The Poisoned Chalice, page 30
part #2 of Crowner John Mystery Series
As he left, Thomas de Peyne jogged up on his pony and joined the band on the quayside, in time to hear Gwyn grumbling, ‘It’s useless. He’ll never get the master to heave to, even if he were to get within earshot.’
Ferrars, as eager as the sheriff to get Eric Picot in his clutches, tried to be optimistic. ‘The river mouth is very narrow, the channel between Dawlish Warren and the Exmouth side can be no more than a few hundred paces wide.’
A great sand bar, most of it overgrown with grass and scrub, stretched far out from the western lip of the river mouth, leaving the Exe to squeeze its way against the opposite bank through a narrow passage.
Gwyn was unimpressed. ‘Even if the constable can attract their attention, he’ll never be heard across the water in this wind. And anyway, maybe the master wouldn’t want to heave to. It would be very dangerous over the bar on an ebb tide, in this rising gale.’
‘Especially if he’s being paid a handsome sum to keep going,’ added the coroner, cynically.
For lack of anything else to do, the band of mounted men moved to the further end of the quay and grouped together in the lee of the warehouse, where there was some shelter from the merciless wind and the increasing flurries of sleet. From here they could see the white sail of Saint Non as she was driven down the estuary, now fully three miles away. Although, as Gwyn had pointed out, she was a short, stumpy cargo vessel with a single mast, she was indeed fairly ripping through the water, bow-down from the pressure of the high wind against her sails.
Reginald de Courcy sat his horse and watched the diminishing vessel with mixed feelings. ‘Much as I should regret the escape of a cunning felon, I have to say that I must give him some thanks for ridding the world of that evil bastard who caused the death of my daughter,’ he said, half to himself.
Alongside him, Hugh Ferrars, sober for once, muttered a grudging agreement. ‘Maybe he did us a service, though I would liked to have run Fitzosbern through in combat, after the swine was brought to justice.’
As they sat staring downstream, the sky darkening perceptibly as the huge black cloud-bank moved menacingly further south, a new voice was heard coming towards them.
From across the track to the village street came a tall figure, the bottom of his hooded cloak whipping around his legs in the wind as he walked across to them from his house. It was Joseph of Topsham, who had just been told of their arrival. ‘In the name of the Holy Mother, what’s going on?’ he cried, as he went to the coroner’s stirrup.
John explained what had happened, and that they had been trying to arrest Eric Picot, Joseph’s friend and partner. The coroner had a fleeting suspicion that the old merchant might have been a party to the crime, but dismissed it rapidly, knowing of Joseph’s piety and straight-dealing.
The old trader was ashen-faced with shock and disbelief. He grasped the edge of John’s saddle and hung on to support himself, almost in tears. ‘I can’t believe it! He came this morning, he had arranged days ago to take passage on my Saint Non, leaving on this tide. He said he wanted to take Mabel over to meet his family at his vineyard in the Loire – his sister was coming to chaperone them.’
John looked down-river again and at the distant white blur that was the vessel. ‘It looks as if he’s had his wish, Joseph.’
They waited another half-hour until the sails of the Saint Non were only occasionally visible between the squalls of sleet and rain that hurtled down the Exe valley with increasing fury.
‘No chance at all of Ralph Morin getting anywhere within hailing distance of her now,’ declared Gwyn, with some self-satisfaction at having his nautical prophesies vindicated.
John stared into the distance until his eyes hurt, his hawk-like head poked forward under his hood as if to gain even a few inches on the fleeing ship. ‘I wish I had some magic device for looking through to see things nearer,’ he fantasised. ‘Then I could see Picot’s face over the stern of that boat to see if he is regretful, or triumphant at giving us the slip.’ He sighed and swung Bran around to follow the others as they thrust their way through the gale back to Exeter, the wind stinging their eyes until their noses ran.
That night, the worst storm for forty years swept Normandy and the West Country, tearing off a thousand roofs and bringing down the tower of St Clement’s church in Exeter.
Next day, both shores of the Channel were littered with the planks of wrecked ships and the corpses of their mariners.
Footnotes
Chapter One: In which Crowner John attends a shipwreck
1 Now called Kent’s Cavern.
Chapter Five: In which Crowner John holds an inquest at Torbay
1 Gwent
Chapter Six: In which Crowner John disputes with the sheriff
1 Now Preston Street.
Chapter Eight: In which Crowner John again meets Dame Madge
1 Now Gandy Lane
Chapter Thirteen: In which Crowner John meets the Chief Justiciar
1 Yet one of the provisions of Magna Carta, more than a decade later, was that sheriffs and coroners should not try Pleas of the Crown.
Bernard Knight, The Poisoned Chalice
