by Ian Morson
Each grave slab was standing out like a little oblong island in the flood, but none was the refuge for the renegade Jew.
Covele’s tent, as described by Saphira, was nowhere to be seen. He must have fled before the road eastward had become impassable. Bullock was inclined to think that only served to settle the man’s guilt.
‘I should raise a hue and cry. But who will come out in this weather? And how far would we get?’
He swept his arm around the depressing vista of the sodden meadows to the south and east of Oxford. Glistening with sheets of water, it was as if the town had become a moated fortress without a drawbridge.
‘It is said in the Book of Judges that the prophetess Deborah helped the Israelites defeat the Canaanites by luring the army to a valley when the rainy season was to begin. The rains came and bogged down the Canaanite chariots, and the Israelite army slaughtered them.’
Falconer raised an enquiring eyebrow at the constable’s unusual expression of Biblical erudition, as he knew he could not have read it in Latin. Bullock’s face turned red, and he blurted out an explanation.
‘The Book of Judges was one of the texts put in the vernacular for the Order. It was intended to teach us Templars something of the battle techniques suitable for the Holy Land. But that is by the way. What is now to be done?’
Bullock’s sense of defeat was not shared by Falconer. He had an inkling that Saphira had not told him the entire truth.
Indeed he began to realize that she had diverted him from a blatant lie with her lascivious exposure of her bare feet and legs. And he had fallen for it. He perched on a grave slab to keep his feet out of the encroaching waters, and swept the rain out of his eyes with a cold-reddened fist. Bullock’s reference to the Templars had sparked another thought in his head.
‘Peter, tell me. What else was Laurence de Bernère up to in the last few days?’
‘What do you mean? As far as I know, he only asked me to look into the discovery of the skeleton after we had verified the remains were those of le Saux. He was in Oxford by chance, I believe.’
Falconer gave a short, guttural laugh.
‘Forgive me, Peter. But nothing the Templars do is by chance. He must have known something was afoot, perhaps as soon as the buildings in Little Jewry Lane were being demolished. Besides, he obviously used someone other than you to help him to meddle in the matter.’
‘How do you know that?’
Falconer tapped the middle finger of his left hand.
‘Did you not see the gold ring he was wearing? Unless my poor eyes deceived me, it was very ring that I found on the skeleton. That went missing soon after. It could have told us a lot much sooner, perhaps. When I looked at it, it was clogged with mud and the symbol on the ring was obscured. When he wore it, it had been cleaned. The symbol was that of two knights astride the same horse. The ...’
Bullock gasped.
‘The sign of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. The Order. But could it not have been his own ring?’
‘I think not. It looked loose on his finger, and he kept twisting it as though unused to its presence. No, I think someone on the building site stole it, and passed it on to de Bernère as evidence of the identity of the body.’
‘Could it have been the foreman, Wilfrid? And then was later killed for his pains?’
‘It’s possible. Though what I saw of him on site leads me to believe he was an honest man. And he was perhaps too busy taking charge of the workmen to plunder the remains. Still, we must not discard it as a possibility.’
‘Which may lead us to de Bernère as his killer. To keep his involvement with the man quiet.’
‘The only flaw in that theory, Peter, is that you are involved with the Templar too. And he has not killed you because of what you know.’
Bullock poked the rough granite surface of the Jewish tomb with the end of his scabbard.
‘Then where does all of this get us? We are no further forward than when we first found the body. Either body.’
Falconer pushed himself up from his perch on the tomb, and stepped down into the waters. He contemplated his new boots for a moment, as the mud eddied round them. He could feel the cold seeping in already. He shivered and rubbed his raw hands together.
‘That is not entirely true, Peter. We have a lot of truths laid out before us, and I think the Temple is the key. We just need to find the lock it fits in.’
Bullock once again silently bemoaned the need for his friend to talk in riddles, and pulling his heavy cloak around him, bent his head into the driving rain.
Saphira knew she would only have a short head’s start on William, and resolved to make the most of it. If she could speak to the master mason working on this new collegium building, she might find out something about the original houses. Who knows? He might even have been given the old fabric rolls recording the cost of the original work, what materials were purchased, and more importantly, who worked there.
She pulled up the hood of her cloak, and ducked out into the rain that was beginning to fall. The fish market was unusually quiet, and some stallholders were already packing up their wares. The persistent rain had dampened everyone’s mood, making them uneasy about the rising waters surrounding the town. She saw a huddle of Grey Friars close by South Gate clearly concemed that their own humble dwellings, which were reached by a small, private gate in the southem walls, were already under threat. She crossed Fish Street, and site of the building work by cutting down the narrow Jewry Lane. When she reached the site, she thought at first that there was no one on it. Work had clearly stopped due to the weather, and large puddles were forming right across the site, especially where trenches had been dug for foundations. Stone and other materials were lying around on the ground, apparently left where they were when work was called off for the day. She thought she would somehow have to find out where the master mason had his lodgings. Then she saw him.
The tall, well-built man with a head of thick, curly hair was standing under the cover of a temporary structure on the edge of the building site. It was a square pavilion built of hefty wooden poles, and was solidly thatched with a neat, sloping roof. Despite the heavy rain, the man looked safe and dry underneath. He was leaning over a bench, calmly making notes with a quill pen. This had to be the master mason, as he could obviously read and write. Saphira lifted her skirts and picked her way cross the site, avoiding the worst of the puddles and debris.
The man was engrossed in his work, and did not notice her until she was almost under the shelter. When he did, and turned to face her, he appeared a little angry at the unexpected presence. But then he saw it was an attractive woman and his eyes widened. She noticed they were the same blue as William’s. He smiled charmingly.
‘Madam. What may I do for you?’
‘It is rather a curious request I have, sir. But it does relate to the unfortunate death of your man recently.’ Richard Thorpe frowned at the unpleasant reminder of Wilfrid Southo’s killing.
‘It was a most regrettable matter. But I understood the constable to say that it was due to the rioting that took place that night. That he would probably never be able to find out who did it. Just someone who was too worked up about the Jews, and too drunk to realize Wilfrid wasn’t one of that faith. And to think it was all over something that apparently didn’t happen. Regrettable, and unlucky for Wilfrid, but we will never know who was responsible, I suppose.’
Saphira was reassured that this man, unlike William, didn’t think the Jews guilty of some nasty deed. Nor that they deserved to suffer.
‘Well, perhaps that is not so, Master er...’
‘Thorpe. Richard Thorpe. What do you mean? That it was not a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
Saphira was aware of Thorpe’s bright blue eyes staring at her intently. He gripped her arm, a little too tightly, she thought.
But then, it was his fellow worker who had been slain. He was entitled to feel aggrieved, and eager to learn what she
knew.
‘Indeed. It is probably related to the discovery of the skeleton some days earlier. Tell me, do you know anything about the men who worked on the houses when they were being built?’
The intense look in Thorpe’s eyes faded a little. Maybe he felt she didn’t know as much as she suggested.
‘What? Twenty years ago?’ He laughed briefly. ‘I was still an apprentice then, working all over the country, and not entrusted with the ancient secrets of my craft. Now, they call me Doctor Lathorum - the stone professor - but then, I was just an insignificant labourer. How would I know who put up the houses we have just pulled down?’
Saphira felt disappointed. She had hoped for so much more from him. Now she would have to dredge the memories of people who lived in Oxford at the time. But she doubted if anyone would remember a journeyman worker after all these years. Then Thorpe made another suggestion.
‘I do recall one of my men saying he was sad the buildings were coming down, as he was around when they went up. Though I don’t know if he meant he actually was working here at the time.’
Saphira began to feel excited again. ‘Can I speak to him? Who is he?’
‘Yes, of course we can speak to him. He’s a bit of an ox, and will never get beyond being a journeyman. He has to be able to draw templates in plaster of stonework and other shapes to become a master mason, and he is too stupid. We can try and get some sense out of him, but I’ve sent all the men back to their lodgings because of the weather.’ He waved a weary hand at the sodden ground. ‘As you can see, there is nothing to be done today at least. And maybe not tomorrow either. We will just have to work twice as hard when the weather does improve. By now, the men will all be in their lodgings in Beaumont.’
‘Can you show me where? I am a stranger in Oxford, and do not know where this Beaumont is.’
Thorpe smiled in a way that to Saphira seemed to light up his face. He began to gather his writing implements and parchments, stuffing them into a large satchel.
‘Of course. Come, I’ll show you where it is. This man’s name is John Trewoon, by the way.’
By the time Falconer and Bullock reached the building site in Little Jewry Lane, it looked abandoned. All across the site lay discarded stones, and wooden tubs of lime mortar, hardening off despite the rain. The master mason was not in his lodge, and the workbench was devoid of parchments and writing materials. Falconer wondered if Saphira had also been too late to find anyone here. He was sure this was where she had intended to go when she had so skilfully put him off the trail. Everything was beginning to make sense. But he had an uneasy feeling about the absence of anyone on the site. Thorpe had not even left a watchman to guard his materials. He decided to follow his reasoning one step further, and hunt down the workmen at their lodgings. He knew from his encounter with the odd couple of men outside the brothel the other night that their lodgings were in Beaumont. Perhaps Thorpe’s quarters were there too. He hoped that the awful weather would have put them off tarrying in the whorehouses and taverns.
‘Come on, Peter. We must hurry, because I fear that matters may be coming to a head.’
Bullock grunted, and held his trusty sword up to prevent it tangling with his legs as he hastened after his friend.
‘Twenty years that body has been walled up, and now you say that we must hurry. I wish you’d tell me what this is all about.’
Falconer’s words were flung over his shoulder as he strode towards Carfax, and the broad street leading up to North Gate.
‘You’ll find out soon enough. For now, let me just say that these deaths are all to do with ritual after all. But not the one we were first led to believe.’
‘Riddles, always riddles,’ muttered Bullock, as he scurried through the eerily quiet gateway and towards the hovels of Broken Hays and Beaumont. He noticed that the ditch that skirted the northern exterior of Oxford’s walls was no longer simply a grassy bank but a proper moat again as it had been years ago. The rain continued to fall relentlessly, and he pondered on building an ark for himself if the defensive mound of the castle proved to be insufficient against the impending inundation. He could not recall a time when the rivers and water meadows that surrounded Oxford had been so menacing.
Due to his woolly meanderings, he almost lost Falconer.
He had dodged down a narrow passage that stood opposite the square bulk of the church of St Mary Magdalen.
Some had recently taken to calling it the friars’ entry after the White Friars who had recently settled in the vicinity. It seemed the masons lodged somewhere at the back of Oxenford Inn, a ramshackle warren of a tavern on the friars’ entry’s northern corner. When Bullock reached the yard of the inn, Falconer was already mounting the rickety wooden stairs that led up to the loft above the stables that offered cheap but warm accommodation.
‘Take care, William, those stairs look ready to collapse.’ Bullock’s warning was irrelevant, as Falconer had already gone through the rough, wooden door at the top of the stairs.
He hauled himself up more gingerly, and followed Falconer through the door to be presented with his broad back blocking the doorway.
‘What are you doing, William? Make way there.’ He pushed past his friend, only to be confronted with the scene that had stopped Falconer in his tracks. A crumpled body lay huddled on the floor, and the rushes scattered around were stained crimson with blood. It was impossible to tell who it was in the dark of the loft, or even whether it was a man or a woman. All Falconer and Bullock could see was the dark red hue of the hair. Over this bundle of a body stood a wild John Trewoon with a heavy mason’s hammer clutched menacingly in his hand.
Twenty-Six
‘John. John Trewoon. Remember the labours of Hercules, John? We talked about them the other day.’ Falconer’s voice rang out firm and clear. Bullock recognized the tones that had cowed many a drunken clerk. He hoped they would have a similar effect on this giant. The constable had seen him casually hefting massive blocks of stone which would have taken two ordinary men to lift. With a hammer in his hand, and his latest victim at his feet, he would be unstoppable if he chose to throw himself at the two men confronting him, and lethal with only Bullock’s rusty sword to defend them. Peter reckoned he probably would not even have time to draw it. Falconer continued to talk sense into Trewoon.
‘Well, when Hercules had ceased his labours he laid down his club. Put down your club, John.’
Bullock, hoping for the best from Falconer’s commands, still hedged his bets and began to slide his sword slowly out of its scabbard. Trewoon must have noticed the action, distracted though he was by Falconer’s steady and compelling voice. He lunged towards both men, the hammer raised above his head. Bullock could see the red stains of his last victim on its shiny metal surface, and he flinched. But Falconer stretched out his arm, and grasped Trewoon’s firmly.
‘John, stop this now.’
Suddenly, the giant seemed to crumple. The bloodied hammer thudded to the floor at Bullock’s feet. Great wrenching sobs wracked his body, and he crouched down on all fours in the rushes like a mindless beast. Falconer knelt beside him and patted his shoulders, which heaved with every sob that seemed to be dragged out of the very depths of his soul.
Bullock, more concerned with their safety than the giant’s eternal soul, bent down and swiftly picked up the hammer.
He wrapped it in a piece of sacking that lay on the floor nearby. It would be produced at the inquest into the murder of whoever lay dead. At least there would be no need for a hue and cry this time. The murderer was at his feet. And he was probably also the killer of Wilfrid Southo and the Templar priest twenty years ago. As if in direct contradiction to these private thoughts, Trewoon blurted out a denial.
‘I didn’t kill him, sir.’ He turned his pleading gaze up to look Falconer in the eye. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Yes, I know you didn’t, John. Where is he?’ Trewoon shivered.
‘I don’t know, sir. Peter hurried off when our master told us
to finish early for the day. The rain has stopped us again, you see.’
The big man still knelt on the floor, though William had stood up. The scene looked to Bullock like a confessional, as Trewoon pleaded his case with the black-garbed Falconer, who hovered over him.
‘I gathered up my tools ...’ For a moment he hesitated as he recalled the murder weapon that he had been wielding. He gulped. ‘Peter had left his behind, and I picked those up too. He’s always been careless with his tools, and I am forever clearing up after him. Well, that was what delayed me, so it was a long time after him going that I left the building site. In fact I was the last there.’
‘Master Thorpe had gone too?’
Trewoon nodded his head in response to Falconer’s question.
‘Yes. Though usually he is working in his lodge long after we have all gone. Anyway, I walked through the rain trying to protect the tools from getting wet, so even this took me longer than usual.’ Another sob overwhelmed him. ‘Perhaps if I had been quicker, this would not have happened.’ He pointed with a trembling finger at the huddled body.
Bullock crossed the loft, and poked at the head with a cautious boot-tip.
‘It’s Pawlyn, William.’
Falconer breathed a rather guilty sigh of relief. He had feared it might have been Saphira in disguise. But now he could see the redness of the hair was the result of a profusion of blood all over the man’s head and face. The skull had been badly stove in by several hammer blows, and one eye had been forced from its socket. It lay horribly askew across Peter Pawlyn’s right cheek. John Trewoon gasped, and turned his gaze away. To Bullock it was the action of a guilty man, unable to face the consequences of his deeds. But obviously Falconer had other ideas.
‘What did you find when you got back here, John?’ Trewoon pointed again at Pawlyn’s body.
