[William Falconer 06] - Falconer and the Ritual of Death by Ian Morson Page A

the church. Simon hurriedly locked the sacristy, and left by the outer door that led him to the rear yard. It was dark, threatening rain, and uncannily quiet. So when Simon heard a piercing shriek from the other side of the wall that backed on to the neighbouring property his heart nearly stopped in his chest. He had a great desire to flee, but curiosity overcame his fear, and he peered cautiously over the wall into the next-door yard. He was just in time to see a small body being dragged into the rear of the building, a line of dark blood marking the ground. Illiterate and uneducated as he was, Simon knew when he had witnessed an unchristian ritual of the most horrible sort. He slumped down on his arse on the church’s side of the wall, his legs weak and trembling, wondering what to do next.

    Apprentice mason Peter Pawlyn was well content with his afternoon’s work. While his dumb ox of a fellow-worker, John Trewoon, had slumbered on the street corner looking after their sacks of tools, Pawlyn had hurried down the narrow lane that cut through Oxford’s Jewry, over the main north-south road that defined one of the four ways through the town, and to a house close by St Aldate’s Church. He knocked on the door, and slid quickly inside when it was opened. Standing in the shadows of the unlit room was a tall, rangy man whose face was concealed by a hooded cloak. Pawlyn wondered for a moment if the stranger ever saw the light. Did he live in darkness all his days? Then, as the man turned towards an open window, he glimpsed a dark tan on his aquiline features and a thick black beard. He had clearly been born or had travelled in hotter climes and under a stronger sun than that of England. Was he a knight who had travelled to the Holy Land, or a native of those regions? It actually mattered little to Pawlyn, even though he was mildly curious about the origins of his employer. What did matter was he had said he would pay well for information about the goings on at the building site in Little Jewry Lane.
    ‘You have information for me?’
    The dark man’s accent was foreign, probably French, though he spoke passably well in English. Pawlyn’s own brogue identified him as a man of Devon, and the locals in Oxford sometimes could not understand what he said. He spoke as clearly as he could to the man in the shadows.
    ‘I found a ring in the rubble in-fill before Wilfrid, the foreman, climbed up to see the body we uncovered.: He didn’t know why he lied. For some reason, he did not want the man to know he had stolen the ring from the bucket of bones left in the mason’s lodge by his foreman.
    ‘You have it with you?’
    Pawlyn fancied he saw the man’s eyes sparkle from the depths of his cavernous hood. He would have to handle this carefully. Clearly, the ring was worth more to this man than if he sold it for its face value. He reckoned he could get the equivalent of a week’s wages or more off a dealer who cared not whether the ring had been obtained legitimately or not.
    Should he double the figure? Whoever the man was, he sensed Pawlyn’s prevarication, and the cause of it.
    ‘I will give you two weeks’ wages for it. But you must give it to me now.’
    Pawlyn was about to dicker with him, but felt the power of the man’s presence filling the room. It would be so easy for the man to spit him with a knife and take the ring anyway.
    He cursed silently his lack of forethought. He should have hidden the ring rather than bring it with him. The man had obviously seen him squeezing the bottom of the purse that hung at his waist, and had guessed Pawlyn was reassuring himself of the existence of the heavy ring. He grunted, and dug into his purse. Soon, though, he could anticipate the few coins left there being joined by a merry band of golden companions. Then he would celebrate in style.
    ‘Here, take it. But let’s see the money first.’
    From under his cloak the man produced a heavy-looking bag that clinked pleasingly when