[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death

by Ian Morson

  ‘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 d
ivided 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.

  ‘Yes, I was once as handsome as you, my dear. But my husband’s business has not been going well lately, and my son is no help.’

  ‘Your husband’s business? I thought he had...’

  ‘Died? Yes, he did. More than ten years ago now. But I still see it as his business. I was only keeping it going to pass on to Deudone. But he is more interested in causing trouble than earning a living.’

  Saphira realized how similar their two fates were, and yet how different: Both had taken over a business after the death of their husbands, with a view to passing it on to their respective sons. But where Saphira had taken over with joy and relish, Belaset had shouldered it as a burden. And it, and the attitude of her son, had aged her. She silently gave thanks for the nature of her own son, Menahem.

  ‘Do you know where Deudone might be? He has no reason to be hiding, the very opposite in fact. He may have information that could help solve both an old murder and a new.’ Saphira did not have the faintest idea if what was locked in Deudone’s head could do that, but she needed something to encourage Belaset to divulge what she knew. She wondered how William went about his work uncovering the identity of murderers. According to him, it was all logic and assembly of facts. But her own experience of him led her to believe he also relied on guesswork, and flights of fancy. He just didn’t want to admit it. Well, she would beat him to it with womanly intuition, and downright deception if necessary. Her blandishments worked with Belaset at least. The woman stared trustingly into Saphira’s emerald eyes, and spoke out.

  ‘He was lying low in that old house in Pennyfarthing Street that used to belong to Lumbard. As the constable had searched it already, he thought it was safe. And he thought Covele might return there.’

  Covele. This was a name Saphira had heard before.

  ‘Do you think Covele did go back there?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Because I know my son is no longer in the house. I went there this morning to take him some food.’ She indicated the basket of bread Saphira had seen on the table when she had arrived. ‘So you should look for that renegade Covele. He was always leading Deudone astray with his wild beliefs. He did it when he was a boy, and he has done it again.’ Saphira frowned.

  ‘How?’

  When Belaset told her, she was very excited, and not a little scared.

  * * *

  After leaving Bullock to stable the jaded palfreys, which had carried the two men all the way to Tubney Manor and back in one day, Falconer came to a decision. He had to speak to Saphira Le Veske about the ritual slaughter that Covele might have carried out. He was confused in his own mind about what Jehozadok had meant about it, and he thought he had offended Saphira deeply by suggesting that there might have been some substance in the tales of murder such as had been suggested by the death of Little Sir Hugh. He recalled in Bonham’s notes something about rituals. Was this a message from the grave that Bonham wished to be communicated? Was a ritual, and its discovery, part of the reason for the Templar’s death? He hurried along Great Bailey and down Fish Street. Though it was already quite late, and the denizens of the night - rats and vagabonds - were beginning to emerge, he was determined to speak to Saphira before another night had passed.

  He rapped on her door, and waited. No sound came from behind the heavy oak, which bore a pale scar from the axe that had been aimed at Falconer’s head during the riot. He knocked again, and ran his finger down the scar thinking of how she had rescued him from the mob that night. And how they had spent the rest of the night together. He had ruined it all by doubting the truth of the Jews’ deepest protestations of innocence concerning the Hugh of Lincoln calumny. His third set of knocks once again echoed emptily inside the unoccupied house, and he wondered for the first time if Saphira had not indeed left Oxford and returned to Canterbury. The very thought was devastating, and he was left with no choice but to return to the no doubt chilly and unwelcoming rooms of Aristotle’s Hall.

  Saphira, meanwhile, had resolved to carry out her mission to its conclusion. Belaset had told her that she would find Deudone in the company of the renegade Covele, but not in the house in Pennyfarthing Lane. She told Saphira where Covele liked to sojourn when he was in Oxford. Tracking him entailed leaving the town by East Gate, and it was close to curfew hour. But Saphira would be delayed no longer. The watchman at the gate winked at her as she stepped through the small wicket in the main portal, which had already been pulled to. She had hurried along with the skirts of her green gown gathered up to avoid dirtying the hem on the
sea of mud that once had been one of the main thoroughfares into the town, so she was showing something of her slender ankles above the low-cut tops of her shoes. She was unaware that some of the prostitutes who frequented the town used this gate to discreetly get outside the town walls before dark to ply their trade in the houses built along the road towards East Bridge. The watchman reckoned she was one of the prettiest whores he had seen in some time, though a little beyond the prime age for such ladies. He would enquire about her price when she returned.

  Oblivious of the lascivious dreams she had engendered, Saphira stepped carefully through the mud, and made for the Jewish cemetery. She had been told by Belaset it was on Paris Meadow to the south of the road, and just opposite St John’s Hospital. She could see the forbidding walls of the little infirmary ahead, its windows illuminated by yellowish light that spoke of infirm souls unable to face the prospect of the darkness that might all too soon become eternal night. Across the road there was an area bounded by a low wall. Saphira peered over it, and could make out in the gathering gloom the shape of grave slabs. On the nearest one was the stark but worn image - carved despite the second commandment - of the seven-branched candelabra. She had found the Jewish cemetery, and shivered a little. It may have been the coldness of the darkening evening, or perhaps the prospect of hunting for Deudone in the cemetery’s gloomy and depressing environs.

  Pushing open the gate and stepping inside, she realized the ground was boggy, and almost submerged. At the lower end of the cemetery the grave slabs looked as though they were floating on water. Somewhere an owl hooted, and she cast around for Covele. The man must be more than a little mad to camp out as he did amidst the graves of the dead. Saphira would not have believed it true, but Belaset had insisted it was his habit. The dead were after all not in a position to reject him like the living. The branches of ancient elms hung low over the cemetery, obscuring parts of the grounds, and Saphira realized she would have to penetrate deep into the assemblage of slabs and tombs to be sure of finding the renegade. She cautiously stepped into the darkness, feeling the soft clay tugging at her shoes. They would be ruined by the end of this search, and she hoped it would be worth it.