[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death (5 page)

‘Barukh atah Ha-shem Elokaynu...’

The gentle old man was ritually observant, and would have been horrified to know what was going on only a few doors away from his Scola at the very time of these prayers. It was early evening, and as the shadows lengthened in the yard of

St Aldate’s Church, a fitful yellow light spluttered in the rear window of the house that backed on to the Christian sanctuary. It was the property of the Jew, Lumbard of Cricklade, though he did not frequent the house much. It was rented out to various itinerants, who came and went with such regularity that no one, Jew or Christian, could really swear to who ‘li’;,ed there at any moment. Tonight, there was a small band of men assembled in the ground-floor back room. 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.

The youngest of the six men was fresh-faced and looked barely more than a youth, though he was in his thirtieth year.

He was 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 whingeing was cut off by the stranger in their midst.

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 empty 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.