[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death

by Ian Morson

  He was an older man whose greying locks hung down the sides of his head, though his beard was thick and black. His pate was completely bald, and his skin shone richly like honey in the light of the guttering lamp. He sneered at the waverer.

  ‘The tradition has been carried on in secret for centuries, and your rabbi probably knows it. I have myself witnessed it.’ He stared steely-eyed at the group who stood round him in a circle, guilt written on their faces.

  ‘You have all sinned, and can expiate your wrongs by offering this sacrifice. You asked me to come here in the month of Elul - the month for forgiveness - and you knew what I would do. If the Temple cannot be used, then another place can suffice. Now, does anyone else want to join the boy and run off?.’

  Each of the other men dropped their eyes in turn as the stranger stared them down. Even the young man bit his tongue, and acquiesced to the power evident in the man. The stranger grunted, as if scornful of their weakness, and lauding in his power. He brandished the sharp-edged knife held in his right hand.

  ‘Then let us proceed.’

  * * *

  Close by, as Rabbi Jehozadok completed his prayers, a chill ran through his ancient frame. It was as if he was sensing something that was very wrong, but then his rational mind shrugged it off as the agues of a feeble old body.

  ‘Come, Jose, help me back into the chair, and fetch me some more wine. But warm it this time. The evening is cold, and my bones ache.’

  Despite the rabbi’s earlier adjuration to slow down, the boy ran off full tilt to carry out his task. The room was dark, being subtly lit with only a few tallow candles. After all, Jehozadok was blind, so day and night were as one to him. The candles were merely a courtesy to any visitors he might have. In the gloom, Jose nearly knocked over someone who stood in the doorway just as he exited. Jehozadok heard his shouted apology, followed close on by a tinkling laugh that suggested amusement rather than annoyance at the gauche boy’s stumblings.

  ‘Hannah, how delightful to see you.’ Though unable to actually see his visitor, Jehozadok still used the courteous phrase.

  And he turned his face towards the girl who had just entered just as if he was looking at her. Anyway, he had known Hannah daughter of Samson since she was born, and still had his sight when she blossomed into the beauty he imagined she still was. Smelling her fragrance, which had alerted him to her presence, he recalled her large brown eyes, and her full red lips which had always contrasted starkly with her perfect, ivory skin.

  ‘Rabbi. I hope you are well, and that the boy hasn’t vexed you too much.’

  Jehozadok laughed, and stretched out his bony hands to receive the girl’s warm grasp.

  ‘Ah. Jose is a little excitable, but a good boy nevertheless. He has brought me an interesting titbit of news this evening. But that is by the by. What brings you to the house of a derelict old man?’

  She squeezed his hands gently, aware how fragile he had become of late. She feared his life was drawing to a close, but knew he would probably last longer than anyone dared hope. He seemed to have been alive for centuries already. She chided his self-deprecation, and carded on the old pretence that amused them both of secret assignations.

  ‘And I thought you knew you were my only love, and these, our secret meetings, were dear to you. But first I must warn you, you must behave today for I have another person with me.’

  Jehozadok tensed in his chair. He had been so overjoyed at Hannah’s presence that for once he had not sensed there was another nearby. He passed off his failure with a lighthearted quip.

  ‘Do you bring me Deudone, your soon-to-be husband?’ ‘No!’ Hannah squeezed his hands so hard he could almost tell that her face was blushing at the suggestion. She was too modest a girl, dutiful and diligent for her father, and who needed a little pleasure in her life. More joy than the hotheaded Deudone would give her, he surmised. He made a mental note to talk to Samson the apothecary about being less strict with her. ‘No, rabbi. We have a visitor from Canterbury, here on business.’

  Now that he concentrated his remaining senses, Jehozadok was aware of the presence of another person in his room. But there was a strangeness about him that confused the old man.

  He could have sworn that he detected not the odours of a man, hot from a long journey such as that from the Jewish community in Canterbury. Not even a man who might have taken the time to bathe before introducing himself to the local rabbi. In fact, Jehozadok would have sworn it was a woman from the sweet scents that pervaded his nostrils. Oils that usually adorned long hair and more subtle aromas a woman might scent her body with. He smiled at his own stupidity, and hazarded a guess at her status based on the knowledge it was a woman here on business.

  ‘Then you are welcome, mistress. Though I dare say I should offer my condolences at your widowhood.’

  ‘It is a number of years since my husband died, sir. I have reconciled myself to my current state, and carry on his business as best I can.’

  The voice was rich and sensuous, the timbre that of a mature and confident woman. And one, Jehozadok hazarded a guess, who probably ran her business far better than her husband had done when he was alive. His curiosity was piqued.

  ‘Is it truly business that brings you to Oxford, or pleasure?’

  ‘A little of both, perhaps. You will know that the King’s son, Edward, is eager to crusade, and that soon we will no doubt face an unbearable tallage to fund the madness. Benedict, the chirographer of our records, suggested that as I was travelling to Oxford, I might ascertain the state of mind of people here. Would they stand with Canterbury in refusing to pay the tax?’

  Jehozadok winced at the idea of rebelling against the King, even over such a clear-cut injustice. He was old enough to remember his father telling him of Abraham of Bristol, who refused to pay an extortionate tallage being levied many years ago by old King John. Each day that he had refused, the King’s men extracted a tooth, and he lost seven before the pain became unbearable and he gave in.

  ‘I am an old man now - you would do better to speak to Jacob. He is young, and can rouse the blood of our fellows more than I. But forgive me - I am confused. You say that this is the business that brought you to Oxford. And yet at the same time hinted that you were coming here anyway. Does that mean that it is pleasure that called you to Oxford in the first place?’

  A low and deep-throated chuckle regaled Jehozadok’s ears.

  ‘You embarrass me, rabbi, with your perspicacity. I had meant to say that when Benedict wished to find someone who would journey to Oxford, I convinced him that I had good reason to come here sufficient to warrant combining the purposes. But maybe a little pleasure did enter into the equation.’

  There was a pause, followed by a gentle cough. Jehozadok was surprised to realize the confident businesswoman was a little nonplussed. Not so self-confident after all.

  ‘A little while ago, I met a master of the university in, shall I say, quite unusual circumstances. I was seeking my son, and Bermondsey Abbey was where I found him, living as an unwilling convert. The situation was exacerbated by the fact an unexplained death had taken place of which my son was accused. The master discovered the real culprit, and I didn’t have a chance to thank him properly. His name is ...’

  ‘William Falconer?’

  He heard the woman gasp.

  ‘How did you know that? Are you an alchemist, do you dabble in the Kabbalah? Or am I to assume that Master

  Falconer has something of a reputation in the field of resolving strange deaths?’

  ‘He is a good friend. And yes, he does have a certain... shall I, say.., notoriety in Oxford. Doesn’t he, Hannah?’ The girl, who had been sitting silently by his side during the whole conversation, squeezed his hand in agreement. ‘Tell me where you are staying, and I will send a message to him for you. Oh, and you had better tell me your name, or I won’t know who I am to say is seeking him.’

  ‘I am staying at the home of my cousin, Abraham son of Moses. The house is e
mpty at the moment, as Abraham is away on business. I can be found there, though the larder is empty at present, and I do need to go out and buy some provisions. I perhaps will leave that until tomorrow, however. Oh, my name is Saphira Le Veske.’

  The man who was the subject of all this conversation, but still blissfully unaware of its implications, was in the meantime extricating the remains of the long-dead body from its final resting place. By now, it had grown quite dark, and the curious mob of onlookers had become tired of the spectacle. Once it had become clear that a body was not to be pulled out rapidly, and was not to be on public show, the gawpers became bored.

  The pull of home or the tavern became stronger, and they began to drift off. Then, as the street quietened, save for the industrious scraping of the master mason, and the sputter of the torch held by Peter Bullock, the denizens of the night appeared to replace the onlookers.

  The skittering sounds of rats and mice announced the arrival of those very scavengers who cleaned up the detritus of their human neighbours. Later, even they would be driven back underground as the taverns once more disgorged their human offal, drunk on cheap beer and empty stomachs. Falconer knew only too well the daily grind of sterile learning that drove many young men to seek a release from boredom. Interfering with the exhumation would seem fine fun to some inebriated clerks, who in the past had thought nothing of sparking a riot as a means of enlivening their time in the university. He knew he would do well to move the headless body to somewhere safe before the revellers emerged to interrupt his patient endeavours.

  Thus it was that he left Thorpe and Bullock to it, and went off on a mission of his own. He returned with a hand cart whose wheels rumbled ominously on the cobbles of the narrow alley. Thorpe, meanwhile, had roped the main part of the corpse to a hurdle, and attached it to a pulley normally used to lower materials from the top of the wall. Carefully, he swung the gruesome remains out over Falconer’s head, and fed the rope through his hands. He deftly deposited the board and its load on the handcart, and once Falconer had released the rope, pulled it up again and tied it off. He slid deftly down the rope, eschewing the rickety ladder that had so worried Falconer. On the ground, Falconer and Bullock had already had a brief but acrimonious debate as to where the body should be removed. It seemed that Falconer had won. Whatever the result, Thorpe was glad to see the back of it. Perhaps now he could continue his interrupted work on building Bassett College.

  Bullock threw an old blanket over the cart’s load, and helped Falconer push it quickly across the High Street, and up the lane running along the side of St Mary’s Church. He was still unsure that they were doing the right thing.

  ‘I am still not convinced, William, that we should be doing this. The unfortunate wretch should be shrived and buried. Don’t you think a church would be a better place for his body?’

  ‘And miss the opportunity to discover who he really was, and why he was killed? No, Master Bonham is an expert on these matters, and can advise us how he met his end.’

  ‘But it was so long ago. What hope have we of hunting down his murderer with the trail so cold? Better to let things lie, and give this man a decent burial.’

  Falconer pursed his lips, determined to have his way. They lapsed into an awkward silence as they negotiated the sharp bend into the lane that lay close under the north walls of the town. For a second the uneven load caused the cart to tip, and Bullock feared the body might be spilled across the lane. But with a heave they righted it, and continued down the lane towards St Michael’s at North Gate. William had taken care to alert Bonham to their impending arrival, when he sought out the hand cart. He would not have wanted Bullock to see the body of the servant girl that Bonham and he had so recently anatomized. Despite Bullock’s interest in Falconer’s eccentric methods of solving crimes, even he would not have been able to ignore the sacrilege that a body carved open represented.

  Better, thought Falconer, that his friend remained in ignorance of the clandestine and gruesome investigation. This new body was another matter, of course. It was already partly dismembered, and was essentially a skeleton with tatters of flesh and clothing adhering to it. It mattered not if they poked and prodded a little. But what interested Falconer most was the item he could not examine - the missing skull. He finally responded to Bullock’s reservations.

  ‘Does he not deserve the same care and attention you would give to a fresh corpse? He deserves justice, and we will give it to him. Master Bonham can discern what happened to a person from the most fragmentary of evidence. Just listen to what he has to say. Then we can lay him to rest.’ He hoped his confident assertion was true. In his experience, Bonham had anatomized only fresh bodies. Or those that had lain in a pauper’s grave for a few days before a little sleight of hand had transferred them to his slab under cover of darkness. Bullock sighed, and gave in just as the little teacher poked his head out of his front door, and beckoned the corpse-bearers in.

  Seven

  As Falconer and Bullock toiled with the body-laden hurdle on the steps that led down to Bonham’s cool cellar, the little grey master poked around amongst the bones in the bucket.

  ‘Finger bones, Master Falconer, and the bones of the forearm.’

  ‘Yes,’ grunted Falconer, more concerned with not allowing the body to slide off the hurdle than with Bonham’s obvious deduction. ‘The arm was exposed and is in a poorer state than the rest of the body.’

  ‘Excellent. Then what is it you wish to know?’ Bonham cast a nervous glance towards Peter Bullock, who had dragged his end of the hurdle on to the rough table and planted himself on an upturned wooden box by the side wall of the cool cellar. Falconer, now able to let go of his end, was glad to be relieved of the burden. He was not as fit as he used to be as the years advanced. He leaned with both hands on the table edge.

  ‘How he died is a good start.’

  ‘Then we are to assume that he did not die naturally? For there will be little to tell from such remains if his heart simply failed him.’

  Falconer drew breath, and looked at Bullock. The constable, slumped on his makeshift seat, briefly nodded his head. It was fine to tell Bonham how and where the body was found.

  ‘I don’t think he would have died naturally and fallen into the gap in a wall as the house was being built. A gap which was then filled in by the builders unaware that a dead man lay there. And besides, there is the small matter of a missing head.’

  Falconer lifted the rough blanket off the top end of the Corpse. Bonham’s grey eyes rounded in surprise. Falconer had not told him the location of the body when he had come to ask him to look at the remains of someone long dead. Nor about the absence of a skull. Still, it was the unusual location that most piqued his curiosity.

  ‘And you say he has been dead some twenty years. How do you know that?’

  ‘Simply because that was when those buildings went up. No one could have excavated the wall out to insert the body at any later time. No, he must have been killed twenty years ago.’

  ‘Or killed long before that, and merely interred there at that time.’

  That thought had not occurred to Falconer, but something told him it was a far-fetched possibility. Then Bonham himself confirmed that an earlier death could not have been the case, as he peeled the blanket fully from around the remains.

  ‘No. That is not possible. Look, there are the remnants of flesh, and this fatty substance -’ he pointed at the parts of the body that had been buried in the wall infill - ‘is formed when a body is kept in damp ground. No doubt the rooms of this house must have been damp. Cheaply built and not very nice to live in. So you are right. His death immediately predated his burial. Or should I even call it a burial, being as it is so high above the ground?’

  Falconer smiled at the little man’s attempt at humour. He was used to Bonham relieving the sombre atmosphere of his autopsy cellar with quips he deemed amusing. However, he had avoided any gruesome jokes when poring over the body of Sarah Blakiston earlier. Then,
it had not seemed right to joke. Falconer wondered where the man had hidden the remains of the servant girl. He had not given Bonham much warning of the arrival of Peter Bullock, so she could not be far away. He watched as Bonham poked around in the bucket, and then turned his attention to the skeleton on the table. As Bonham fussed over the body, Falconer pointed to the neck bones.

  ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘The absence of the skull, you mean? I wondered when you were going to ask me that. It’s fairly obvious what happened to him, isn’t it? He didn’t get like that falling over. Nor have you merely failed to find a skull that after decomposition has become detached from the rest of the body. Look at the edge of the top bone. It has been sliced with a sword.’

  Falconer put on his eye-lenses, and peered closely. It was true - the bone had been sheared off at the top.

  ‘He was beheaded.’

  Bonham nodded.

  ‘Of course, it is impossible now to tell whether that was pre- or post-mortem. But there’s something else, Master William.’ The little grey man delved once again in the bucket, and produced an arm bone and a handful of the knuckle bones.

  ‘He saw it coming, and defended himself. Look at the cracks and splinters on this arm bone and on these finger bones. He held his left arm up to protect himself from some blows.’ The long-forgotten scene began to unfold in the imagination of the three men in the dim and chilly cellar, as their minds went back twenty years.

  Pentecost, May 1250

  The year of Our Lord 1250, the thirty-fourth year of the reign of Henry, the third King of England of that name, began strangely.

  An earthquake in the Chilterns led a certain monk chronicler in the abbey of St Albans to note that the words of the Gospel had foretold ‘there shall be earthquakes in divers places’, and that this presaged that the end of the world was at hand. The general mood of despair was seized on by many people whose fascination with numbers led them to realize that the end of the year would mark twenty-five half-centuries since the Year of Grace.