies were not fully covered. Their heads were sticking out from the rags that passed for shrouds.’
    De Wolfe sighed, for Thomas was catching Gwyn’s habit of spinning out every tale.
    ‘I noticed that four out of the five were as yellow as French lemons, as was to be expected. But the oldest man was still lily-white.’
    The coroner and his officer digested this for a moment.
    ‘And you think that has some meaning?’ asked Gwyn.
    ‘Well, if this was a plague pit for those who perished from the yellow curse, why wasn’t he yellow?’ said Thomas defensively.
    ‘Are you suggesting that he might have died from something else?’ said John.
    The clerk shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘It bears thinking about! It would be a good way to get rid of a murdered corpse, putting it in with plague victims, now that they are no longer coroner’s business.’
    Crafty Thomas knew that this would pique his master, who was jealous of his duty to investigate all suspicious deaths.
    ‘Well, it’s too late to look into it now,’ boomed Gwyn. ‘He’s six feet under a layer of quicklime and soil by now.’
    ‘We could get him dug up again,’ retorted de Wolfe.
    ‘I doubt any labourer would risk shovelling out a plague pit, even for extra wages,’ said Gwyn. ‘Especially on such flimsy evidence as the colour of his face.’
    John had to agree, but he was reluctant to let the issue drop. ‘We must enquire about how he died, but first find out who he was.’
    ‘I already know that, Crowner. I made enquiries on the spot. He was Vincente d’Estcote, from down near the town wall, opposite the Snail Tower. A fellow of fifty-five, an impoverished porter who carried mainly for the fulling mills on Exe Island. He lodged with the family that died and was found dead in the house with them. No one cared about the circumstances; they were too concerned to get them out and buried before the contagion spread.’
    Once again, de Wolfe marvelled at the resourcefulness of his clerk, who was worth far more than the three pence a day he was paid for his work.
    ‘This dreadful killing in Raden Lane must be our first priority, but later we must find out more about the death of this fellow,’ he commanded.
    After attending the single case of declaring outlawry held in the Shire Hall, a bleak barn-like building in the inner ward of the