Falconer's Trial

by Ian Morson

  ‘Last Sunday. I was called to my sister’s bedchamber because that man…’ He pointed an accusing finger at the impassive, almost bowed figure of Falconer. ‘. . . that man had forced his way in. It did not take me long to eject the coward, however.’

  The muttering that had broken out at the mention of Ann Segrim’s bedchamber now turned into a hubbub of protestations. Eddington threw a sly look at Falconer, triumph etched into his features as he carried on.

  ‘I did not see him the second time he came, or he would not have had the chance to murder my dear sister.’

  Amidst the crescendo of noise, Bullock wondered if there was more to Alexander Eddington’s outrage than first appeared. Was he a little too eager to throw accusations of murder at William? The constable made a mental note to look closer into Eddington’s behaviour whilst at Botley. For now though, the damage was done. But the damning evidence didn’t stop with the half-brother. Bek banged the flat of his hand on the ornately carved arm of his chair until silence was restored in the church.

  ‘I now call to witness the maidservant of Ann Segrim. She is called…’ He leaned over to Henry de Godfree, who supplied the forgotten name. ‘. . . Margery of Botley.’

  Eddington stepped away from the chancellor and walked back down the nave. When he came back, he was dragging a scared Margery by the arm. He positioned her where he had stood. She cast a fearful look around the assembled throng of black-robed masters. Their eyes seemed to bore deep into her soul, and she trembled. Bek attempted to reassure her with words but his tones were still imperious.

  ‘There is no need to be afraid, child. Tell us the truth and all will be well.’

  Margery nodded and wrapped her arms around her ample waist as if to comfort herself.

  ‘He came that day, just like the master’s brother said, and made me take him to the mistress, God rest her soul. Even though I told him she was in her private bedchamber.’

  Bek intervened for the benefit of clarity. He did not want any error made here.

  ‘He is Master William Falconer.’

  Margery looked scornfully at the chancellor as though he were a dim child in her care.

  ‘Yes. Him.’

  She pointed at Falconer, who still sat impassively on his small chair, his eyes fixed on some point in the roof of the church.

  ‘He pushed his way in and badgered the mistress when she was sick. He said he would cure her, but it was days before he came back. That shows how much he cared for her.’

  Bullock thought he heard a quiet groan from Falconer’s lips. But when he looked at his friend, his eyes were once again empty and unfocussed. Margery carried on telling her story about how she went to the spicer’s shop to get a preparation of feverfew.

  ‘That is what made my mistress better, not what he brought that day.’

  Bek leaned forward in his chair, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘Master Falconer brought a preparation that fateful day. The day your mistress died?’

  ‘Yessir. He had a small pot in his hand and said he had brought this for the mistress. I said she was much better, but he still went to her with it.’

  Bek was triumphant.

  ‘And after he had taken this… unknown substance for her to drink, Ann Segrim died.’

  Margery gulped and looked as though she was about to vomit on the floor of the church. She coughed out her words though.

  ‘Yessir. That’s true. He gave her the stuff and she died.’

  TWELVE

  The Black Congregation adjourned in the early afternoon, in order for the masters to eat their dinner. Thomas Bek admonished them to return in two hours when further evidence would be heard. He need not have laid such a burden on them. Every man there was sure to return to the church for this unique opportunity to take part in the uncovering of a murderer in the heart of the university. The black-robed masters were gossips and rumour-mongers one and all – crows picking over the carrion of a dead body.

  Peter Bullock took William back to the Bocardo, and on the way asked him about the medicine that he had given to Ann.

  ‘What was it, William? Did it contain something poisonous?’

  Falconer cast a sidelong glance at his friend and now gaoler. He did not speak, but Bullock knew what the sad look in Falconer’s eyes meant. Was Bullock also suspicious of Falconer’s actions? He knew he had not explained himself properly.

  ‘By mistake, I mean. Maybe you gave her something accidentally. Did you prepare the potion?’

  Falconer looked away and Bullock sensed there was something that his friend was hiding from him.

  ‘Did someone else make it up? Someone who you think might have harboured malice towards Ann?’

  It was no good. Falconer was clearly not going to say anything. When they reached the jail, Bullock tried to tempt William with a pork stew that Agnes the whore-mistress had prepared. She and Bullock were fine friends, just as long as she kept her house orderly, which she usually did with a ferocious will. But sometimes she had rowdy customers, so she was willing to feed Bullock’s prisoner, knowing that put him in her debt. A debt that could be stored up for any future problems at the bawdy house. The stew was finely spiced, but Falconer sat on the three-legged stool in the corner of the cell, spooning it into his mouth as if it were ashes. He looked as though he cared not whether he lived or died, and it was worrying the constable. He needed to get Falconer to snap out of this mood quickly, or he would find himself proven guilty of murder by default. William needed to defend himself, because it looked like Bullock had damned little to go on so far.

  Walking back to his own rooms inside the castle keep, he was glad to see Thomas Symon waiting for him. But the young man had no fresh news himself. He was calling on the constable to see how matters were progressing in the chancellor’s court. When he asked, Bullock glumly shook his head.

  ‘It looks bad for William. Both Alexander Eddington and the maid Margery say that he was in Ann’s chamber when she took ill. And later, he took her some preparation on the very day she died. They say she drank it and collapsed.’

  Thomas frowned.

  ‘But didn’t William go to her bedside that first time because she was ill already? How could he have made her ill? What are they suggesting?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure that she was ill already the first time he went. You know he was used to meeting with her whenever he could. Maybe he had just taken it into his head to go and see her on that day because Sir Humphrey was far away.’

  ‘But Segrim had been away in the Holy Lands for almost a year by then. Why go then but not before?’

  As soon as the question was posed, both men looked in embarrassment at each other. Both by now had learned that Falconer’s friendship with Ann Segrim had broken down for some reason. And that the Jew Saphira had replaced her in his affections. Neither was prepared to admit, however, that there was a strand to these events that had led to murder. Others might kill for love, but not Falconer. It was Thomas who quickly moved to another subject.

  ‘What is this preparation they are talking of? The one Master Falconer is supposed to have given her? And where did it come from?’

  Bullock waved his arms in the air in a gesture of despair.

  ‘Who knows? You are well aware of the nostrums and vile mixtures in his room. You’ve seen them. It could have been any one of them. You would do well to ask William. Except he seems in no mood to answer any question put to him. They might as well hang him now and be done with it. It does seem that that is what he wants.’

  Thomas patted the bowed old man on his hunched shoulders, surprised to find himself the stronger of the two for once.

  ‘We won’t let that happen, Constable. I will go to Aristotle’s Hall and see what I can find out there. Where is Saphira, by the way?’

  Bullock raised his shaggy-haired old head and shook it gloomily. He looked to Thomas like an ancient lion, which had just been toppled from its position by a younger beast. Defeat was etched into every line on his w
rinkled face.

  ‘I don’t know where she is. And we should not rely on her to solve this for us.’

  Thomas nodded sagely, not wishing to argue with Bullock. But privately, he was not prepared to discount Saphira Le Veske just yet. She struck him as a very determined woman, who would stop at nothing to achieve her goal. If she could find evidence of Falconer’s innocence, she would do so. In the meantime, he would have to gather all the truths he could himself. Starting with the evidence already presented at the Black Congregation. He wanted to test for himself the truth of what Eddington and Margery had been saying. That required another trip to Botley, and perhaps this time he could get Sir Humphrey to talk to him.

  Saphira was now ready to tell Peter Bullock about Covele and his purchase of arsenic. She could no longer hide such information in the light of the commencement of Falconer’s trial. Especially as the young master, Thomas Symon, had been of the opinion that Ann Segrim had died of arsenic poisoning. What she could not work out was the reason for Covele’s possible actions. True, he had purchased arsenic and, true, she had seen him at Botley Manor. In fact, the presence of the talisman in Ann’s bedchamber appeared to confirm that he had even been in the house. And his disappearance, along with his son, argued for guilt. But what reason did he have to kill Ann Segrim? As the afternoon drew on into dusk, she brooded on this, watching the fire in her kitchen die down to embers. She thought back to her previous encounter with Covele and the events that had taken place in Oxford at that time.

  A forbidden ritual had been enacted in a house at the back of St Aldate’s Church. It was perpetrated by Covele, whose guise at the time was that of a rabbi. Deudone, one of the hot-heads in the Jewish community in Oxford, was present and had later told her about it. A small band of men had assembled in the back room on the ground floor of the house. They were all nervous, as if only too well aware of the awful nature of what was to pass, for the men’s purpose was sacrifice. In the grubby yard at the back of the narrow tenement building, a child played in the straw of the animal pen.

  Deudone had been uneasy about what was intended and spoke up.

  ‘I still think we should not do this. I was taught that a qorban – a sacrifice – could only be performed in the Temple. And as the Temple is destroyed…’

  His question was cut off by the stranger in their midst. He was an older man whose dark locks hung down the sides of his head, mingling with his thick black beard. His pate was completely bald and his skin shone richly, like honey in the light of the guttering lamp. Covele had sneered at the waverer.

  ‘It is only the weak-willed who say that. The tradition has been carried on in secret for centuries, and your rabbi probably knows it. 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 will suffice. Now, does anyone else want to join this… boy and run off?’

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

  ‘Then let us proceed.’

  Unfortunately, the curate of the church, an illiterate and ignorant man, had seen something of the ritual. Enough, together with his prejudices, to accuse the Jews of slaughtering a Christian child. Of course, the child in the yard had been Covele’s own son and the sacrifice a goat. But the ensuing riot had endangered several lives, including those of both Saphira and William. Afterwards, they had exposed him as a fraud and even suspected him of being involved in a murder. Covele had fled then, too.

  Saphira now wondered if that was cause for seeking revenge. Maybe he held his discomfiture against William. But how did Ann Segrim fit in with that possibility? Saphira decided she would tell the others who were trying to save William and see if it made any sense to them. She would be meeting Thomas Symon and Peter Bullock again in the morning. Time enough, then.

  Bek returned to St Mildred’s Church after filling himself with a well-seethed mutton dish. He liked to dine on rarities, and sheep was so valuable for its fleece that its flesh was not often served at the table. Except at the chancellor’s board. His entrance down the central aisle of the church caused the hubbub to cease and he was pleased to see the same crowded pews. Everyone had returned to witness his triumph. His two proctors were already at the left and right hand of his throne, Plumpton still with a sour face which disapproved of the proceedings. But Henry de Godfree looked positively gleeful. Bek would remember that at the end of the year, when the proctors stood again for election. He eased into his chair, gazed around, then tapped de Godfree on the arm to indicate he was ready for the next witness. The proctor of the south stood up and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

  ‘Summon Peter Mithian.’

  The youth who appeared was pale-faced and petrified. To be surrounded by well-nigh seventy regent masters was any clerk’s greatest nightmare. For the reluctant scholar that Mithian was, and scared of losing the only thing that stood between him and abject poverty – his place at the university – this was worse than a nightmare. It was living hell. Standing before the chancellor, who pinned him down with his severest gaze, Mithian felt his legs giving way beneath him. But he managed to stay upright, though he felt like vomiting his pitiful dinner on to the stone flags underneath his feet.

  ‘Tell me what you have witnessed in Master Falconer’s solar, boy.’

  The chancellor’s question did not make sense to him. He knew he had been summoned to say something about his tutor, and expected to be asked if he was a good teacher or not. What on earth was it that the chancellor thought he had seen in Master Falconer’s room? Did he mean some fell deed he had witnessed that would condemn Falconer? His mouth opened and closed, but he didn’t know what words to form. Thomas Bek hissed in annoyance. De Godfree had been sent to Aristotle’s Hall especially to select from Falconer’s students one who might be intimidated into revealing incriminating evidence. The proctor had chosen Peter Mithian as the weakest vessel. However, it looked as though he was too stupid to be of use. But this was the material with which the chancellor would have to work. Bek decided he would have to lead the youth down the road he wished him to go.

  ‘What books does he have? What texts and tables does he secrete away? What prophecies and incantations did you see written down? Are there amulets and panaceas, or other signs of alchemy in Aristotle’s Hall?’

  Peter bowed his head, not wishing to displease the chancellor, but not sure which, of all the wondrous things he had seen in Falconer’s solar, held any significance.

  ‘Please sir, concerning books I did borrow Sophistici Elenchi from the master. Does that count?’

  At the mention of such a basic work by Aristotle in the context referred to by Bek, some in the congregation sniggered. The chancellor’s features darkened, not sure whether the boy in front of him was stupid, or if he was mocking him. Mithian, however, was eager to continue.

  ‘And I saw Historia Scholastica and De Sphaera Mundi, and works by the Arab Al-Khowarizmi. Then on the table in the master’s room there were all sorts of marvellous things. Bones and skulls, and dried plants and stones with strange shapes carved on their surfaces.’

  ‘Arab texts and relics of the dead. Sure signs of necromancy,’ stated de Godfree smugly, making sure all in the assembly had heard.

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir. But there were two scrolls lying open on the table. Master Falconer said they were in Hebrew, but they could have been spells and incantations for all I know. And he had lots of pots with potions in them. They smelled strange, sir, and the master said I was to take care because they would be deadly if swallowed.’

  With this revelation, the hubbub in the church broke out again. Bek sat back in satisfaction. The boy had come up trumps after all. He let the tal
k rumble on this time, as each master built a greater speculation of misdeeds with his neighbour. On his little chair, Falconer strived to remain unconcerned, but his hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles showing white.

  THIRTEEN

  By the time Thomas Symon reached Botley Manor, he had decided to use the servants’ entrance. He didn’t want to confront Alexander Eddington again. Rather, he wanted to speak to the servant, Margery, alone. Fortunately, the layout of the building made this an easy task. Segrim’s manor house was constructed of a yellowed stone that had grown dull over the years, and now contrived to look merely drab. It was of the old style, being a simple oblong grange with a sloping roof and narrow windows, designed more for keeping invaders out than letting light in. A flight of stone steps led to the main door, which was on the upper level of the house, leaving a vaulted cellar below. Once through the heavy front door, again built for defence, a visitor gained access to the great hall, where the main business of daily life was conducted. It would be difficult to enter that way without someone in the family being aware of his presence. But various additions had been made to this basic structure over the years. One extension had been built to create solars for the family and a guest room, where Thomas assumed Eddington now lodged. The solars were separate bedchambers and private quarters for the Segrims, and one was where Ann Segrim’s body had lain the last time Thomas had been to the manor. The kitchen and servants’ quarters were in a stone and timber addition tacked on to the eastern end of the house. It had its own external door and this was where Thomas was bound.

  The door was open to allow the heat of the kitchen to dissipate, as the kitchen fire was kept burning day and night. Thomas stepped unobtrusively over the threshold to find a household in disarray. Botley was clearly lacking a controlling hand now the mistress was dead. The fire was burning low and the remains of a meal lay scattered around. Over the fire, hanging from a chimney crane, was a copper pot with its contents burning on to the base. Thomas could smell it from the door. Yet no one was paying it any attention. On the large plank table in the centre of the room lay scattered bean pods and onion skins, discarded cabbage leaves and an array of utensils. There were various knives, a hatchet, a pestle, a meat hook and a gravy-soaked trencher. An old woman lay dozing in the corner, sitting on the rushes that were strewn across the floor. Another woman had her head inside the cook’s cupboard, where would have been stored the precious aromatic spices. Sensing his presence, the woman turned round. Thomas recognized her by her hairy face as Margery. She scowled at the intruder.