[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (13 page)

‘Here, if you are feeling modest, I shall leave the room and you can put this on instead.’

He took the heavy fur-trimmed mantle in his hand, and smiled.

‘No need to leave the room. Just turn your back.’

‘Turn my... ?’

‘Back. And look away.’

She did so, and Falconer pulled his damp and clinging robe over his head, tossing it close to the kitchen fire to dry out.

He could not help but admire the shape of her buttocks, as he pulled on her mantle. He laughed, and she turned round to see what had amused him.

‘The gown barely covers my... modesty, Saphira.’ It was true. A mantle that had enveloped Saphira’s still slim waist did not go far around Falconer’s not so trim haunches.

Saphira snorted, and then laughed out loud. It was a raucous, unladylike roar, and Falconer liked her all the more for it. She sat back in her chair.

‘And seeing that you are so casually attired, my lord...’ She drew the snood from her head, and let the thick mane of red hair tumble free. Both of them reached for their goblets, and drank deeply. There was something about closely escaping death at the hands of the mob that released the mind from constraints. Saphira shook her head to loosen her locks, and then stared hard at William with her emerald eyes.

‘Damn it all. Let’s not pussyfoot around here, William. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?’

Falconer raised his goblet, and laughed.

‘A sore head, no doubt. What do you mean, pussyfoot?’ Very deliberately, Saphira rose and pulled at the ties at the back of her dress. Falconer watched in fascination as her shoulders came free. They were a honey colour like the skin of her face. Then the dress slid to the ground, and he could see her whole body was the same glorious hue. He almost regretted the necessity to then reveal his own white battle-scarred body to her. Almost.

Now it was dawn, and there seemed no reason for regret over what had taken place the night before. Falconer’s final assault on the beautiful bastion that was Saphira was affected by the sweet surrender of the defending forces, and the opening of the postern gate. In fact, he suspected that he had been totally outmanoeuvred by a more wily force, who had drawn him into a well-planned trap. She smiled at him again: ‘What are you thinking?’

‘Hmm. I am thinking that as I fell asleep, I have not proved exactly sparkling company, have I? What will you think of Oxford now? It will seem to you like a place of rabid townspeople, and soporific clerics.’

‘You have just described Canterbury, and La Réole in Bordeaux come to think of it. Though the last is perhaps more like soporific townsfolk and rabid clerics.’

He eased himself reluctantly up, holding his now dry robe around him modestly.

‘I had better go before your reputation is completely compromised by my presence.’

She helped him up and, stepping close, placed her hand on his arm. He sensed that she was unwilling to see him go. But whether that was because of last night or concern for her own safety, he could not tell.

‘At least wait until the rain has stopped, or you will be soaked again. And I don’t imagine your lodgings in...’

‘Aristotle’s Hall.’

‘How appropriate for a logician. Aristotle’s Hall won’t be as warm as in my kitchen.’

Those large hazel-green eyes stared unblinkingly at him, warmth etched into the tiny crowsfeet of wrinkles at each extremity. But, tempting though the offer was, Falconer hesitated. He was uncertain of his reasons, but his supposed celibacy, and some sudden thought of Ann Segrim, were included amongst them. Besides, he felt it would be unfair on Saphira Le Veske and her reputation for him to stay any longer. He did have one question that was buzzing around his skull like a fly trapped in a room. Foolishly, as he dressed, he blurted it out.

‘Do you know if there is any truth behind all these horrific tales of child-murder?’

Even though he could see Saphira’s sparkling emerald eyes deadening to a dull greenish-brown, he plunged stupidly on.

‘I mean I know no sane person could give them credence, but what if there were some crazy fanatic... Jehozadok as much as told me that such a one existed.’

Saphira held up her hands to still his flapping tongue, and then folded her arms protectively round her waist. She turned her back on him. It was a gesture that excluded him as clearly as her previous stance had welcomed him. He sighed, and moved towards the hallway.

‘If my young lodgers have kept the fire stoked up in our common hall, I shall settle for some warmth there.’ She tilted her head to acknowledge his resolve, and led him to the front door. Cautiously, she drew back the bolts she had earlier thrown in such haste, and opened the door to peer out.

The dark hid no lurking monsters, or rioting men, so Falconer slipped through the gap into the cold of the morning. He crossed the street without a backward glance. Once in the shadows at the comer of Blue Boar Lane, he could not resist looking back at Abraham’s house. But the door was firmly closed, and Saphira Le Veske was nowhere in sight. He hitched his robe around his shoulders, and bent into the drizzle that still fell from the leaden sky.

The lane was really nothing more than a narrow gap that wound circuitously through a haphazard cluster of houses.

But it afforded a quick way through the top end of Jewry, emerging down the side of the church of St Edward the Martyr.

Falconer knew the way blindfold, which was just as well, because at this time it was pitch dark along its length. Confident of his step, he strode out, only to almost fall headlong over a damp bundle. Cursing whoever had left it there, he went to step over, before realizing it was a man. Though a hood covered the head, a pale hand lay stretched out on the far side.

Falconer crouched down, and cautiously lifted the hood, ready to be cursed by a drunk angry to have his sleep disturbed.

The man’s head was covered in blood, and his clouded eyes gazed up at the sky. Falconer recognized him as Wilfrid Southo, the foreman from the building site. And he was undoubtedly very dead.

‘I am beginning to think my careless wish for a murder to solve has been taken all too seriously by a vengeful God, Peter.’

The constable, Peter Bullock, grunted, and eased himself off the ground by the body. He wore his watchman’s woollen cloak, which being well greased with lamb’s fat, shed the drizzle in rivulets. Due to its stiffness, he looked rather ridiculous, like a shepherd’s byre on legs. But he was dry, which was more than Falconer was. The regent master was once again soaked, having spent a long time in the rain over this latest murder.

On first discovering the body, he had called on a reluctant elderly resident of Blue Boar Lane to guard it while he fetched the constable.

‘What about the hue and cry?’ groaned the old man. ‘You are first finder, and must instigate it, or you will be fined. It’s nothing to do with me.’

Falconer, well aware of the old law that called upon the finder of a body to rouse everyone in the area to seek out the murderer, prevaricated however. He was of the conviction that having several disgruntled and tired people running aimlessly in circles complaining about getting wet would serve no purpose.

‘I am fetching the constable. That will fulfil my duty. Now just make sure no one else comes along and falls over the body. Or disturbs it.’

As he hurried off towards Oxford Castle and the quarters of the constable, he heard the old man calling after him.

‘It’s a waste of time, anyway. If it wasn’t the Jews who killed him, it was someone in the mob. Last night was not a night to be out and about.’

Falconer could not help but agree with him in part. It had been a bad night to be abroad. But there was a strange coincidence in the dead man being one of those who had found the long-dead body on the building site not much earlier. It piqued his curiosity, and he mentioned it to Bullock as he dragged him out of his warm bed. The constable had not paid much attention, still apparently unmindful of Falconer’s keenness to solve the old murder.

Now, he was just as unimpressed by this fresh body. The narrow lane was making it a problem to examine it closely, and Bullock seemed unwilling to even look.

‘It’s that foreman from the building site. He probably had too much to drink, and not knowing he was in Jewry, found himself at the hands of a mob baying for Jews’ blood. It will be impossible to find out who did this. Everyone who was involved will keep their mouths shut. No one’s going to shop their neighbour, for fear of reprisals.’

‘Let me take a closer look, then, Peter.’

‘No!’ The stare in Bullock’s eyes was fierce, and his grip on Falconer’s arm tight as a band of steel. ‘I will sort this out, and get the man’s employer to deal with the burial. Southo is one of his crew.’

‘And what will you tell Thorpe about who committed the murder? That it was someone in the town, but it was Southo’s fault for being here in the first place?’

Bullock sighed, his hand dropping from Falconer’s arm.

‘No, William, you are right. I will look into it, I promise. I will make myself even more unpopular by questioning those who were seen at the head of the mob. I will beat a few heads together and ask questions that will get no reply. Maybe someone will flee, and we can outlaw him, and that will be that.’ Falconer grimaced at his friend’s newly found careless attitude to murder, but decided to say no more. Until he could discover what was at the bottom of it. For he was certain there was something behind Bullock’s reluctance to pursue either murder. Meanwhile, he would return to Bonham and see what he had found out about the skeleton. Together with the identity offered him by Jehozadok, they might be able to unravel the puzzle some more.

The constable of Oxford, Peter Bullock, was not used to dissembling with William Falconer, and felt he was doing it badly. Trudging back to his quarters in Oxford Castle, he chewed over the facts of the old murder, and how it might have caused the death of Wilfrid Southo. The truth was that he knew who the man in the wall was. Or had been, twenty years ago. Not that he had known at the time, nor until very recently. The information had been vouchsafed him in the strictest confidence, and his old vows prevented him from telling anyone. He rolled his shoulders under the heavy woollen cloak, as if chafing against those vows that held him in check.

It was a long time since he had followed them strictly, but they felt just as binding now as when he had first taken them.

The man had unexpectedly invoked them when he first approached Bullock that day. And Bullock had felt duty bound to obey, the old rituals filling his head once again. Still he felt sorely the injustice of his situation. He was withholding information from William, his closest friend, and damaging that friendship. It made his steps even heavier than usual.

As soon as he entered his spartan quarters, he knew someone was there waiting for him. His hand went involuntarily to his old and trusted sword, hanging at his side.

‘There is no need for that, Sergeant. It is I.’

The voice from the shadows was strong and authoritative, and Bullock sighed.

‘You took a chance, venturing out so soon after the riot had dispersed. I am already dealing with one killing, I would not like to be explaining your death away just now.’ The man chuckled, and stepped in the centre of the room, his presence dominating the surroundings.

‘Ah, the unfortunate mason. Yes, we need to talk about that.’ Bullock grimaced at the thought of another web of lies to be spun. It was only later that he wondered how the man had come to know about the death so swiftly.

When Falconer reached the little door in Sumnor’s Lane, he felt there was something odd about Bonham’s house. He saw a bundle, carefully folded in white linen on the doorstep. The cloth looked wet and stained, and leaning down to examine it, the sharpness of vinegar assailed his nostrils. The cloth had been soaked in it, and it clung to whatever was within. He stood up and stepped back to examine the windows. All were firmly shuttered, and though the riot last night might have occasioned the cautious Bonham to seal himself up tight, it was now late morning.

The little grey master was a stickler for his duties concerning lectures, and only illness would have kept him away. Falconer recalled that when he had last seen him, the master had complained of lethargy and the symptoms of a severe cold.

He assumed that Bonham was after all unwell. But the package at the door was puzzling. He bent down again to examine it, fumbling his eye-lenses from his pouch to get a better look.

He took the bundle in his hand and turned it over. Then he decided to rouse the man after all. He pounded with his fist on the door until he heard a scraping noise from behind it. It sounded like someone dragging himself along the passage inside the house.

‘Master Richard? Are you there?’

There was a silence at first, though Falconer imagined he could hear breathing. A harsh, rasping breath that spoke of terrible illness.

‘Bonham? It’s me, William Falconer. Are you all right?’ When Bonham did speak it was with a weak and tremulous voice.

‘Falconer... I am unwell, so I will not open the door, if you don’t mind. The light is so bright, and I must.., rest. Is there anything you wanted?’

‘Yes, Richard. I need to speak with you. The skeleton could he have been a Templar priest?’