Falconer's Trial (20 page)

When Bullock turned round, he saw Saphira had crossed the street from the safety of Samson’s house, and now stood in the doorway of her kitchen. He felt like a fractious pupil brought before his dominy.

‘I will ensure that everything is restored, and that the men will be on their best behaviour in future. You have nothing to fear from them.’

Saphira smiled easily. The horror of the previous night had fled, and though she had experienced a momentary pang of fear when she stepped out beyond Samson’s safe and solid oak front door, she soon conquered it. She had experienced worse threats in Bordeaux when her husband had still been alive, and their son a vulnerable child. Now she was a widow with a grown son travelling between France and Canterbury, and could face up to whatever the world threw at her.

‘No matter, Peter. Broken pots can be replaced and doors mended. Nothing worse happened. Thanks to Samson.’

Bullock frowned.

‘That is what I cannot understand. How he got you out of the house and across to his home without the idiots knowing.’

Saphira and Samson exchanged glances, and she realized that the tunnels and cellars were Jewry’s secret. She waved a dismissive hand.

‘Oh, they were drunk and easily fooled. And it was dark.’

‘Hmm.’

Bullock knew he was not being given the whole truth, but felt he couldn’t press the matter further in the circumstances. His personal sense of guilt still hung heavily on his shoulders like a chain mail coat. But he would find out how the escape had been engineered at some other time. He hated a mystery as much as Falconer did.

Saphira began to clear up the mess in the kitchen, and Bullock was about to help, when a cry came from the front door.

‘Constable. You are needed elsewhere. A hue and cry.’

Bullock recognized the voice of his watchman, Peter Pady. He normally stood night watch over East Gate, and should have been in bed by now after his latest shift. Instead, it seems he was searching for Bullock, and in an agitated state, to boot, over a call to hunt out a criminal. He stomped out of the kitchen and saw Pady hovering in the street doorway. His wild eyes were running around the damage caused to the front door.

‘What on earth has happened here?’

‘Never mind that. It is being dealt with. Who has called a hue and cry?’

‘Maggie Bodin, the spicer’s wife. She has found her husband dead in his shop.’

Saphira, who had followed Bullock to her door, heard what the watchman said. She was suddenly interested in this matter, because she had wanted to talk further with Robert Bodin about his sale of arsenic and other possible poisons. Now it looked as though someone had prevented her from doing that. Someone who could be the real killer of Ann Segrim. She grabbed the cloak she had left by the shattered front door, and started after Bullock and the watchman. She called out.

‘Peter, I am coming with you.’

Bullock, without breaking his bandy-legged, rolling gait, waved an arm over his head in weary acknowledgement. He knew nothing would stop her, if she was determined to come too. Soon, they were both having to push their way through a knot of people, who had gathered outside the front of the spicer’s shop close by All Saint’s Church. The shutters were still up, and the shop in darkness, but everyone could hear the wailing that emanated from within. The newly-made widow was in full flow. Bullock waded through the crowd like a sturdy little ship cutting through waves in the English Channel. Pady and Saphira followed swiftly in his wake. Inside the shop, Maggie Bodin’s caterwauling was deafening. She was kneeling before the body of her husband, half hidden under a burst sack of reddish powder.

‘Cinnamon,’ murmured Saphira, recognizing the aroma of the spice.

Bullock hefted the sack aside and sneezed as the exotic spice flew up around him, irritating his nose. He wanted to be sure Bodin was not still alive – a possibility that Maggie seemed to have ignored. But, when he looked at the spicer’s face, he could tell there was no hope. Bodin’s eyes were wide open, and as dull as stale fish on a market stall. There were red spots in the whites of the eyes that Bullock had seen before too. Smears of red powder were evident around his mouth and nose, where he had tried unsuccessfully to breathe air into his chest. He had suffocated on a sack of spices. Bullock leaned over to Maggie Bodin, grasping her arm firmly and turning her to face him. Slowly her sobbing ceased.

‘I suppose there is no chance that this was a tragic accident. That the sack fell on him when he was lifting it, and he couldn’t crawl out from under.’

Maggie snorted in derision, wiping the snot from her reddened nose.

‘Robert was strong. He could lift two of these sacks and carry them across the shop. No. Someone has killed him.’

Saphira squatted beside the distraught woman.

‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to do that?’

‘No, I do not. But why are you asking me that? Don’t you believe me?’

‘I didn’t mean that. But it would help the constable if you could tell us about anything suspicious that happened recently. Anything out of the normal.’

Maggie eyed this strange woman asking questions that were the province of the constable with curiosity. Then she looked at Bullock questioningly. He nodded in encouragement, and then made sure he stood between Maggie and the body of her husband. He didn’t want her caterwauling to start afresh.

‘Please answer Mistress Le Veske. It would help me.’

Maggie Bodin rocked back on her heels and gazed up to the ceiling. She recalled how Robert seemed to have been on edge recently. Always looking over his shoulder nervously, and looking scared every time he heard the door of the shop open. Previously, he had been such a strong man, even overpowering at times if the truth were told. But lately he had lost his confidence and she didn’t really know why. Though it might have had something to do with one of his sales. There had been a couple of customers with whom he had dealt rather secretively. Once, she had come down into the shop, only to be told abruptly to get back upstairs by her husband. She had retreated to the landing, but had peered down to see who else was in the shop. It had been a figure dressed in dark clothes – brown or black, she couldn’t tell – and that was all she saw. Their head had been cut off by the angle of the stairs. She began to tell her inquisitors this.

‘I couldn’t see his face as he was standing in the shadows at the rear of the shop. In fact, it might have been a woman, come to think of it. Like a nun or suchlike.’

She began to cry and her mouth hung open, though no sound came out. To see her like that was more frightening than hearing her original cries of horror. Bullock looked away in embarrassment, as Saphira took the woman’s arm and guided her back upstairs to her solar. The constable beckoned to Peter Pady, who stood in the doorway of the shop, preventing the curious from peering in.

‘Call off the hue and cry. There is no need to go hunting for a killer now. He must have died in the early hours of the morning by the feel of him. He is stiff and icy cold. Arrange for the body to be dealt with properly. The widow is in no fit state to know what to do herself.’

Pady nodded solemnly, and left the shop, pushing his way through the crowd, to carry out his task. Bullock stood on the step and closed the door behind him. He glared at the mob of onlookers, until they began to take the hint and disperse. He did call out to one portly, old woman, though.

‘Mistress Stockwell, Maggie Bodin will need a kind soul to help her through the next few days.’

The old woman nodded sadly.

‘Aye, you are right, there, Peter Bullock. If you will let me in, I shall sit with her.’

She shuffled past him, as he opened the door. And a few moments later, Saphira joined him at the threshold.

‘There is much to follow up here, Peter.’

Bullock groaned.

‘But we do not know if this murder has anything to do with Ann Segrim’s death.’

‘But it’s too much of a coincidence. Here we have a man murdered who dealt in poisons, if only to kill beasts. We know for sure that he sold arsenic to Covele, the talisman seller, who was later at Botley. He could easily have sold some to other people we don’t know about. Mistress Bodin said the person she saw was wearing brown or black. That is a start.’

Bullock gave a mocking laugh.

‘You might be decked out in colourful clothes, mistress. But look around you now. Poor people, working people, are mostly garbed in simple cheap brown cloth. And most of the masters at this university of ours wear black.’

It was true. As Saphira looked at the people passing by, she did see the occasional young buck dressed in purple or parti-coloured clothes. But this was the exception, rather than the rule. Most were clad in rough, dark cloth. But she was sure the description of the mysterious person whom Robert Bodin wished to hide from his wife would help in the end, when all the facts were assembled. And she couldn’t but remember two particular facts. Firstly, Covele was last seen clad in a brown robe, and, secondly, she couldn’t get out of her mind the beggar boy she had once seen at the door of the spicer’s shop. She didn’t think of it at the time, but she was convinced it had been the talisman seller’s son. And that meant that he was still lurking around Oxford somewhere.

For his part, Peter Bullock was uncertain of his own dismissal of the brown or black clad figure. It came to mind that, like himself in his Templar days, Odo de Reppes’s sergeant, Gilles Bergier, would be dressed in brown.

NINETEEN

C
hancellor Thomas Bek was a worried man. He was afraid that Falconer was slipping through his hands. For most of Saturday, he sat brooding on the problem. He had thought his case against the troublesome man conclusive, but now he was hearing rumours of another possible murderer. Roger Plumpton, an indecisive and wavering reed at the best of times, had gone behind his back. He had been talking to some of the regent masters, and had learned that Sir Humphrey Segrim was hinting of wider implications to his wife’s murder. When Plumpton had smugly communicated this to Bek, the chancellor had been doubly annoyed. Not only did it mean that the thorn in his side in the form of Falconer might escape, it also implied that he, Bek, had got it wrong from the beginning. That was an impossible pill to swallow. Moreover, the tale Segrim told was of a grand conspiracy against the crown of England. A conspiracy that Bek was completely unaware of. If, as he desired, he was to follow in the steps of his predecessor at Oxford, Thomas de Cantilupe, and become Chancellor of England, he should have had his finger on the pulse of such a traitorous movement in the midst of Oxford life.

Angrily, he rang the bell on his table to summon his servant. He needed fresh wine to help him think. With the trial not proceeding until Monday, he had a day and a half to come up with incontrovertible proof of Falconer’s guilt. Even if he had to concoct it himself. When his servant poked his bald head nervously into his master’s private room, Bek snapped out his commands.

‘More wine, Peckwether. And summon Master de Godfree.’

He eased back in his ornate throne of a chair. Henry de Godfree was a slippery customer, but that’s just what Bek needed now. He would do anything to please his master and ingratiate himself into his good books. De Godfree would work something out, he was sure, or he wouldn’t be Proctor of the Southern Nation next year. He was drinking deeply of his second goblet of Rhenish, when Henry de Godfree entered the room. Bek, flushed with wine, greeted him imperiously.

‘De Godfree, my dear man, thank you for coming.’

The proctor squirmed a little before the chancellor. He knew Bek was at his most dangerous when drunk and genial. His mood could change in a flash, and the heavens could fall on the unlucky victim of his displeasure. But he had nailed his colours to the mast of Thomas Bek, and hoped to go all the way with him to the heart of government. He modestly inclined his narrow head, testing an obsequious smile on his lips.

‘I am your servant, sir.’

Bek, ignoring the fact de Godfree was left standing, began to explain his dilemma. Once he had heard him out, de Godfree eagerly responded. He knew exactly what was needed.

‘If we are to nail down Falconer, we must do it without decrying this possible conspiracy.’

Bek angrily broke into de Godfree’s exposition, tapping on the table for emphasis.

‘No, no. Surely we must scotch this rumour and concentrate on what we have already got. His sexual peccadilloes. Can’t we embroider that a little more?’

De Godfree was warming to his thesis and took the risk of contradicting the chancellor.

‘On the contrary, sir. If we deny the conspiracy exists, and then it later proves to be true, you… we… will be seen as gullible fools. No. Whether it is true or not, we must weave a tapestry that shows Falconer is probably involved in it too. Then, whatever the masters believe is the cause of the murder – high politics or base sexual wrongs – Falconer will be damned.’

Bek grinned broadly, forgetting de Godfree had contradicted him. This sounded a most intriguing proposition. He pushed a goblet towards the proctor and poured the Rhenish, albeit sparingly, into it.

‘Sit down, man. And tell me how you plan to make this work.’

The day was hot, and Bullock had sent a message to Colcill Hall asking Thomas Symon to meet him at Grandpont. The long bridge spanned the meandering Thames south of the town walls, and cool breezes blew along the river valley. The location also reminded Peter Bullock of more innocent times, when as a child, he had dipped a fishing pole in the waters of the Thames at this very point. Thomas found him sitting on the grassy bank of the river, his boots off and his bare feet plunged in the flowing waters. He stood beside the constable, but didn’t dip his own feet in. Once a farm boy himself, he now was very conscious of his new solemnity as a master of the University of Oxford. Maybe a little too self-conscious. Sometimes he yearned to be the carefree boy he had once been. With a moment’s indecision, he sat down on the bank next to Bullock.

‘The rumour is there has been another murder.’