Free Sword of Shame by The Medieval Murderers Page A

they were elsewhere, as they had other business to attend to.
    The door on which Walter Tyrell’s body had been carried was now resting on two small barrels outside the shed and the corpse itself was decorously covered with a grubby blanket. Alongside it stood Sir John de Wolfe, a ferocious scowl on his face, his usual expression for such legal events. He wore a grey tunic down to his calves, clinched by a thick leather belt, which carried a dagger, but no sword. The spring morning was chill, so he had a mottled wolfskin cloak slung over his shoulders.
    After piping his opening chant, Thomas went to sit on a smaller barrel, a board across his knees carrying a parchment roll and pen and ink, on which to record the proceedings. The coroner stepped forward, his fists on his hips, to glare around the assembled jury and the spectators crowded behind them.
    â€˜This is to enquire as to where, when and by what means this man came to his death.’ He waved a hand at the still shape under the sheet.
    â€˜He was identified to me earlier this morning by his brother and his widow as Walter Tyrell, a fuller of East Gate Street. Now the First Finder will step forward!’
    At this command, the older constable Theobald moved to stand before the coroner and doffed his woollen cap, revealing his bald patch. He related how late last night he and Osric had come across the cadaver at the entrance to the alley. ‘We heard footsteps running away and I gave chase, but was too late to catch anyone,’ he said virtuously.
    He went on to say how they had raised the hue and cry, rousing all the householders from the nearby dwellings. Failure to have done this would have resulted in a stiff fine, but the town constables knewtheir business in this respect. Several other witnesses from Waterbeer Street were called, but all they could add was confirmation of what Theobald and Osric had already described. No one had seen the person running away down the alley nor had they seen Tyrell in the street that night.
    De Wolfe then called the widow, who was helped forward by her brother-in-law, a partner in Walter Tyrell’s fulling-mill business. Christina, a handsome blonde much younger than her late husband, wore a grey kirtle as a sign of mourning, but was quite composed and seemed in no need of her escort’s support.
    The coroner softened his manner slightly in deference to her bereaved state. ‘What was your husband doing in the streets that late at night?’
    The woman shrugged. ‘He often went out, either to do business or to meet some friends in a tavern. The New Inn and the Plough were his favourite places. I think he was going to pay some merchant for a consignment of fleeces, but I’m not sure.’
    â€˜Can you think of any reason why someone might have slain your husband?’ John asked bluntly. ‘Did he have any enemies that you were aware of?’
    Christina shook her head. ‘He never spoke much of his business affairs, sir. I can only think that he was set upon by thieves, intent on robbing him.’
    John looked across at Osric. ‘Did he have money upon him when he was found?’
    â€˜No, Crowner, he had no purse nor scrip on his belt.’
    De Wolfe grunted, as at least one motive–robbery–was a possibility, especially if he had much coin upon him to pay a business debt.
    Christina had nothing more to contribute and she stepped back, but John motioned to her brother-in-law to remain and demanded his name.
    â€˜Serlo Tyrell, sir. I was the dead man’s brother–and his partner in the business we run on Exe Island.’
    â€˜Do you know of any enemies he might have had, who might wish him ill?’
    Serlo, a tall man with curly black hair, was at least a decade younger than his dead brother. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Well, only the quarrel he had with that Cornishman of yours, begging your pardon,’ he muttered.
    A murmur ran around the jury