helpfully.
De Wolfe glanced at Gwyn and his henchman nodded. Then Gwyn placed one of his massive hands on the middle of the dead man's chest and pressed hard. There was a gurgling hiss as the miller gave his last breath and a plume of pinkish froth issued from his nostrils and some watery fluid leaked out between his clenched teeth.
The coroner nodded in satisfaction. 'Drowned right enough! Let's make sure he's got no injuries. No reason why a wounded man can't drown as well.'
Gwyn pulled off the man's belt and then struggled to pull up his tunic to the armpits. Then they pulled down his hose, two separate legs of brown wool held up to his waistband by laces. There were no cuts or bruises anywhere. Satisfied, John motioned to Gwyn to replace the clothing.
Standing up, he turned to Adam Lida. 'There seems to be no problem here, bailiff. I will hold a short inquest straight away and get it over with.'
The proceedings took a very few minutes. The man who had found the body was called, then the reeve to say that he had seen Alfred Miller drunk on the night he had died. No one else had anything to add, so de Wolfe caused the jury to parade past the corpse and view the 'washerwoman's skin' on the hands.
When they lined up again, the coroner addressed them in tones that brooked no dissent. 'You know better than I that this poor fellow was too fond of his ale and that when last seen he was in a drunken state. There are no injuries upon the body, and he has clearly drowned.' He glared around the stoical faces. 'I doubt that you will be able to come to anything but the conclusion that Alfred Miller fell into his own millpond. It seems unlikely that he went into the stream above the wheel, as he has no scratches or bruises from being dragged under the paddles, common though that is in other cases.'
John jabbed a finger at the reeve, who stood in the middle of the jury, and abruptly appointed him foreman. 'Decide a verdict amongst yourselves now.' He almost added, 'And be quick about it!', but it was not necessary, as after a hurried muttering and nodding of heads the reeve announced that they were satisfied that it was an accidental drowning.
The family came to claim the body for burial, the priest delivered his scrap of parchment with the few names written upon it, and within minutes John and Gwyn were astride their horses and trotting southwards out of the village.
Four miles beyond Kenton, they came into Dawlish, where the coast rose from the flat estuary of the Exe into the undulating cliffs that stretched down to the River Teign and onwards to Torbay. Dawlish was a large village that depended mainly on fishing, but a few small merchant vessels were based there, beaching in the mouth of Dawlish Water, a stream that issued from the hills behind. Three of these cogs had belonged to Hilda's husband, Thorgils the Boatman, but he had been savagely murdered with all his crew a few months earlier. Hilda was the daughter of the manor-reeve of Holcombe, a couple of miles further down the coast - and Holcombe was the other manor owned by the de Wolfe family, in addition to Stoke-in-Teignhead. Though Hilda was more than half a decade younger than John's forty-one years, they had known each other since their youth - and by her teens they had been lovers, which had continued intermittently until he went off to the French wars and then the Crusade. Given the social gulf between the son of a manor-lord and the daughter of his Saxon reeve, Hilda had no prospect of becoming his wife, so she had married Thorgils, a widower more than twenty years older. Thorgils had become rich and had built himself a fine new stone house in the village. Though it was hardly a love match, he was amiable and kind to her, and when he died she was genuinely grieved. Until the last year or so, John had sometimes visited Hilda when her husband was away at sea, but his increasing devotion to Nesta had brought that to an end.
Ostensibly, John was coming to Dawlish
De Wolfe glanced at Gwyn and his henchman nodded. Then Gwyn placed one of his massive hands on the middle of the dead man's chest and pressed hard. There was a gurgling hiss as the miller gave his last breath and a plume of pinkish froth issued from his nostrils and some watery fluid leaked out between his clenched teeth.
The coroner nodded in satisfaction. 'Drowned right enough! Let's make sure he's got no injuries. No reason why a wounded man can't drown as well.'
Gwyn pulled off the man's belt and then struggled to pull up his tunic to the armpits. Then they pulled down his hose, two separate legs of brown wool held up to his waistband by laces. There were no cuts or bruises anywhere. Satisfied, John motioned to Gwyn to replace the clothing.
Standing up, he turned to Adam Lida. 'There seems to be no problem here, bailiff. I will hold a short inquest straight away and get it over with.'
The proceedings took a very few minutes. The man who had found the body was called, then the reeve to say that he had seen Alfred Miller drunk on the night he had died. No one else had anything to add, so de Wolfe caused the jury to parade past the corpse and view the 'washerwoman's skin' on the hands.
When they lined up again, the coroner addressed them in tones that brooked no dissent. 'You know better than I that this poor fellow was too fond of his ale and that when last seen he was in a drunken state. There are no injuries upon the body, and he has clearly drowned.' He glared around the stoical faces. 'I doubt that you will be able to come to anything but the conclusion that Alfred Miller fell into his own millpond. It seems unlikely that he went into the stream above the wheel, as he has no scratches or bruises from being dragged under the paddles, common though that is in other cases.'
John jabbed a finger at the reeve, who stood in the middle of the jury, and abruptly appointed him foreman. 'Decide a verdict amongst yourselves now.' He almost added, 'And be quick about it!', but it was not necessary, as after a hurried muttering and nodding of heads the reeve announced that they were satisfied that it was an accidental drowning.
The family came to claim the body for burial, the priest delivered his scrap of parchment with the few names written upon it, and within minutes John and Gwyn were astride their horses and trotting southwards out of the village.
Four miles beyond Kenton, they came into Dawlish, where the coast rose from the flat estuary of the Exe into the undulating cliffs that stretched down to the River Teign and onwards to Torbay. Dawlish was a large village that depended mainly on fishing, but a few small merchant vessels were based there, beaching in the mouth of Dawlish Water, a stream that issued from the hills behind. Three of these cogs had belonged to Hilda's husband, Thorgils the Boatman, but he had been savagely murdered with all his crew a few months earlier. Hilda was the daughter of the manor-reeve of Holcombe, a couple of miles further down the coast - and Holcombe was the other manor owned by the de Wolfe family, in addition to Stoke-in-Teignhead. Though Hilda was more than half a decade younger than John's forty-one years, they had known each other since their youth - and by her teens they had been lovers, which had continued intermittently until he went off to the French wars and then the Crusade. Given the social gulf between the son of a manor-lord and the daughter of his Saxon reeve, Hilda had no prospect of becoming his wife, so she had married Thorgils, a widower more than twenty years older. Thorgils had become rich and had built himself a fine new stone house in the village. Though it was hardly a love match, he was amiable and kind to her, and when he died she was genuinely grieved. Until the last year or so, John had sometimes visited Hilda when her husband was away at sea, but his increasing devotion to Nesta had brought that to an end.
Ostensibly, John was coming to Dawlish
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