The Tinner's Corpse by Bernard Knight

Wolfe gargled again and waved Edwin away. But the decrepit potman hovered as de Wolfe put the mug to his lips. He looked furtively over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps not for me to say, Crowner,’ he hissed, in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but if I was you, I’d tread careful with the missus. She’s been in a funny mood these past days. I think she may have it in for you a bit.’ His blind eye rolled repulsively as he tapped the side of his nose with a dirty forefinger then moved away, leaving de Wolfe more uneasy than ever.
    He sat holding his pot and staring into the leaping flames of the log fire, his ears jarred by more shrieks of laughter from one of the whores in the corner. One of the tipsy woolmen had slid a hand down her bodice.
    Though he had seen little of Nesta these past few weeks, he had been in here last Sunday for a short while. However, Matilda’s insistence that he go with her for one of his infrequent visits to church had prevented him having a session with the landlady up in the loft. She had said nothing about employing anyone then, though he recollected now that she had been less talkative than usual.
    Edwin’s claim that business had become more onerous was doubtful: the Bush was certainly the most popular inn in the city, but it had been for many months, so he failed to see why Nesta should find the need suddenly for another helper, in addition to the potman, cook and two serving maids. Until a couple of years ago, her husband had run the tavern. He had been a good friend of John’s, a Welsh archer who had shared several campaigns with him. When his fighting days had ended, he had taken on the Bush, but within a year he was dead of a fever and John had helped Nesta finance the inn to keep it going.
    Before long their business interests had ripened into mutual attraction, then passion, and though de Wolfe could not resist female temptation elsewhere, Nesta was his favourite, almost to the exclusion of all others. She was certainly in love with him and, flinty-natured though he was, he had grudgingly to admit that he was extraordinarily fond of her in return.
    So what
was
this about a younger man on the premises? He looked covertly over his shoulder to the back of the room where Edwin had his barrels wedged up along a plank over leather drip buckets. Alongside them was the door to the backyard, over which the wide ladder ascended to the loft. As he peered through the smoke haze, he saw Nesta bustle in to be stopped by the crippled potman, who whispered in her ear and waved towards the hearth. The landlady’s head came up and her eyes met John’s across the room. He fancied he saw a slight tightening of her lips instead of her usual welcoming smile, and a tingle of apprehension caught at his throat. When facing a Saracen horde or a lance pointing at him on the tourney-field, John de Wolfe would hardly turn a hair, but the prospect of an angry or vindictive woman made him quail.
    Nesta threaded her way across the room between stools and tables, her face devoid of expression. She dropped down on to the bench beside him, but instead of the usual pressure of her shoulder and thigh, a small but significant space remained between them. ‘You’ve come to see me at last, then?’
    Unbidden, the cautionary words of some past comrade sprang into his head: ‘When your mistress begins to sound like your wife, it’s time to leave.’
    ‘God’s bones, woman, I’ve been so overwhelmed by duties these past few weeks, I’ve hardly had time to spit.’ He put an arm affectionately around her shoulders, and softened his tone. ‘Things will be easier now, though. A new coroner has been appointed for the north. He’s a fool, but it should lighten my load.’
    Nesta still sat rigidly, but her face mellowed a little, into a doubtful pout. ‘I thought you had forsaken me, damn you! Twice I have seen you in three weeks – and neither occasion saw us abed together.’
    ‘You know how long I was up in Barnstaple and