'Wine from Anjou, Bordeaux and the Loire,' announced Thomas. 'And other barrels seem to have dried fruit.'
'What's in those other bales, the ones wrapped in hessian?' demanded the Keeper.
'They are full of finished cloth, good English wool coming back from the weavers in Flanders.'
The voice came from behind them and, turning, they saw that the bailiff, Edward Northcote, was standing there, with Elias Palmer and another man.
'And it all belongs to my master, Robert de Helion,' snapped the stranger, a thickset man of about forty, with a pale, puckered scar running from eyebrow to chin down his leathery face.
'Who might you be?' demanded John de Wolfe, glaring at the newcomer.
'I am Henry Crik, one of Sir Robert's agents. Why are you nosing into his property?'
The coroner took a long step towards Crik. 'Watch your tongue, agent! I am on the king's business and I need give you no excuses!'
Henry Crik flushed, and the scar looked whiter by contrast. 'This is private property and you have no right to look here.'
John moved even nearer and looked down into the agent's face, almost nose to nose. 'I will look up your arse if I so choose, Crik! Obstruct me and you'll find yourself answering my questions in the undercroft of Exeter Castle!'
The man seemed to get the message and stepped back, muttering under his breath. The coroner turned to the bailiff and pointed to the pile of merchandise. 'How do I know that all this is legitimate import - and has been tallied for Customs duty?'
Northcote shrugged and waved a hand at Elias Palmer. 'Ask the portreeve. He keeps all the records. And the tally-man - it's his job to check it all.' He bellowed for John Capie at the top of his voice, and the skinny official hurried in. 'When did this lot arrive?' demanded Northcote. 'Tell the coroner what you know about it.'
'It has been here a sennight, sir. Came in from Caen, off-loaded from the cog St Benedict. I checked it all and gave the tallies to the portreeve, as usual.'
Luke de Casewold bobbed around to Elias. 'Can you confirm that, portreeve?' he snapped.
Elias looked back at him calmly. 'No doubt I could, if I had my manifests with me. They are in my house, if you wish to check them.'
De Wolfe had the distinct feeling that if they were checked they would be in perfect order - and he further suspected that they had been allowed into this particular shed because the contents were quite legitimate. He further had the suspicion that Elias was crafty enough to be able to produce parchments to legitimise anything that became the subject of investigation.
'When will this stuff be moved?' he asked Henry Crik. 'Does it all go to your master in Exeter?'
The agent shook his head sullenly, chastened by meeting a stronger will than his own. 'Some will end up there, but much will be taken to various places. That is why I am here, to leave instructions for the carters to take these and other goods to different destinations - Bridport, Taunton and even Dorchester.'
De Wolfe suddenly felt that he was wasting his time here. If the damned Keeper wanted to persist in hounding down those who might be fiddling the Customs duty, that was his affair, but the coroner's business was murder.
'Gwyn, Thomas! Come with me, we need to talk to this ship master.'
He marched out with his officer and clerk in tow, and after a brief hesitation Luke followed him across the road to the large cog that was sitting upright on the mud that was revealed at low tide. Men were still humping bales aboard and others were packing them tightly in the single hold. De Wolfe stalked to the edge of the river and looked across at the stern of the vessel, where a raised platform carried the steering oar and roofed over a shallow shelter where the master and mate slept, the rest of the crew cowering under a similar structure forming the forecastle.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled at the top of his voice, 'Martin Rof! Are you there?'
A figure emerged from the aftercastle and stared around to see where the shout came from. He was a burly man, broad and tall, with close-cropped fair hair and a ragged beard and moustache of the same yellow hue. Dressed in a short tunic of faded blue serge, he had breeches that ended above his ankles, his bare feet splayed out on the deck.
'Who wants him?' he demanded when he identified the caller amongst the group on the bank.
'Sir John de Wolfe, the king's coroner! Come on down here. I want to talk to you and I'm not clambering along that bloody plank.'
For a moment Thomas thought that Rof was going to refuse, but the coroner's tone was one that offered no compromise. The rough-looking sea-captain jumped down to the main deck and padded down the gangway to where they were waiting.
'What the hell do you want? I'm a busy man. I want to sail on the next tide.'
'That depends on what you have to tell me about the death of Simon Makerel. You may be sailing a horse to Rougemont Castle,' snapped John, repeating the threat he had made to Henry Crik.