by Ian Morson
Bullock frowned. This was news to him. He had assumed that the death had been sudden. Now it seemed that Ann Segrim had been unwell for some time. Did this mean anything, or was it unrelated? He realized he did not have a clue how Ann had died, merely assuming from the garbled story from Sekston and the serfs from Botley that she had been killed by a blow or a dagger. His embarrassment was spotted by Thomas, who ventured to make a suggestion.
‘Master Bullock, is there any way that I could examine the body?’
The constable looked aghast. He knew exactly what Symon meant. He had been aware of Falconer’s reliance on the little grey master called Richard Bonham. The inoffensive-looking man, now dead, had carried out quite illegal examinations of the bodies of people who had died in suspicious circumstances. Bullock didn’t wish to contemplate the details, but he knew Bonham actually cut the bodies open in the belief that the entrails would tell him something about the murder. It sounded more like necromancy to him than science. But it produced results. And Bullock had turned a blind eye to the breaking of civil and canon law. Now it seemed that this young whipper-snapper was suggesting he carry out the same defiling of Ann Segrim’s body. He was about to deny the request, when Thomas Symon explained.
‘I would not have to cut open… the body. Besides, even if I did, I am not yet as expert at that as Master Bonham was. No, I merely wish to look at her features, the colour and state of her skin and so on. And I need to ask some questions of the servants. This maid of hers, perhaps.’
‘Margery, yes.’
‘Can you take me to Botley and do that?’
Bullock nodded, glad to be doing something positive at last. He didn’t know how he would persuade Sir Humphrey to let an Oxford master see the body of his dead wife. But he would think of something. Having got a satisfactory answer to that part of his investigations, Thomas turned his attentions to the obviously distraught Saphira Le Veske. He put on a solemn air and explained his reason for coming to her house.
‘Mistress Le Veske, I can see that you are distressed by all of this. And I have promised William that I will take care of you. Tell me, is there anything you need?’
Despite the desperate situation, Saphira was amused by Thomas’s funereal face. She glanced over at Bullock, perched on her clothes chest, and winked.
‘You are most courteous, Thomas Symon, but I find that I am not in any immediate need. Other than a report from you as soon as you find out what you think caused Ann Segrim’s death.’
Thomas’s face fell.
‘I don’t think that I should involve you in such a terrible matter. I am sure that was not what William intended, when he said to take care of you.’
Saphira leaned across to where Thomas sat and patted his arm.
‘I am sure that is exactly what William intended. I am no courtly lady lacking experience of the darker side of life. I have seen dead bodies and been in peril of my life. Believe me, I can help you the same way I helped William at times.’
Thomas, uncomfortably aware of the swell of Saphira’s full bosom over the top of her dress and the heat of her hand on his arm, looked across at the constable for support. Bullock merely smiled crookedly.
‘She’s right, Master Symon. Mistress Le Veske has a wit as nimble as Falconer’s.’
‘Better, sometimes, Peter.’
Saphira rose and walked over to a small cask set on its side on the kitchen table. She picked up a pewter jug and held it to the tap, turning it on.
‘Let us toast our success in proving William’s innocence. We may have a hard road to travel over the next few days, or even weeks, but I am sure we will be successful.’
They raised their jugs of ale and saluted the solemn enterprise.
TEN
Thomas Bek was taking a chance by establishing himself as the arbiter in the case of William Falconer. But if his plan came off, he would wield considerably more power over the town as well as the university. Until now, he sat in the weekly Chancellor’s Court deciding on tedious cases which were at the same time petty and convoluted. Two days ago, he had banished from Oxford a friar who had libelled two Bachelors of Theology, and made a vicar swear never again to make suspicious visits to a tailor’s wife. At the same court he had become so intemperate that he had turned on a petitioner from the town. He had made the innkeeper of the Cardinal’s Hat make good the value of a horse he had foolishly allowed two Welsh students to purloin. The innkeeper had left his court fuming but impotent. Now, he sought to try a man for murder. And in order to strengthen his position, he had decided to deal with it in the grand context of the Black Congregation.
This august body was made up of the Regent Masters of the Faculty of Arts, which held sway over the running of the university, much to the chagrin of the other faculties. By holding the trial in front of the Black Congregation, Bek reckoned to legitimize the whole affair. Besides, he knew there were many masters in its numbers who hated Falconer sufficiently to preordain the result. What Bek did not want was an acquittal. That would not suit his purpose one little bit.
Roger Plumpton bustled into his room and interrupted his musings. The fat man was sweating heavily. Whether from his hurried entrance up the stairs, or from the precarious nature of his mission, Bek could not tell. Plumpton did not have the adventurous nature that possessed Thomas Bek and was perturbed at stepping over the boundaries of existing rules. Bek would have to rely more on his counterpart, the proctor of the southern nation, Henry de Godfree. He was a much more pragmatic sort of man, who would see the possibilities of what Bek proposed. Godfree was due back in Oxford tomorrow. He had been on a visit to London on behalf of the Chancellor. It had been on a minor intrigue of Bek’s that was now superseded by a much more important scheme.
Early on the morning after their agreeing to work together, three sombre people met at the small castle gate in the town walls of Oxford. The sun having barely peeped over the walls, the day was still chilly. So the constable had protected his old bones by donning a sheepskin coat over his tunic, as well as putting on thick leggings. The red-haired woman had also taken the precaution of wearing a dark-coloured cloak over her green gown. Besides keeping her warm, she thought it suitably sober for the task ahead. The young teaching master had ignored the morning chill and wore his usual long black robe. He shivered as he shook Peter Bullock’s hand, but felt sure he would warm up as they walked towards Botley.
‘I have sent a boy ahead with a message to ensure our arrival is not unexpected.’
Bullock’s words were the only ones spoken before they passed through the narrow gate. The constable locked it behind them, and they set off. The morning chill was slowly being driven off the low-lying land and mist hung like tattered shrouds across the fields surrounding Oseney Abbey. The abbey itself seemed to float above the clouds, its towers reaching up to the heavens. The long straight road led directly to Botley, and as no one felt inclined to talk, the three plodded on in silence. As they reached the grounds of the manor house, Bullock spoke at last.
‘Leave this to me. I will say that you…’ He indicated Thomas Symon with a horny finger. ‘. . . you are here to represent the interests of the accused. Segrim might protest, but I will say that the King’s Court requires it. And he will not know any better. You…’ The finger pointed at Saphira Le Veske. ‘. . . are with me to ensure propriety when I look at the body.’
The others nodded their agreement with Bullock’s plan. As they approached the door, it swung open and a man of middle years stood squarely in their way. He wore his hair long and curly but was otherwise shaved. Though the shaving had been patchy and areas of stubble were interspersed with nicks and red rashes. His face was puffy and showed all the signs of being that of a drunkard. Bullock guessed this was the half-brother who was supposed to have looked after the manor in Sir Humphrey’s absence. The man confirmed this with his first words.
‘I am Alexander Eddington, brother to Sir Humphrey Segrim. Whatever your business here, it can wait. My sister-in
-law is dead and my brother does not wish to see anyone. So be gone.’
Bullock stood his ground, used to the bullying nature of minor nobility and landowners.
‘I fear what I wish to do cannot wait. I am the town constable of Oxford, and as the death of your sister concerns a resident of Oxford, I have jurisdiction over the matter. I have come to see the body. Did you not receive my message?’
‘Yes, but I sent the boy away. You cannot come in. We are in mourning.’
Bullock stepped forward so that his face was inches from Eddington’s.
‘I will come in, and I will do what I am here to do. I have with me Master Thomas Symon of the university and Mistress Le Veske, a widow of good repute in the town. They are here to see fair play in all matters, so you will let me pass.’
Eddington’s eyes dropped to the floor, and grumbling under his breath, he stepped aside and let the three visitors in. At Bullock’s request, he reluctantly led them up the staircase and into the bedroom where Ann Segrim’s body lay. A heavy tapestry was drawn across the window and the room was icy cold. Ann lay on the bed still dressed in the clothes she had been found in. There were dark stains on the neck of the dress, which Bullock took for blood, and other marks around the skirt from where she had lain on the gravel path. Her face was serene but her skin was slack and pale as snow. Her arms had been folded across her chest in a prayerful attitude. Eddington stood in the doorway looking nervous; biting the nails on the fingers of his right hand. Bullock turned back to the door and closed it firmly in the brother’s face. Then he placed a chair against the latch, making it difficult to reopen the door. He looked at Thomas Symon quizzically.
‘Quickly now, what can you tell me?’
Uncertain, Symon stepped closer to the body and took a deep breath. This was very different from practising on a pig in Falconer’s cellar. Looking closely at a dead body, and of a person he had known in life, made him quite ill. He had to swallow hard to prevent himself from retching. But then he took a decision and looked back at Bullock.
‘Can you open the drape? It is hard to examine her in this poor light.’
Bullock did as requested and the morning light flooded into the room. Fortified, Symon once again bent over the body of Ann Segrim.
‘Yes, look here. There is vomit still on her lips – greenish with smears of blood in it. Did you say, Mistress Le Veske, that she had been vomiting earlier?’
Saphira nodded.
‘Correct. For a number of days apparently. That is why I prepared a tincture of opium for William to bring to her. She had been sweating too.’
‘Really? I would like to know some of her other symptoms. Perhaps we can ask her husband that.’
Bullock interrupted the young man’s musings.
‘Yes, but that is for later. Please try and stick to the matter in hand. I don’t suppose that Sir Humphrey or his brother will take too kindly to us being here alone for too long. What can you tell me from what you see?’
Thomas was a little put out by the constable’s abruptness and was about to make a retort. But behind Bullock, he saw Saphira quietly shake her head, and gesture at the body. He contained his annoyance and looked more closely at Ann’s face and arms, which were the only parts of her that were exposed. He thought for a moment about looking further, but didn’t suppose it would have been seemly to examine any other part of the body. What he did see confirmed the suspicion of foul play, but it wasn’t of a physically violent nature, as had been suggested.
‘She has been poisoned. Look at her arms, where the skin is darker than normal, and here on her palms…’ He turned the hands over so Bullock could see. ‘. . . there is scaly skin. And here…’ He turned them back over again. ‘Here there are white lines on her nails.’
Bullock squinted closely at Ann’s hands, also seeing what Symon was pointing out.
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means that Ann Segrim was possibly poisoned with arsenic powder.’
This revelation was interrupted by a thunderous knocking on the door and jiggling of the jammed latch. This was followed by a call from outside.
‘What are you doing in there?’
Alexander Eddington was back and, by the sound of it, was not prepared to allow them any more time. Bullock moved the chair causing the obstruction and pulled the door abruptly open. Eddington’s face was, if anything, more suffused with a red flush. He had either let his anger build, or had been drinking some more. Bullock pushed him roughly back on to the gallery outside that overlooked the main hall of the manor house. The private room where Ann lay was located off this galleried area, and further along was a second door that Bullock presumed was that of Sir Humphrey. He knew from Falconer that he and his wife inhabited separate bed chambers. The second door was firmly shut and no sound came from within. Though Eddington had caused a great deal of noise, it seemed the grieving widower was not to be disturbed. Bullock had to try, however.
‘I need to speak to Sir Humphrey, if you please.’
He made to pass Eddington, but this time the brother was having none of it. He stood up to the constable, bolstered by his extra intake of Segrim’s best Rhenish.
‘You will not disturb him now in his time of grief. It is enough that you have… desecrated his wife’s rest with your pryings. Now take your crew and leave.’
Bullock knew that if he insisted now his investigations may be compromised by ill feeling. He may even be reported on to the sheriff and aldermen of Oxford, to whom he nominally answered. So he decided not to push further, thinking he had plenty of time before the King’s justices arrived to try any case brought against William. He was not to know that in this instance he was mistaken. Time to prepare was rapidly running out for Falconer.
‘Very well. We will leave for the time being. But bear in mind that I will need to interview everyone in the house. Including Sir Humphrey, and yourself.’
Eddington spluttered in anger.
‘Are you suggesting I am involved in this unfortunate matter?’
Bullock gave him no reply, but simply smiled enigmatically. Then he turned on his heels, leading Saphira and Thomas back down the stairs and out the front door. It was only when he returned to his quarters in the castle that he heard of the chancellor’s plans for Falconer’s trial. Suddenly time had run out and the matter was becoming very urgent.
Unaware that Falconer would face the Black Congregation the very next day, Saphira Le Veske returned straight home after the trip to Botley. She sat in her kitchen, where the maid she employed had laid out a cold meal. She was hungry but could only toy with the food. There was something on her mind. At Botley, she had seen more than she was prepared to admit to Bullock or Thomas Symon. When they had entered the bedchamber where the body of Ann Segrim lay, she had simply watched as Thomas examined it. Her knowledge of the signs of death was limited. But when Bullock pulled the drapery back to let in more light, she had spotted something that the two men ignored. Lying on the table next to the bed was a small silver box carved to look like filigree which was fixed to the end of a chain for encircling the neck. Inside the box, showing through the intricate carving, was a small piece of parchment. Some may have thought it purely decorative, but being a Jew, Saphira knew it immediately. It was a kimiyah – a small amulet to protect against illness. The parchment was an angel text. It would have the name of an angel inscribed on it, and to some it would be a powerful talisman. Saphira was prepared to bet that it had been bought recently from Covele, the Jew she had seen in Oxford the other day. It made her all the more determined to track him down and find out why he had been at Botley. And if he had anything to do with Ann Segrim’s death.
Her reluctance to tell anyone else of her observation stemmed from her deep understanding of what it meant to be a Jew in Henry’s England. Her race was no more than tolerated by most Englishmen. They were reviled for lending money with interest, when that very practice had been forced on them by the English king who effectively owned them – i
n body if not soul. The Christian religion forbade profiting from lending money, but noblemen needed to borrow money to sustain their lifestyle. It was a simple step, then, to leave money-lending as the only avenue for Jews to make a living. Saphira’s own son ran the family business which was based in Canterbury and Bordeaux, and there they traded quietly in wine under cover of lending money. But if any hint of wrong-doing was attached to a Jew, the consequences could be dire, for the individual concerned and the community at large. So Saphira was reluctant to place Covele at the scene of the murder without investigating further. Pushing her bowl of untouched victuals aside, she picked up her cloak and went to search for the amulet seller.
While Saphira was embarking on her own secret investigations, Thomas Symon sat in Colcill Hall racking his brains as to how his mentor would have started his inquiry into Ann Segrim’s murder. He knew he should have insisted on interviewing Sir Humphrey Segrim, but the half-brother’s intimidating presence had scared him off. Many said, however, that you should look for a murderer in the bosom of the family of the victim first and foremost. Thomas knew he would have to talk to the husband eventually, despite Alexander Eddington’s efforts to prevent him from doing so. In the meantime, Thomas knew he should be accumulating known facts in accordance with Falconer’s tenet on being a deductive. Several smaller truths, when laid out together, would reveal a greater truth. He sighed and picked up a quill, a pot of black ink and a piece of old, scraped parchment. By the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the narrow, glazed window of the hall, he began to write down what he knew.
An hour later, the light was beginning to fade and Thomas had scratched out no more than a few words on the cleaned parchment. Below the name of Ann Segrim he had written the words ‘poisoned’ and ‘arsenic?’. He had pondered long and hard over the question mark after arsenic but had finally added it. He was already unsure of his analysis of the signs on the victim’s body. Beneath that expression of uncertainty he had added two more. Firstly, he had written down Sir Humphrey’s name, to which he had added another question mark. Then after a longer pause, he had put down Alexander Eddington’s name, also followed by a question mark, for the sole reason that the man had been present in Botley Manor. By the same reasoning, he could have put down all the servants’ names, and had indeed sat with his pen hovering over the parchment for some time. The silent witness to his indecision was the large ink blot that completed his list of known facts. It had dropped off the end of the quill as he hesitated, and had caused him to finally lay down the pen. Now the ink had dried on the quill tip and his mind had emptied of ideas. It was not a lot to show for his first day investigating the death of Ann Segrim.