by Ian Morson
‘Don’t worry. I will stand safely behind you. And if he lets us into the hall, I will wait outside, if you want. I trust you to protect me.’
Falconer grunted in surprise.
‘What has brought this strange change of nature on? I had imagined you would be the first to enter, and confront him with his evil deeds.’
‘I can be demure and ladylike, if I please. Besides, if he attacks us, I would rather he tangled with you first, and gave me chance to flee.’
Falconer growled at her teasing, and went ahead down the narrow alley. Saphira had made a joke of it, but she was actually fearful of what might happen when they confronted Westhalf. She hesitated to follow William, but it was too late to worry about that now, and she really did put her trust in him. She gathered her skirts, and followed him into the darkness. The top end of Shidyerd Street was a place where, if you spread your arms, you could almost touch the houses on either side. She felt a prickling on her neck, and imagined eyes peering from the darkened houses at their passage. Everyone in Oxford was fearful of who might be abroad after hours. Even in normal times dark brought out the rats and drunken revellers. Now, worse still, plague stalked the streets. Fortunately, the lane opened out towards its southern end, and she hurried after William catching up to his long strides. Soon there were fewer shadows, and the back of St Frideswide’s Church towered above them as they approached Beke’s Inn. This was where the student had lived alone since the death of Edmund Ludlow. A death that they were both now thinking to lay at the door of Geoffrey Westhalf.
Chapter Twenty-one
When they got to it, the door to Beke’s Inn was ajar — something very unusual for these fear-ridden times. Saphira looked at William questioningly, and he stepped forward, pushing the door wide open with the palm of his hand. It was dark and cold within with no fire burning in the hall. Falconer called out.
‘Geoffrey Westhalf. Are you there? It’s Master William Falconer.’
He stood for some moments on the threshold, and fancied he heard a sound from deep inside the house. But it came only once and never again. It might just have been the timbers of the old house creaking as the chill of evening settled on it. There was no other response to Falconer’s enquiry, so it seemed Westhalf was not there. But Falconer did sense some sort of presence. Something malevolent hovered just out of sight. However, he was not a man to give in to fright and lurid imagination, so he made to step inside. Then remembering their agreement, he first turned back to Saphira.
‘Wait here. It may be nothing, but I think something is wrong.’
Saphira nodded and watched as William entered the darkened house. The silence seemed to envelope him, and she waited. But soon she became fearful of what he might have encountered. Moreover, the dark street behind her back gave her the shivers. So, despite their agreement, she crossed the threshold and followed him into Beke’s Inn. The main hall was chilly, and she could see that the fire had not been burning for a long time. The ashes were cold and grey with not even a faint glow at their heart. There was no sign of William in the hall. Where had he gone? There was a wooden staircase leading upwards, but she could not hear him walking around on the upper floor. It was as though the earth had swallowed him up. She took a deep breath, and crossed the hall, finally seeing a door in a sort of alcove on the other side. She had not spotted it before, and had thought there was no other exit from the hall. The door swing open even as she stepped towards it. She tensed herself ready to fight or flee, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the familiar, tall figure of Falconer. He looked at her quizzically.
‘I see you didn’t observe the rules of our agreement for very long.’
She pouted.
‘Not at all. I let you go first, and now I am ready to run. See — I have my skirt gathered in my hand.’
She was indeed holding the loose material of her dress up slightly so as not to impede herself if she had to take flight.
‘Is Westhalf not here, then?’
Falconer pulled a face.
‘Oh he’s here, but not in a state to be interrogated.’
She went to go past him into the small back room that must be the student’s quarters, but Falconer held his arm across the threshold.
‘You shouldn’t go in, or at least you should take some precautions first.’
The look on Falconer’s face told Saphira all she needed to know.
‘The red plague?’
‘Yes.’
She turned away from William, and lifted up the skirt of her dress to reveal her linen undergarment. Having torn a strip of cloth from it, she divided it in two, and gave a piece to Falconer.
‘Put this on your mouth, then we are both protected.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I assume you want to go back in too?’
‘Yes. Though I don’t know how useful it will be to ask him questions. He is alive, but incoherent. But then his room is evidence enough of his wrong doing.’
Saphira frowned at his cryptic comment.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just look around you when you go in. You will see what I mean.’
She wound the torn piece of cloth over her nose and mouth, tying it roughly at the back of her neck, and went into the back room. It was larger than she had expected, and had a window that overlooked the rear yard of the house. The shutters were closed, but as her eyes adjusted to the faint light that percolated through the cracks, she saw what William had meant. A bed was tucked against the wall on the far side of the room, and between the bed and the door were several piles of books. More books than even Saphira had seen in one place before. Her long-dead husband had been obsessed by the Kabbalah, and had owned some twenty volumes. Here, there must have been …
‘I would guess around a hundred books and parchments.’
Falconer’s muffled voice spoke in her ear from behind the linen mask he wore.
‘He must have been stealing them long before his activities came to light. De Bosco only knew of a few thefts before the murder of John Bukwode took place.’
He picked up a couple at random from the pile nearest him.
‘Look. De pentagono Salomonis and Sapientiae nigromanciae. I wouldn’t mind owning those myself.’
Saphira had become aware of a stale smell in the room, an odour of unwashed body. She cast her gaze down on to the bed for the first time, and in the tangle of sheets, saw the shape of Geoffrey Westhalf. The boy stirred a little and groaned. She crossed to the window, and pushed open the shutters. A cold and welcome breeze blew into the room, and the moonlight shone down on Westhalf’s body. He was shivering, more from fever than the cold now blowing through the room. And as Saphira carefully pulled back the sheets, she saw clear evidence of what ailed him. Falconer spoke first.
‘The rain of blood, they say. I can see why.’
Westhalf’s whole face and body were covered in ugly, red spots, as if blood had literally rained down on him. Saphira could see they were of the type that she had also seen on the crusader, Sir Hugo de Wolfson. The spots that Samson had said were the most malignant and deadly form of small pox. They were flat to the skin, not raised like the ordinary type. Westhalf’s chances of survival were poor, and he was already deep into a prolonged fever. Before Falconer could say any more, Westhalf groaned and tried to prop himself up in one arm. He saw Falconer’s shape but darkly, noticing merely the black robe of a regent master. He quaked as he spoke with fear in his eyes.
‘Master Ludlow?’
His voice came out like the croak of a frog, and as his mouth hung open, Saphira could see the lesions on his tongue. It was astonishing he could speak at all. Falconer thought the boy must be delirious and had blanked from his mind the murder of Edmund Ludlow. Or was fearful that his former master had come back to haunt him.
‘Not Master Ludlow, Westhalf. It’s Master Falconer.’
Westhalf’s eyes were red and bleary, as if he couldn’t really take in what was being said to him. But he beckoned to Falconer, and seeme
d intent on saying something to him. Falconer leaned over him, putting his ear close to the boy’s mouth despite Saphira’s warning of the dangers of the transmission of fluids. Westhalf, a brightness shining in his eyes momentarily, murmured something that Saphira couldn’t catch. She grabbed Falconer’s arm and pulled him away from the dying boy.
‘What did he say?’
Falconer frowned.
‘He said he could die in peace, because he had looked upon the face of God.’
*
They found the key to Beke’s Inn and locked the front door. Westhalf was beyond salvation now, indeed almost beyond assistance. They could arrange to move him to Bartlemas, but the chances were he would die from being moved. With the door locked, at least there was no chance anyone else would catch the pox from him. As they walked back to the castle, Falconer glanced at Saphira and spoke.
‘We shall have to tell Bullock about Westhalf and …’
He paused, realising what he had just said, and felt quite ill. Saphira stroked his arm, and he groaned.
‘I forgot. I am so used to going to Peter for the mundane jobs — removing bodies, mollifying irate townsfolk and the like — I just thought … Well, I didn’t think, did I?’
‘It was perfectly natural. Life without Peter will be very strange. He has been a part of your life for so long.’
They walked on in silence, each with their own thoughts until they reached the castle courtyard. Falconer saw Thomas Burewald emerging from the chapel where he must have been in communion with Bullock’s body. His face was solemn. Falconer crossed the yard to him as he needed to tell Burewald what he had been going to tell Bullock. It already felt odd to refer matters to this man, who was almost a stranger to him, instead of Bullock.
‘Burewald, I have another case of the red plague to advise you of. It’s Geoffrey Westhalf, a student at Beke’s Inn. He’s …’
Falconer paused seeing tears flowing from Burewald’s eyes. The watchman swallowed a sob, and with an embarrassed grimace wiped his face.
‘I’m sorry, Master Falconer. I’ve only just heard that my brother John — he’s a glover by trade, and has a stall close by Carfax — he’s got the plague too. I’ve got men moving him to Bartlemas now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ll get them to go by Beke’s Inn too.’
Falconer patted him on the shoulder.
‘It’s hard, isn’t it? Especially with Bullock no longer here to help us.’
Burewald cast a glance back at the chapel, where the constable’s body lay.
‘Actually, I was just talking to him. I felt a bit of a fool, but it helped, I think.’
‘Not a fool, Burewald. I always turned to Peter in a tight spot, now I shall at least ask myself what he would have done. It’s only a shame that he wasn’t around to witness the conclusion of the hunt for the book thief killer.’
Thomas’s ears pricked up at Falconer’s statement.
‘The constable told me something of what had been happening with the regent masters’ deaths. Are you now saying you have solved the matter?’
Falconer nodded his head.
‘It would appear so. Westhalf, the student who is mortally sick at Beke’s Inn, was surrounded by stolen books. And he is of a size to fit the descriptions we have of the thief. He favoured sober grey robes too, which is why he may have been taken for a Franciscan. Unfortunately, he will not survive to stand trial.’
‘Some may say fortunately — for him. Though I dare say natural justice will be seen to have been done. If Bullock’s murderer dies horribly, I for one will not grieve.’
Burewald squared his shoulders, and walked back towards the town and his new responsibilities. Saphira looked at him as he went under the archway in the castle walls.
‘He will do well, if the guilds and aldermen have the sense to appoint him in Peter’s place.’
Falconer agreed with her. Still, Oxford would be a strange place without Bullock, and someone else would have to tidy up the loose ends in his place. Falconer noticed John Peper sitting on the side of the cart that held the troubadours’ properties, sifting through them disconsolately. He had a spear in his hand which must have been used as the spear of the Roman centurion when depicting the Crucifixion. Falconer called over to him.
‘You’ve still not found Will Plome then? Only you should know there is no need for him to hide any more, as the real book thief is found.’
Peper put the spear down, and walked over to where Falconer and Saphira stood.
‘No. Not a sign of him anywhere, though we looked high and low. But then, the search was made harder because most folk were reluctant to even open their door to us. The few who did open up only spoke through the smallest crack between door and doorframe. But what they told us was they had not seen Will since last year, when we were last in Oxford.’
‘Did you speak to the shrine keeper at St Frideswide’s? Yaxley, the feretarius?’
Peper frowned.
‘But that was where he was found last time. He wouldn’t have gone there again, surely.’
‘Did you not even check with Yaxley? Will sees the shrine as the safest place in Oxford, and it wouldn’t matter if he had been found there before. He does not think like you or I.’
Peper got angry at Falconer’s scornful comment, and made a sharp retort in reply.
‘No, I didn’t think it worth checking. We were close by, and I suppose I may have asked, but saw Burewald just then, and heard about the constable’s murder. It was put out of my mind.’
Seeing her husband getting red-faced and annoyed, Margaret Peper hurried over. She was used to John getting into unnecessary conflict due to his temper and strove to cool the situation down. But John Peper could not be calmed down, and poked a finger at Falconer.
‘He said I haven’t done my job properly. What does he know? Will Plome is my friend, God help me, and I wanted to find him.’
Falconer was riled now, and replied in kind.
‘Then, if he was your friend, you should have taken more care and carried out your search more painstakingly. Not found, he may be a danger to himself and others.’
It took Saphira to calm the situation.
‘William. Master Peper. Don’t forget that Peter Bullock lies dead only yards from where we are standing. Give him a little respect. After all, if he were here, he would be banging your stupid heads together like a couple of troublesome clerks.’
Both men looked sheepishly at each other, and Peper was the first to turn away. Grumbling about returning to St Frideswide’s in search of Yaxley, he walked across the yard and out the gate with his wife, Margaret, following him. Falconer watched the Pepers leave, then walked towards the chapel with Saphira following him.
Chapter Twenty-two
The sight of Peter Bullock lying on the stone altar of the chapel gave Falconer the feeling that his friend was just slumbering after a night of strenuous activity. It was as if the constable had been out in the night calming excitable and drunk clerks and angry townspeople as he so often had done. If words could not calm the situation, he would have drawn his old, rusty sword and laid the flat of the blade against a recalcitrant youth’s arse. That usually achieved the desired effect. The clerks may have been studying logic as part of their course, but summary justice in the form of Peter’s judicious sword trumped the application of logic every time. Falconer laughed quietly, and drew a disapproving look from Saphira. He tried to explain.
‘I was just imagining him solving knotty problems with his own brand of practical good sense. You know, it used to irk him that I didn’t always take his opinion about a murder seriously. I always had to hunt out what was the least obvious answer to his mind. Well, this time he beat me to it. He must have been hanging around outside Aristotle’s Hall because he’d worked out who the murderer was, and that I was next in line.’
He peered short-sightedly at the pale, waxy face of his friend.
‘Congratulations, Peter Bullock. You won in the end. Tell me you knew it w
as Westhalf all along.’
Bullock was unmoved by Falconer’s admission of defeat, and his still features didn’t betray what he had known. In fact to Falconer, the constable looked as though he was ignoring his revelation of the name of the killer. Almost as though he was saying, ‘No, old friend, you’ve got it all wrong, after all. Think again.’
Falconer gripped the cold stone edge of the altar on which Bullock’s body lay and frowned.
*
Yaxley didn’t want to allow the Pepers access to the shrine at first. They were mere travelling players, who made their money singing bawdy songs in taverns, and he knew the woman performed lewd dances too. They were not the sort who would pay the right dues to see the saint’s remains. But then, it was obvious they didn’t want to see the saint. They were still looking for their travelling companion – the fat boy who had embarrassed the feretarius more than once.
‘I told you I thought I saw him hanging around here again recently. That is all I know.’
John Peper was insistent though.
‘But when did you see him exactly?’
Yaxley waved a dismissive hand in the man’s face.
‘What does that matter? I don’t even know for sure it was him. I only got a fleeting glimpse in the dark. A shadowy movement, no more. But then I thought it couldn’t have been him because Bullock – God rest his soul – had imprisoned him. So I don’t know why you think he could be in the church once again.’
‘So it was after Will had been taken and imprisoned by the constable that you saw him?’
‘Thought I saw him. Yes, it was early yesterday morning, if you must know. Now be off with you.’
John Peper looked at Margaret.
‘That would be after the time he escaped from the crypt.’
Yaxley yelped in annoyance.
‘He escaped? Don’t tell me he came back here again.’
He pulled a grim face, and waved a finger at the Pepers.
‘If he is here, hiding in his usual place, I shall make sure you pay the church for the inconvenience.’
John bowed in the most servile way he could muster.
