by Ian Morson
‘You young fool. You might have been killed.’
Shame at being so called in front of Hannah made Thomas respond in a way he would not normally have dared to one so senior as his Oxford Master.
‘I can take care of myself. I travelled here to Oxford when a whole army could have been the end of me. I am not afraid of a few town traders.’
Falconer was inclined to reply in kind, but noted the tremor in the boy’s voice. He noted too the sideways glance Thomas gave to the pretty girl sitting at his elbow. His actual response was conciliatory.
‘Anyway, you are safe. And well fed by the look of it. If the hue and cry has died down, perhaps we can now return to the hall. Curse the murderer of that poor girl.’
He looked with some embarrassment at Hannah and apologized for his outburst.
‘No need to apologize,’ she said. ‘I too could wish to curse him. You see, I knew her.’
His sleep was disturbed by thoughts of his father – the face curiously serene as the sword cleft it in two. Then suddenly he was floating over his own body, tossing restlessly on the narrow mattress. He saw his own face contorted with anguish, and he knew he was dreaming of his father’s death. Rivulets of tears poured down his cheeks, and his mouth twisted in a silent scream. He thought he saw his tongue poking out of his mouth, but it was green and had eyes. He realized it was a lizard crawling out of his own body. He watched entranced as it scurried down the blanket to the floor and disappeared in a corner of the room. A sudden fear gripped him as he recalled the story his father had told him as a child. A sleeping man had nearly lost his soul, appearing in the shape of a lizard, when someone had tried to prevent it returning to his body before he woke. Immediately he was back inside his body and awake, shaking with fear. Without really knowing why, he crawled on his knees into one corner of the room, hunting for something he was convinced he had lost. Inside he just felt empty.
Chapter Six
Thomas de Cantilupe had been chancellor of the university for only two years, but in that time the cases appearing before the chancellor’s court had increased to such a point that he was no longer able to deal with them all himself. Today he had settled the case of a Master falsely accused of being a Scotsman, had made a friar swear not to make suspicious visits to a tailor’s wife, and now he had to talk to Master Falconer about interfering in a simple case of murder. It was not, after all, a member of the university who had been killed. And he had the aftermath of yesterday’s riot to cope with and whether to call down the wrath of the King on the town. If indeed the King was in any position to command anyone in his realm.
The chancellor hurried from the chilly hall where the court was held. He scratched hard at his back. Why was the itch always in a place he could not reach? He eagerly cast off his academical cope, its tear now carefully repaired, and wrapped himself in the brown fur gown left over the back of his favourite chair. He drew himself up to the fire and poured a generous amount of red wine into a pewter tankard. Try as he might he could not imagine his interview with Falconer would go smoothly. He was a stubborn man and an Aristotelian. What was it he was fond of calling himself? A deductive. Well his days of demonstration must be curbed. He felt another itch between his shoulder blades and rubbed his back against his chair. Swallowing the last of the wine, he called his servant.
‘Halegod!’
A short, stooping man scuttled into the room and stood in reverential silence.
‘Is Master Falconer here?’
The servant affirmed that Falconer had been waiting some time. De Cantilupe sighed. No doubt the man would now be more irascible than usual.
‘Send him in. And bring some food, and more wine.’
Halegod turned and left with the same scuttling gait. Unlike his master he was pleased to have made the visitor wait. It merely served to emphasize his own importance as servant to the chancellor of the university. Still, the towering Master could clearly be the sort to lose his temper and kill someone. Like Halegod. He imagined those big peasant hands closing around his windpipe and hurried into the small room where he had made Falconer wait and almost collided with the big man. A strangled cry came from his lips.
‘I heard you coming,’ said Falconer, by way of explanation. ‘Is the chancellor free? I have things to do.’
Recovering his composure, Halegod asked Falconer to follow him.
The chancellor was still absently rubbing his back against the wing of his chair when Falconer was left by the servant at the entrance to the warm and well-appointed room. Bright wall-hangings served a practical as well as decorative purpose, keeping the chill of another February day at bay. Falconer coughed and de Cantilupe abruptly stopped his rubbing and turned his look to the doorway.
‘Master Falconer. Come in and sit by the fire.’
The voice sounded to Falconer to be full of false bonhomie, which did not bode well for the interview.
‘I have instructed Halegod to bring some food and more wine. I trust you will join me.’
Falconer was convinced this was going to be unpleasant. The chancellor’s thin face with its hooked Roman nose was the face of an ascetic. Yet he was a man of contradictions; with a delight in good food and the flushed cheeks of a lover of wine. Stranger still that his lectures on the Scriptures were outstanding, and that he was inclined to wearing a hair shirt. Falconer suddenly realized he was being asked a question.
‘My apologies, Chancellor.’
‘I asked if you were proposing to pursue the case of that murdered servant girl. She is, after all, the business of the town constable. And I would have thought your attention would be fully occupied by keeping your students out of mischief. I hear one of them was lost in Jewry.’
Falconer was appalled that de Cantilupe had heard of his minor affairs and began his excuses. Fortunately Halegod came into the room with a large platter of cold beef, fowl, cheese and another large flagon of red wine. The regent master, used to simpler choices, stopped his reply. The older man took his hesitancy as acquiescence, breathing a sigh of relief at diverting Falconer so easily.
‘I am glad we see eye to eye on this matter. We do not want a repeat of the last reason for your attaining notoriety.’
Once again Falconer began to present his excuses, but saw it would be simpler to keep quiet. He would continue with the murder matter until his deductive reasoning led him to a satisfactory conclusion, but would now do it more discreetly. Anyway, hadn’t the previous chancellor congratulated him on finding the murderer of the Papal Legate’s cook? Notorious, indeed.
* * *
Thomas was getting tired of Hugh Pett’s constant surveillance of his every move. As he crossed the small room he now shared with the older boy at Falconer’s insistence, he was conscious of Hugh’s eyes tracking him. It was not even as though Hugh enjoyed his task. Every move of Thomas’s clearly annoyed his companion and brought forth an irritated sigh. This last expulsion of air brought a retort from Thomas.
‘If everything I do annoys you so much, then leave me.’
‘You know, farmer’s boy, that he has told me to keep an eye on you. And until the town has settled down and lectures start again – if they do – I will do just that.’
Thomas was angered by the richer boy’s reference to his background, but was still too unsure of himself to answer back. Anyway, Hugh immediately regretted his taunt, and tried to soften it.
‘At least you are not a Northern foreigner,’ he grudgingly added.
‘Or a Scotsman,’ returned Thomas, with a laugh.
‘Heaven forbid!’
Hugh’s hand rested lightly on Thomas’s shoulder; the young boy felt a shiver run through him. Hugh quickly drew his hand away, but still stared into Thomas’s eyes.
‘It is dangerous, you know.’
‘What?’
‘To go out and about. Even in daylight, as now. The story is that some students have been killed by townies. And the last time that happened the un
iversity closed down for a year until the King himself punished the town.’
Thomas groaned. The university not operating for a year and him only just arrived. The thought of returning to corn and chickens filled him with despair. Besides he wanted to see Hannah again. She had said she knew the murdered girl and if he could find out something more about her from Hannah, perhaps he could get back into Master Falconer’s good books. The Master was, after all, seemingly intrigued by the death. But first he had to get rid of Hugh Pett. Perhaps boredom would induce him to give up his vigil. Thomas yawned hugely, lay back on the thin blanket spread on his hard pallet and closed his eyes. After a while there was another huge sigh from his companion. This was going to take some time.
The chancellor was beginning to wish that he had not decided to deal with Falconer gently. It was definitely going to take an effort to divert him from investigating the death of the servant girl. Especially as he was clearly enjoying the food before him. Falconer wiped his mouth and continued his explanation.
‘It is the “Prior Analytics” that clearly show the theory of deduction. Two general truths, not open to doubt, often imply a third truth of more limited scope.’
De Cantilupe sighed.
‘And what do you infer from the death of the servant girl?’
‘I infer nothing from her death.’
De Cantilupe opened his mouth to end the interview on this acquiescence, but Falconer ignored the older man and continued. He was now well into his stride, and changed the emphasis of the statement.
‘It is what I infer about her death and its manner that is intriguing. You see, her throat was cut at an angle and there was bruising on her right arm only.’
Here he paused, and clearly expected the chancellor to use his own powers to draw a conclusion. Halegod sidled into the room to clear the remains of the repast just as his master had to admit he did not see what these facts led to. Halegod’s impassive stare turned into one of fear as Falconer grasped him from behind and held him by the throat.
‘If you attack from behind, the natural move is to put your arm around the torso and draw the knife across your victim’s neck.’
Halegod squawked as Falconer drew a table-knife across his windpipe.
‘The resultant cut would be level. On the other hand …’
Halegod did not trust Falconer to repeat the demonstration with his neck leaving it unscathed. He twisted from the Master’s grip and scuttled off, still clutching the greasy platter he had picked up.
‘On the other hand, if you confronted your victim, grabbed her arm and drew a knife across her neck, the cut would be at an angle. I deduce that the victim knew her killer and it mattered not to him that she saw his face. He probably intended to kill her. She was too frightened even to fight back. There was no blood on her fingernails.’
Falconer’s face was alight with his exposition to the older man. He stood over him grasping each arm of the large chair where the chancellor sat. Unfortunately his enthusiasm was not shared. De Cantilupe stared back at Falconer wearily.
‘And where does this get you, Master?’
Falconer hesitated. He respected de Cantilupe, but sometimes the man did not understand that the truth derived from one deductive inference could serve as the premise for another set of inferences. He simply did not have all the truths to deduce the final, important fact. Not yet, anyway.
Again de Cantilupe took Falconer’s silence as agreement that the older man was right. He was about to dismiss Falconer, when Halegod appeared in the doorway only to be bundled aside by the tense figure of Master de Stepyng. His pale face was set in a rigid mask of disapproval.
‘Chancellor, we must take swift action against the town. The King must be petitioned.’
De Cantilupe sighed. ‘The student deaths are regrettable.’
De Stepyng’s thin mouth set into a tighter line at the chancellor’s choice of words, but the older man persisted.
‘But I fear the state of the country outside these walls means that the loss of three students is the least of the King’s concerns.’
Falconer’s gaze turned on the chancellor, a puzzled look in his eyes, but before he could ask where the third student had been killed, de Stepyng snorted in disgust.
‘Our good and noble King Henry concerns himself too little with the urgent matters of true Englishmen. Surrounding himself with alien French has brought the country to this extremity.’
‘My dear man, are you taking sides? I understand your own mother was French, and I remind you that de Monfort is himself French.’
The chancellor’s retort did not stop the fastidious little Master, whose reply was turned to the onlooker to this argument.
‘Falconer, you at least must see that the country’s future lies in compliance with the provisions made in this very city.’
It was a statement rather than a question, but Falconer favoured it with a reply nonetheless.
‘A Parleyment of barons may help to advise the King, but he still is our King.’
He paused, and turned the conversation to his own purpose.
‘I am however most interested in the third student to die. You see, I myself witnessed the death of two of them on the edge of Jewry. Where was the third found?’
De Stepyng’s face turned sour, and he spat out the answer.
‘At the doors of my hall. He was one of my own students – Moulcom the Northerner. I found him in the early hours sprawled on the steps. So close to safety.’
‘May I see his body? Where is it now?’
The chancellor did not like the light in Falconer’s eye. Far from warning him off investigating one death, he had unwittingly involved him in a second. The food he had so recently relished now lay like a cold leaden lump in his stomach.
‘For the moment he is in my hall. I will take you to him if you wish, though what you hope to achieve by looking, I do not know.’
De Stepyng’s cold look turned on the unfortunate chancellor.
‘What we now need is firm action against the whole town. They are all guilty.’
Thomas was at last making his way back into Jewry. It had taken a long time to lull Hugh Pert into believing he was asleep. But eventually the boy had left the room, giving Thomas time to hoist himself out of the window. The drop had been chancy, but he was used to climbing out of the upper window back at the farm in order to seek some peace for himself. How distant his life on the farm now seemed. His father had little time for him except as a labourer, yet here he now was, a student in Oxford, making his way to talk to a Jewess about a murdered girl. The rain of the previous day had now turned to ice on this cold afternoon. It crackled underfoot, and occasionally Thomas slipped, clutching the walls lining the lane for support. His breath came in white clouds which reminded him of the mists on the evening of the murder. He had to pass the spot where the murder took place, but knew no other route to Jewry. Fortunately there was no one about, so he bowed his head and hurried on.
* * *
The body lay on a table in the chilly hall. Unlike the body of the girl that Falconer had examined earlier, no loving care had been exercised over Moulcom. He was, however, once again in the company of Peter Bullock. The squat town officer had been waiting at de Stepyng’s door when the two Masters had arrived. He had asked to see the body although he had no jurisdiction over the university. He said it was to satisfy himself of the cause. This had incensed de Stepyng, who once again began his tirade against the town. At least with his anger vented, he had left Falconer and Bullock in peace to examine the body.
Moulcom’s head lay turned away from the door, his arm carelessly hanging over the edge of the table. Bullock gave the corpse a cursory glance and sighed.
‘A tally of three, then.’
He turned to leave as Falconer moved around the table to get a better look, and was stopped by an exclamation from the other man. Falconer was peering intently at the face. ‘Look at this, my friend.’
/>
Bullock crossed the room and stood beside Falconer. The face that had been turned away from them on entering was black and the eyes protruded in a ghastly stare.
‘This man has not been beaten to death as the others were,’ said Falconer.
Bullock grunted in acknowledgement. ‘No, obviously he was hanged, also not unusual in the circumstances.’
Falconer merely shook his head, and grasping Bullock’s arm pulled his face close to the corpse’s. The stench of death invaded his nostrils.
‘Look. The marks on the neck are not those made by a rope. He has been strangled. Tell me if that is common, in the circumstances!’
Bullock had to grudgingly admit that he had never seen a person strangled in the many pitched battles between students and townsfolk. Injuries were usually inflicted on the spur of the moment, not in any premeditated way. He failed to see where that led, however, and told Falconer so.
‘Neither do I,’ he admitted. ‘But I am sure he was not killed as a result of the rioting. This was done for a reason, and may be linked with the girl’s death. The killer simply used the riot as a convenient means of shifting the blame.’
‘What proof have you?’
Falconer sighed.
‘None, but it is merely a case of collecting sufficient truths.’
Bullock reached up with a work-worn hand and patted the taller man on the shoulder.
‘You’re far beyond me in this matter.’
He turned away and made for the door with his lurching gait. His last remark was thrown over his shoulder almost as a reprimand to the Master.
‘I am merely charged with tidying up after the event.’
The remark was lost on Falconer who was closely examining the hands and clothing of the body, as though they would tell him who had killed Moulcom. Bullock slammed the door and left the scholar to his fancies.
