by Ian Morson
It had long ago occurred to him that, if masters of the university with unorthodox views were being targeted by this book thief and murderer, then his old friend William would surely become a victim sooner or later. Brother Aldwyn’s gloomy prophecies — or more accurately his recitation of Merlin’s prophecies — had contributed to Bullock’s sense of impending doom. Talk of a rain of blood, whether it was by way of the pox or these numerous murders, had caused him to consider who was the most likely next victim. His inevitable conclusion had been his friend. The final horror of consigning the two women to their fate last night had convinced him that something would happen soon. Perhaps this very night. Especially with Will Plome back on the loose.
Standing in the doorway waiting for something to happen, though, shortly became tedious. He was beginning to think he had made a mistake, and besides his extremities were aching. He was cold to the bone, and was wondering if he had failed to beat Falconer at his own game after all. Having been out-thought by William so often in the past over murders, he had hoped this time for once he had found a way of getting ahead of him. But it seemed that he was doomed to failure, and nothing was going to happen. He was just about to step back out into the moonlight, when he heard the sound of boots on the cobblestones of the street.
He ducked back into his hiding place, and eased his sword a few inches out of its sheath. The apparition he saw almost took his breath away. It was a warrior dressed in an iron corselet held in place with wood, and leather straps. It passed him without being aware of his presence, and stopped outside the door of Aristotle’s Hall. The strange figure pushed at the door, but found it barred in some way. Pulling out a dagger, the figure poked at the gap between the door and the frame, seemingly not caring how much noise was made in the process.
Bullock watched for a few moments, then took a step towards it and drew his sword. The swish of steel alerted the apparition, and it turned round swiftly, dagger in hand. In that instant Bullock saw who it was, and had the pleasure of knowing he had, after all, beaten Falconer to it.
‘Hello. I might have guessed it would be you.’
The warrior grinned humourlessly.
‘I needed to be seen whilst about my business, but not by you. And not to be caught either. Sadly, that can only mean one thing for you, constable.’
The figure lunged forward, his dagger seeking Bullock’s heart. He parried the thrust with his sword, and stepped to one side. It felt more like a lumber though, and Peter knew he was out of practice for this sort of fight. Stumbling, he turned and saw that the warrior had drawn his own sword in the extra time he had given him. They circled each other, and then Bullock swung another blow, which his adversary parried easily with his dagger. A stabbing thrust with his sword followed and it almost caught Bullock unawares. He half stopped it with his own sword. They had only traded a couple of blows and Bullock was breathing hard, his heart thumping in his chest. The warrior laughed, and opened himself up mockingly to a blow from Bullock. The constable took his chance, but as he raised his sword, he felt a crushing pain inside his chest, and his sword arm failed him, feeling weak and useless. His vision darkened, and as he slumped to the ground, he saw his nemesis drawing back his sword for the final blow. His last thought was that at least he had died in battle and not in his bed like a weak-bladdered old man.
Chapter Twenty
The Feast of St Gerard, 24th September
Falconer would have liked to talk some more with Saphira about the possible murderers, but he could see the last few days had affected her. So, with her still asleep in bed, he left the house in Fish Street in the early hours of the morning. Last night she had agreed to meet him later the next day at the residence of the chancellor of the university. There, they would examine the university records for any clues to the murderer’s identity. He decided to make his way first back to Aristotle’s Hall. He knew he had neglected his students recently, and should check on them before pursuing the hunt for the killer.
As he turned into the narrow opening of St John’s Street, he saw close to the other end of the lane that there was some disturbance. People were running to and fro from one side of the lane to another. His weak eyes were not good enough to make out exactly was going on, but he could tell from the shouts and agitated movement of those concerned that something bad had happened. As the disturbance was close by his own doorstep, he immediately feared the worst for his own students. He knew he would not forgive himself, if any one of them had been harmed while he had been with Saphira. He hurried on down the street, and saw that one of those in the small cluster of people was his former student and now newly-made regent master, Thomas Symon. He seemed to be taking charge.
‘Thomas. What is going on here?’
On hearing Falconer’s voice, Symon looked up, his face pale and anguished. He strode towards Falconer.
‘William. You should not come closer.’
He tried to take his former mentor’s arm, but Falconer would have nothing of it.
‘Oh, Lord. Has one of my boys been taken ill or harmed? I must see him, if he has.’
He could tell now that the crowd was gathered around a fallen body in the doorway of the house opposite Aristotle’s. He thought perhaps someone under his roof had fallen sick of the pox, and staggered out into the street only to collapse. As if to confirm his fears, he saw the faces of some of his clerks.
‘Peter Mithian, who is it who has been taken ill?’
The young man he spoke to looked at his master with a face of incomprehension.
‘Master? Nobody has been taken ill. It’s …’
He failed to get any more words out, and none were needed. Falconer knelt done beside the body in the doorway, and saw for himself. The sight took his breath away. He leaned back on his heels and looked up at the strained face of Thomas Symon.
‘It’s Peter Bullock.’
Symon nodded.
‘I told you not to look.’
‘Bullock dead? How?’
Falconer gently wiped the lank grey locks of hair from Bullock’s face, and stared into the empty eyes. Symon squatted beside him.
‘You can see there is a wound in his chest big enough to be a sword thrust. But …’
The young man hesitated, unsure if Falconer wanted him to continue. They had both been involved together in investigations concerning murder. Symon had taught himself a deep understanding of the workings of the human body, and acted as his former teacher’s advisor on matters to do with wounds and their causes. Falconer welcomed his opinions normally, but this was different. Now they were talking about a mutual friend. But Falconer grasped his arm and squeezed it hard.
‘Tell me what you are thinking. If we are to find Peter’s killer, then we must treat this like any other murder.’
Symon grimaced, but carried on nevertheless.
‘I am not sure it can even be called murder.’
‘How do you mean? You say there is a sword wound in his chest. I can see it.’
Falconer gingerly poked a finger in the rent in Bullock’s tunic despite the blood that had soaked into the cloth.
‘Such a thrust would have pierced the heart. How can it not be murder?’
Symon indicated the ground under and around Bullock’s body with an open palm.
‘Look here. At the blood.’
Falconer frowned, staring at the blood on the ground.
‘I see the blood. What are you trying to tell me?’
‘There was a fight undoubtedly. I heard it myself, and even saw the victim fall.’
Symon lived in the tiny Colcill Hall next door to Aristotle’s.
‘I saw a man leaving, and saw the constable lying in the street. Though I didn’t know it was Peter Bullock at first.’
‘So you saw the aftermath of the murder. What’s all this about the blood though?’
‘There’s simply not enough of it. If the constable had been stabbed in the chest while he was alive, the blood would have squirted copiously and rapid
ly from his body. I have read Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine in which he suggests the heart is the root of all faculties and gives nutrition, life, apprehension, and movement to several other members.’
He paused, unsure if he was making sense to Falconer, so he made it clearer.
‘If it stops its work, blood does not come forth so readily from a wound.’
‘But you say you saw him fall.’
Symon looked at the ground, trying to put his thoughts in order. When he did speak, he spoke slowly and carefully, ensuring what he said was accurate.
‘Yes, but I am sure he collapsed before his attacker made the final blow. I think Peter was dying of a seizure of the heart already. Some survive with what is called the half-dead disease. Some simply die.’
Falconer gazed at his dead friend, and patted his head.
‘Whatever the sequence of events, Thomas, Peter died as he would have wished: in battle. And whoever this man was, he was Bullock’s killer. You said you saw him leave. Can you describe him?’
Symon nodded, fixing the image in his head before he spoke.
‘Yes. He was a large man, maybe a little overweight. I could not see his features as he was turned away from me and he wore an iron helmet. And strange thing was he wore some sort of old-fashioned corselet on his upper body made up of metal and wood and leather straps.’
*
They took Peter Bullock’s body back to the castle on a hurdle. Falconer bore one end and Thomas Symon the other. Thomas Burewald, who had been called for as Bullock’s second-in-command, began the formality of the hue and cry, though the strange killer was long gone. The story of Bullock’s death had already reached the castle, for John and Margaret Peper, Agnes Cheke, Robert Kemp and Simon Godrich all formed an impromptu guard of honour in the courtyard. Their search for Will Plome over the last few days had proven fruitless, as they had not been able to talk to many people. The doors of the town were firmly closed to them in fear of the plague, and they had all but given up. They had been lounging in the castle courtyard practicing their skills, when news of Bullock’s death had preceded the arrival of his body. Their worst fears had been realised — another murder had taken place with Will still on the loose. Now they stood in two ragged lines as the makeshift bier passed between them, their faces ashen.
Aldwyn had opened the derelict chapel, and he now ushered the bearers of Bullock’s body into the chilly sanctuary. Falconer and Symon manoeuvred the hurdle close to the altar slab, and slipped the body on to its surface. It seemed that Peter Bullock was to have a solemn and royal lying-in-state. Everyone stood with their heads bowed as the elderly monk intoned a prayer, and then they plodded out of the chapel, their hearts heavy with the tragedy. Aldwyn was speaking to Thomas Symon, but soon came over to Falconer.
‘Master Symon has told me of the apparition he saw. It is as predicted by Merlin.’ He quoted by heart the passage from the Prophecies. ‘“There shall come people dressed in wood and in iron corselets who will take vengeance on the White Dragon for its wickedness.”’
Falconer felt his anger rising, but controlled it. If it had been anyone but the foolish, old monk speaking, he would have been tempted to strike out.
‘I hope you are not suggesting that Peter was a wicked man, Aldwyn?’
The monk blushed.
‘Certainly not. But the pattern of the prophecies continues, and if Bullock was not the intended victim, then who was?’
He stared meaningfully at Falconer, who turned away stunned by the thought that, if he had not tarried at Saphira’s house, Bullock might still be alive. He would have liked to have come face-to-face with the murderer at last, even if it had put his own life in peril. He knew he would have gladly exchanged his own life for that of his friend. He looked once more at Bullock’s lifeless body, only to see a faint, derisory smile on Isaac Doukas’s swarthy face.
*
Later, when he had apprised Chancellor de Bosco of the constable’s death, Falconer raised the matter of the killer possibly being a member of the university. De Bosco, aware of the continued presence of Robert Burnell’s man in Oxford, went grey. He found himself in a dilemma. Should he protect the reputation of the university and refuse Falconer’s request to examine the university accounts books, and risk Burnell’s later censure? Or acquiesce and risk finding a murderer amongst the masters or students? He turned to the Northern proctor, Roger Plumpton, who happened to be with him at the time. De Godfree, the other proctor had not been seen since the announcement of the red plague.
‘What do you think, Plumpton? Can we allow Master Falconer to search the records for evidence of a killer?’
The proctor rubbed his flushed and jowly face, pondering the matter. A small smile flitted across his lips before he answered. He seemed happy to agree to Falconer’s request.
‘It can do no harm, chancellor. And if it leads to weeding out a rotten fruit from the barrel, then all well and good.’
Still it was de Bosco’s nature to prevaricate, but after Falconer suggested that delay might result in another death, he had given in. Appointing Plumpton his deputy, De Bosco deliberately left Falconer to it, so as to avoid the distressing sight of the records being rifled. It was fortunate that he did so, because it meant he also avoided seeing a certain Jewess also examining the private documents. Plumpton showed Falconer into the room where the university records were stored, and having watched him for a while, got bored and also departed. This gave Falconer an opportunity to sneak down to the back door of the building called Glassen, and let Saphira in as previously arranged. She gasped when she saw the records and the size of their task. But it was Falconer who immediately voiced his worries about the killer to Saphira.
‘We are using up a lot of our time in searching for a murderer amongst these records.’ He waved a hand at the piles of books and scrolls in the table before them. ‘But the description of the man who attacked Peter fits Will Plome. Are we wasting our time?’
Saphira shook her head. She had been deeply shocked when William had broken the news of Bullock’s death. But it made her all the more determined to find his murderer.
‘We must carry this through, or you will always regret it. Especially if Will is found to be innocent, and we lose the real killer for want of a little effort.’
Falconer sighed and waved a hand.
‘Hardly a little effort.’
Indeed in front of them were receipts for fees paid by members of the university on admission, lists of ‘cautions’ or pledges of valuables deposited as surety, lists of graces granted by the university, and lists of candidates for degrees. The university records could be at best described as chaotic. But these records in some way or other could link the dead masters with their killer. It was, however, for one name in thousands that they were hunting, and at this stage it looked very daunting. But there was only one way to approach the task — to begin and to persevere. The candles burnt low, but still they ploughed on. Saphira was hunting for references to the names of the masters who had merely had their books stolen and survived, and Falconer for student names associated with Roger Stephens, John Bukwode, Edmund Ludlow, Gerard Anwell … and himself.
The day grew darker, so they lit more candles and ploughed on. On one occasion, Plumpton poked his head round the door, observed the presence of Saphira and looked as though he was about to object. But seeing the hard glare in Falconer’s eyes, and the woman’s deep concentration, he disappeared again. Finally Falconer saw a pattern of sorts beginning to emerge. He looked across at Saphira, who had pulled the white linen snood from her head, and was running her fingers through her thick, red hair.
‘Do you have anything?’
She shrugged.
‘There are many names of students who attended lectures by John Catche and Robert Knyght.’ These were another two of the known masters who had lost rare books before the killings began. ‘How about you?’
Falconer hesitated, not wishing to jump to a false conclusion.
�
��I have a few names. Shall I see if they match yours?’
The room suddenly felt cold, or maybe the shiver that ran down Saphira’s spine had another cause. It could be that one of them would speak the name of the killer. She nodded, and he began his recitation of names.
‘William Gyllot.’
There was no response from Saphira other than a slight shake of her head, so he drew a line through the name.
‘Roger Kranard.’
Again nothing, and another crossing out.
‘Laurence Staynton.’
‘I have him once, but only once.’
Falconer hovered with his quill over the name.
‘Leave him in for the moment.’
No line was put through the name, but a question mark was placed beside it. Falconer went onwards scratching out names or leaving them in. Finally he got to the last name on his list.
‘Geoffrey Westhalf.’
Saphira frowned, and looked at her list. Her lip formed into a rounded shape.
‘How many matches?’
‘Every master including myself taught Westhalf, except for Ludlow with whom Westhalf was a boarder.’
‘So all your names are connected with Geoffrey Westhalf. Mine too.’
Falconer inked his quill and drew a circle round Geoffrey Westhalf’s name.
‘Then I think we should talk to the young man.’
*
As they walked the deserted streets of Oxford, Falconer began to regret allowing Saphira to come with him. Darkness was falling, and if their theory was correct, Geoffrey Westhalf could well be a violent killer with an obsession about ungodly knowledge and those who possessed it. He might not take kindly to a Jew, who knew about medicines and poisons and was a female to boot, taxing him on his activities. Falconer’s problem now was that he felt he ought to corner Westhalf alone. However, Saphira Le Veske did not like being treated as a weak woman and he knew it to his cost. As they crossed the High Street, he hesitated before entering the dark alley opposite them that was the mouth of Shidyerd Street. As if reading his mind, Saphira smiled, and squeezed his arm.
