by Ian Morson
It was lucky that he had moved because from where he was he could look over the people grouped around the fire, and in that moment saw a fat figure pass the open kitchen door. Surely that was Fyssh – why was he still lurking around? Falconer began to concentrate again on his reason for being here, and crossed the kitchen to follow the suspected Master.
Thomas got up as he saw Falconer pass him. But the Master firmly pressed him back on to his seat, and uncharacteristically winked at him.
‘Stay here,’ he whispered with a conspiratorial smile.
The cook and his gang ignored him as he skirted the table, scattered with the debris of the recent repast, and continued swapping tales. Reaching the door, he peered cautiously round its edge in the direction Fyssh had been going. The vast figure was at the end of the passage, turning towards the cellars under the hall. A torch at the end of the passage cast his shadow back even larger than life along the wall. It seemed to leap towards Falconer and he flinched momentarily. Then Fyssh was down the steps and his shadow was gone. The corridor rocked gently as though Falconer were in a small boat fishing off the coast. He braced his legs apart and scurried after Fyssh. Turning towards the doorway down to the cellars, he thought he saw the glow of flames, and smelled an evil odour. Was Fyssh in league with the Devil? He hesitated at the arch, leaning on a frame that creaked and bowed, then cautiously descended the steps, keeping in close contact with the wall to his left. At the bottom he could just see the shape of Fyssh under an arch to his right. The man was leaning on a barrel of similar proportions to himself, seemingly doing nothing. If he had conjured up the Devil, he had not arrived yet.
Falconer needed to get nearer, but could not cross the floor of the cellar directly towards Fyssh. He would be seen instantly, even by the weak light of the brazier on the wall. Edging around the wall, he moved behind a stack of barrels in a direction that would bring him out behind the waiting man. As he slid between the barrels and the wall, he heard a rustling sound from amidst the pile. Part of his mind told him it was rats, but then he thought he heard his own name being called.
‘William.’
The sound seemed to boom around the chamber and Falconer’s mouth went dry as he recognized the voice of his father, long dead. He spat the chewed leaf out on the ground, shivering. Then just as suddenly the sound was gone. Recovering control, he peered over the top of the barrels expecting Fyssh to have been alerted by the noise and to have fled. Nothing had happened – Fyssh still leaned against the barrel, tapping the surface impatiently. He seemed oblivious to all the clamour that Falconer had heard. Not able to believe his luck, Falconer gave thanks that he was still undiscovered. He was still not as close as he had wanted to be, but before he could move again Fyssh turned and spoke to someone in the shadows of the archway. His voice was muffled by the low ceiling and Falconer could not make out what he said. Whoever else was in the cellar was not revealing himself, because Fyssh was peering with surprise into the dark. The fat man produced something from the pouch at his ample waist and waved it in front of him. Falconer edged round the pile of barrels to get a better view of who it was facing Fyssh but he was hidden.
He did get a glimpse of a dark sleeve as the other’s arm clutched at whatever it was Fyssh was holding out. The echoes of their argument boomed around the cellar, turning the words into an incomprehensible mad cacophony. Gusts of air blew the flames of the brazier into wild disorder. Falconer could see the shadows of demons flying across the arched roof. At the centre of this mad scene two men struggled, seemingly locked as one around the object both craved. There was a flash of light and Fyssh’s head arched back in an impossible position. Rivers of blood flew towards Falconer and his nerve cracked. He screamed and fled from what could be no less than the Apocalypse. Turning to look back, he saw a great bat flying towards him, its wings cracking with the effort. He stumbled up the steps, and swung around the doorway, tearing his hand on the rough wood. The sanctuary of the kitchen was just at the end of the corridor, and he could still hear the sound of voices – human voices. A claw grabbed at his heel, just as he forced himself to move again. He staggered forward and fell on his face. He could feel the hot breath of the demon on his neck. He screwed himself into a ball and screamed as loud as he could. The sound seemed to come from the depths of his soul, and echoed around his skull. Once started he could not stop it.
The cook was the first on the scene, and later swore that there had been no one but Falconer in the passageway. Thomas had had to break through the knot of kitchen servants in front of him, and had feared the worst when he saw Falconer on the floor covered in blood. However the cook was already turning him over, and he could see Falconer’s chest heaving with the effort of his screams. The blood came from a nasty gash in his hand, but that would mend. At first Falconer thrashed in the firm grasp of the cook’s beefy hands. But when Thomas repeatedly called his name, he began to calm.
‘Thomas, is that you?’
‘You will know if you open your eyes, Master.’
Falconer tentatively raised his eyelids, and looked all around.
‘The demon. Is he gone?’
As soon as he said the words he felt foolish. But what was it he had seen, then? The cook helped him to his feet, and looking over his shoulder he was sure he saw a red glow emanating from the cellar. He began to shake again, but the strange feelings were receding.
‘Who were you following?’
Thomas’s question brought him back to reality.
‘Master Fyssh.’
His response brought back something of the strange vision he had seen.
‘He’s still in the cellar.’
Falconer knew he would have to face the descent again. Still unsure of what was real, and whether or not the Devil lurked below, he insisted no one should follow him. Neither the cook nor Thomas chose to argue. He went to the doorway leading to the cellar, noticing the rusty latch covered in blood where he must have cut himself. The cellar was poorly lit by a guttering brazier, and Falconer with his poor eyes had to venture further to verify if Fyssh were still present. A cold breeze blew from the other end of the cellar, causing what little light there was to dance across a heap of clothes on the floor. Falconer bent over it. Not a heap of clothes but the body of Master Fyssh. His head lay at a curious angle, his eyes staring blankly into the depths of the cellar. His heavy chins could not conceal the livid gash that had nearly decapitated him. He lay in his own blood, the purple surcoat soaking it up. One of Falconer’s murder suspects lay dead, apparently killed in the same way as the servant girl whose death had started this chain of events.
Falconer drew out the new device to focus his vision, relieved that his combat with the Devil had not broken it. With it he scanned the body more carefully before anyone else could disturb it. One of Fyssh’s arms was raised above his head, as though he had been protecting something. Falconer examined the claw of his fist more closely. There was some parchment – a letter perhaps – in his grasp. Falconer prised the fingers open and found the cover and first few pages of a small book. As he rose, he thought there was someone observing him deeper in the recesses of the cellar. Forgetting his eye-lenses he started forward, peering into the gloom. There was a grey shape, but it had turned and gone before Falconer raised the device to his eyes. Hearing a crash, he ran forward into the dark, only to find another flight of steps leading up to a trap-door. It was closed and must have been the origin of the noise. Whoever, or whatever had been in the cellar was now gone.
‘Is it safe down there. Master?’
The distant voice of the cook called from the top of the steps. Hurriedly Falconer slipped the torn cover into his pouch and returned to the body.
‘I fear that Master Fyssh will give no more lectures. You had better summon the authorities.’
Chapter Twelve
Falconer woke with a start, a feathery memory at the back of his mind of a scaly lizard crawling over him, its thin tongue flicking across his e
yelids. The room was empty and brightly lit by the sun streaming through the casement. Dust motes danced in the beams of light, which shone directly on the pallet opposite. He was back in his own room in Aristotle’s hall, and it took him a little while to recall the events of the previous day. At least it took a while to remember them in a sensible way. He gently lowered his legs on to the strawcovered floor and tried to get up. After a moment of lightheadedness, when he thought he might float out of the window, he grew steady and made for the door. He could hear voices in the main hall, and made his way towards them. One was clearly that of Thomas Symon, whose aggrieved tones were admonishing some fellow student. On opening the door, he saw Thomas, and an ashen Hugh Pett sitting opposite each other across the stained and pitted table used for meals.
‘Ahh. I know I am a little late, but have we anything to eat?’
Hugh rose and barged past Falconer out of the hall, his face a mask.
‘What did I say?’ Falconer turned to Thomas in puzzlement. The boy reminded him that, after they had returned to the hall last night, Hugh had seen Falconer in his room, and emerged white-faced and silent. He had refused to tell Thomas what had passed between him and Falconer.
‘And I surely can’t remember,’ said Falconer, searching his still muddled memories of the previous day. Then he dismissed it from his mind.
‘You youngsters believe the world and all its happenings revolve around you. When in reality we are all no more than a mote in God’s eye.’
He reached out for a stale crust left on the table, and tried to rationalize the main events in King’s hall. He thought aloud.
‘Going into the hall, Fyssh argued with de Stepyng. After the meal he said something unpleasant to Bonham to judge by his reaction. All had left the hall by the time I met you in the kitchen. As had the chancellor, of course, with Prince Edward.’
‘You do not think that he—’
Thomas’s vivid imagination was held in check by a firm look from Falconer.
‘No. I believe we can rule out our noble prince.’
He sighed.
‘As we can now Master Fyssh.’
‘Could he not still be our killer? If indeed the Devil took him, that may be conclusive proof of his guilt.’
‘I fear it was a more human hand that dispatched our fat friend. And a murderer himself murdered may be convenient, but is not logical in the circumstances. No, there is much more to uncover here before the final truth. Just when I thought I needed one more truth to deduce the greater one, I am presented with another skein of truths unwinding that lead me further from the path.’
Thomas stirred uncomfortably in his seat.
‘But you insisted you had seen the Devil when we found you yesterday.’
Falconer blushed in embarrassment.
‘I wish you could forget that. Oh, I do believe in the existence of the Devil. But not in a cellar in Oxford, meeting a rather overweight and overrated regent master.’
‘But then, what did you see?’
‘Quite simply, I saw Fyssh’s murderer. And probably the murderer of Margaret Gebetz and Jack Moulcom. A pity I was in no fit state to recognize him.’
Thomas was confused.
By way of an explanation, Falconer asked for another of the leaves Joshua had dropped in the kitchen. Taking it from Thomas’s fingers, he raised it to his nostrils.
‘For a herb it is remarkably short of aroma. As a drug, it was very potent.’
He put it to his lips, then, recalling the Apocalyptic images his mind had woven the previous day, he stopped and stowed it carefully in his pouch.
‘I know who can help us identify this. Come.’
Peter Bullock was trying hard to be patient with the young student before him. He had stepped out of his door that cold morning, to find this boy standing shivering in the shadow of the Great Keep. He had sought to ignore him, turning left to go about his business, but the youth had stepped across his path. He clearly was not going to be ignored, and Bullock sighed, his breath expelling in a frosty cloud.
‘Well?’
The youth hesitated, dropping his head so that his fine red hair masked his face. He mumbled something that Bullock’s imperfect hearing could not catch. Impatiently, he grunted a query.
‘I killed Master Fyssh,’ the boy blurted, a look of anguish on his thin face.
‘That is a university matter. Go and see the chancellor or the proctors.’
Once again Bullock moved to pass the boy, but again he was stopped by the quick movement of the student. Hugh Pett did not know why he had sought out the constable rather than the university authorities in order to make his confession. He only knew that Master Falconer would not listen to him, and had no one else to confide in but this ugly and bodily twisted man.
‘They will not believe me.’
‘And I will?’
Hugh’s eyes implored his attention, and Bullock relented.
‘You had better come inside. You look as though you have spent the whole night in the gutter outside my house.’
Inside he had offered the boy some ale warmed over the coals in his firegrate. Then he had gently coaxed him into telling him what he had meant about killing the regent master at yesterday’s feast. At first Hugh would only repeat that he had wished Fyssh dead, and had made it happen. Now Bullock was curious and wanted more. He began to press for more details.
‘Where did you get this?’ Samson’s tone was peremptory as he gazed at Thomas through his red-tinged lenses with piercing eyes. He was twirling the leaf that Falconer had given him in his delicate fingers. The intertwining scents that pervaded Samson’s house made Thomas feel dizzy. Or perhaps it was the presence of the Jew’s daughter Hannah, sitting demurely and discreetly in the corner of the room. Thomas took a deep breath to clear his head and spoke.
‘From Joshua.’
‘Joshua?’
Samson’s tone was disbelieving.
‘Well, indirectly. He dropped some leaves on the floor and I … picked them up. I saw him eating them and thought they were just herbs.’
Falconer interrupted.
‘It tasted nice when I chewed one.’
‘Oh, it does. Or at least, you feel nice. Mostly.’
‘So you know what this leaf is?’
‘I do. It is known to the Arabs as khat.’
Samson explained that the leaf grew in the Land of Ham, in Ethiop. There it was used socially by the Mohammedans who eschewed ale and wines. It relaxed and gave a feeling of calm, but it had other paradoxical effects. Some people who ate it were known to go mad temporarily and claim everyone hated them. Some people imagined persecutions, living in a waking nightmare. Falconer thought he could vouch for that. Samson continued, ‘Fortunately, they come round and are not harmed. Unless they do something to themselves or others while in that state.’
‘And Joshua has this leaf? Why do you allow it?’
Samson turned his weary gaze to Hannah. She nodded at her father. ‘They deserve an explanation.’
‘Take them to Rabbi Jehozadok, he will explain better than I. He is the youth’s guardian. Give him the leaf by way of explanation.’
Bullock’s interrogation of Hugh Pett was progressing well, although the information the boy had given to date could have been got from word of mouth circulating in the street. If the boy truly did kill Fyssh, he needed more information to present to the chancellor. Perhaps he could test what he knew on his friend Falconer first. Pett knew that the murder had occurred in the cellar of the great dining hall, and that it had been committed with a knife. He clearly hated Fyssh for some reason – reason enough to kill him, obviously. And he had confessed, after all.
‘Come,’ he grated harshly, and the boy jerked up his head that had been cast down at the ground.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘Provide you with some appropriate accommodation while I decide what should be done.’
He le
d the boy out into the lane running around the base of the keep and, taking him firmly by the arm, guided him to the right. The weak sun had hardly begun to warm the air and the frost still lurked in the shadow of the walls. Bullock almost danced along the lane, the cold of the ground penetrating the thin soles of his footwear. He pulled the frightened student to a halt at a low archway in the curtain of the keep wall. Peering through it, Hugh could discern a short passage closed off by a heavy, studded door.
‘What’s this?’
‘My lock-up. Perfect accommodation for a desperate murderer, don’t you think?’
Hugh would have hung back, but Bullock’s firm grip on his arm prevented it. He was thrust forward until the weight of Bullock’s body pressed him against the door of the cell. The studs gouged uncomfortably into his chest, making him gasp. The constable was impervious to his pain, only leaning harder against him to reach past and unlock the door with the heavy keys in his great fist. He had clearly perfected this manoeuvre with other, more robust evildoers. As the door gave inwards, the pressure of Bullock’s body made Hugh tumble forward into the cell. He fell on to his knees in a pile of old straw that stank of urine. The door was quickly slammed behind him with alarming finality, and he was left alone in the dark.
* * *
Rabbi Jehozadok led them into a room piled with books. Falconer and Hannah had been there before, but it filled Thomas with awe. He could not believe so many books existed. The old man turned to his guests and motioned for them to sit down. When they were seated Hannah explained the situation and gently put the leaf into the rabbi’s hand. He went over to the hearth and leaned against the heavy stone arch. The fire played redly over his long white beard, and when he turned to face his audience there was a redness in his eyes, too.