The Tinner's Corpse by Bernard Knight

looked back from the red face, which carried an even redder, bulbous nose laced by fine purple veins.
    ‘What exactly does that mean, eh?’
    The scowl on de Wolfe’s dark face deepened. ‘It’s what gives the office its name, for God’s sake!’ he snarled, in exasperation. ‘Why d’you think we’re called coroners? From
custos placitorum coronas
, keeper of the pleas of the Crown! But we
keep
them, not
hold
them. We’re not judges.’
    Theobald made an effort to comprehend. ‘So what does keeping entail, John?’
    ‘It means directing the trial of all serious crimes and legal suits to the royal courts, rather than letting them be dealt with by the burgess court, the sheriff’s Shire Court or the manorial courts.’
    ‘Damn nonsense!’ cut in the sheriff, who could restrain himself no longer. ‘Our courts have managed well enough for centuries.’
    Richard de Revelle was in a difficult position: on the one hand he wanted to put John down by appointing Fitz-Ivo, so limiting his power over the whole county, yet on the other he disagreed fundamentally with the new post of coroner, which curtailed his own freedom to practise autocracy and corruption.
    De Wolfe turned slowly to his brother-in-law. ‘Perhaps you would like to express that opinion to the Justiciar when you take the Devon farm to Winchester next week. Hubert Walter will be happy to relay your condemnation to the King when he next visits Normandy – especially as part of the reason for the new system was to increase the royal revenues to pay for the King’s ransom and his campaigns against the French.’
    De Revelle ground his teeth in frustration, but he was in no position to defy John too openly, given the cloud of royal disapproval under which he laboured.
    De Wolfe turned back to Theobald, who sat uneasily now, wondering if he really wanted the appointment. He was dressed gaudily in an elaborately embroidered tunic of green wool and a surcoat of scarlet brocade, which, although originally of excellent quality, were now slightly threadbare and definitely grubby. A wide leather belt sagged below the bulge of his corpulent belly and red breeches ended in pale tan leather boots with very pointed toes. A greater contrast with the lean, ascetic de Wolfe, clad all in grey and black, was hard to imagine.
    John continued to rub salt into Fitz-Ivo’s wounds with an catalogue of coroner’s duties. ‘You must attend every sudden or unnatural death, every rape, every serious assault and burglary that is reported to you by the bailiffs or the constables. Go to every fire of house or barn, whether they cause death or not … attend every hanging, mutilation and trial by battle or ordeal, every catch of royal fish, the sturgeon and the whale, every find of treasure trove. You take confessions from sanctuary seekers and organise abjurations of the realm, hear the pleas of approvers who wish to save their skins by giving evidence against fellow conspirators, and appeals from those who wish to start proceedings in the royal courts. And you must have a jury assess the value of all deodands and decide where that value is to be lodged.’
    ‘What’s a deodand?’ asked the fuddled Theobald.
    Restraining his impatience with difficulty, de Wolfe explained, ‘Anything that causes a death – a knife, a cart, even a mill-wheel.’
    By now, Fitz-Ivo’s ruddy complexion had paled considerably, but John was not finished. With almost sadistic enjoyment, he continued, ‘You are an officer of the King’s justices and your main function is keep a record of every legal event within your jurisdiction to present to the judges when they arrive. You must amerce any miscreant or those who fail to carry out the legal procedures, and though you do not collect the money yourself, your assessment of the fines must be presented to the justices, at penalty of your own pocket.’
    At the mention of loss of money, Fitz-Ivo’s moist, flabby lips quivered. ‘What about recompense for