by Ian Morson
‘Moulcom, the Northerner’s clothes. Do you recall whether they were wet or not?’
Bullock sighed, for he was used to these strange whims of Falconer’s. He could never follow where they were going, but they often seemed to lead to an important conclusion.
‘All the dead students’ clothes were wet – they had lain in the rain.’
‘Yes, but Moulcom’s – were they wet all over?’ Falconer persisted.
Bullock stood and thought, his hand holding the door close to his body defensively.
‘The front of his clothes was wet. I remember from when I picked him up in the street.’
‘And the back?’
‘Dry, I think. But—’
‘Thank you. That is as I recalled it, but I wanted to be sure.’ Falconer turned to go, but Bullock, his curiosity roused, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘But the front of his clothes would be wet, he was found face down in the street.’
‘And the other students’ clothes?’
Bullock thought, briefly. ‘Were wet all over because they had lain in the rain. So Moulcom was killed later, after the rain had stopped.’
Falconer stared into Bullock’s face in excitement, as his deductive logic led him to its conclusion.
‘But the rain persisted all night. Indeed that’s what cooled the anger of the rioters. No one was on the rampage in the morning when the rain finally stopped.’
‘And Moulcom was killed in the morning?’
‘Perhaps. I am more inclined to think he was killed in the safety and seclusion of someone’s home and his body dumped in the street to shift the blame.’
Thomas learned that Master Bonham lived somewhere near St Michael’s at North Gate. He had decided he would retrace his steps from his lecture and get to the north wall of the city via Schools Street. Once there he felt sure someone could tell him exactly where to find Bonham, even in such a teeming city as Oxford. On the corner of Schools Street stood the church of St Mary’s which was in process of being rebuilt on a grander scale to reflect its central nature to the university. For the present it was merely a building site, the church cocooned in poles and ropes, and surrounded by apparently haphazard piles of stone. Turning past the church, Thomas thought he saw someone step underneath the criss-cross of wooden scaffolding that covered the church’s north side. The figure seemed to be beckoning, although no one else was working on the tower. Thomas looked around, thinking the workman was signalling to someone else. But there was no one. The figure beckoned again, pointing directly at Thomas, while still standing in the shadows of the tower.
Thomas stepped across the jumble of stones at the base of the workings and called out.
‘What do you want?’
The person could not have heard him because he moved out of sight under the half completed north tower of the church. Reaching the archway under which the figure had gone, Thomas looked around but could no longer see him. Deep shadows obscured the base of the tower, which was still open to the elements. Thomas looked up to the dull grey sky, and thought he saw someone on the stone parapet above his head. A thin trickle of dust on to his upturned face confirmed it. The elusive nature of the person reminded him of the half-glimpsed shape leaving the body of Margaret Gebetz, and Thomas shuddered at the thought.
He called out, in the hope that the other man would respond, and all would be harmlessly resolved. Instead his voice echoed up the shaft of the tower, and Thomas felt worse than before. At that point he was sure he should turn back and continue his search for Bonham. But then he thought he heard his own name being whispered from above.
‘Hello, who’s there?’
Once again his name drifted on the wind from above. He nervously wrapped his jerkin around him and started up the stone staircase that was built into the thickness of the wall to his left. He cautiously made his way up, stumbling over the chippings left by the masons who were working on the facing of the wall. As he emerged at the top, the wind blew in his face. The staircase ended abruptly, and the top of the tower had no protecting parapet. It was just a flat surface and a sheer drop off the edge. The wooden scaffolding looked very flimsy at this height. He stood still within the stairwell, and looked around. To his right the blocks making the next stage of the tower rose higher than the floor level he was on. He could not see anyone near him. The elusive figure must be hiding behind these higher stones. He would have to climb out on to the unprotected ledge.
He was still on his knees climbing out of the stairwell, when his jerkin was roughly grasped and he felt himself dragged to the very edge of the drop. He looked over his shoulder and gasped. The ground seemed a very long way away. Even climbing trees around his father’s farm had not taken him this high, and the jumble of masonry below would be far harder than any grassy bank to land on. He turned to look at his assailant with pleading in his eyes. He stared into the implacable features of Joshua.
Chapter Eight
Thomas felt the collar of his jerkin being twisted tighter in the grip of the stronger man. If he didn’t fall off the tower to his death, he would surely soon be strangled. He wriggled desperately under the weight of his assailant, but Joshua was too strong. Anyway, he could feel the edge of the building in the middle of his back now, cutting across his spine. If he moved again, they might both plunge to their deaths. He clutched at the joint in the stonework down by his waist, tearing his fingernails. The Jew thrust his face at Thomas and hissed into his ear.
‘Hannah is not to be spoiled by you. You will leave her alone, one way or another.’
As he spoke, Thomas felt the weight of the other man’s body relax. It was now or never, and he thrust up with his hips. Surprised by the move, Joshua loosened his grip on Thomas’s clothes and began to slide over his shoulder. Thomas kicked up with his legs, completing the move, and desperately pulled himself from the precipice. With a cry of astonishment, Joshua somersaulted over Thomas’s body and straight over the edge. There was a rending crash and silence.
Gasping, Thomas rolled over and dragged himself again to the edge. He peered down below him, fearing the worst for Joshua. There was a clutter of wooden poles directly beneath him; some were split and swinging free where Joshua had plunged. There was no sign of the body on the ground. Then he saw him.
Joshua was hanging by one hand to a firm piece of the scaffolding through which he had fallen. For a second his face, white and drawn, turned up to Thomas. Then he dropped the remaining distance to the ground. Thomas closed his eyes tight and ground his face into the stonework. Had he killed the man after all? He almost didn’t dare look, and tears welled in his eyes. He could not bear to look once again over the drop, and dragged himself back to the well of the stairs. His legs were wobbly and unsteady as he descended, clutching the wall as he went. He felt cold and his breath came in gasps. At the bottom he stood in the archway for an age before he could thrust himself forward. He stepped carefully around the debris to the side of the tower where Joshua had fallen. There was no sign of him.
Unsure that he was in the right place, Thomas looked up and could discern the tangled mess of scaffolding through which Joshua had crashed. Ropes and poles still swung backwards and forwards above his head. The Jew must be inhuman to have survived such a fall. There was a rustling sound far off to his left. Peering into the gloom, he thought he saw some movement low down on the ground and saw a black cat scuttling away. Perhaps it was just a stray cat disturbed by all the noise. Or perhaps Joshua had altered his shape to escape death. Thomas shot a fearful glance over his shoulder, half expecting a demon to loom out of the darkness, but he was alone.
If Bullock had climbed the tower of the Great Keep under whose shadow he lived and peered west into the gloom of that winter’s afternoon towards Beacon Hill, he might have seen the signs of an approaching army. From across the stream at the foot of the bailey and the woodland that approached the city walls came a curious sound. It could be discerned by the practised ear as the clash of metal on
metal, the creak of leather and the thud of massed hoofs on the earth. These all mingled to produce a sound that could be likened to some fearful dragon heaving itself towards the city. In drier weather such an army would have raised a dust cloud resembling fiery dragon’s breath and visible from many a mile. The recent persistent rain had soaked the soil, and slowed the progress of footsoldier and horsebackknight alike. From the top of the keep, it would have been possible to see a black and rolling mass moving across the open country like ants following their mindless brethren. Identifying the forces would have been difficult at this distance. If Bullock had been on the tower, he might have had some inkling of the army’s leader from the small advance guard who burst out of the edge of the wood close to the keep. They wearily rode east around the city walls beyond the ditch and turned into the North Gate.
But Peter Bullock was not on the tower. He was still at home, staring into the dying embers of his fire and trying to fathom Falconer’s thinking, and failing. In any case he had no place in national events. Let the King and the barons slaughter each other as long as they did not use Oxford as a battlefield.
The same lack of concern could not be attributed to the chancellor.
De Cantilupe was in a quandary. His better feelings made him sympathetic to the spirit of the Earl of Leicester’s opposition to King Henry. After all, Earl Simon did not want to rule himself, merely prevent the King from ruling as a despot. The provisions agreed by the King in the chancellor’s own city required him simply to rule reasonably well. There were many adherents to the barons’ cause in the university and the town, not least the student body itself. On the other hand, the King had favoured the university on many an occasion and seemed to be planning to mass his forces at Oxford.
Now Henry’s son Edward was due to arrive in Oxford shortly from the Welsh Marches. The chancellor’s hair shirt prickled at the thought, and he began to absently scratch between his shoulder blades, contorting his body to achieve this feat. The stooping Halegod stood anxiously awaiting his orders, hopping from one foot to the other in front of the chancellor. De Cantilupe ignored him uncharitably.
How was he to handle the slippery Edward? Whose side was he on? You may have imagined that he stood firm with his own father. But only four years ago he had sided with Simon de Montfort when the earl had tried to hold the Candlemas Parliament in the absence of the King. At that time everyone had backed down, but who was to say that Edward would not switch sides again?
‘Fetch Bonham – he will know where Edward stands. He always monopolizes the gossip from court.’
Halegod bowed obsequiously and scurried off to find Master Bonham. The chancellor returned to hunting the itch across his back.
Returning to his rooms after verifying the state of Moulcom’s body with Bullock, Falconer began to review what he knew so far. He paced his room turning past the unmade bed and circling the table piled high with bones and books. His surroundings may have been in disarray, but he was practised in assembling information neatly in his mind. The high cost of paper and the poverty of his stipend resulted of necessity in this skill of his. Margaret Gebetz had been killed by someone she knew. She had also been frightened of someone or something in Oxford in recent months. She had asked Hannah to keep a book for her, a book now in Thomas’s possession. Falconer pursed his lips in exasperation that there was still no sign of Thomas and so he could not pursue that matter. It may be that the book supplied the key to the puzzle. He continued his pacing oblivious to the cold of the room.
Moulcom had been strangled in someone’s house, not by rioters in the street. He had last seen Moulcom leaving Fyssh’s inn the day after the girl’s death. The girl had worked for Fyssh. Was Fyssh the link between the two murders? Falconer sighed. That was an imaginative leap, not a deductive inference based on a comparison of all the known truths. It was unworthy of his Aristotelian tutelage. He slumped on to the edge of his bed and rubbed his weak eyes with the heels of his great spade-like hands. If only he could see more clearly. In both senses of the words.
A nervous cough brought him back to the present. Hugh Pett stood in the doorway of his room, anxiously twisting one sleeve of his rich green gown. His eyes were cast down to the floor and the oval of his fine red hair masked his look. Falconer was impatient at the interruption.
‘Not now, Hugh.’
The student sighed and turned to go, but looked back at Falconer as he did so. Falconer was close enough to discern the paleness of the boy’s face and immediately relented his curtness. He strode across the room and put his hand on the other’s shoulder.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ he asked softly.
Hugh turned his face up to Falconer’s with a hunted look in his soft brown eyes. The older man hesitated, seeing in that look a weakness in Hugh Pett’s character he had come across before. Then he silently reprimanded himself for such a thought. Who, least of all himself, was perfect in character? Especially at such an age as Hugh. He led the boy to a chair by the hearth and fussed about rebuilding the fire in it, appearing to deflect his attention from Hugh. As the kindling caught, Hugh stammered a few words.
‘I wondered … You see, I still feel guilty about letting Thomas loose the other day.’
Falconer blew on the small glow in the hearth, letting Hugh progress at his own pace. The boy continued, still nervously tugging at his sleeve, fraying the expensively embroidered edge.
‘I thought I might help in some way.’
‘You are, by continuing to keep an eye on him.’
‘Yes, but I wondered if I could help solve the killing of the girl.’
Falconer could not help but burst into laughter. Then, before Hugh felt he had been callously rebuffed, explained that unfortunately he had no idea on the killer himself.
‘Then you do not suspect Master Fyssh … or anyone?’
Falconer narrowed his eyes. The boy had made the last statement with some rush of relief.
‘Fyssh no more than anyone,’ he qualified carefully.
Hugh Pett quickly rose from the chair and made across the room, hitting the table in his haste. He clutched at a large bone that slid towards the edge.
‘Then I can be of no help?’
‘Only as I said – to guide Thomas through his first days here.’
‘Yes,’ said Hugh with apparent relief. ‘I’ll do that. I promise you. I’ll make sure he’s back from schools and safe right now.’
The student disappeared down the creaky staircase, his now frayed sleeve flying behind him. Falconer was somewhat puzzled at his strange behaviour, but put it down to the boy’s sense of guilt. Deductive logic now required his full attention. Either that or the fire, which was on the verge of failing.
Thomas sat on one of the great blocks of stone at the foot of the unfinished tower unsure of what to do next. The Jew had disappeared into the growing dark somehow. He could not entirely rid himself of the notion that the cat he thought he saw running away had been his assailant in another unholy guise. He shuddered at the thought, not least because it brought Hannah to mind. If he thought any Jew could change shape at will, did that not mean that she was in league with the Devil? He resolved to ask Falconer about the matter.
His problem now was what to do next. Should he still seek out Bonham? It was perhaps too late. Most people would be locking their doors against night prowlers, and he too should be safely in his room. The cold of the evening struck through him and he shivered. On the other hand he would have to face Falconer and report the loss of the book which seemed so important. Fear of his stern Master’s rebuke was greater than fear of the dark. He got up and continued along Schools Street, his breath in cold mists around his lips. At the end of the street the high walls of the town loomed above him, casting even greater gloom along the lane running to right and left. North Gate was to his left and it was that way he decided to go.
Luck was on his side. He was halfway down the lane, walking in the shadow of the wall, when he sa
w a figure step out of a door only yards in front of him. It was Bonham himself – the primness of his posture and the grey garb were unmistakable. He turned back to talk to someone following him out of the doorway. A stooped old man emerged carrying a lantern to guide them through the dark. If they turned towards Thomas he would be seen. He saw a buttress of the outer wall a few feet away from him, and ran without thinking. He flattened himself into the scant protection the buttress afforded, his cheek pressed hard against the coarse stone. His breath came in great gasps and he thought he was bound to be revealed. However the voices of Bonham and his companion grew fainter. They were going the other way.
Thomas screwed up his courage to peer around the edge of the stonework. The lantern held aloft by the old man glinted on Bonham’s bald head. They were disappearing into the murk towards North Gate. There was however another source of light in the lane. The weak light of guttering candles spilled out from the door of Bonham’s house. He had failed to latch it properly in his haste to follow the man with the lantern. Thomas would never have a better opportunity to reclaim the book. He crossed the lane to the doorway and eased open the heavy oak door. There was no sound from inside, but Bonham might have students under his charge like Master Falconer. He slipped through the gap and closed the door carefully behind him. The hall was narrow and half blocked by a bound chest beside the door on which stood the candlestick whose light had beckoned Thomas. The candle flickered and died as he stood there, and his heart leapt as he was plunged into darkness.
Bonham was ushered into the chancellor’s presence by the fussy Halegod, his lantern now extinguished and left at the door. De Cantilupe was eating some supper and he invited Bonham to join him. The little grey Master declined and stood patiently waiting for de Cantilupe to begin in much the same way as he waited for the students’ attention in his lectures. The chancellor hesitated and popped another shred of meat into his mouth. Wiping his hands carefully with a clean white napkin, he chewed and swallowed before beginning.