Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

‘As I always do, by talking to witnesses and people who knew him. But that is for much later. And we may have to leave it until we return to England. What interests me more at the moment is the attempt on Edward’s own life in the Holy Lands.’

Thomas groaned in exasperation. How could William expect to examine a crime that took place thousands of miles away? And one where again the perpetrator was known and had been punished already? Falconer read the disbelief on his young companion’s face well.

‘You think I am wasting my time. But even those cases where we think we know what happened can tell us a lot. Remember Aristotle’s principles from Prior Analytics . The syllogism states one supposition can be inferred from two other premises. For example, suppose all men are mortal, and all Athenians are men. Therefore…’

‘Yes, yes. Therefore all Athenians are mortal. William, this is me, Thomas Symon. I know this. You taught me. Besides, the youngest clerk knows this.’

Falconer waved his arms by way of apology.

‘You must forgive me, Thomas. But I often find I need to convince others of the deductive methods I use to solve murders. And there is no harm in being reminded of principles now and again. Assemble the truths and compare one with the other until…’

Thomas broke in on the lecture, trying to suppress his laughter. He added his own conclusion.

‘Until you are overpowered with a plethora of facts, and use your intuition instead.’

Falconer threw a playful slap at the younger man and rocked precariously on his low stool.

‘Until the greater truth appears,’ he stated firmly, then paused dramatically. ‘It’s then that you use your intuition.’

Both men now laughed, and Falconer urged Thomas to finish his beer so he could pour another one.

The candle was now burning low, soon to be no more than a stump in a heap of congealed wax. The ale mugs were empty — Falconer’s sitting in a pool of spilled beer. But still the two men talked deep into the night. It was now Thomas’s turn to put before his mentor what he had learned about the death of Paul Hebborn. It was precious little so far.

‘Though he had no particular friends, there are four students with whom he associated most. All centred on Geoffrey Malpoivre.’

‘The rich one.’

‘Yes. He is the one with money, and he makes use of the power it gives him. He denigrated Paul and made fun of his stammer. He can be cruel, but cruel enough to kill is another matter.’

‘And the other three?’

‘Peter de la Casteigne is a joker, always ready with a jest. I can imagine him hurting Paul’s feelings without realizing it. But as for having a reason for killing him? Who knows? Then we have Jack Hellequin. I like him, and I can’t see him having killed. He seemed so concerned about Paul’s death, but for now he must remain on the list.’

‘And the fourth one?’

‘That is John Fusoris. He is a Picard, but I have not yet spoken to him as he has not returned to the medical school since Paul died.’

‘Do you know why?’

Thomas picked up on the suspicion in Falconer’s tones.

‘Not yet. The others say he had been drinking heavily the night Paul fell — or was pushed — from the tower.’ Thomas automatically corrected himself as he saw Falconer lift a warning finger. ‘He may be recovering from a hangover… or…’

‘From a deep sense of guilt.’

‘Yes. But let us not jump to conclusions too rapidly. Guilt is not yet an axiom — a self-evident truth — in his case.’

Falconer peered closely at Thomas in the gloom caused by the guttering of the single candle that stood on the table beside them.

‘I am glad you explained the meaning of an axiom for me, Master Symon.’

Thomas blushed, but he held his own.

‘In the same way you explained a syllogism earlier.’

‘I think we are both tired and fractious, Thomas. The impending doom of our solitary candle suggests it is time to retire. I shall bid you a good night.’

‘Goodnight, William.’

Both men retreated to their respective beds, pulled off their outer robes and lay back on the narrow pallets provided for them at the Abbey of St Victor. Falconer could soon hear the regular breathing of his young companion, but his mind still spun, going over the events of the day. He recalled Thomas’s derisory remark about the death of kings and, smiling, murmured to himself.

‘How appropriate.’

Falling asleep himself, he dreamed of corruption — both of the body, with a vision of maggots crawling out of eye sockets, and of the soul.

‘You can’t see the king. He is busy.’

Falconer was being frustrated by Sir John Appleby, who today had changed into a pale-blue surcoat, slit up the sides to reveal red leggings. He was bareheaded, being indoors, but his favoured sugarloaf hat sat conspicuously on the table between the two men. As he turned his head away from Falconer, the master noted that he was balding and his locks had been artfully arranged to cover the growing patch of bare skin. No wonder he wore his hat more often than not. When he turned back to face Falconer, he did have a suggestion.

‘I can take you to see the men-at-arms who served Edward all the time he was in Outremer. They were in Acre at the time of the attack, and they could tell you what happened.’

Falconer raised a hand.

‘That is all I ask. That someone who knew this… Assassin can speak to me.’

The mention of this word — Assassin — brought a sneer to Appleby’s lips.

‘Ah, yes. The hashish eaters of the Old Man of the Mountain. Who could have known that Anzazim was one of them? They were supposed to have been wiped out years ago by those other demons from the East, the Tartars.’

‘So I understood. But then it is said these agents lived normal lives and remained incognito for years only to be awoken for a special task. What would be interesting is to discover who woke Anzazim up.’

Appleby shook his head, suggesting he had no idea and cared even less. So Falconer merely asked to be taken to see these men-at-arms. He refrained from pointing out that they had served Edward so well that they had failed to protect him from a poisoned dagger. Sir John led him out of the royal apartments and down a winding stone staircase that led into the lower levels of the palace. Here was the functional heart of the king’s court, or more accurately and literally its bowels. The stone chambers that made up the armoury and soldiers’ quarters were partially below river level, as could be seen by the damp on the walls. The stonework was made up of heavy blocks that bore the weight of the palace above. And its every surface was home to a green slime that covered it like some plaguey growth. In this unsavoury atmosphere was a large crypt of a space with criss-crossing arches supported by hefty stubs of pillars. At one end a fire burned, but its heat barely penetrated the long room. Bed pallets lined the chamber either side, and at the rough table beside the fire lounged two equally rough-looking soldiers with bushy beards and shaggy manes of hair. They looked at first like two peas in a pod to Falconer. As Sir John and Falconer approached them, one nudged the other, and they both sat up, alert and wary as if on a battlefield.

‘Here we are, Master Falconer. This is John Clisby and Thomas Cloughe.’

As Appleby announced each man, he stood up, both of them almost having to remain stooped because of the low ceiling. They wore stained white surcoats over sturdy chain mail, the hooded part of which hung over their backs. Their swords remained buckled around their waists, and each man’s left hand rested easily on the pommel. Falconer recognized the stance of a warrior, ready for anything. They were not relaxed in his presence. Though it might have been Appleby’s effete and courtly manner that had made them wary of these intruders on their private space. Falconer looked Appleby in the eye.