by Ian Morson
* * *
Thomas was glad they had all returned to Bonham’s study before discussing the book. The presence of Moulcom’s eviscerated body was not conducive to clear thought, even though the two Masters seemed unaffected by it. Bonham began in a strange way.
‘You found my scalpel on Fyssh’s body, I presume?’
Falconer was momentarily confused, then blushed at the truth of how it had come into his possession.
‘No, I confess I took it myself when I was last here. Why did you think the lamented Master Fyssh would have it?’
‘Because he had been here the morning of the banquet, and I left him alone for a while. As I did you.’
The words were delivered accompanied by a sharp look from the little man, and Falconer cast his gaze to the floor.
‘Then at the banquet, he spoke to me and said he had something of mine that would reveal what I was. He said I should meet him in the cellars to recover it. I first came home to check what he might have and discovered one of my knives missing. I thought he had used it to come to the same conclusion as you have. The Church still does not approve of anatomy and I imagined he wanted something in return for keeping my secret. He was an odious man, whom no one will mourn.’
‘That is why I saw you in the cellar?’ Falconer’s question was speculative, as he recalled seeing no more than a tonsured head fleetingly in the shadows. The fact that Bonham confessed to this boded well for the truthfulness of his statements generally. Admitting to being present at the scene of a murder could be the statement of an innocent man. Or a devious and guilty one.
‘Yes. But I was far too late. I only heard the screaming from a distance as I returned to the hall, and by the time I had found Fyssh he was dead. No one else was there. Then I heard someone coming, who turned out to be you, and hid. Not well enough it seems.’
The hour was getting late, and Bonham paused to light a candle. The flame flickered on his face and cast huge shadows on the wall of the little room. Thomas thought of him poised over the body of Moulcom, drawing his knife from neck to groin, and he crossed his arms in involuntary self-defence.
‘Master, the book,’ he prompted.
‘I had not forgotten, Thomas.’
It was Bonham’s turn to be puzzled, or so it seemed.
‘Book? What book?’
‘The book you took from young Thomas here. The one you said you had burned.’
‘And so I did.’
‘Then how is it that the cover was found clutched in Fyssh’s hand at his death?’
Bonham blanched and leapt across the room, not to the stack of books Thomas had examined on his first visit, but to a dark and battered oak seat with a panelled front. Thomas had sat on it during his search for the book. The seat was hinged and Bonham lifted it and groped inside.
‘It’s gone.’
‘I have the cover here.’ Falconer produced the tattered cover with its few pages attached and waved it under Bonham’s nose.
‘And do not tell me that this is not the same book. Two people have identified it, including Thomas.’
His bald head bobbing, Bonham agreed that what Falconer held was the book. He explained that he was so interested in the contents of the book that he wished to retain it, and had been reluctant to admit to Falconer that it still existed. He had said the first thing that came into his head when questioned by Falconer earlier.
‘You see, I found the contents fascinating. I had heard talk of such a work, but never seen one.’
‘A Cathar Bible, you mean?’
Bonham was deflated by the fact that Falconer already knew about the book. He was, however, somewhat mollified when he was asked to tell what he knew of the heresy. He explained that Catharism was a French doctrine that supposed two opposing principles of good and evil resided in the spiritual world and the terrestrial world respectively. Souls banished from Heaven resided in fleshly bodies and transferred at death to an animal or another human, depending on the goodness of the dead being. The elite of the sect refused to eat the flesh of beasts as this would interfere with the transmission of souls. He continued, ‘The only right path for the heretics is not to associate carnally with women. In this way all souls will eventually return to Heaven as there will be no bodies for them to inhabit.’
Bonham broke off his lecture and shook his head in disapproval.
‘This elite – the priesthood – do they have a name?’ Falconer already had an inkling of what Bonham would say.
‘Oh yes, they call themselves Perfecti.’
Falconer was disappointed. Then Bonham continued.
‘Though some go by the name of Bonhommes.’
With the death of Jack Moulcom, the chancellor had not only lost his spy in the Northern Nation of students, but also his doer of deeds that must not be traced back to himself. He now needed someone else to manipulate. De Cantilupe disliked dealing with the fastidious de Stepyng, but it was clear to him they were on the same side in the growing conflict brewing outside the walls of Oxford. His reaction at the banquet made that obvious. The chancellor had dealt diplomatically with Prince Edward, who still resided temporarily in King’s hall outside the town walls. But his real sympathies lay with Earl Simon de Montfort, or more accurately with the good management of the nation, and that was best in Simon’s hands.
He had summoned de Stepyng because he understood the older man also supported Earl Simon and would probably initiate a task of common interest. He sat gazing indifferently at the rich hangings Peter Bullock had viewed with awe earlier. For the chancellor they merely kept the chill from penetrating his bones. The evening was growing darker and colder, and he stirred the logs in the fireplace with his foot. Turning at the sound of Halegod’s scurrying feet, he forced a smile to his lips and welcomed the regent master.
‘Master Robert, thank you for attending so promptly.’
De Stepyng’s sallow face was as taut as ever, his lips stern and his eyes unforgiving.
‘I am at your service, chancellor.’
De Cantilupe motioned the other man to a seat at the opposite side of the fire, and there was a momentary pause. Then de Cantilupe outlined his request.
‘I believe we have a mutual friend of some considerable power, who needs a favour done. And it could be to both our advantages if it is successful.’
De Stepyng kept his silence, gazing unflinchingly into the flames, and the chancellor knew he could trust him. Not so his servant Halegod, so he continued in lower tones. What he was about to say was not to be bandied around the town. At least not yet.
‘These recent murders …’ He paused, marshalling his thoughts.
‘You mean the ones which Falconer is running around trying to solve?’
‘Exactly. Might we not say that there is some demonic involvement in them?’
De Stepyng was not sure where the chancellor was proceeding with this idea, and remained guarded.
‘What I mean is, could not the Jews be involved?’
Now the regent master could follow the drift of de Cantilupe’s thoughts. It was well known that he detested the Jews for theological reasons. Curious, then, that his feelings should match Simon de Montfort’s, when the latter’s were occasioned by purely economic reasons. De Stepyng had heard from travellers that in Canterbury and other towns Jews had been attacked under cover of the general turmoil in the nation. However in every case the Jews’ archa which stored the records of all Christians’ debts had disappeared.
‘It would suit our mutual friend if Falconer discovered that the Jews were the culprits in the murders of the servant girl and Master Fyssh. I will not include the student Moulcom in this as it is likely that one of the people in the town killed him. Let them add that accusation to the others later if they wish.’
The chancellor left unsaid what would be the result of a Jew being found guilty of murder. For the townspeople it would surely not end there.
‘And my part in all this?’ as
ked de Stepyng.
‘Well, I have to admit that Master Falconer does not exactly pay heed to anything I say. I thought that you could find some way of linking the girl Gebetz and one of the Jewish men. An act of carnal corruption followed by ritual slaughter would be believable, would it not? Of course it would have to be told to Falconer soon. Our mutual friend is most anxious on this matter.’
‘I will attend to it immediately.’
* * *
Falconer’s room was a cold and unwelcoming place. The fire had been extinguished and, having rooted into the depths of his storage chest, Falconer could only find one candle. This now burned fitfully, trickling molten wax straight on to the table where it stood. Falconer thought he now had all but the key fact in his rag-bag of information, indeed he knew who had killed Margaret Gebetz, Jack Moulcom and Master John Fyssh. But not precisely why, and that irritated him.
Thomas entered with a poor tray of food left over from the supper taken earlier by the other students in Aristotle’s hall. There was some cheese and dry bread and the dregs of the large jug of ale that had lubricated the young throats to bouts of song. Falconer could even now hear some loud voices drifting up from the hall below, praising youthful vigour and the futility of age.
‘Congaudentes ludite,
Choros simul ducite!
Juvenes sunt lepidi,
Senes sunt decrepiti.’
The singing was drowned in a roar of laughter and Falconer felt even more lost and adrift. Time was that he would be down there with his students, enjoying their youthful energy and ensuring they did not get too carried away. Now his brain was so addled he could not solve a simple problem. He suddenly realized Thomas was pushing the platter of food towards him, and looking expectantly at the regent master. Why did he seem to create this aura of infallibility with the young? Some even considered him a necromancer, merely because of this simple ability to deduce.
‘Shall we use dice?’
‘Sorry?’
‘No matter,’ Falconer sighed. ‘Let us review the truths we do know. The girl Margaret Gebetz was killed by someone she knew. Because of a book she had.’
‘Or had taken from that someone.’
Falconer ignored the interruption.
‘Master Fyssh was killed because of a book he had.’
Thomas eagerly opened his mouth to speak, but Falconer held up his finger in admonition, and continued.
‘The book was one and the same – a heretic’s Bible.’
Thomas managed a question. ‘Why was Jack Moulcom killed? What connection did he have with the book?’
‘Jack Moulcom was Jack Moulcom.’
Thomas opened his mouth to question this statement of the obvious. But again Falconer stopped his flow, warming anew to his task.
‘It’s well known that Moulcom ran all sorts of nefarious errands for Masters and merchants alike. Nothing was beneath him, if money was involved. I would guess he acted for our killer in the search for the book which—’
‘Margaret had taken.’
‘Which the girl had taken, and he knew more than it was safe for him to know.’
What Falconer could not understand was why the possession of the book was so incriminating. No one could accuse the owner of the book of actually being a heretic. These were liberal times and many strange texts were owned by scholars. What was so important at this time and in this city that made the knowledge of Catharism a danger? Once again he reviewed known truths.
‘If the reason for the deaths has something to do with France, there are several people in the university with strong connections to that country. It was there that Fyssh, of course, came across Margaret. The chancellor has lectured at the University of Paris, where Bonham has studied.’
‘Whereas I have no connection with France at all.’ The sharp, precise voice of de Stepyng cut into Falconer’s thoughts. He looked up to see the man in his doorway, his hawk-like nose jutting out of his severe face. He wondered how long he had been standing there, and how much deduction he had followed. The man continued, ignoring the presence of Thomas.
‘You miss out another connection.’
‘And that is what?’
‘I have heard that the young Jew who lives with Rabbi Jehozadok was brought here from France as a child.’
‘So I believe.’
‘Surely it is more likely that if, for whatever reason, you connect the murders with France, and I will not enquire why …’
Good, thought Falconer, he did not hear us talking of the Cathar Bible.
‘… I would have thought it more profitable to suspect the Jew than reputable men such as the chancellor and Master Bonham.’
Falconer snorted at this biased assumption. Widespread hatred of the Jews was not a truth to be added to his deductive process, and he told de Stepyng so.
‘Then use this truth, that I have discovered myself. This Jew was seen by several students hanging around Beke’s Inn and following the servant girl every time she ran an errand. The talk was that he used her, and made her with child. No doubt he killed her because of that.’
With this he turned and swept out of the room, a selfsatisfied smile on his lips. Thomas watched him go, then turned back to face Falconer. He was fearful of what this latest piece of information would do to Hannah. Falconer had a smile of satisfaction on his face.
‘Good. We have just received a most valuable fact. Wait here.’
He swept out of the room, too, leaving a worried Thomas in his wake.
De Stepyng was not sure that the seed sown in Falconer’s head would come to fruition. The man went off on such tangents he could not be relied on to follow the obvious track. That was why, upon leaving Aristotle’s hall, he hurried through the dusk towards Peter Bullock’s rooms. He despised the squat, ugly man for his lack of intelligence, but knew that would work in his favour on this occasion. An accusation against the Jews would find fertile ground there, and circulate around the townspeople immediately. After that there would no doubt be indiscriminate attacks on the Jewish quarter. And wasn’t that what de Cantilupe wanted?
He left Peter Bullock puzzling over what he had just been told. The scholar was wrong to think that the constable lacked intelligence. Blinded by the man’s unprepossessing appearance, he failed to see the qualities that Falconer found manifest. And even if he had known how well Bullock performed his job, he would have put it down to low cunning, no doubt. But despite his own mistrust of the Jews, Bullock did not immediately take de Stepyng at his word. More than ever he wanted to find Falconer and seek advice on this latest riddle. The insistent knocking at his door roused him from his thoughts, and he was amazed on opening it to find the very Master he had been thinking of standing in the doorway. Not for the first time he wondered if Falconer were some magician, who divined people’s thoughts.
‘Bullock, my friend, I have a request to make of you, but I would rather not make it on the public highway.’
Bullock apologized and stood aside to let Falconer in, and realized that behind his bulk stood another Master of the university. A small grey man, with a sober face, who was unknown to him.
‘Forgive me. This is Master Bonham and he has come to assist me on my errand.’
Bonham pulled a face at Falconer’s mention of his errand. Clearly he was anxious about something, though carried along by Falconer’s enthusiasm. As many people were, in the heat of the moment. Bullock himself knew what it was like to do Falconer’s bidding only to look back later and wonder how he could have agreed to it. He hoped this was not another of those occasions. He followed the two Masters into his cramped and dishevelled room, and opened his mouth to broach the subject of the Jews. But Falconer held up his hand.
‘Later. I need to secure some information urgently and require your help. Margaret Gebetz, where is she?’
Bullock was not given to whimsical retorts, and forebore from suggesting either Heaven or hell.
‘I imagine
you mean her body. It is in a box in the crypt of St Frideswide’s. I fear there is no one to bury her, so it is as well that the weather is cold.’
Far from being angry at the poor girl’s fate, Falconer was much cheered.
‘Excellent. I had imagined that I would have to prevail on you to dig her up.’
‘Dig her up?’ Bullock was shocked. It clearly was one of those occasions he feared, and he was determined not to be led by Falconer into something monstrous.
* * *
With such resolve, Bullock was bewildered to be shortly leading the two regent masters down into the crypt of the church where the girl’s body had first been brought. Falconer had swept him along again.
All three men’s breath coalesced into white plumes in the wintery chill of the crypt. At the bottom of the steps, Bullock held out his lantern to light their way. The dark seemed to press the yellow glow back on itself, and the men could barely see a few paces ahead of them. The heavy pillars that held the weight of the church above seemed compressed into the packed earth that formed the floor of the crypt. They bent their heads low to avoid the arches. Perhaps the whole building was sinking into the earth.
‘Here it is.’ Bullock pointed at a long coffin of cheap wood pushed in one corner. There was a patina of frost on it, glistening in the light from his lantern. At least the body would not have decayed too much.
Falconer strode over, calling for Bullock to bring the light nearer, and leaned over the box. He grasped the edge on the far side of the coffin with his massive hands and wrenched the lid back. Fortunately the nails were poor and with a squeal that sent a shiver through Bullock the lid came free. Bonham stepped forward and produced a leather roll tied in the middle from his gown.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Bullock, half afraid of what he might be told.
‘Be quiet and bring the lantern closer,’ hissed the little grey Master. He unrolled his leather parcel and laid it out on the lid of the coffin, now lying on the ground. Bullock realized that the parcel held a clutter of knives.