'Today is Friday,' he muttered to himself. 'Vechey died late on Wednesday evening.'

He stared round, took a thick tallow candle left just inside the door, struck a tinder and moved deeper into the darkness. Ranulf and Maltote wisely stayed outside. The dead sheriff's body had been laid on the floor, a dirty linen sheet flung over it.

'I am sorry,' Branwood called in through the half-open door, 'but we knew you were coming, Master Corbett, and Physician Maigret told us not to dress the corpse until you had inspected it.'

Corbett pulled back the fetid sheet and tried not to think or reflect. If he did so he would gag or retch. Vechey had been middle-aged, balding, a slightly podgy man though the stomach was even more swollen with the trapped gases. The eyes were still half-open. Corbett tried not to look at them but examined the lips which had turned a purple hue, particularly the open sores at each side of the mouth. In his earlier days the clerk had performed military service in Wales and knew enough physic to conclude that such blotches were the result of poor diet, too much meat and very little fruit. He carefully scrutinised the dead man's fingers and nails but noticed nothing untoward except that the skin of Vechey's hand felt like wet wool. Corbett sighed, pulled back the sheet, blew out the candle and walked back into the garden.

'Does Sir Eustace have any family?'

'He has a son in the King's army in Scotland and a daughter married to some Cornish knight; he was a widower. His remains will probably be interred in one of the city churches until Sir Eustace's son declares his intentions.'

'You can take him away,' Corbett murmured. 'God knows that body has suffered enough!'

Naylor rejoined them, marching purposefully through the long grass. He seemed more friendly and grinned at Corbett.

'They are all ready. I've summoned them to the hall,' he announced.