[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (15 page)

‘Stop this caterwauling immediately. What on earth is going on?’

Tom Youlden’s head poked around the wooden newel post at the foot of the staircase.

‘I am sorry to have disturbed you, master. It is nothing we cannot handle.’

Another voice piped up.

‘Handle? I’d like to see you try and handle me, you puny ... clerk.’

The other voice, high-pitched in its irritation, was one Falconer recognized immediately. It was the angry tones of Deudone, fully thirty years but still a hothead, who could not control his temper.

‘Thomas Youlden, why are you preventing Deudone from seeing me?’

The student’s face appeared once more at the foot of the stairs, a little redder than before.

‘But, master, you were exhausted, and the Jew has no right to be on these premises.’

‘I may decide that you have no right to be here if you continue to harbour such prejudices, boy. Now show the gentleman up, and fetch us both a jug of wine from the tavern on the comer. Here.’ He tossed a coin down to the youth, who caught it deftly. ‘And think yourself lucky I haven’t made you pay for it yourself.’

‘Yes, Master Falconer.’

Youlden’s blushing face disappeared once more, and in its place appeared a dishevelled Deudone. He looked up hesitantly, unsure of himself, so Falconer beckoned to him to proceed.

‘Come, Deudone, and tell me what it is that bothers you.’ Deudone trudged up the creaking staircase, as if reluctant to take each step. Falconer could tell from the laughter and jibes at the bottom that Tom Youlden was being mocked for his error by those who no doubt had been assisting him. When Deudone reached the top of the stairs, Falconer put his arm round the shoulders of the young man, and guided him into the cluttered solar. Bonham’s bundle was for the moment forgotten.

Fifteen

Thomas Brassyngton was angry with the priest Simon. He had arranged for a riot to take place, sparked off by the rumour of ritual child-murder in the house behind St Aldate’s Church. And now, Simon couldn’t come up with the body.

They were standing outside the shabby, rundown house at the end of Pennyfarthing Street with the constable of Oxford. As the Prior of St Frideswide’s, Brassyngton had some considerable standing in the town. Now it looked as though he was going to be embarrassed all because of an idiot priest who couldn’t even read.

‘When you came to me, you were certain that someone had been slaughtered here.’

Simon was overawed by the presence of the two powerful men. He stammered his reply.

‘S-sir, I am sure of what I s-saw. I saw a body being dragged into the house from the rear yard. I heard the child squeal. I know what I saw and heard.’

Bullock grunted sceptically, and rattled the firmly barred street door.

‘We can put an end to this, if only we can get in.’ He stood back, but though the building looked ramshackle, the ground-floor window was firmly shuttered. On the upper level the windows were small and set under the eaves. They had no shutters but looked firmly latched. Besides, there was no way to climb up to them even if they could be forced open.

He had an idea, though.

‘Show me where you saw this murderous attack. Over the rear wall, you said.’

The scrawny priest nodded and took them round to the entrance to the church. Once inside and down the aisle, he led Brassyngton and Bullock into a rear chamber and on through to a small back yard. A stone wall just over head height defined the boundary of the church’s land. Simon pointed nervously at it.

‘It’s there I heard the sound of a child screaming, and calling out for help. I had to look over, and see if there was anything I could do.’

Bullock took note of the fact that Simon’s story grew more certain and more detailed at each retelling. His scepticism was growing, but nevertheless he needed to check out the story.

Particularly with as important a man as Thomas Brassyngton breathing down his neck.

‘Hmmm. Let’s see.’

He pulled a small cask over to the wall, and set it on its end. He clambered awkwardly on it, holding firmly on to the top of the wall. Looking over, he could see a straw-strewn back yard whose hard earth surface had been churned by some animal in the past. There was a distinct smell of urine. What concerned him more was the sight of long gouges in the earth running towards the back door of the house, and a distinct dark patch between them that looked suspicious. He groaned, realizing he would have to get over the wall to investigate further. He was too old for this sort of game, but he couldn’t see either cleric climbing over.

‘Here, hold this.’

He unbuckled his sword and passed it to Simon, who took it in a shaky pair of hands.

‘Don’t drop it,’ admonished Bullock, and he pulled himself up with his powerful arms. Swinging one of his legs on to the top of the wall, he managed to scramble over and drop down the other side. It was an ungainly and painful descent on to his arse, but at least he hadn’t broken any bones. He picked himself up, nursing an ache at the base of his spine, and brushed at the sticky mud smeared on his woollen breeches as best he could. The strong farmyard smell now clung to his clothes. Crossing the yard tentatively, he examined the gouges.

Could they have been caused by dragging a child across the soft, rain-soaked earth?

Bending down to look at the dark patch between them, he suddenly thought of William Falconer, and how he would have approached analysing the clues before his eyes. He felt an ache in his chest caused by his regret for the way he had treated his friend recently. Involuntarily, he thought of the man who had usurped his loyalty, regretting his decision, and looked up at the next house. He was not sure, but he thought he had seen someone in one of the upper windows. A fleeting shadow, which, disappeared even as he looked. Turning away in embarrassment he looked once again at the mark in the earth. It had rained a lot recently, but he was quite sure the stain was blood.

Cautiously, he pushed at the back door. It creaked eerily as it gave under the pressure of his hand. He stepped into the darkness of the house.

‘Hello? Is there anyone at home? I am the constable of Oxford. If you are there, show yourself now.’

Bullock’s hand dropped to his side for the reassuring feel of his sword. Then he remembered he had passed it to the skinny priest. He peered into the gloom, aware of a lingering smell of burnt flesh. He thought of the fires of Hell, and prayed fervently that no demon was about to leap out on him. With the window firmly closed, it was difficult to examine the back room, so he held the creaky door open. The shaft of weak evening sunlight lying across the stone flags revealed what might have been a smear of blood, though equally it might have been just mud. He stepped away from the door, and it swung closed behind him. He called out once again.

‘If there’s anyone there, show yourself, or it will go badly with you later.’

His voice was deadened by an oppressive miasma that hung over the room. Was it stale smoke, or the foetid breath of a demon? He was not sure, but he thought he heard a noise above his head. He strove to listen hard, but it may have just been old beams shifting in the damp air. He heard nothing more. Cautiously, he crossed the floor of the back room feeling his way with his hands in front of his body. Damp rushes squelched under his feet. He found the inner door and pushed through it. It led into a narrow passage that was even darker than the back room. Once again feeling his way forward, he came abruptly to a large door set with iron studs. If this was the front door, he reckoned he could unbolt it and let some light in. Running his fingers round the edge, he eventually came to a heavy, rusted bolt that nevertheless he was able to pull back with ease. It suggested that someone had used it recently. That the house had been occupied. The door swung open surprisingly easily on oiled hinges. Suddenly, he was stating out into the darkening lane, and could barely make out the two black shapes looming in the doorway. Fearing a demon, and wishing for his sword, he raised his fist in a futile defence.

‘Whoa, Peter! It’s me, William.’

Squinting out into the gloom, Bullock realized that the taller figure was indeed William Falconer. By his side stood a nervous-looking young Jew whose name he couldn’t quite recall. His friend’s sudden appearance was so surprising, however, he still couldn’t quite dismiss the thought that it was some demon sent to torment him.

‘Falconer? Is that really you?’

‘Of course it is. Who else could it be? Don’t tell me there is some unfortunate who resembles me so closely that my old friend Peter Bullock can’t tell us apart?’

The teasing tones reassured Bullock that this was truly his friend, and not some hellish beast. What had Falconer called that monster from Jewish lore that he reckoned to have encountered in Bermondsey Abbey? Oh yes, some golem made of clay with inhuman life breathed into it. He muttered some curse to hide his confusion, and then fixed Falconer with a newly suspicious gaze.

‘What are you doing here, anyway?’

Falconer gestured to the young man at his side.

‘Deudone here told me a tale of a man who was using these premises for, shall we say, purposes of his own. Someone who might have enlightened us on the causes of the riot of yesterday.’

Bullock’s face darkened, picturing the marks in the yard, and the stain on the floor in the back room. Reminded of Deudone’s name, he brought to mind the many times the young man had been a troublemaker, and a thorn in his side.

If he was involved with this unnamed fellow, perhaps there was substance in Simon’s claim, after all.

‘And who is this man you are here to find? I think I would also like to speak to him.’

‘He is called Covele, Peter. Why do you ask?’ Covele. A Jew, then. And someone who no doubt could have perpetrated some ritual horror in this house. Bullock could sense Deudone becoming more and more agitated as Falconer spoke. He seemed to be reading what was going through Bullock’s mind, and guilt was written all over his face. There was also a tension in his stance that worried the constable. Deudone was ready for flight. Bullock made a grab at Deudone’s arm, but the young man was too swift for him.

With a cry, he spun around and raced off towards Jewry.

Bullock would have pursued him, but Falconer stood in his way, anger etched on his face.

‘What the devil is going on Peter? First you prevent me following up the murder of someone interred in the walls of that house. Then you pass off the killing of Wilfrid Southo as a trifle. And now you scare off my first real informant to either matter.’

‘That boy knows about something what happened twenty years ago?’

‘That boy is all of thirty years old. Though I will admit he sometimes does not behave like it. Such as fleeing from a precipitate act by a constable who has done nothing to ascertain the facts before leaping at him.’

Bullock was about to protest at Falconer’s unfair accusation, and point out that the master had impeded an officer of the law in carrying out his duty, but he was interrupted.

‘What is going on, Bullock? Why was that Jew running away?’

Bullock had forgotten about Thomas Brassyngton, and his pale familiar, Simon. But now the prior was not about to let that oversight continue. Brassyngton, overweight and overdressed in more sumptuous garb than was seemly for a priest, came striding along the lane, his face red from exertion. Simon scuttled at his heels like some faithful cur.

Bullock made to speak, but the prior had not finished his remonstrations.

‘Did you flush him out of the house? Was he responsible for the foul and ritualistic evil that has been perpetrated here?’ Falconer stepped between the two men, a frown on his face.

‘Peter, what is he talking about?’

Bullock had the grace to look embarrassed, even though he was prepared to believe what Simon had said. He knew Falconer’s weakness when it came to the Jews who lived in Oxford. But like most Englishmen, he himself could not be persuaded that they were innocent of all the evil levelled against

them. He tried to find a way of expressing his reservations, but Brassyngton beat him to it.

‘We know what happened here. This priest...’ He pointed at Simon as though his word could not be doubted. ‘This priest saw the slaughter of an innocent. And nothing you can say this time will change that.’

This time.

Falconer realized that Brassyngton was referring to the incident twenty years ago, when he had foiled the plot to claim another martyr for Oxford. This time the prior was determined that Falconer would not prevent the lucrative creation of a pilgrimage site in St Frideswide’s Church. A site where the body of a child martyr could be venerated even at the expense of the Jewish community living in the town. Falconer turned to Bullock, appealing for common sense to prevail.

But once again, the constable seemed unable to agree.

‘There is a lot of blood in the house, William. At the very least someone must give account for what has happened here. And young Deudone running away does not bode well for the Jews.’

‘What of Covele, the man who was living here? Can you not find him, and extract the truth from him?’

Even as he spoke, Falconer realized his case was weakening. And Brassyngton saw his opening.