Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  ‘And who are you, may I ask?’

  Falconer ignored the question and bent over the body he still cradled in his arms to examine the murder weapon. Its shadow on the other side of the canvas had been distorted so that it had appeared to be nothing short of a spear. In reality it had a short wooden handle no longer than the span of a man's fist. The blade was embedded in the monk's back, but he could just make out the beginning of the metal part and it was curiously thick, unlike any knife he had ever seen. Before he satisfied his curiosity and pulled the weapon out, he noted the angle that it subtended with the dead monk's back. Definitely a blow struck upwards, not down from above.

  By this time the leader of the troupe had realized what he was looking at was reality not artifice, and had vaulted on to the stage. He stood over Falconer and the lifeless form of the Devil, whose other head, horns and all, lay to one side of the tableau, the white pools of its eyes staring to the skies.

  ‘God in heaven. Who did this?’

  Falconer took hold of the well-worn handle of the weapon, and pulled. It came out of the body with a sucking sound, and a trickle of bright red blood followed it.

  ‘I don't know, but he killed using a carpenter's chisel.’ *

  The King was punishing de Cantilupe for being associated with the guild-merchants and burghers whom Henry suspected of complicity with the robbers despoiling the countryside. The former Chancellor had returned to the King's hall in Beaumont as dusk fell. It was enough humiliation that he was obliged to run the gauntlet of cheap whores plying their trade virtually at the King's door. But when he reached the gateway into the main courtyard of the King's residence he had been abruptly halted by the janitor on the gate.

  In the days of his former glory, he would have stridden straight through the gate, with the keeper grovelling on his knees. Now the man, a sturdy fellow with a red weather-beaten face, had the nerve to manhandle the ex-Chancellor. He placed his calloused hand on de Cantilupe's chest and forced him to stand outside the gate like a poor supplicant. The janitor had sent his boy in search of someone in authority who would decide whether the King could be disturbed at such a late hour. In the meantime, he placed a stool in the gateway and sat down on it, planting his feet firmly on the ground with his legs wide apart. With a beefy fist on each knee, he resembled an immovable tree stump, well rooted in the earth. De Cantilupe was left to pace angrily before him.

  It was some considerable time before the boy returned, followed by a small stooping figure de Cantilupe didn't recognize. The skinny little man spoke briefly to the janitor in hushed tones, then approached the waiting ex-Chancellor.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  His voice was reedy, and the obsequiousness that de Cantilupe had expected was absent.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am the King's Usher of the Chamber,’ the servant said in blustering tones of self-importance. De Cantilupe was shocked. In the hierarchy of the King's court this man was no more than Henry's dresser. He was being deliberately insulted. Still, he stayed his anger, for he knew it would do him no good - especially when his neck depended on his next few actions. He explained patiently to the lowly official that the King had asked him to discover who was colluding with the robbers that infested the countryside, and that he had urgent information. The little man abruptly turned and left him without so much as a bow to acknowledge his standing. Once again de Cantilupe was left with the impassive and tree-like janitor.

  After a pause longer than the last, de Cantilupe saw a more familiar figure crossing the courtyard. He recognized the King's Marshal from his erect bearing - it was he who had ushered him into the King's presence that very morning. This time the man treated de Cantilupe as his former station demanded, and apologized for the ‘misunderstanding’ that had kept him waiting. De Cantilupe understood that his penance had been served and gathered himself to provide the information the King wanted. He had spoken to several merchants in the town who were prepared to bear witness as a means of settling old scores. Some had been positively eager to do so. The Prior had assisted too with a name he spat out in distaste. As for himself, he knew whom he was going to sacrifice to the King if he was asked. Truth and justice were mere handmaidens at the court of expediency.

  Bullock dealt expediently with the unhappy Prior of St Frideswide's, who could not understand why anyone should wish to kill Brother Adam. The monk was an inoffensive cleric who kept very much to himself. He diligently carried out all his duties without complaint. His involvement in the plays had been at the request of the Prior, so that he could check that the text was being adhered to. In reply to the Prior's unspoken question, Bullock reassured him that he did not think that was sufficient reason for his murder, and that the Prior should not blame himself for endangering the monk's life. Nevertheless, the churchman clearly felt responsible for the death, and hurried off to make arrangements for prayers to be said for the unfortunate Brother Adam. Bullock was left still wondering just why Brother Adam had been killed. He was relieved that Falconer was already present - it would save the embarrassment of asking for his assistance later. But before he could even raise the matter with him, Falconer's excited voice broke into his thoughts.

  ‘I think I saw the murderer.’

  Looking round, the constable was confronted by the regent master's piercing blue eyes. He had not been surprised to find William Falconer already in attendance when he arrived at the scene, alerted by one of the onlookers to the drama. The regent master seemed to have a knack of being around when a murder occurred. Bullock put it down to some sixth sense similar to that which he had seen on many a battlefield, where, as a footsoldier, he had come across many old soldiers whose very survival depended on that sense of knowing when the halberd's blow was aimed at them. He had seen death blows instinctively parried, when the soldier could not have seen what was coming with his eyes. He was sure Falconer sensed where the fatal blow was to fall almost before it happened. When he had spoken of his theory to the regent master, Falconer had laughed out loud, and poured scorn on the very idea. He preferred to think of his affinity with murder as a combination of coincidence and insatiable curiosity. However, he had never before been so close to a murder that he had actually seen the killer.

  Hesitant, because he was one of only a few who knew that Falconer's eyesight was actually not of the best, Bullock enquired if he had recognized the man. Falconer frowned.

  ‘Alas, he was just a shadow. And I don't know if what I saw was even real.’

  The constable was puzzled by this statement - Falconer was usually so precise. He urged the regent master to explain.

  ‘Everything happened on the other side of the backcloth on the stage. So what I saw was enacted in shadows cast on it by the torches in the courtyard.’

  'that's a pity - but who did you think you saw?’

  His friend closed his eyes, ‘I will describe only what I actually saw, and draw inferences later when I have spoken to those who were on the other side of the canvas.’

  Bullock knew Falconer's nature, and accepted his desire to apply strict logic to everything that had happened that night.

  ‘I saw the Devil enter from the right and somehow grow in size. For a moment he stood still, and then he lurched forward. At that moment it was as though his soul left his body, for I saw a human form detach itself from the Devil's shape and disappear.’

  Bullock could not be more astonished at this fanciful description. Did Falconer really think he had seen the dying monk's departing soul? The regent master's eyes sparkled at the thought of having so intrigued his old friend. He was sure of what he had seen, and the way he described it was accurate. But he wanted to find out what the actors and any onlookers had witnessed before he confirmed his own suspicions.

  The two friends crossed to the other side of the stage where the members of the troupe were huddled together, their fantastic robes pulled around them against the cold night air. An apparent argument was broken off as the two men approached, an
d their leader, de Askeles, looked flushed despite the cold. The others, three men and two women, looked guardedly at the constable, and at Falconer, who to them was an unknown quantity. Slightly apart from them stood a few men dressed as soldiers and Jews, and others dressed in ordinary clothes. One of this group was the man who had fetched the constable, and the rest Falconer therefore assumed were townsfolk, some of whom had been performing on the stage, and some merely onlookers who had remained around to watch the unfolding of a more exciting drama than they had originally expected. Otherwise, the stage was deserted, as the body had already been removed by the dead monk's colleagues. The torches were flickering in a last effort to ward off the darkness, and a doleful bell was chiming from the church tower. De Askeles broke the chilling silence.

  ‘We're all tired and hungry and wish to get back to our inn. Can't you talk to us tomorrow?’

  His remark was addressed to Peter Bullock, but it was Falconer who answered.

  'this will not take long. I just wish to ask you a few questions while matters are fresh in your minds. You may have forgotten something vital by the morning.’

  He did not add that the guilty one might also have had time to concoct a story by then. De Askeles was unsatisfied.

  ‘Just who are you, anyway, to keep us here?’

  'this is William Falconer. He is a renowned scholar and I value his insight into matters of suspicious death. He is known to the King.’

  Falconer smiled behind his hand at the last statement. If he was at all known to the King, it was probably as a meddler in things that did not concern him. Still, the association served to impress those present, and de Askeles gave him room with a deep and rather mocking bow. Falconer asked Bullock to talk to the townspeople, both those who had been on stage as amateur actors and those looking on, then turned to the troupe of strolling players. He explained he would like to speak to each member of the troupe separately.

  ‘And I will start with you, sir.’

  He pointed at the man who was dressed as a woman, now holding his female locks in his hands, and led him across to the opposite side of the stage.

  ‘Firstly, your name, please.’

  ‘I am Simon Godrich, and I sing and act the women's roles in our plays.’ He giggled nervously, and his fingers plucked at the false hair in the net.

  ‘Please tell me what you saw tonight.’

  ‘I am afraid I saw nothing until the Devil - the monk - fell at my feet. My role required that my eyes be downcast at that point. You see, my child has just been slaughtered, and it's to Herod that the Devil appears.’

  ‘And who was playing Herod?’

  ‘Robert. The one over there in the purple robe. Though why he should be given the part is beyond me. He's a better juggler than he is an actor.’

  Falconer motioned to Godrich that he could go, then stopped him to ask another question.

  ‘Before I took the Devil's mask off you said it was Stefano who had been killed. Why did you think that?’

  ‘Because Stefano normally plays both the Devil and God - it feeds his conceit.’

  ‘And you didn't know he had asked Brother Adam to assume the role tonight?’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘Nor why he did or where he went?’

  Falconer caught Simon's glance over to the huddle of actors awaiting their interrogation, and the scared look in his eyes. It might have helped Falconer if Godrich had revealed the true reason for his reluctance to say where de Askeles had been. But he was sure the man had been with Margaret Peper and wished to spare her shame. So he replied firmly, ‘No, and no.’

  'thank you. Please ask Robert to come over.’

  Falconer stood thinking as Godrich crossed the stage and spoke to the man dressed fancifully as a Saracen, with darkened features and a forked black beard. They seemed to exchange harsh words, and Herod looked long and hard at Simon Godrich, before casting an anxious glance at Falconer. He looked nervous as he walked slowly towards the regent master, as though reluctant to reach him. When he did, Falconer kept him unsettled by abruptly demanding his name.

  ‘Robert. Robert Kemp,’ came the faltering reply.

  ‘And what did you see, Robert Kemp?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Falconer was scornful. ‘Nothing, when you were looking straight at the Devil? You were looking straight at him, weren't you? Your part certainly required it. Or perhaps you are not as good an actor as you like to think.’

  ‘Of course I was looking at him. But the first I knew anything was amiss was when he pitched forward. Even then, for a moment I thought he had tripped on his robes. The Devil has long robes, you see, so that he appears larger than a man. That's why I saw nothing - he had his arms spread and raised above his shoulders. The robe must have masked anyone who might have been behind him.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, when he fell, I realized he could not have tripped because it looked more as if someone had pushed him - hard - in the back.’

  ‘And you saw no one.’

  Kemp looked unsure of what he was about to say. ‘I am not certain, but there might have been someone disappearing into the darkness off the stage.’

  This was confirmation for Falconer that the shadow 'soul’ he had seen did exist, and that it was more human than ethereal. It was only left for him to verify that Robert Kemp had also expected Stefano de Askeles to be underneath the Devil's mask, and he was satisfied that matters were beginning to fall into place. To his question concerning the whereabouts of de Askeles, he again got a nervous denial of any knowledge, though the man did offer something interesting about Margaret Peper and de Askeles. At that moment de Askeles himself stormed across the stage and demanded that they all be released.

  ‘After all, what can the death of a monk have to do with us? We have only just arrived in Oxford.’

  Falconer smiled. ‘Oh, I don't think the monk was the intended victim.’

  ‘And who was, then?’ demanded de Askeles.

  ‘You, of course.’

  Chapter Seven

  DOMINATIONS: Go to your places or run from hence

  You have begun a perilous play

  And shall soon know the consequence;

  This dance will bring you a woeful way.

  The Fall of Lucifer

  William Falconer was faced with a dilemma. As ever, the curious death of the monk intrigued him, and he wished to exercise his deductive skills to solve the murder. However, there was also the pressing matter of Friar Bacon's mysterious alchemist. And although he did not have any teaching obligations so close to Christmas, he still had to exercise control over the impoverished students who were left in Aristotle's Hall for the winter celebrations. Although control was not exactly the word he would have chosen. It was the usual practice to elect a Lord of Misrule, so that the youngest and most unfortunate of his students had power over his seniors for a day in a topsy-turvy reversal of the accepted order. Indeed, it was common practice for the priories and abbeys in the vicinity to elect boy-bishops to the same end. They would be crowned with small mitres of cloth- of-gold, dressed in miniature versions of a bishop's cope, and bedecked in episcopal rings. Aristotle's Lord of Misrule would not be so adorned - Falconer did not have coin for such extravagance, and what he did have would be spent on good food and wine, something that his table rarely saw the year round. No, Aristotle's student Lord would be lucky to get a paper crown (paper being as valuable to the regent master as gold was to the King), and Falconer's own wardrobe was too sparse to cut down a robe for the youth. He would, however, still be able to lord it for a day over those who dominated him for the rest of the year.

  Falconer hoped in this way that some of his students might learn a little humility. But his first concern was to resolve which mystery should have priority. The message from Bacon echoed round his skull again.

  ‘No need to go as far as Germany to find this man. Just seek his name from Omega to Alpha.’

  Did not going as far as Germany
mean going as far as France? If so, the alchemist might as well dwell in the Afric lands - Falconer could not afford to travel anywhere. But then surely the friar would have known that, and so the clue must mean look at home in England. Then it was not much of a clue, as Falconer had assumed the alchemist would be in Oxford anyway - or would have been when Bacon was in residence also. It was ten years since the friar had been sent to his solitary cell in France and deprived of all contact with the outside world. He could not know where the alchemist he sought was now, or whether he still resided in Oxford. The second sentence was even more confusing. Why were the first and last letters of the Greek alphabet back to front? Should he go back to the beginning to find the man? If so, what beginning? It was hopeless.

  No, murder riddles were far easier to solve. Though, in the case of Brother Adam, Falconer was not entirely sure if he or de Askeles had been the intended victim, despite his confident assertion last night. He needed more information about de Askeles's whereabouts, and both the man himself and his fellow jongleurs were curiously reticent on that matter. The investigation would take some time, even though, ironically, he had actually been a witness to the murder himself.

  What to do? Carry out his obligations to his friend Bacon, or assist his other friend Bullock? The decision was all but made for him when Peter Bullock burst into his private chamber. It was the morning following the murder, and the constable, always an early riser since his days as a footsoldier, expected to find Falconer also up and about. He was surprised to find the regent master still stretched out on his bed, a rough blanket pulled over his fully clothed body.

  ‘You're not ill, are you?’

  ‘What? Oh, no - I have a few things on my mind at present. I suppose I forgot to undress last night. And as it was so warm here and so cold outside, I decided to do my thinking this morning from the comfort of my bed.’