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[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death by Ian Morson
Authors: Ian Morson
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a priest of the Order not a warrior, responded with a tight smile. He had other things on his mind than a direct route to Paradise.
Feast of the Beheading of John the Baptist, August 1271
Bullock pushed himself up from the wooden crate where he had been sitting.
‘A twenty-year-old murder on a man we cannot identify. I am sorry, masters, but I cannot afford to waste my time on this.’
Falconer was surprised at the constable’s reluctance to follow up the matter. Usually Bullock was a tenacious fellow, who niggled away at mysteries like a stray mongrel dog at a discarded bone. He wondered if the signs of ageing he felt in his own body were more deeply felt by his old friend. Maybe Bullock just didn’t care any more. Recalling his thoughts about his own arrival in Oxford in 1250, he asked Peter about his predecessor as constable.
‘You were not constable twenty years ago, were you, Peter?’ Bullock pulled a face.
‘No. That was Matt Stokys. He was a brutal piece of work.’ It appeared that that was all Peter was going to say on the matter. He turned away from the two regent masters. ‘I have duties to carry out that will be of benefit to the living. You will excuse me.’
As he watched Bullock’s bent back disappear up the cellar steps, Falconer resolved to find out what was bothering his friend. He could not leave the matter of the constable’s abrupt behaviour there. Nor could he abandon the unidentified body to a pauper’s grave.
‘Master Richard, is there nothing about the body that will tell us who he might have been?’
Bonham shrugged his grey-clad shoulders in a gesture that suggested to Falconer he might have a trick or two up his sleeve. He loved the mystery of his investigation of bodies, almost as though it were a form of necromancy.
‘Leave it with me for a while. I will examine what is left of his clothes, and see if there are any items such as crosses or rings on his person. They may tell us more about the man.’ Falconer nodded his agreement. He had sifted the rubble in-fill of the broken wall, but he had not found anything close to the body. Then he recalled the ring that he had returned to the bucket earlier.
‘You should find a ring in amongst the finger bones. That may help: I will see if I can awaken any memories of missing people, in the minds of those who were in Oxford then. By the way, where did you hide the girl’s remains so that Bullock would not see them?’
Bonham smiled weakly, and pointed at the upturned crate.
‘I am afraid the poor girl was stuffed unceremoniously under that. I nearly died when the constable sat down on top of it.’
Eight
Simon, the curate of St Aldate’s Church, was late quenching all the candles after the solemn Festival of the Beheading of John the Baptist. An old woman had spent hours praying, and despite his deliberately noisy clearing of the impedimenta of the earlier service, she had not been disturbed enough to cut short her devotions. This annoyed Simon greatly, as he had rushed the prayers of the Mass with a purpose. He wished to retire to the stews of Beaumont to enjoy the fleshly pleasures of a whore he had a regular arrangement with. If he was much later, Annie would give up on the chance of his arrival, and take her penny fee from someone else. He knew he had garbled the Latin words of the Mass, but as they were meaningless to him anyway, it was difficult to make complete sense at the best of times. Like a lot of curates, he had lied about his ordination as subdeacon and subsequently as priest by Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln four years earlier, in order to get a living here in Oxford, poor as it was. If someone had asked him to construe the opening of the first prayer of the Canon of the Mass - Te igitur, clementissime Pater - he might have offered that Pater governed the case of Te , because the Lord governeth all things.
So it was long after nones when the annoying woman decided to ease herself from her knees and hobble out of
Feast of the Beheading of John the Baptist, August 1271
Bullock pushed himself up from the wooden crate where he had been sitting.
‘A twenty-year-old murder on a man we cannot identify. I am sorry, masters, but I cannot afford to waste my time on this.’
Falconer was surprised at the constable’s reluctance to follow up the matter. Usually Bullock was a tenacious fellow, who niggled away at mysteries like a stray mongrel dog at a discarded bone. He wondered if the signs of ageing he felt in his own body were more deeply felt by his old friend. Maybe Bullock just didn’t care any more. Recalling his thoughts about his own arrival in Oxford in 1250, he asked Peter about his predecessor as constable.
‘You were not constable twenty years ago, were you, Peter?’ Bullock pulled a face.
‘No. That was Matt Stokys. He was a brutal piece of work.’ It appeared that that was all Peter was going to say on the matter. He turned away from the two regent masters. ‘I have duties to carry out that will be of benefit to the living. You will excuse me.’
As he watched Bullock’s bent back disappear up the cellar steps, Falconer resolved to find out what was bothering his friend. He could not leave the matter of the constable’s abrupt behaviour there. Nor could he abandon the unidentified body to a pauper’s grave.
‘Master Richard, is there nothing about the body that will tell us who he might have been?’
Bonham shrugged his grey-clad shoulders in a gesture that suggested to Falconer he might have a trick or two up his sleeve. He loved the mystery of his investigation of bodies, almost as though it were a form of necromancy.
‘Leave it with me for a while. I will examine what is left of his clothes, and see if there are any items such as crosses or rings on his person. They may tell us more about the man.’ Falconer nodded his agreement. He had sifted the rubble in-fill of the broken wall, but he had not found anything close to the body. Then he recalled the ring that he had returned to the bucket earlier.
‘You should find a ring in amongst the finger bones. That may help: I will see if I can awaken any memories of missing people, in the minds of those who were in Oxford then. By the way, where did you hide the girl’s remains so that Bullock would not see them?’
Bonham smiled weakly, and pointed at the upturned crate.
‘I am afraid the poor girl was stuffed unceremoniously under that. I nearly died when the constable sat down on top of it.’
Eight
Simon, the curate of St Aldate’s Church, was late quenching all the candles after the solemn Festival of the Beheading of John the Baptist. An old woman had spent hours praying, and despite his deliberately noisy clearing of the impedimenta of the earlier service, she had not been disturbed enough to cut short her devotions. This annoyed Simon greatly, as he had rushed the prayers of the Mass with a purpose. He wished to retire to the stews of Beaumont to enjoy the fleshly pleasures of a whore he had a regular arrangement with. If he was much later, Annie would give up on the chance of his arrival, and take her penny fee from someone else. He knew he had garbled the Latin words of the Mass, but as they were meaningless to him anyway, it was difficult to make complete sense at the best of times. Like a lot of curates, he had lied about his ordination as subdeacon and subsequently as priest by Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln four years earlier, in order to get a living here in Oxford, poor as it was. If someone had asked him to construe the opening of the first prayer of the Canon of the Mass - Te igitur, clementissime Pater - he might have offered that Pater governed the case of Te , because the Lord governeth all things.
So it was long after nones when the annoying woman decided to ease herself from her knees and hobble out of
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