[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (21 page)

A feeble ray of morning light pierced the darkness as de Bois pulled a heavy drape from a narrow window slit. Sir Gilbert was slumped in a large ornately carved chair, wrapped in a thick cloak against the chill. His hair was dishevelled, and the crumbs and grease in his beard were evidence of the last meal he had eaten. By his side was a pewter platter and on it the carcase of a chicken lying picked to the bone. His hand clutched a large goblet, which he unsteadily lifted to his lips and drained. Wiping his lips with filthy fingers, he finally responded.

‘Murder? I thought the girl hanged herself.’

Falconer cut in sharply, startling Bullock. ‘Were you surprised she did that to herself?’

De Bois shrugged, and let the goblet hang from his grasp, dribbling dregs down his grubby robe.

‘To be honest, I was. She was always a wilful girl, too strong-willed to be a house servant. That’s why I sent her out to the fields, where she could sulk to her heart’s content.’
 

Bullock butted in on the conversation to bring it back to the point.

‘It is not the death of Sarah Blakiston that concerns me at all. The murder I am referring to happened twenty years ago.’

 
A strange noise began to emanate from de Bois’s chest. At first Bullock thought he was choking, until it occurred to him it was a deep and throaty laugh.

‘Twenty years ago? Why does it matter now?’ He dropped the goblet on the floor with a clatter that echoed down the stair well. Falconer strode across the dark room and confronted de Bois.

‘It matters because a man was murdered, and no one was punished for it. In fact, we have only just discovered his body.’ De Bois’s bloodshot eyes slowly took in Falconer.

‘Where?’

‘In the walls of the buildings you bought in 1250.’

‘Ah, yes. Twenty-five half-centuries since the Birth of Christ, predicted as the End Times. Sometimes I wish it had been the end of the world.’

Pentecost, May 1250

Sir Gilbert sat at the back of St Frideswide’s Church as the venom poured out of the mouth of the preaching brother Thomas. He was enumerating the signs and portents of the End Times.

‘Earthquakes occurred in England, even in Chiltern, several times. An unusual and destructive rise of the sea took place, such as had never been seen before. During one night immense numbers of stars fell from the heavens, revealing that Christ’s threat was impending over men - "There shall be signs in the sun." There will be godlessness in the last days. On the death of Pope Gregory, the papal see was vacant for a year and nine months. One of the cardinals, who was more distinguished than the others, Master Robert Summercote, an Englishman by birth, was killed by suffocation in the palace. It is reported, out of envy, and fear he might be elected pope. Wars and rumours of wars, false prophets, and a falling away from the faith. All is coming to pass.’

De Bois crossed himself piously, but his mind was else- ~ where. After all, these so-called signs had been part of life ever since he could remember, and nothing had happened yet. It was only fools and the fanatical who truly believed in the end of the world. His trust was placed in the lasting value of land, which endured through all tribulations. And if everyone believed the end was coming, then he would take advantage of that. He had heard even the Jews were afraid of what might happen. That old fool Lumbard in particular was fearful of the end, and de Bois reckoned he might at last be persuaded to part with some of his property in Oxford. He looked across the church at the Templar priest he had met earlier. The tall, bearded man, his face still showing in a tan that had not faded on the long journey home evidence of a recent sojourn in the Holy Land, leaned back in the pew with his eyes staring up into the void. He too was sceptical about the End Times, even though he would not have openly admitted it. De Bois recalled the conversation he had had with the Templar priest. It was in the aftermath of the murder of the Stokys boy by his father, which the Templar still disputed.

‘I have spoken to the halfwit in the House of Converts who claimed to have read the writing on the boy’s body. Now, he may have been encouraged to embellish the truth a little, but he did tell me that there is a certain Jew in the town at present. Someone cast out even by his own kind, who carries out ritual sacrifices. He pointed him out to me, an unpleasant, dark-skinned man with a long beard, skulking in the shadows down Little Jewry Lane only this morning. I pursued him, and accosted him, only to be rebuffed with foul language half in the Jews’ own tongue. I crossed myself against his invective, and let him go before he could do me harm. If I was to believe in the End Times, then it would have been then. For one of the prophecies to be fulfilled is said to be the rebuilding of the Temple, and animal sacrifice.’

De Bois screwed up his eyes, and threw a question at the Templar. ‘But you don’t believe, do you?’

The priest laughed, patting de Bois on the shoulder with his gloved hand, a large ring gleaming in the light.

‘I do not. Or why would I be collecting the first instalment of the ransom money for Louis from the Jews? It would be of no use to anyone, if the world were to cease at the year’s end.’

De Bois saw his opportunity, and his eyes sparkled.

‘Just how much are you screwing out of them?’

2 September, 1271

Falconer looked into de Bois’s eyes, which were staring into the past. The man had not seemed surprised by the revelation concerning the location of the body. And this gave Falconer grave concerns as to his innocence in the matter. The money trail was getting more and more convoluted, but Falconer was determined to follow it through.

‘You bought the land from Lumbard the Jew. Where did you get the money?’

Once again, de Bois laughed heartily, his chest heaving until he broke down coughing. When he had stopped, he looked at the two men facing him, and waved his arm in the air by way of apology.

‘Why, I got the funds from the Jews, of course. I had heard the Templar priest was collecting money from them to pay for the ransoming of Saint Louis, and I had always coveted land in the town. This estate is dull and boring at the best of times, what with peasants dancing round trees and complaining about their tithes. I knew that if I offered the right sum to Lumbard, he would sell to me. And the right sum was exactly the down-payment that the Templar was demanding, which I knew. And I was correct. Lumbard was tempted and the land was mine.’

Bullock was puzzled.

‘But you said you got the money from the Jews.’ De Bois leaned forward precariously in his chair, and slyly tapped the side of his nose.

‘That was the clever part. I borrowed the money from one of the other members of that damnable tribe. Unfortunately, it was against the security of this estate.’

Suddenly de Bois buried his face in his hands, and openly wept, shocking both of his questioners. ‘Now it is lost in debts.’

‘But what about the money you raised by the sale of the houses to the Bassett family?’ Falconer still wished to understand how de Bois could have failed so miserably in his schemes.

‘Gone in paying the principal. I still owe the interest that I have been unable to pay for ten years or more. This land earns nothing, and I am driven into poverty. Now the estate will be forfeit unless I can raise the cash to pay the Jew off.’ Falconer heard a sound behind him - the door grinding across the stones. He looked back, and saw Ralph the steward. He was carrying a pottery jug, and appeared intent on replenishing his master’s goblet. He pushed past Falconer and Bullock, splashing cheap Rhenish on the filthy rushes on the floor.

‘It’s time for you to go. The master needs to prepare himself for a visitor.’

He sloshed red wine into the goblet that de Bois had retrieved from the floor despite the fact that a few dirty rushes now floated in it. Sir Gilbert cast a sly glance at the two men, and leered.

‘Now I am a widower of several months’ standing, it is time to find a new wife. A rich, new wife.’

The steward spread his arms, and hustled Falconer and Bullock out of the room. De Bois’s final words followed them down the spiral staircase.

‘And nothing.., nothing will be allowed to stand in my way.’

As the two men stepped back out into the courtyard, a watery sun lit up the surroundings. Falconer, whose head had been bowed by the drizzle on their arrival, noticed for the first time just how rundown the building was. Weeds sprouted from the cobbles, and the plaster was cracked in several places with some sections fallen away completely. As he swung up on to his palfrey, Falconer threw what he hoped sounded like a casual comment at Ralph, who had followed them out.

‘The girl must have been desperate to take her own life like that.’

The steward grunted as if to express his scorn, and poked with his toe at a large dandelion.

‘The master knew.., we all knew her condition. It didn’t come as any surprise to me that she couldn’t face the consequences. She was too weak.’

‘And were there any rumours as to who it was caused her condition?’

Ralph steadfastly refused to look Falconer in the face, continuing to dig at the weed with his boot.

‘She caused it, the trollop. And now she’s out of the way, it’s the best result for all of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to help my master prepare.’

He abruptly turned on his heel, leaving the trampled weed still rooted in the cobbles, and rushed indoors. Falconer reckoned he would need more time than he had available to ready de Bois for even the most desperate of old maids.

Nor would he wish on anyone a marriage into such a terrible household, where a murder had been committed for the most mercenary of reasons.

Twenty-One

Deudone’s elderly mother lived with her son in a property divided into two smaller dwellings. They happened to be just a few doors down from the synagogue, where Saphira was talking to Hannah. This much she had learned from the young woman. But Hannah had been unable to suggest where her future husband might be hiding himself. In fact, she seemed to know little about his private life. A fact which Saphira felt did not bode well for a healthy marriage.

‘You would do better speaking to Belaset, his mother, Saphira. You will find her a little ... odd in her ways. She has run the family business for so long on her own. And was such a confident woman once, but lately she has been forgetful, and yet Deudone shows no interest in helping. His ways are a mystery to me, quite frankly.’ Hannah was embarrassed to admit her perplexity. ‘A man approaching thirty, and he still behaves like a wild boy. But Belaset will know what he is up to.’

Saphira left the young woman attending to the needs of Jehozadok, who was preparing for the Day of Atonement, and entered bustling Fish Street. The salty tang of dried cod sharpened the damp air, and in between the barrels of salted fish were slimy tubs in which wriggled eels, fresh caught from the streams and rills surrounding the town. Vendors cried out the merits of their wares, encouraging Saphira and other passers-by to buy from their stall only. Oxford by day was a cheerful and friendly town - only at night did the spectre of drunkenness and rioting rise from the shadows. Now, it was as though no one had ever dreamed that the Jews would murder a Christian child. At least, not while they were in a position to buy goods from the fishmongers down here, and the tanners and glovers higher up the street towards Carfax. Saphira off the cheery banter, and lifted her skirt as she stepped over the sewage channel in the centre of the street.

She made for Belaset’s small lodgings.

She knocked on the shabbier of the two doors inside the front entrance of the house, and waited. It was a while before she got a response, and even then the door only opened a crack. A pale, lined face appeared in the opening, and a single anxious brown eye scanned Saphira up and down. She was glad she had dressed conservatively, and constrained her abundant and unruly hair in a widow’s snood. Deudone’s mother looked to be someone who did not take very kindly to ostentation. Maybe that explained why Deudone was so rebellious.

‘Belaset. My name is Saphira Le Veske, from Canterbury. Can I speak to you?’

The single eye squinted at her suspiciously.

‘What about?’

‘About your son.’

‘He’s not here.’

Belaset started to close the door, and Saphira risked her fingers by putting her hand round the edge to hold it open.

There was a small impasse.

‘I know he’s not here. I thought you might know where he’s gone. I must talk to him.’

She felt the pressure give a little, and Belaset sighed.

‘You had better come in, then.’

Saphira closed the door behind her, and followed the older woman into a small and sparsely furnished room. But however shabby the furniture was, it was clear that Belaset kept everything meticulously clean and tidy. A candle burned on the well-scrubbed table in the centre of the room, and a basket of bread stood next to it. Belaset indicated that her guest should sit on the one sturdy chair. She herself slumped tiredly on a stool opposite. With her face in the candlelight, Saphira realized she was not as old as she had first imagined. Indeed, with sons barely ten years apart in age, Belaset could not be much older than Saphira herself. The woman seemed to divine Saphira’s thoughts.