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

he hefted it in his hand. It seems he had guessed Pawlyn’s price from the start. The builder held out the signet ring, a not inconsiderable chunk of gold, with a seal carved in stone on its flat surface. It had been dull when Pawlyn had dug it from the bucket, but he had rubbed the seal clean with his broad thumb. It now shone in the moonlight filtering through the window. He was now able to make out the symbol on its surface. It was worn, but looked like a horse with two riders on it, though it meant nothing to him.
    But it obviously meant a lot to his employer. He eagerly grasped the ring, and dropped the bag of coins simultaneously into Pawlyn’s upturned hand.
    ‘Ahhh. So, it is you. After all these years.’
    ‘Pardon me, sir?’
    ‘Nothing, Pawlyn. You may go. You have served me well.’ The man was distracted by the ring, which he was examining closely.
    ‘And if I find anything else out, sir?’
    ‘What? Oh yes, any further news will be of interest. You know how to contact me.’
    The man turned his back on Pawlyn, and held the ring and its strange seal up to the moonlight. Peter Pawlyn left as surreptitiously as he had come, his newly heavy purse bumping satisfyingly on his hip. As he closed the door, he almost bumped into a priest, who was hurrying out of the precincts of the church on the corner as if the Devil were after him.
    Not wishing to be seen in the vicinity of his paymaster, Pawlyn hung back in the shadows until the whey-faced cleric had disappeared.
    Brother Simon did not see him. If he had, he might have died of fright. In his present frame of mind, affected by the evil he thought he had witnessed, he was imagining horrors on every side. Especially as his route took him through Jewry.
    Though the doors were prudently closed, it being now after dark, he could not be certain that he would not be abducted from the street himself. He had forgotten the quiet nature of most of the Jews he encountered every day on the same streets.
    Now every door seemed to hide a demon. He picked up his pace and almost ran towards the sanctuary of St Frideswide’s.
    There he would share his discovery with the prior, Thomas Brassyngton.

    Falconer had the nasty taste of death in his mouth, and needed to be rid of it. Besides, he needed to ponder Peter Bullock’s unusual behaviour. So he did not return immediately to the solemn surroundings of Aristotle’s Hall. One of the quieter taverns attracted him, and he stepped inside. But, having lingered over a small beer, and come to no sensible conclusions as to that matter, or the identity of the body, Falconer finally turned for home. He knew the oldest man in Oxford was his friend Rabbi Jehozadok, and if anyone could remember what happened twenty years ago, then it would be the rabbi.
    But he decided it was not possible to call on him now as the hour was too late. He would save his enquiries for the morrow.
    As he would another meeting with the constable, Peter Bullock.
    He had been surprised at Peter’s reluctance to pursue the matter of the old murder, and was curious as to its cause. But he would contain his curiosity until later.
    The narrow shop frontages along the two main streets that divided the town into four quarters were all shuttered now.
    The fishmongers and firewood-sellers, the glovers and the silversmiths were all secure in their own homes. Lower down, in the byways and narrow side lanes, Falconer could hear the raucous noise of young men at play, free from their daytime mental gymnastics in the university schools. It was the turn of the tapsters and brewers to ply their trade. Later it would be the pimps and prostitutes who took over. Falconer was passed by the night-watch - four elderly men who would be able to do little if the students became violent, but who seemed nevertheless to keep the lid on most bad behaviour. One of the men, bald-headed and florid of face, gave him a glance and smiled.
    ‘God give you a good night, master.’
    Falconer mumbled