Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘I think that went well, don’t you, Sir John?’

Appleby nodded eagerly.

‘Indeed, sire. I think you pointed him in the right direction.’

Thomas was making good progress in his search for information about Paul Hebborn. While the students of Adam Morrish sat in the gloomy schoolroom waiting for their master, they chatted idly with him. Three of them had known Hebborn quite well, even though the boy had been quite stand-offish. Geoffrey Malpoivre, a stocky but elegantly dressed individual, suggested that Hebborn had been encumbered by his stammer.

‘He could hardly get a single word out without tripping over it. It made him awkward and reluctant to mix with the rest of us. I tried to draw him into our circle, but to no avail.’

‘So you are of the opinion that he took his own life.’

Malpoivre shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a Gallic gesture Thomas was beginning to recognize. It suggested a fatal resignation.

‘What other conclusion could you come to?’

A lively youth called Peter de la Casteigne could not resist chipping in.

‘The story is that he was pushed, though. You all know how John Fusoris teased him. He made Paul’s life a misery.’

Jack Hellequin raised a cautionary hand.

‘You can’t go around saying things like that. Fusoris is not here to defend himself, and to all intents and purposes you are accusing him of murder.’

‘Who is being accused of murder?’

The tone of the voice was commanding, and all, including Thomas, turned to look at who had spoken. In the doorway of the room stood a slight figure of a man, silhouetted by the daylight filtering in from outside. Thomas could not make out his features as only one candle burned in the room itself. But his guess that this was Master Adam Morrish was confirmed when Jack Hellequin stepped forward and spoke up.

‘Master Adam, we were merely having an exchange of views about Paul’s death. Idle speculation on our part. Nothing serious.’

Adam Morrish stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. As he stood in the light cast by the flickering candle, Thomas was able to make out his features better. His hair was short and cut in a clerical tonsure, which, added to his thin and boyish features, gave him the appearance of someone no older than his students. But Thomas knew that, if this man had obtained a degree in medicine, he had to be at least in his late twenties. And observing the knowing and curious look that was now cast his way, Thomas guessed Adam was actually older than he seemed. He took a step towards the man, his hand extended.

‘Master Adam, I am Thomas Symon from the University of Oxford. If you will allow it, I would like to listen to your lectures on medicine. It is a subject I am most interested in myself.’

The man took Thomas’s hand in the lightest of grips, and the contact was so fleeting that Thomas was unsure whether he had grasped a man of flesh or a wraith. A secretive smile crossed Morrish’s face.

‘It will be good to have another Englishman present.’ He turned towards his students. ‘Here, I am plagued by Picards, Normans and French.’

The young men in the room sniggered and nudged each other. Morrish clearly held his class in the palm of his hand. While the mood was still genial, Thomas decided to test out Morrish’s opinion on his late student’s demise.

‘Do you think it was idle speculation… to suggest Paul Hebborn’s death was murder?’

The smile on Morrish’s lips froze for a moment, and Thomas was aware of an icy look in the other man’s deep-set eyes. Then, as suddenly as it came, the cold look disappeared. Morrish was all geniality again.

‘Master Symon, you must know how students like to gossip. I dare say it is not long since you were a student yourself.’

Thomas Symon blushed at the truth of Morrish’s veiled rebuke, but he held his tongue. Morrish filled the silence with his opinion on the matter.

‘I regret not seeing that Paul was unhappy here. I was so absorbed in my teaching that I did not see he had not fitted in with this crowd of reprobates.’ He waved his arm at the still-grinning group of youths. ‘There was no doubt some gentle ribbing taking place. Perhaps it got too hurtful for him to bear. I blame myself for not being aware of that. Paul was a terrible stammerer, which I put down to his shyness. I tried to cure him of it, but to no avail.’

‘But to throw himself off the top of Notre-Dame… Wasn’t that a little extreme?’

Morrish smiled at Thomas, who felt he was now being treated as a child. A nuisance who was to be indulged only so far and no further.

‘He found solace in the cathedral, and could be found there most evenings. It is no surprise to me that it was the site of his death. Now, if you will permit me, it is time to begin my lectures.’

Morrish abruptly turned his back on Thomas and left him to slide like a naughty child into a place on the back row of benches set out for his students. Soon they were immersed in the Isagoge of Johannitius .

‘Ah, the Isagoge of Johannitius , who was known in the Arab world as Husain al-Ibadi.’

‘He was a Muslim, then?’

‘No, he was Christian, but he was the director of the caliph’s House of Wisdom in the ninth century. His knowledge is all based on Galen, mind you. And I bet you can’t wait until you progress to the Byzantine text on urines by Theophilus.’

Thomas smiled broadly at Falconer over the refectory table. Conversation was not forbidden in the abbey, but the content of their discourse was a little eccentric. One of the monks seated next to them was staring at them with distaste written large on his features. Thomas endured Falconer’s teasing.

‘You can mock us medical people and our obsessions with the waste products of the body. But be careful. When next you want a corpse examined for a cause of death, I shall leave it up to you to delve inside the carcass.’

Falconer shuddered at the thought, as did the monk who was following their banter with horror.

‘You are right, Thomas. You butchers do have your uses.’

Falconer’s reference to Thomas’s facility with knives reminded him of the monk who had set him on the wrong track that morning. He still owed the man a trick in return for his misleading guidance to Butchery Street. The medical school could have been easily found with the right directions, but at least Thomas’s confusion had resulted in his striking up a friendship with Jack Hellequin.

After Adam’s lectures had finished, he had walked with him down to the bottom of the street. There, the narrow houses, stacked cheek by jowl, ended, and a view opened up of the River Seine. A few small rowing boats were drawn up on the muddy bank, and he and Jack sat on an upturned one. It was the first time that Thomas had realized that right across on the opposite bank was the massive bulk of Notre-Dame Cathedral. From the back of the school, it was clearly possible to see the towers, from one of which Paul Hebborn had fallen to his death.

‘You are thinking of Paul.’

Jack’s observation startled Thomas for a moment. Was he that obvious? If he was to be anywhere as good as William in winkling out truths relating to murder, he would have to wear a more veiled visage. Still, he could use the situation to find out more about the dead youth.

‘Yes, I was. Was it true what Geoffrey Malpoivre said, that Paul was a misfit?’

Jack looked at the muddy earth at their feet, poking it with a stick he had picked up.

‘Don’t believe everything that Geoffrey tells you. He likes to think of himself as the leader of our little group. And, God knows, he has the money to permit him the right. Most of the others fawn over him in the hope of a free drink at the tavern every night.’