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pointed nose and a weak chin all conspired to make him the least attractive of men, which was emphasized even more by his threadbare clothes – a grey tunic under a thin black cloak. Though expelled from the clergy almost two years ago, he still hankered passionately after his old vocation, and those who did not know his history often assumed that he was still a priest. Living in the servants’ quarters of a canon’s house and associating with clergy every day, he kept abreast of all the ecclesiastical gossip, which was often useful to John de Wolfe.
    However, for all his unprepossessing appearance, Thomas possessed an agile and cunning brain, and had a remarkable talent for penmanship. His knowledge of history, politics and the classic writers was remarkable, and though de Wolfe and Gwyn pretended to be contemptuous of his puny physique and timid nature, they were secretly quite fond of the little ex-cleric.
    Thomas came across the hall in his customary tentative manner, his writing materials slung in their usual place over his shoulder. ‘Are you up to date with your rolls?’ demanded his master. The clerk lifted the flap of his bag and produced two palimpsests – parchments that had been reused several times: the old writing was scraped off and the surface rubbed with chalk to make it ready for new ink.
    ‘These are the last two inquests, Crowner. And the names of the last two weeks’ hangings, with a record of their chattels, such as they were.’ He handed the rolls to de Wolfe, who stared at the first few lines of each and silently mouthed the Latin words Thomas had been so laboriously teaching him these past weeks. ‘Will you read them aloud for practice?’ suggested Thomas hesitantly. Sometimes de Wolfe was in no mood for reading practice and today seemed one of those occasions.
    ‘Too damned tired, Thomas! Maybe my wife is right. Riding that horse this morning has taken it out of me.’ In truth, several quarts of ale at the Bush and the wine at his midday meal were more the reason for his torpor. ‘Anything else happening?’ he asked. His clerk was the nosiest man in Exeter and often provided gossip that kept him informed of many of the city’s intrigues.
    Thomas shook his head glumly. He liked nothing better than to feel part of the coroner’s team, and to have no titbit of scandal to pass on made him feel as if he had shirked his duty.
    ‘Have you seen this damned fellow peering after me around corners these past few days?’ de Wolfe demanded.
    Thomas’s bright, bird-like eyes flicked to the shuttered window. ‘The man in the street Gwyn told me about? No, I’ve been up in the gatehouse writing these rolls. But I’ll keep a look-out now, with Gwyn. Have you any idea who it might be?’
    ‘Indeed not. I thought you might have heard of some new arrival in the city that might match this knave. About thirty-five, strong-looking, his face shaved and his clothing an unremarkable dun brown, with a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat that shades his eyes.’
    The little clerk looked worried, as if his inability to know of every transient passing through Exeter was a personal failing. ‘Perhaps he is a pilgrim, then – or masquerading as one. Have a care, Crowner, you have enemies in this county.’
    At that moment, the door grated open and Matilda marched in, refreshed from her nap in the solar. She was dressed in a heavy green mantle over her kirtle and a white linen coverchief was wrapped decorously around her temples and neck, secured at her forehead by a silk band. Behind her followed Lucille, her sallow face framed by a brown woollen shawl.
    As soon as Matilda saw Thomas, the expression on her face changed as if she had just trodden in something left by Brutus. Without a word, the clerk scooped up his rolls and scuttled from the hall. ‘You shouldn’t let that little pervert bring his work here to tire you out, John,’ she snapped.
    ‘It’s not his work, woman, it’s my work!’ retorted de