Falconer and the Rain of Blood

by Ian Morson

  ‘Could you go and look, sir. Then we could take him away with us, and he won’t bother you again.’

  The feretarius scowled, but then gave in and crooked a finger.

  ‘Very well, come with me. The way into the Holy Hole is close by the altar.’

  They walked up the nave, their footsteps echoing in the cold and unusually empty church. Yaxley stopped by the edge of a worn slab and saw that it had been moved. He groaned.

  ‘Here, help me with this.’

  Peper and Yaxley prised up the slab and lifted it away, revealing a dark hole. They both heard a whimper. Peper dropped to his knees, and peered fearfully into the gloom below his feet.

  ‘Will Plome, are you there? It’s John. John Peper.’

  He heard the whimper come again, like the sound of an animal cornered in its lair.

  *

  Saphira was used to William plunging into deep thought, and would have waited patiently for him to explain. But this time she was worried by the ashen look his face had taken on.

  ‘William, tell me what is wrong.’

  Falconer looked up at her.

  ‘Peter is right.’

  This strange comment made Saphira all the more concerned. Was William still imagining that the constable was alive, and speaking to him? Was he sick? Falconer saw the look in her eyes, and smiled wearily.

  ‘I’m not mad. It’s just that I was thinking about Peter’s frustration with my devious mind, as he called it. He hated it when I contradicted him, but he knew in the end that I had got it right. So I just considered my conclusions again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Tell me how sick Westhalf would have been, if as is likely, he picked up the plague directly from de Wolfson on that first day.’

  ‘By the twelfth day at the latest, he would have been incapacitated, possibly even after ten days. He would have been weak and feverish, his limbs would ache.’

  Saphira suddenly understood what Falconer was thinking.

  ‘Ah. You mean Westhalf may have attacked Roger Stephens and killed John Bukwode, but he would have been in no fit state to have murdered Bullock in his failed attempt to rob and kill you. He may even have been too feverish and weak to kill Edmund Ludlow and Gerard Anwell. Tell me, how did he seem to you when you spoke to him on the night Ludlow was discovered?’

  Falconer groaned and thought back to his meeting with the student. He had been weak, feverish, and sweaty. Falconer had put it down to the events he had witnessed, but of course it had been the early stages of the plague. Desolate, he stared at Saphira.

  ‘If only I had recognised it, he might have been treated early enough to …’

  ‘To later murder you. But then …’

  Falconer broke in on her train of thoughts, eager in his pursuit of the implications of this new revelation.

  ‘I have also been thinking about something Fulbert said.’

  ‘Are you coming back to thinking him the killer, then? And not Geoffrey Westhalf?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. I am certain that Westhalf was the book thief, and therefore also the person who attacked Roger Stephens and killed John Bukwode. But those attacks were carried out in haste and anger, and were not planned. The other murders, and the attempt on my life that led to Bullock’s death, were much more considered. No, what Fulbert said in his sermon that Bullock and I interrupted was that there were two killers stalking Oxford. Of course, he was referring to a murderer and the red plague, but it has made me consider the possibility that, if Westhalf was Bukwode’s killer, but was too sick to carry on, then there are two killers in Oxford. And that Ludlow, Anwell and Bullock were killed by the second one.’

  Saphira gave him a worried look.

  ‘Then this new killer is still free, and you are still probably his next victim.’

  ‘Yes. It’s like being knocked back to point one on a Game of Tables.’

  *

  ‘He said that he would not come out until the Devil had gone away. He said he had seen the Devil, and that He chased him all the way to St Frideswide’s, then told him to be silent.’

  The Pepers had come back to the castle without Will Plome, but with the story of where he was and what had happened to him.

  In the grim surroundings of St George’s Tower, John Peper told his story to Falconer, Saphira Le Veske, Isaac Doukas and Aldwyn. The old monk was immediately scrabbling through the pages of his book of Merlin’s Prophecies. Falconer glanced his way, as the old man frowned, flicking backwards through the tome.

  ‘What’s wrong, Aldwyn? Is there no prophecy that covers the arrival of the Devil Incarnate?’

  Aldwyn was unperturbed by Falconer’s sarcasm.

  ‘There is no specific statement at the section we have reached in the prophecies, but I am reminded of the beginning of the text.’

  He found what he was looking for and read it in a sombre tone.

  ‘ “The Prince shall forsake men of the church, Lords shall forsake righteousness, counsel of the aged shall not be set by; religious men and women shall be thrust out of their houses; the common people for fear shall not know which way to turn; parents shall be hated by their children, men of worship shall have no reverence of others; adultery shall abound among all; with more ill than I can tell of, from which God us defend.” If that is not warning of the arrival of the Devil, I don’t know what is.’

  Aldwyn slammed the book shut, and Isaac Doukas gave Falconer a look that clearly said he was on the side of the monk in this strange affair. Saphira was less impressed, and whispered in Falconer’s ear.

  ‘‘If we are now looking for a new killer, then we should do as you always have done, and collect the small truths to see how they point to the greater one. That method always irritated Peter, so surely you can bear to annoy him one more time by finding his killer in the same way. We need to talk to de Bosco about the masters who were killed after Bukwode. He might know of something that links you and them together.’

  Falconer was glad to have good reason to leave the castle, and all the reminders it carried of Peter Bullock. Moreover, he did not want to reveal yet his thoughts concerning the murderer who was still at large. Everyone looked so glad that Geoffrey Westhalf had been exposed, and that Will was no longer a suspect. He thanked the Pepers for their efforts at extricating Will Plome, and told them that he thought Will was safe enough in the Holy Hole for the time being. What he didn’t tell them was that he wanted Will locked away until he had sorted the mystery out.

  ‘Let him stay where he feel safe for the moment. Meanwhile, I have business with the Chancellor. So you must excuse me.’

  Free of the stifling atmosphere of the castle, Falconer felt he could breathe again. Hurrying along at his side and keeping in step with his loping stride, Saphira had a question for him.

  ‘What of Will Plome? Is he once again a suspect?’

  Put on the spot, Falconer had to agree that Plome could not be ruled out.

  ‘If we are looking for another killer, he must still be considered. After all, he was at the scene of one murder, and was at liberty when Anwell and Bullock were killed. All this talk of being pursued by the Devil could be his way of excusing his actions.’

  ‘But if it’s wasn’t Plome, then what about the Franciscan, Fulbert? He would be able to sneak out of the friary in the night in between prayers, wouldn’t he? Or is he a milk-and-water sort of priest?’

  ‘Indeed he would be able to be about the town when everyone else would be asleep. And as for your other question, he is robust enough to wield a sword, I would say. But if we are to attribute the initial book thefts to Westhalf, then what was Fulbert’s reason for killing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We suspected … I suspected him in the first place because of his avowed distaste for books and scientific knowledge. If he is not the book thief then he is simply a murderer. What I need to ask myself is, would Fulbert kill for his beliefs?’

  Saphira nodded her head.

  ‘I take your point. But we do not scratch h
im from our list of suspects. Falconer grimaced.

  ‘No. Nor do we discard Yaxley for the same reasons.’

  Their conversation had carried them to the Aula Vitrea – the House of Glass – where William de Bosco resided. They entered the hall, and persuaded a servant, who kept a respectful distance in case they brought the plague with them, to summon the Chancellor. He had a word of caution though.

  ‘It is quite late, master, and the Chancellor is in the habit of retiring early.’

  ‘Tell him I am William Falconer, and must speak to him concerning the urgent errand I am carrying out for him. I am sure he will see me.’

  The servant cast a suspicious and rather scandalised look at Saphira, making it clear he disapproved of her presence in the house of a celibate. Falconer stared hard at him in the way he did with recalcitrant students.

  ‘And he will be pleased to entertain Mistress Le Veske also.’

  With pursed lips, the servant bowed, and disappeared through the inner door that led to de Bosco’s private solar. It was quite some time before the servant returned, his face like thunder. He had obviously lost the battle with his master over allowing visitors to see him at such a late hour. His message was quite curt.

  ‘The Chancellor will be with you shortly. May I get you some wine?’

  The offer of wine was clearly made with the assumption that a courteous guest would decline. So Falconer deliberately replied in the positive.

  ‘That is an excellent idea. And don’t fob us off with the Chancellor’s poor Rhenish. Mistress Le Veske is knowledgeable about the wine trade, and will know, if you do.’

  The man scowled, and went on his errand. Saphira laughed gently and chided William.

  ‘Poor man. He clearly sees it as his duty to protect the Chancellor from the likes of you, and you went and spoiled it. And as for my expertise with wine, he will now put me down as that Jewess who’s in trade.’

  Falconer was about to reply, but the servant returned with a jug of wine and two fine gilded goblets. He poured the wine, but retreated before Saphira could taste it and complain. Falconer was actually glad of the opportunity to drink, and took a deep gulp. Saphira sipped it more gently.

  ‘Actually, it is a good wine. A Burgundy, I think. You must have cowed the poor man.’

  Falconer laughed.

  ‘I just hope he didn’t spit in it before bringing it through.’

  Saphira paled, and pushed her goblet away from her.

  It was some considerable time before de Bosco himself emerged, and in the mean time Falconer had drunk deep. When the Chancellor did come into the hall, he was wearing a voluminous robe with a fur collar that covered a long white linen shirt that peeped from under the robe. He had probably been roused from his bed, but gave the appearance of being pleased to see Falconer. He even made a courteous bow towards Saphira Le Veske.

  ‘I am glad Inkpen saw to your needs. He can be very protective, when someone arrives late. Overly so. Now tell me, do you have some news about the murders? Plumpton told me you left your researching of the records with great speed. I assumed you had found something significant in them.’

  ‘Yes, it led us to a student – Geoffrey Westhalf. Sadly, he is dying of the plague.’

  For a moment, de Bosco looked relieved that the murderer, though a student of the university, had at least had the good sense to die before his misdeeds were made known. He was already plotting ways the whole matter could be hushed up. Then he saw Falconer’s solemn face.

  ‘Does the matter not end there?’

  Falconer shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not. You see, he could not have been the killer of those masters who died after Bukwode, and not of the constable either.’

  De Bosco pulled a face.

  ‘Shame. Then the mystery is not solved. Oh, by the way, I was most disturbed to hear of Bullock’s death. He was a fine man, and will be sorely missed.’

  Though Falconer knew de Bosco was a diplomat and probably sought only to please, he was glad of the man’s obsequy.

  ‘We are near a conclusion, but we are here firstly to seek your help.’

  De Bosco raised his eyebrows. It was rare for William Falconer to seek his assistance. He guessed this must be a strange case indeed.

  ‘And how can I help you, master?’

  ‘Of the men who died, I am most interested in any connection between John Bukwode, Edmund Ludlow, Gerard Anwell, and …’ Falconer grimaced recalling that Bullock had died instead of him. ‘… and myself. If you can see any.’

  De Bosco frowned and paced the dark and by now chilly hall. He pulled his thick robe around him. From the look on his face, Falconer saw that something had occurred to the Chancellor, but that he was reluctant to state it openly. He urged him to speak.

  ‘Tell me what you know, sir. My own life, if no other is at stake here.’

  Having uttered those words, he wondered if the threat on his life was perhaps an incentive rather than a deterrent for de Bosco keeping quiet. Fleetingly, he thought he saw the same idea crossing the Chancellor’s mind. But de Bosco was not that underhand. The chancellor raised a finger to his lips as if to express his desire for discretion.

  ‘I can tell you of the first three and how they may be connected other than by scholarship. As for your connection to them, you must answer that yourself. I cannot see it.’

  Falconer sighed. He had hoped de Bosco might have the key.

  ‘Well, tell me anyway. How are Bukwode, Anwell and Ludlow connected?’

  What de Bosco then told him suddenly hit Falconer like a hammer blow. He grunted as if actually punched, and thanked de Bosco for his confidences.

  ‘Chancellor, you have helped enormously. Now we must go.’

  De Bosco was, as ever in the presence of Falconer, bewildered.

  ‘I have helped? I don’t know how. You would do best to speak to Roger Plumpton. He knows more about this business than I do.’

  Falconer bowed abruptly, and took a puzzled Saphira by the arm. He guided her out of Glassen and back into the street. There, he looked around cautiously before beginning to walk the silent lanes towards Jewry. Saphira followed until they were at Carfax, then she stopped him. They stood alone, the only two people on what was normally a bustling crossroads at the centre of Oxford.

  ‘What is going on, William? Tell me.’

  ‘I know who the murderer is. Well, I think I know, but I need to expose him. Make him confess, because I don’t know if I can prove anything.’

  ‘And how can I help?’

  Falconer’s instinct was to tell her to go home and lock her door behind her. But he knew that would not be acceptable to Saphira Le Veske. He racked his brains for something that would help.

  ‘There are three things you can do. I need you to get John Peper out of the castle grounds, so that I can talk to him without anyone else knowing. Then you have to lure Will Plome out of his hidey-hole. Oh, and bring Yaxley with him. Can you do that?’

  Saphira sighed deeply.

  ‘I know you are not going to tell me who you suspect so I might as well do something useful. They are tasks one and two. What is the third?’

  ‘I need Fulbert to know I am aware of the killer’s identity.’

  ‘Hmm. That is not a task for a woman – going into a friary at night. I will talk to Thomas Burewald. He could play a part and convince Fulbert you need to see him urgently.’ She paused to give William chance to speak. But when he didn’t, she tried to wheedle the truth from him. ‘Is it Fulbert you suspect, then?’

  Falconer kept a straight face.

  ‘Wait and see.’

  With an inscrutable smile, he hurried off in the direction of Aristotle’s Hall, leaving Saphira to her tasks.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Feast of St Cosmas and Damian, 25th September

  Brother Aldwyn was roused from his slumbers by the urgent voice of William Falconer. His fuddled brain could hardly decipher the regent master’s words at first. />
  ‘What was that you said, Master Falconer?’

  He opened a heavy eyelid, and tried to make out the scholar’s blurry features. Falconer’s face was as excited as his voice. His blue eyes sparkled and a broad smile split his features.

  ‘I said, Aldwyn, that you were right.’

  ‘Right?’

  The monk could not work out to what Falconer was referring. Since when had he ever been right about anything in the scholar’s eyes? But he found he was soon to be enlightened. Falconer grasped his shoulders so tightly it made the old man wince.

  ‘You were right all along about the prophecies coming true. It’s all in the next section of your book.’

  Aldwyn corrected him pedantically.

  ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth’s book. And they are Merlin’s words not his.’

  A peculiar look came over Falconer’s face. A sort of a grimace melded with a secret smile. But it was fleeting and the monk wasn’t sure if it had been there in the first place. Perhaps he had imagined it, or Falconer had had a momentary bout of indigestion. He put the thought from his mind. After all, the regent master had admitted his errors, and was ready to accept the veracity of the prophecies. Aldwyn rose from his bed with a little gentle assistance from Falconer, and hobbled over to the table where the book lay. But before he could get there, Falconer skipped ahead of him, and hefted the book in his big hands.

  ‘I have arranged for the players to enact the relevant section. They are assembled in the courtyard. Come.’

  Close by the dying embers of the central hearth in the hall of St George’s Tower, another figure rose from his slumbers. The swarthy head of Isaac Doukas appeared from under a sheepskin, and his eyes blinked blearily.

  ‘What’s happening, Adwyn? What’s all the noise?’

  Falconer answered the questions for the old monk.

  ‘You will see soon enough, Doukas. Come, follow me.’

  He strode off through the main door, the precious book held firmly under his right arm. Doukas scratched his greasy head, and got to his feet. Following the regent master and the old monk out into the courtyard, he was presented with the strangest of sights. Dawn was breaking, and the rising sun cast a pale, watery light across the yard. At one end of the yard, a large cloth had been hung between two poles about ten feet high. The scene depicted was of green fields bordered by dark woods. A few crudely sketched-in but grand-looking buildings probably designated London. Or maybe it was Jerusalem. Who could tell? The fact that the paint was cracked and faded did not detract from the effect. The sun’s beams burst through a cloud and lit up a pretty picture of a country scene. More England than Outremer, certainly. Doukas screwed up his eyes and stared at Falconer.