Falconer and the Face of God

by Ian Morson

  As he crossed Fish Street on his way to Bullock's home at the foot of the Great Keep, Falconer spotted a commotion at the door to Jehozadok's house and teaching school. He fished in the purse at his waist, pulled out his eye-lenses and held the device to his face. The bustle of the lane swam into focus. He made out a knot of young Jews, at the centre of which was a hot-headed youth he knew by the name of Deulegard. They stood on the steps up to the school, surrounding an older Jew who was vaguely familiar to Falconer. The old man was dressed in fine clothes, and was clearly a wealthy man. Falconer recognized him as an elder in the Jewish community, but an ineffectual one when it came to being decisive. He seemed reluctant to let them enter the building, but his wrinkled face showed fear and he was clearly going to back down. As Falconer approached, Deulegard finally bundled the old man out of the way and stormed in through the door, followed by the rest of the angry group.

  The elder scurried away at the sight of Falconer, casting a fearful look over his shoulder. At the door, now firmly closed to the activities of the lane, the regent master knocked loudly, wondering if Jehozadok needed his assistance. The sound of raised voices behind the solid oak ceased, the door was opened and Deulegard's face appeared in the crack.

  ‘What do you want?’ The youth's voice was taut with anger.

  ‘I wanted to speak with my friend the rabbi.’

  ‘You can't see him.’

  Falconer tried to protest, but his comments were abruptly cut off.

  ‘It is not convenient now. He is teaching.’

  Falconer's massive hand grabbed the edge of the door as the youth tried to close it on him. He was about to force an entry when a piping, reedy voice made itself heard.

  ‘Do not worry, my old friend, I will see you later. For the moment I have a little business to attend to.’

  Deulegard allowed the door to open wider, and Falconer was surprised to see the frail old rabbi standing in the passage leading from the front door. He was leaning on the arm of one of the youths who had rushed into the school. Together they looked like a gnarled and ancient tree stump shattered by lightning out of which rose a new and whippy sapling. Falconer had not seen Jehozadok outside his bedchamber for several months, and this more than the odd events on the doorstep alarmed him even further. However, the old man had clearly recognized his voice, and now he smiled at him, urging him with a look to be patient.

  ‘I will explain to you later. But now I have to deal with these hotheads myself.’

  'very well.’

  Falconer stepped back and, though still fearful for his friend's safety, allowed Deulegard to slam the door in his face.

  Jehozadok might have been frail, but he was still a commanding figure to some of those who stood around him. His old eyes roamed over the knot of agitated youths, all dressed in the dull garb that was the only clothing allowed the King's Jews. Not that they were the King's property now - some years had passed since Henry had sold them to his younger brother, Richard of Cornwall, for a handsome profit. There was Cressant, the youngster who had had the courtesy to support him, Jose, Aaron son of Elias, Aaron son of Isaac, Samuel, Bonamy, and Deulegard - sons and grandsons of fathers he had taught. These young men now studied the religious texts with the rabbi themselves, but were not so bound by the careful ways of their elders. Years of persecution had led Jehozadok's generation to take care in their dealings with Christians, and to keep themselves very much to themselves. Deulegard and his friends were of an age to be frustrated by this narrow confinement.

  Jehozadok's gaze alighted on the ringleader of the group as he slammed the door on the rabbi's trusted Christian friend. He almost wished he could discuss the present problem with Falconer, but perhaps even he would not truly understand. Deulegard paced agitatedly up and down the narrow hallway, his fists tightening on some imagined adversary. Jehozadok sought to calm him.

  ‘Never fear, we will take action.’

  Deulegard's face screwed up in fury. ‘And what do you propose to do, when we don't even know who did it?’

  ‘I will find out who it was.’

  Deulegard was unconvinced. He pressed his nose close up to the wrinkled face of the old man. ‘How? Solomon is dead. Can he speak to you from the grave?’

  Jehozadok knew what he was about to say would only irritate the youth, but he could not help himself. The boy needed teaching a lesson. ‘He spoke to me some time before he died, and told me something quite interesting. He told me he saw God.’

  Deulegard snorted in contempt. 'this is nonsense. Anyway, I don't care who killed him for the moment. It was a Christian, so any Christian will suit our purpose. They all need teaching a lesson. Tomorrow the priest will parade his holy relic in front of the mob. That's when we should act. Or during their stupid plays.’

  Jehozadok paled at the thought, and began to protest. But his control over these hotheads was fading with his sight. Deulegard had delivered a focus for their pent-up frustrations and they grasped it greedily. For once the old man had misjudged, and lost the argument to blind anger. Before he could protest further, all but Cressant surrounded Deulegard and clapped him on the back. They would deal a blow for their race tomorrow. In the meantime, the youths left the Scola in twos and threes, still mindful of their precarious position in English society. Only one youth, Cressant, hung back, and looked at Jehozadok with guilty eyes. He touched the old man's arm.

  ‘Don't worry. It will be all right.’

  ‘I somehow don't think so.’

  Jehozadok's prophecy was spoken to the youth's retreating back.

  ‘You've arrested John Peper!’

  Peter Bullock's face fell at Falconer's reaction to his announcement. He had felt sure that his old friend would be proud of his deductive powers. Why, hadn't the man agreed the culprit was John Peper when last they had spoken? Bullock could not stop himself from reminding Falconer of this. The regent master frowned.

  ‘Did I? I do not remember that - are you sure you understood me correctly?’ He paused, seeing the thunderclouds of anger crossing his friend's face. ‘Oh well, I suppose you must be right.’

  Bullock's smile of self-satisfaction returned, and he started to pour more good ale into Falconer's empty mug.

  ‘However, I was distracted by the errand that Roger Bacon had set me, and no doubt was not thinking straight. Did I not also remind you to check on the carpenter?’

  The flow of ale stopped abruptly as Bullock tensed. His friend could be so condescending. He could not accept that someone other than himself might uncover the murderer.

  'the carpenter does not matter. You see, the scene before Peper tried to kill de Askeles was the Flood. As Noah, Peper was actually going to build an ark. He had a bag full of carpenter's tools in his hands.’

  Falconer raised his mug, and saluted the constable. 'then I congratulate you on solving the murder.’

  A woman's voice cut across their good humour. ‘I think you should hear me out before you get too drunk with your success.’

  Agnes Cheke stood in the doorway of Bullock's spartan chamber.

  Chapter Eleven

  DEVIL: Now see whither thou hast us brought

  To a dungeon, small path to trace.

  All this sorrow 'tis thou hast sought,

  The Fall of Lucifer

  The morning dawned cold and clear, which pleased Stefano de Askeles greatly. It took all day to present the play cycle, and the size of the acting troupe's purse depended on the size of the crowd. And the size of the crowd depended on the weather. Though he had drunk heavily the night before, he woke up early feeling invigorated. A performance day always acted on his constitution in this way. He felt doubly pleased because Agnes had returned the previous night with the sullen John Peper in tow. The man had not had the good grace even to thank de Askeles for saving him, but merely slunk off to his bed. Agnes had briefly explained that she had convinced the constable that John had been with her at the crucial moment, though she did not explain how she had done so. Then she
too retired to her solitary mattress, leaving de Askeles to carouse alone.

  He rose from his warm bed in the Golden Ball Inn, collected the bowl of water left outside his door and dashed the icy liquid on his face. He drew his wet fingers through his long golden locks and dressed quickly. From the corner of his room the gilded mask of God, the face set in a sunburst, eyelessly observed his every move. This was going to be a good day.

  *

  It was not a good morning for Peter Bullock. It still rankled that he had had to release Peper the previous night. And what is more, Falconer had been present to witness his discomfiture. When Agnes Cheke had interrupted their drinking session, he asked her what she meant.

  ‘I mean that John could not be your murderer. He was with me when the killer struck.’

  ‘But you told me you were alone when the murder took place.’

  ‘I was ... for a while. Then John joined me.’

  Bullock groaned, and looked despairingly across the table at his friend. Falconer's face was impassive as he swivelled on the bench to face the woman. He motioned her forward, and she came and sat at the opposite end of the bench.

  ‘Let's start again. Where were you when the rehearsals started?’

  Agnes pointed at the constable. ‘Where I told him. I was washing out some costumes in the yard of the Golden Ball.’

  ‘Did anyone see you there?’

  Agnes's response was almost too quick. ‘No one.’

  ‘Except John Peper,’ corrected Falconer.

  Agnes dropped her head momentarily, then looked Falconer firmly in the eye. ‘I thought you meant before John came.’

  'so you were washing costumes, and then John arrived. How do you know it was not after the murder had taken place?’

  ‘Well, I can't be sure. But he said he had just finished Noah and had come back to see if Margaret was at the inn. Herod and the Slaying of the Innocents is close to the end of the cycle - you recall they were rehearsing it in the dark.’

  She turned to Falconer for confirmation. ‘When John found me, there was still some light in the sky. And we sat in the yard for quite some while before someone came and told us an actor had been killed on stage. I was telling John's future.’

  ‘His future?’ Falconer was puzzled.

  Bullock smiled and explained. ‘Agnes reads palms.’

  Falconer frowned, but nodded his head at Agnes and begged her to continue.

  ‘Well, that's all, really. We went back to the church, and found you all there.’ Agnes leaned back, her palms on the edge of the table, as though she had just completed an Herculean task. Bullock shook his head in disbelief. He had incarcerated the wrong man. Only one thought struck him, and he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Why didn't Peper tell me he was with you when I asked him?’

  Agnes looked down at her lap. ‘He . was embarrassed. The rest of the troupe think my palmistry is just for yokels.’

  Bullock's face reddened at the thought of Agnes reading his palm the other day.

  ‘But John believes that there is truth in it ... as I do,’ she added, realizing why the constable looked so uncomfortable. ‘He didn't want anyone to know where he was and why.’

  ‘How do I know you are not lying to save his neck?’

  ‘You could get Peper to confirm the story,’ suggested Falconer, stretching back on his seat. Bullock grunted and pushed himself up on to his feet. He picked up the huge bunch of keys that lay between them on the table, and told Agnes to follow him. Falconer stayed by the fire, an amused look on his face.

  When the glum constable returned, with neither Agnes nor Peper in tow, he found Falconer holding his fusty robes spread out before the fire in the hearth. There was a smile on his face, which annoyed Bullock.

  ‘I don't know why you are so cheerful. Unless you like seeing me being made a fool of?’

  Falconer strode forward and gripped his friend's arm. ‘Of course I don't. But now you've released Peper we can begin the investigation properly.’

  Bullock groaned inwardly at the word we - Falconer obviously could not keep away from the murder any longer. Bullock had been lucky he had not interfered before now. Though, bearing in mind the error he had made, perhaps he should be grateful that his old friend was now showing interest.

  ‘Of course, I do not believe a word of what we have just been told.’

  Bullock was astonished. ‘But he confirmed what she said.’

  ‘In what order?’

  Bullock did not understand, so Falconer asked him to relate what had happened.

  ‘I took Agnes down to the cell, opened it up, and asked Peper if he had been with her when the murder took place. He took one look at her, said he was, and I let them go.’

  Falconer shook his head in despair. ‘Don't you see you told him in advance what Agnes wanted him to confirm? You still don't know the truth.’

  'then why did you allow me to let Peper go?’ He lurched up from his seat, scattering the dirty platters from which he had consumed his frugal breakfast. ‘I must stop them both immediately.’

  Falconer restrained his impulsive friend. 'steady, Peter. I said

  I did not believe what Agnes told us. That does not mean I believe John Peper to be guilty. Or necessarily innocent. But I would like to know why Agnes chose to lie, and where Peper really was when the murder took place. Those little truths may help us to build a picture of the greater truth.’

  For Bullock the bewildering convolutions of Falconer's thinking had begun again.

  The King was in great good humour for he was winning at dice. His opponents, Roger Mortimer and Thomas de Cantilupe, and he were drawn closely round a table from which the breakfast meal had recently been cleared. The wine goblets of the two visitors were being replenished with alacrity by Henry's steward, and their faces were flushed. Henry was an abstemious man, and knew the value of a clear head when gaming - the one indulgence he allowed his pious soul.

  ‘Inn and Inn!’ cried Henry, as he cast two sixes and two threes with the four dice. Both the other men groaned as the King scooped up the pile of gold coins with his slender fingers. He drew them to the growing heap at his elbow, and picked one coin from his winnings. He cast it in the centre of the table where it rang against the oak surface.

  ‘I wager on my throw.’

  Mortimer and de Cantilupe, great men though they were, could ill afford the money they were losing. But the King was enjoying himself, and nothing was to stand in his way. After all it was Christmastide, and the King in good humour could be a king who would grant requests. The two men threw their coins on to the table, and the King shook the four dice in the wooden cup. With a cry of encouragement he threw them on the table, then stared in disbelief at the numbers that lay uppermost. A six, a four, a two and a one - he had thrown an Out and owed both of his competitors the wager on the table.

  Mortimer smirked but hid his satisfaction in the wine goblet he raised to his lips. Grumbling under his breath, the King counted out an equal measure of coins for both men. As the servant at his elbow refilled his goblet, de Cantilupe picked the money off the table and was surprised to feel the youth's hip nudge his shoulder. Turning to the miscreant, he was about to reprimand the clumsy oaf when he realized it was Falconer's accomplice, Thomas Symon. The youth was grinning at him and casting his eyes towards the King. Damn his impertinence - he was pressing the former Chancellor to initiate the plan agreed with Falconer. De Cantilupe needed to be the judge of when, and the King must at least be winning again before he tried. He motioned with his hand below the table to tell the boy to be patient.

  ‘My turn, I believe,’ he said and scooped up the recalcitrant dice. The wager made, he rattled the dice vigorously in their cup, praying that he would lose. Shaking them out on the surface he was relieved to see only one doublet - a pair of twos. It was a single Inn, and no one won the pot. The money stayed in the centre of the table and the next round's wagers were added to it. Shake and toss. Two fours, another single Inn. The sweat
poured from de Cantilupe's forehead as with trembling fingers he added the last of his coins to the pot and returned the four dice to the cup. It was now or never, and his prayers ascended to the heavens. He closed his eyes tight and threw the dice on to the table.

  The King roared, and de Cantilupe fearfully opened one eye. Another Out - he had lost and the King had won.

  ‘You are not cut out for gaming, my dear Thomas,’ chortled Henry as he gathered in the pile of coins all to himself, before de Cantilupe could share them out. ‘And how do you propose to pay Mortimer what you owe him?’

  ‘I fear he will have to wait until I have pawned my last pair of boots, Your Majesty.’

  ‘And then you can be a barefoot minorite, begging for your keep.’

  The King roared with laughter at his jest, and his two companions joined in. Glancing over his shoulder at the youth who still stood at the edge of his vision, de Cantilupe coughed nervously and spoke.

  'the first thing that this poor friar begs is that you elect a Lord of Misrule for Christmas. It is a long tradition in the halls of Oxford.’

  The King ceased laughing and frowned. ‘A Lord of Misrule?’ He toyed with the pile of coins before him as he turned de Cantilupe's suggestion over in his mind. He fixed his eyes on the ex- Chancellor, his left eyelid appearing to wink at him in approval. De Cantilupe held his breath. Suddenly the King crashed his palm down flat upon the table, causing the coins to leap in the air.

  ‘A wonderful idea. He can lead our procession to the play cycle this very day.’

  Mortimer and de Cantilupe grinned and raised their goblets in salute.

  ‘Whom shall I choose?’

  Mortimer was about to speak, but de Cantilupe beat him to it. ‘Why, the first lowly servant you come across.’ He grabbed Thomas's arm. ‘Why not this young oaf? He looks poor enough.’