Falconer's Trial (12 page)

‘Really? I would like to know some of her other symptoms. Perhaps we can ask her husband that.’

Bullock interrupted the young man’s musings.

‘Yes, but that is for later. Please try and stick to the matter in hand. I don’t suppose that Sir Humphrey or his brother will take too kindly to us being here alone for too long. What can you tell me from what you see?’

Thomas was a little put out by the constable’s abruptness and was about to make a retort. But behind Bullock, he saw Saphira quietly shake her head, and gesture at the body. He contained his annoyance and looked more closely at Ann’s face and arms, which were the only parts of her that were exposed. He thought for a moment about looking further, but didn’t suppose it would have been seemly to examine any other part of the body. What he did see confirmed the suspicion of foul play, but it wasn’t of a physically violent nature, as had been suggested.

‘She has been poisoned. Look at her arms, where the skin is darker than normal, and here on her palms…’ He turned the hands over so Bullock could see. ‘. . . there is scaly skin. And here…’ He turned them back over again. ‘Here there are white lines on her nails.’

Bullock squinted closely at Ann’s hands, also seeing what Symon was pointing out.

‘What does it mean?’

‘It means that Ann Segrim was possibly poisoned with arsenic powder.’

This revelation was interrupted by a thunderous knocking on the door and jiggling of the jammed latch. This was followed by a call from outside.

‘What are you doing in there?’

Alexander Eddington was back and, by the sound of it, was not prepared to allow them any more time. Bullock moved the chair causing the obstruction and pulled the door abruptly open. Eddington’s face was, if anything, more suffused with a red flush. He had either let his anger build, or had been drinking some more. Bullock pushed him roughly back on to the gallery outside that overlooked the main hall of the manor house. The private room where Ann lay was located off this galleried area, and further along was a second door that Bullock presumed was that of Sir Humphrey. He knew from Falconer that he and his wife inhabited separate bed chambers. The second door was firmly shut and no sound came from within. Though Eddington had caused a great deal of noise, it seemed the grieving widower was not to be disturbed. Bullock had to try, however.

‘I need to speak to Sir Humphrey, if you please.’

He made to pass Eddington, but this time the brother was having none of it. He stood up to the constable, bolstered by his extra intake of Segrim’s best Rhenish.

‘You will not disturb him now in his time of grief. It is enough that you have… desecrated his wife’s rest with your pryings. Now take your crew and leave.’

Bullock knew that if he insisted now his investigations may be compromised by ill feeling. He may even be reported on to the sheriff and aldermen of Oxford, to whom he nominally answered. So he decided not to push further, thinking he had plenty of time before the King’s justices arrived to try any case brought against William. He was not to know that in this instance he was mistaken. Time to prepare was rapidly running out for Falconer.

‘Very well. We will leave for the time being. But bear in mind that I will need to interview everyone in the house. Including Sir Humphrey, and yourself.’

Eddington spluttered in anger.

‘Are you suggesting I am involved in this unfortunate matter?’

Bullock gave him no reply, but simply smiled enigmatically. Then he turned on his heels, leading Saphira and Thomas back down the stairs and out the front door. It was only when he returned to his quarters in the castle that he heard of the chancellor’s plans for Falconer’s trial. Suddenly time had run out and the matter was becoming very urgent.

Unaware that Falconer would face the Black Congregation the very next day, Saphira Le Veske returned straight home after the trip to Botley. She sat in her kitchen, where the maid she employed had laid out a cold meal. She was hungry but could only toy with the food. There was something on her mind. At Botley, she had seen more than she was prepared to admit to Bullock or Thomas Symon. When they had entered the bedchamber where the body of Ann Segrim lay, she had simply watched as Thomas examined it. Her knowledge of the signs of death was limited. But when Bullock pulled the drapery back to let in more light, she had spotted something that the two men ignored. Lying on the table next to the bed was a small silver box carved to look like filigree which was fixed to the end of a chain for encircling the neck. Inside the box, showing through the intricate carving, was a small piece of parchment. Some may have thought it purely decorative, but being a Jew, Saphira knew it immediately. It was a kimiyah – a small amulet to protect against illness. The parchment was an angel text. It would have the name of an angel inscribed on it, and to some it would be a powerful talisman. Saphira was prepared to bet that it had been bought recently from Covele, the Jew she had seen in Oxford the other day. It made her all the more determined to track him down and find out why he had been at Botley. And if he had anything to do with Ann Segrim’s death.

Her reluctance to tell anyone else of her observation stemmed from her deep understanding of what it meant to be a Jew in Henry’s England. Her race was no more than tolerated by most Englishmen. They were reviled for lending money with interest, when that very practice had been forced on them by the English king who effectively owned them – in body if not soul. The Christian religion forbade profiting from lending money, but noblemen needed to borrow money to sustain their lifestyle. It was a simple step, then, to leave money-lending as the only avenue for Jews to make a living. Saphira’s own son ran the family business which was based in Canterbury and Bordeaux, and there they traded quietly in wine under cover of lending money. But if any hint of wrong-doing was attached to a Jew, the consequences could be dire, for the individual concerned and the community at large. So Saphira was reluctant to place Covele at the scene of the murder without investigating further. Pushing her bowl of untouched victuals aside, she picked up her cloak and went to search for the amulet seller.

While Saphira was embarking on her own secret investigations, Thomas Symon sat in Colcill Hall racking his brains as to how his mentor would have started his inquiry into Ann Segrim’s murder. He knew he should have insisted on interviewing Sir Humphrey Segrim, but the half-brother’s intimidating presence had scared him off. Many said, however, that you should look for a murderer in the bosom of the family of the victim first and foremost. Thomas knew he would have to talk to the husband eventually, despite Alexander Eddington’s efforts to prevent him from doing so. In the meantime, Thomas knew he should be accumulating known facts in accordance with Falconer’s tenet on being a deductive. Several smaller truths, when laid out together, would reveal a greater truth. He sighed and picked up a quill, a pot of black ink and a piece of old, scraped parchment. By the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the narrow, glazed window of the hall, he began to write down what he knew.

An hour later, the light was beginning to fade and Thomas had scratched out no more than a few words on the cleaned parchment. Below the name of Ann Segrim he had written the words ‘poisoned’ and ‘arsenic?’. He had pondered long and hard over the question mark after arsenic but had finally added it. He was already unsure of his analysis of the signs on the victim’s body. Beneath that expression of uncertainty he had added two more. Firstly, he had written down Sir Humphrey’s name, to which he had added another question mark. Then after a longer pause, he had put down Alexander Eddington’s name, also followed by a question mark, for the sole reason that the man had been present in Botley Manor. By the same reasoning, he could have put down all the servants’ names, and had indeed sat with his pen hovering over the parchment for some time. The silent witness to his indecision was the large ink blot that completed his list of known facts. It had dropped off the end of the quill as he hesitated, and had caused him to finally lay down the pen. Now the ink had dried on the quill tip and his mind had emptied of ideas. It was not a lot to show for his first day investigating the death of Ann Segrim.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the parchment, and he heard a tapping sound. Looking up at the window, he could see a face behind the small panes of glass. Somewhat distorted, it was still recognizable as Peter Bullock’s. The constable gesticulated through the glass, indicating that Thomas should let him in the hall. Hurrying to the door, Thomas wondered what had happened now. Had Falconer been freed before he could even begin his investigations? He sincerely hoped so, as he felt inadequate to press his mentor’s cause. But the news wasn’t good.

Flinging the door open, he saw the expression of horror on Bullock’s face.

‘What has happened?’

‘Chancellor Bek means to try William himself before the Black Congregation. And the trial starts tomorrow.’

PART TWO

THE TRIAL

ELEVEN

A
t terce on that Thursday morning in April, a rare sight was seen in Oxford. Solemn men in black robes appeared from all corners of the town, and began converging on St Mildred’s Church in the northern quarter of Oxford. To the many onlookers, it would seem as though a dark mass of water flowed down the narrow lanes, pulled by gravity into an unseen deep pit situated somewhere below the church. The Congregation of Regent Masters of Oxford University’s Faculty of Arts met periodically to consider matters of relevance to the workings of the university. The seventy or so Masters of Arts jealously guarded their status and pre-eminence over all other masters, and they were familiarly known as the Black Congregation. But the issues coming before the Congregation were often tedious and not everyone attended. However, it was rumoured that today was to be an unusual occurrence. They had all been summoned by the chancellor for a most serious purpose and were required to attend at the ninth hour of the morning without fail. Rumours of their attending a murder trial had ensured that no one stayed away under any pretext, and had also made certain of their promptness. Soon, the church was filled with the black sea and the doors were closed on the curious outsiders.

Three chairs had been set up just below the altar, one slightly raised above the other two, which flanked it either side. A group of senior masters placed themselves close before them to establish their precedence, though still not sure what was to take place. Others nodded to this pre-eminent group as they moved around, seeking a suitable place to sit. Amongst the senior group was the tall, angular figure of Master Gerald Halle, and the coarse features of one of the few foreign Masters, Heinrich Koenig. Ralph Cornish briefly spoke to both of these men before retiring to the side aisle of the church. He was still smarting from the humiliation meted out to him by Falconer and preferred to lurk on the fringes for the time being. He himself was not surprised that he could not find Falconer’s face in the crowd. Bek had already spoken to him privately and could guess what was about to develop. A deep-seated sense of revenge was bubbling within him.

After an initial period of subdued conversation, when questions were bandied around from master to master but no answers supplied, the congregation began to arrange itself in the seats either side of the nave. All the masters wore a black tabard, over the top of which was arranged a black sleeveless cope, or a cloak with a hood bordered with fur. All knew how cold the interior of St Mildred’s could get, even in summer, and had ensured they wore something warm. It was likely to be a lengthy business they were summoned to sit through. No one knew at the time just how lengthy. Headgear saw a mixture of square birettas and simple round pileums. A few had already pulled up their hoods to keep warm, and no doubt in order to doze off beneath them should matters become tedious. The assembled crowd were not kept in uncertainty for long.

As the conversation in the church lulled, Thomas Bek, with a deep sense of theatre, strode from the gloom of the side aisle towards the chairs arranged below the altar. He wore a scarlet cope trimmed with black over his robe and a scarlet biretta on his head. The two proctors scurried along either side of him and arranged themselves in the lower chairs flanking the chancellor’s chair. Bek sat regally on his raised throne and smoothed his cope over his rather lanky limbs. His entrance had ensured complete silence and he finally broke it with a sombre pronouncement. With Robert Plumpton looking embarrassed and Henry de Godfree grinning in clear satisfaction, Chancellor Bek explained why the Black Congregation had been summoned.

‘We are here today to deal with a most serious matter. One that has not been brought before this court before, but which it is my firm belief we are competent to examine.’

His announcement caused a buzz of interest in the assembled masters. All wondered what was to follow except for Ralph Cornish. Would this outdo the case of Master Swallowe who had attached a new document to an old seal in order to ensure a living? Or had another student drawn a dagger on one of the proctors like young Hoghwel de Balsham? The chancellor allowed the murmur of curiosity to subside before continuing.

‘This very day, I bring before you for trial for murder, Regent Master William Falconer.’

Amidst the cries of disbelief and shock, Bek detected a few satisfied sighs. He also saw Ralph Cornish lean forward eagerly in his seat. Bek had plans for the regent master, relying on Cornish’s hatred for Falconer to get him on his side. He waved an imperious arm into the shadows on the left of the church. The reluctant figure of the constable, Peter Bullock, emerged from the gloom leading a disconsolate Falconer by the arm. He led his friend to a small chair to the left of the chancellor and sat him down, ashamed of his part in this charade. But the chancellor wielded great power in the town and Bullock could not prevent Falconer from being tried by the university. He could only hope that any judgement, if it were against Falconer, would be found invalid in time to save his friend’s life. He looked down at the seated figure, worried that William appeared to be paying no attention to what was going on around him. In fact, he seemed as withdrawn as he had been since being incarcerated in the Bocardo. When the constable had the most need of Falconer’s skills to solve this extraordinary murder case, they weren’t available. It looked as though the regent master could not even help himself.