A Psalm for Falconer

by Ian Morson

  Hurriedly locking the chamber door and tiptoeing past the sleeping monks, he scuttled down the exterior stairs. In his excitement, he was now oblivious of the stinging cold on the soles of his feet. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, and stood in the cloister getting his bearings. Up to his left was the end of the quire dorter where stood Lutt's office, and next to it, in the corner of the cloister, was the warming room. A massive chimney rose up the side of the undercroft and dorter, exactly where Lutt's office lay. Falconer knew that the warming room was the one concession to communal comfort in this and other monasteries. It was the sole place where monks had access to the warmth of a fire in the freezing depths of winter. Moreover, the flue backed on to the wall of Lutt's office, and would have inevitably warmed it without his having recourse to the warming room itself. So why would he have stopped the lighting of fires recently? Falconer thought he knew.

  He didn't know how much time he had left before the monks rose for matins, so he raced across the cloister to test his theory. The warming room was gloomy and, in contradiction to its name, cold. On one side of it stood a massive opening spanned by a huge oak beam. It would have been possible for several men to stand in the fireplace itself, and Falconer could imagine the blaze that would have been stoked there. Now the hearth was black and depressing. Crouching down in the cold ashes, he thrust his free hand up the chimney and groped around in the soot and dust. At first he could feel nothing save the crumbling stonework. Perhaps he had been wrong to read too much into Thady Lamport's passing comment. He had been sure that the solitary monk's reference to Lutt's refusing a fire had been significant. It had not struck him that Adam Lutt was an ascetic. Refusing others the chance of warmth, perhaps, but not at his own expense. There had to be a reason for his not wishing a fire to be lit in this hearth. Falconer stood the stub of his candle in the hearth and pushed his arm further into the opening above his head. Suddenly his fingers felt the edge of a box. He gripped it and pulled it out. Sitting triumphantly amidst the ashes and fallen soot, he dusted the lid of the box, and opened it. His eyes widened. Within lay a set of papers, and a stack of coins.

  The day had been dull and grey, the clouds hanging heavily over Port Meadow like unwashed blankets. Even the river had lost its sparkle, running turbidly between its banks. Ann Segrim had had plenty of time to ponder her dilemma. She had been placed in Godstow Nunnery by Peter Bullock with the agreement of the abbess, Gwladys, to discover who had killed Sister Eleanor. Now all the evidence that Ann had gathered pointed at Sister Gwladys as the murderer. She had come to the nunnery to bring some semblance of order to it. Discipline had been lax, and Eleanor had enjoyed a life barely different from that of any woman living outside the walls of a convent. The young nun had suffered more than anyone at the hands of the new abbess, who enforced discipline with a strong right arm. Could Gwladys have killed Eleanor in a fit of excessive zeal? And still have allowed Ann Segrim into the nunnery to carry out the constable's investigations for him? Perhaps she had thought she had no choice – she certainly had not been totally cooperative.

  All these conflicting thoughts crowded in on Ann as she walked a lonely path along the river bank. With her mind so occupied, she did not notice the worsening of the weather until the downpour hit her. Within moments she was soaked, and the plain woollen dress she was wearing in deference to the newfound severity of her companions hung heavily on her shoulders. The bank was barren of shelter, and there was nothing to do but turn back, and dream of the dry clothes awaiting her in the convent. A pity the simple cell was so cold. She hoped this soaking wasn't going to bring on a fever.

  Hal Coke, the gatekeeper, let her into the nunnery, complaining at having been called from his own warm, dry lair to do so. He appeared blind to the state of her clothing. She entered the cloister, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. By now it was early evening and the nuns should all have retreated to their solitary cells, so Ann was surprised when she heard a muffled squeal carry across the cloister yard. She had almost convinced herself it was a night bird when it came again: clearly human this time. Peering into the gloom from where it came, she realized there was a bar of light spilling out from the edge of a half-closed door. It was the door to the Rosamund chapel.

  She tiptoed round the cloister, dripping water from the hem of her dress as she went. Another wail came from behind the door, but this one was cut off and ended in a throaty gurgle. Ignoring the wet, chafing dress that clung to her uncomfortably, she put her eye to the crack in the doorway. What she saw drew a gasp of shock from her. For a moment the tableau before Ann's disbelieving eyes was suspended in time. Sister Gwladys stood like an avenging angel over the cowering figure of another nun. They were both sideways on to Ann, so she could clearly see the abbess's face. It was an implacable mask, pale and rigid. The other's face was invisible, because the abbess held the nun's head pressed down to the cold stone floor. She held it there with one hand encircling her victim's neck in a vice-like grip. Just as Eleanor had been held. With her other hand she pushed down on the back of the head, grinding the other's face into the ground at the foot of Rosamund's tomb. Then, in response to Ann's gasp, the tableau changed.

  Gwladys looked sharply at the door, her face red with exertion, and she released her hold on her victim's neck. As the other nun raised her head, gasping for air, Ann saw it was poor little Gilda. She pushed the door open and stepped into the chill air of the chapel, which, as well as being the house for a tomb, now felt like a tomb itself. Gilda's face was raw on one side where it had been ground against the rough surface of Rosamund's last resting place. Her eyes were round orbs that filled the inverted triangle of her face, her thin chin quivering in fear at its bottom point. She looked up in supplication at the bedraggled form of her saviour, struggled to her feet, and flew soundlessly out of the chapel.

  Falconer wished he had his trusted friend, Peter Bullock, with him now. It was so useful to discuss his ideas with the constable, even though he understood little of the logic that lay behind them. Simply to have someone to talk to was helpful. He would have liked to confide in Ralph Westerdale, but was not sure how far the precentor was involved in the web of secrets that had caused both the death of John de Langetoft and, fifteen years later, that of Adam Lutt. The papers had told him a great deal, and he had to share some of his knowledge with Westerdale. because he knew the writing on some documents was not Adam Lutt's. He had been able to compare it with the ledger he knew was in Lutt's hand. And though the common script of the monks was very similar, being learned from the same source, he knew that the oldest documents from the box hidden in the chimney were not written by the late camerarius. He simply had to trust Westerdale.

  So it was that he drew the rotund little man into an empty carrel as soon as Brother Ralph was free of his morning devotions. He passed one of the papers over the top of the bookrest. It was folded, and when Ralph opened it he gasped in surprise.

  ‘This is the missing page from the catalogue. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Never mind where it came from. It is sufficient to know that it lists, amongst other items, the books from Grosseteste's library that I have been seeking. Thady Lamport's recollections were correct.’

  ‘Brother Thady?’ Westerdale was dumbstruck. ‘When did you speak to him? He is supposed to be—’

  ‘In solitary confinement. If living in a cell with the whole of Thurston Water to roam can be said to be confined. I spoke to him yesterday, and he recited the titles of several works passed on to here from the bishop's collection. Including one I had not heard of, entitled De infinitate lucis – the infiniteness of light. You can see it listed there.’

  Ralph kept his head bowed, as though closely perusing the text. Falconer wondered if he had been wise in confiding in him after all. But he had to continue. He passed an older document over to Ralph and asked him whose writing it was. Westerdale peered at it closely, not really paying attention to the content. He hummed and hawed, hesitating, then held it to
the light that filtered through the door's grillework.

  ‘I don't recognize it as that of anyone who holds office at present.’

  ‘Could it belong to … someone now dead?’

  ‘What are you asking?’

  ‘Could it be the hand of John de Langetoft?’

  Ralph's face fell. ‘You are asking me to identify the hand of someone who died fifteen years ago? Where did you get this document, anyway?’

  As before, Falconer refused to answer. He simply asked Ralph another question. ‘What sort of man was de Langetoft?’

  The precentor dug back in his memory. He recalled Brother John as unsociable, and disinclined to share confidences with his fellow monks when they were all young novices. There were few occasions for sharing problems, and those who were uncertain about their future life whispered fleetingly in the darkness of the dormitory for common reassurance. Ralph had indulged in this comradeship along with the others. But John de Langetoft had been a man apart even then. He had been sure of himself, and of his inevitable progression to the highest rank – that of prior of Conishead.

  Falconer recalled Thady Lamport's opinion of de Langetoft as someone who had broken his vows. This was not the man Ralph was describing.

  ‘Could you see him as a sinner?’

  Westerdale snorted. ‘John de Langetoft considered himself a saint, and all those around him as composed of weak flesh. I regret his piety was somewhat insufferable.’

  ‘Then, if you can't identify his hand, could he have written what you see in the document you are holding?’

  Ralph looked down at it, and began to read. ‘“Brother Thady is destroying books. His clouded thinking is becoming intolerable. Lay Brother Paul has twice failed to attend matins on pretext of stomach pains, yet he is well able to eat his food after sext. Brother Peter …”’

  Falconer waved his hand impatiently. ‘No, no. At the bottom of the page. Read that.’

  ‘“Brother John the sacrist …”’ Ralph looked interrogatively at Falconer in case this was still not what he was supposed to read. Falconer nodded vigorously, so Ralph read on silently. When the words before him began to sink in, Ralph could not believe what he was reading.

  ‘In answer to your question, yes, I believe Brother John could have kept records of his brothers' … foibles. They could be currency spent in obtaining his goal – the office of prior. But this says that …’

  Falconer nodded. ‘That John de Langetoft, if that is his hand, knew some dark secrets about this community. Chiefly that fifteen years ago your little sacrist was sneaking off to visit a woman named Isobel, whom he was maintaining with the proceeds of books stolen from your library.’

  ‘But the books are still going missing now. There was the one I told you of only the other day.’

  ‘The psalter, yes. Then perhaps your sacrist is peculiarly faithful to this woman. I am fairly certain also that, on the strength of this document, Adam Lutt was blackmailing him. Remember the finger sign I asked you about?’

  ‘The sign for passing the salt? Yes?’

  ‘It was having seen Adam Lutt making that sign to John Whitehed in church that convinced me of what Brother Adam was intent on. And John paid him off. Now, I think it's more likely he would do that for a current misdeed than for one error of fifteen years ago. I do know we should keep our eyes closely on Brother John from now on.’

  The light of comprehension began to dawn in Ralph's eyes. He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially to Falconer. ‘But if John de Langetoft knew of his sins, and Brother Adam found this document after he replaced de Langetoft, then that provides good reason for suspecting John Whitehed of killing both of them. Should we not report this to the prior, and have him imprisoned and interrogated?’

  Falconer grimaced at such a crude approach, yet suddenly felt at home with this naive man. His proposed actions were no better than what Peter Bullock would have recommended.

  ‘I prefer to have proof in the shape of evidence – truths that the murderer cannot deny – rather than force a confession from him. One that may turn out to be false, and based on fear of torture. We should monitor his movements, and catch him in the act. If he has stolen a book recently, we may not have to wait too long for him to betray himself.’

  Chapter Twelve

  The monks had a double and sombre ceremony to perform the following morning. Henry Ussher had decreed that the funeral rites of both John de Langetoft and Adam Lutt would take place after matins. And the prior went out of his way to ensure that the recent death caused no undue ripples in the normally placid surface of the pond that was Conishead. As far as the rest of the religious community was concerned, the truth of Brother Adam's death was that he had drowned in an unfortunate accident. Falconer joined the assembled community in prayers for the souls of the dead. Incense hung heavily in the air, like the perpetual mist that hung over the whole Leven valley. Below the altar lay two shrouded figures. That of Adam Lutt's body was large and bloated, the other – John de Langetoft's bones – scarcely disturbed the smooth surface of the dull, white cloth.

  Unused as he was to ceremonial, Falconer found his eyelids drooping, until he received a sharp dig in the side from Ralph Westerdale, who sat next to him. Questioning the monk with an impatient look, Falconer was directed to the sight of John Whitehed scurrying round the legs of the prior like some faithful hound. He groaned, hoping that Ralph wasn't expecting him to follow the sacrist's every move. After all, he could safely assume that Whitehed would not disappear halfway through his devotions. Nevertheless, he nodded, then placed his hands over his face, as though in prayer, and tried to catch up on the sleep he had missed over the last few nights.

  Not for the first time, he thought of Peter Bullock safe in his bed in Oxford with nothing more than the excesses of some young students to disturb his daily routine. He also thought of Ann Segrim, and could almost smell the sweetness of her yellow hair; could imagine it tumbling from the net that habitually kept it in check when she came to Oxford market. He imagined his guilty thoughts being censured by some composite image of a cleric, whose face wavered between that of the elderly prior of St Frideswide and Thomas de Cantilupe, former chancellor of Oxford University. Then the admonishing tones became real, and he awoke from his doze to hear Henry Ussher berating his community at large. But, listening carefully, Falconer was sure the words he spoke were directed at him personally. He even recognized the message as from the words of St Augustine.

  ‘Whatever knowledge man has acquired outside Holy Writ, if it be harmful is there condemned, if it be wholesome it is there contained.’

  Falconer could not square this stultifying religiosity with the excitement in the eyes of the prior when he had explained the new means of producing molten iron at the ironworks a few days ago. It was becoming clear that Henry Ussher was publicly distancing himself from the taint of any form of scientific enquiry, but Falconer was not sure why. Still, the more pressing matter was to observe John Whitehed's actions, which could lead to much more promising conclusions. The sacrist looked pale and unhappy.

  Ann Segrim was wishing she could talk to William right now. Sitting facing the terrified Sister Gilda, whose face was still raw and oozing, Ann did not know what more to ask her. Their exchange to date could not be graced with the description of conversation. Ann had questioned Gilda, and the waif had responded with nothing more than a whispered yes or no, forced out through her tears. Now Ann had run out of questions. And it had all seemed such a good idea last night when she had found Sister Gwladys grinding poor Gilda's head against Rosamund's tomb in a murderous rage.

  When the weasel-faced girl had fled, Ann was left facing Gwladys, whom she now firmly believed to be Eleanor's killer. She wondered if she should flee herself, slamming the door on her adversary. However, Gwladys didn't look like a crazed murderer who had just been thwarted of her second victim. She merely looked embarrassed at being discovered by the younger woman. She looked like what she was – an awkward disciplinar
ian of an abbess, with her greying hair awry. They stared at each other, both uncertain of what to do. Suddenly Gwladys sniffed haughtily, and quickly took Ann by the arm. Ann flinched, and wondered if her chance of escape had passed.

  ‘You're soaked, and should get out of those clothes immediately.’

  The abbess's words were stiff, but obviously meant as an invitation to talk. They could also have been intended to divert Ann from the unusual circumstances of their meeting, and the abbess's role in it.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Ann decided it was best to follow.

  In the solitude of the abbess's own room, which predictably was at least as severe as those of her flock, Ann peeled off her soaking dress. Though she would have liked to remove her shift as well, she left it on. The abbess no doubt would have been scandalized by the sight of her nakedness. Fortunately it was only slightly damp, and she used it to dry herself, rubbing some warmth back into her body. Unprompted, Gwladys began to speak, in an attempt to justify her actions to her guest.

  ‘Gilda needed discipline – she had allowed Eleanor's death to affect her as the sister affected her in life.’

  Ann frowned as she donned the coarse grey robe that the abbess offered her. ‘And you needed to terrify her, and to skin her alive, to get the message over to her?’

  Gwladys's whole posture stiffened. ‘You don't understand these girls.’ Ann wondered if she included Hildegard amongst the ‘girls'. ‘They were licentious when I arrived, allowing family members into the nunnery. And men into their cells. They decked their habits with ribbons and even kept pets. I was charged with rectifying the situation by the Papal Legate himself.