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head has gone missing altogether?’
    ‘Vanished like magic. If I wasn’t a sensible, God-fearing fellow, I’d be tempted to think of witchcraft here.’
    They talked for a few more minutes, but it was obvious that the bailiff had no idea as to the motive for, or the perpetrator of, this gruesome crime. De Wolfe left him to get some more ale from the castle steward, with orders to be at the West Gate before Vespers tolled that afternoon. It was too late for an excursion down to the Bush Inn, so he went back to his chamber to wait until it was time to collect the sheriff. As he climbed the stairs in the gatehouse, he heard yelling from above, the deep bass voice of Gwyn roaring in counterpoint to a terrified squealing from another. As he pushed through the hessian screen, he saw his Cornish bodyguard holding a small figure upside down by the ankles, shaking him like a rag doll.
    ‘Holy Mother of God, what’s going on?’ yelled de Wolfe. ‘Put him down!’
    Gwyn stopped and grinned sheepishly at the coroner. ‘Little bastard knocked over my drinking jar – spilled the lot!’ he explained.
    John motioned abruptly with his hand, and his officer reluctantly lowered his victim to the floor. The little man hauled himself indignantly to his feet and began to brush down his threadbare tunic, a long black garment of vaguely clerical appearance. ‘It was an accident. My writing bag caught the pot. You shouldn’t have left it on the edge of the window-sill!’ he protested, in a tremulous high-pitched squeak.
    De Wolfe held up his hands in exasperation. ‘Just forget it and be quiet. You two should be court fools in caps and bells, not responsible servants of the law.’
    His two assistants were always squabbling – it was mainly Gwyn’s fault, as the big man could never resist teasing their little clerk, who unfailingly rose to the bait. Thomas de Peyne was an unfrocked priest, employed by de Wolfe after having been ejected from his post at Winchester, accused of molesting one of the girls he was teaching at the cathedral school. He was a small wraith of a man, lame in one leg and with a slight hunchback, due to suffering from phthisis as a child. His thin, almost chinless face was sallow and adorned with a large pointed nose. The lank brown hair still sported a shaved tonsure on the crown, though he had been stripped of Holy Orders more than two years earlier. Thomas desperately craved a return to the priestly life and did all he could to pretend that he was still one of the brethren. Like his master, he wore black or grey clothes and even lodged in a canon’s house in the cathedral Close, where he had managed to scrounge himself a mattress in a corner of the servants’ quarters.
    For all his dubious history and his unprepossessing appearance, Thomas was a highly intelligent and well-educated young man, with a gift for reading and writing. As well as his proficiency in recording all the coroner’s business on parchment rolls, he had proved himself invaluable as a spy. His indefatigable curiosity made him an excellent gatherer of gossip, especially among the large ecclesiastical population of Exeter, while Gwyn ferreted out rumours in the city inns and alehouses.
    As Gwyn went back to sit on his favourite window-ledge with a refilled jar of cider, Thomas’s ruffled dignity was restored and he groped in the shabby cloth bag that hung from his shoulder. He pulled out three rolls and laid them on the table in front of John de Wolfe. ‘These are the last three inquest transcripts, Crowner. I have two more to do – the ink ran out, but I have more now so I’ll finish them later today.’
    De Wolfe reached for them. ‘We’ll be riding out again this afternoon, Thomas, so get your bottom in shape for that winded nag you call a horse.’
    The clerk groaned at the prospect. He was no horseman and sat side-saddle like a woman on his old pony, to the constant derision of the Cornishman. ‘How far this time, Crowner? Not the