Figure of Hate by Bernard Knight

heard gossip about happenings in the city, indeed the whole county, especially as the Bush was a favourite inn for carters and • travellers. But this time, Nesta had nothing to suggest.
    'If no one recognises him, he must surely be one of the many who have come for the fair,' she reasoned.
    John didn't press the point that with a face as battered as his, the corpse was totally unrecognisable.
    He changed the subject by pointing to the new beams and boards above their head, which formed the floor of the roomy loft.
    'They did a good job in such a short time, Nesta.
    Apart from the look of such new timber, it's hard to know what ruin there was before.'
    In August, the tavern had been deliberately set on fire and the place had been gutted, only the stone walls remaining. But thanks to willing workers and timber from John's manors at the coast, it was now back to its former glory - even Nesta's small room on the floor above had been rebuilt. This was where they had many a pleasant hour together, though the fire destroyed her pride and joy - the large French bed that John had imported from St Malo, probably only one in Exeter. Until he could get a replacement they would have to make do with a mattress .on floor, like most other people. The thought of the little chamber in the corner of the loft caused him to give her another squeeze.
    'Are you too busy this evening to climb the ladder, my love?' he whispered in her ear. She jabbed him playfully with her elbow, then pulled herself free from his encircling arm.
    'I must go and see to the girls in the kitchen now,' she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down the green kirtle that flowed over her shapely figure. 'But if you can find the strength to walk down again after glutting yourself on Mary's duck, then maybe I can find a few spare moments later on this evening!' She made her way to the back of the room, laughing and making small talk with her patrons along the A popular woman, she had the gift of being pleasant to everyone, yet firm enough with drunks or the few who tried to take advantage of her, as a woman innkeeper was a vulnerable rarity in the many alehouses of the city.
    The coroner sat with his pot and also exchanged salutations with some of the regulars in the taproom, They all knew of his long-standing affair with the landlady and most heartily approved and wished them well.
    Though there was many a nudge and wink, none ever made any audible jest or comment, as Black John's short temper and strong arm were too well known for any liberties to be taken with him.
    De Wolfe was chatting to a carpenter on the next table about the good quality of the repairs to the building, as the man was one of those who had worked on it, at John's expense. Under the table, Brutus was contentedly gnawing on a mutton knuckle that another patron had thrown to him. The scene was one of peaceful serenity, too good to last. The early evening sunlight coming through the open door was momentarily blocked by a large figure as Gwyn of Polruan came in and crossed to de Wolfe's table. The coroner groaned as he saw the familiar look on the big man's whiskered face.
    'Tell me the worst, then! I was just getting comfortable,' he grunted.
    Gwyn dropped on to the opposite bench, which creaked ominously under his weight. He ran thick fingers through his dishevelled red hair, then waved them at Edwin to summon a jug of ale.
    'There's been something found, Crowner. Something that might have a bearing on our corpse.' The Cornishman had a habit, infuriating to his master, of spinning out any story in instalments that delayed the actual facts.
    'What "something", damn you? Spit it out, for God's sake!'
    Edwin limped up with Gwyn's ale and the officer took a deep draught and gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering the exasperated coroner.
    'Garments, that's what. Bloodstained and hidden in a hole.'
    Between gulps of Nesta's best brew, the story came out. Two young boys had been playing on the river bank