Ian Morson - Falconer and the Death of Kings

His search had centred on the chest, but look as he might he had not been able to find a key to fit the lock. Its contents remained firmly hidden from him. In fact, he had been so absorbed in his task of discovery that he had lost track of time. Fortunately, Morrish had not returned to catch him trying to open the chest. In the end he had given up and waited for Bacon to finish his lecture. It had taken all morning and part-way into the afternoon. But eventually the students had dispersed, and Bacon had joined him in the upper room, there rescuing Ridwan from its ignominious position on the floor.

Now the friar was continuing to deprecate Morrish’s skill as a teacher.

‘His students are sorely ignorant, and know little beyond the Trivium and Quadrivium. And those subjects they would have graduated in under someone else at the university in order to progress to medicine. I don’t know what he has been teaching them this last year.’

Thomas was more anxious to know if the second part of their plan had borne fruit. Whether Bacon had learned anything from the students about Hebborn’s and Fusoris’ behaviour that suggested the misuse of potions and preparations.

‘Did you speak to any of them after you had finished your lecture?’

Bacon patted Thomas’s arm and smiled.

‘I did indeed. I avoided the ones you mentioned to me — Jack Hellequin and the hangers-on around young Malpoivre. You were right about him, by the way. Geoffrey Malpoivre is no more than a lazy scion of a noble family, idling his life away and buying friends with his largesse. He is the very sort that corrupts Paris and Oxford, making them stink.’

Thomas had rarely seen the friar so angry. But Bacon soon regained his calm and carried on with his tale.

‘Forgive me. His type annoys me. But I am digressing. I avoided that dissolute bunch on the principle that the two dead boys were part of it. Even though Hebborn had been bullied by most of them. I didn’t think I was likely to get the truth from their own mouths. But I did ask a couple of the more studious pupils to stay and talk to me. Eventually, they told me some very interesting things about Malpoivre and his coterie.’

Thomas listened hard as Bacon related the story he had been told. It seems that Malpoivre had become the source of preparations from the school’s pharmacy. His close group of friends had begun to enjoy the sensations provided by misusing these purloined drugs. Particularly popular were khat leaves and small stones of opium.

‘The Assassins’ drug!’ blurted Thomas.

‘If the stories are to be believed.’

The friar was more dubious than Thomas about the rumours circulating concerning the clique that had formed around Hassan, the Old Man of the Mountain. Especially as their fortress at Alamut had fallen to the Tartars many years previously.

‘I am not convinced that they needed drugs to carry out their tasks. Though it is true that the sect still survives and will work as mercenaries for outsiders as well as Muslims. In fact, some say that Richard Lionheart himself commissioned them to kill Conrad de Montferrat. But we are not talking about Assassins in Outremer now, but young students in Paris. And of them we have only tales, and no proof.’

‘But we do have proof.’ Thomas eagerly broke in on Bacon’s lament, before recalling what Falconer had made him do with the hashish stone. ‘That is, we did have. Only the proof now lies at the bottom of the Seine.’

He explained to Bacon what he meant. How a lump of hashish had been found by Falconer in Paul Hebborn’s scrip, and how it had been placed beyond use in the river. He looked glum, but the friar was more optimistic.

‘It matters not that you no longer have the evidence, only that both you and William saw it. And that you know John Fusoris chewed on khat leaves.’ He paused, thinking through what that all implied. ‘Of course, if we have evidence that both the dead boys were eating drugs that would affect their judgement, it draws into question the very premise that they were murdered. Hebborn may have been in much the same state as a drunk and simply fallen off the tower. And Fusoris could have fallen in the river and drowned while still befuddled by khat.’

Thomas shook his head.

‘No. I cannot be certain about Hebborn, for I never saw his body. But if he was fuddled by drugs, why was he high up on Notre-Dame’s tower? However, I can be certain of Fusoris. After I left William at the Petit Pont the other morning, I went back to where his body lay at the convent, and I examined it again. Before, I had seen only his face cleansed of the river mud. But once his whole body had been washed, it was obvious how he died. There were bruises all around his neck. If I had been able to anatomize him, I would no doubt have found that the little bone in his throat, which is shaped like a Greek upsilon, was broken. He had been strangled for sure.’

Bacon nodded, convinced by this serious and studious young master that they were indeed embroiled in a double murder and not simply wilful wrongdoing. He pointed at the chest now lying at Thomas’s feet.

‘Is this where Master Morrish keeps his potions?’

‘I would guess it is. I have searched this room and have found nothing else. But it is locked, and even though the lock is scratched as if someone has tried to open it and failed, I cannot see how Malpoivre, or anyone else, might have gained access to its contents.’

Bacon knelt on the floor and examined the lock closely, seeing the scratch marks that Thomas referred to. They radiated from the keyhole, suggesting someone had indeed tried with the end of a knife to prise the lock open. He rubbed them with the end of his index finger.

‘These are old marks. They feel smooth to the touch. If they had been made recently, their edges would be rough. And their very presence would have alerted the owner of the chest that a thief had been at work.’

Thomas blushed at having missed the obvious, and knelt beside Bacon. He was embarrassed that the clue had been picked up by someone like the friar who was a novice at deduction of a crime instead of himself. Bacon, though, seemed unconcerned by the young man’s error. He rubbed a hand over his tonsured pate.

‘It does, however, tell us one thing. That whoever took the potions from inside — if potions there be — had the key. And that means that someone knew where the key was hidden. Or that Master Morrish was complicit in the deed.’

This revelation from Roger Bacon had two immediate results. The first was predictable — Thomas rose to his feet and nodded with excitement. Bacon was right about his suppositions. The second result was unexpected. Just as Thomas was about to speak, both men heard a crash from outside the door. Thomas ran across the room and opened it, peering down into the darkness. The front door stood wide open, and whoever had been there had gone. Bacon appeared at his side.

‘Too late for us to know who it was who was spying on us now. However, I think we need to speak to our disappearing master, Thomas. But first let us open the box of delights for ourselves.’

Bacon was hugely pleased by the look of puzzlement on Thomas’s face that was caused by his suggestion. He took Thomas by his arm and led the young man back into the upper room. The chest still stood in the centre of the floor, locked and untouchable. Or so Thomas assumed.

‘What do you mean? How can you open it without the key?’

Bacon grinned mischievously.

‘Did you not know that I was an alchemist and in league with the Devil? Or so my detractors would have it. Well, then, let me perform a little magic.’

He dug into his purse and produced a long, thin bar of metal bent at right angles at the end. Its dull yellow colour suggested to Thomas it was made of brass. Bacon waved it in the air, and Thomas truly began to think the eccentric friar was indeed an alchemist and magician. But then Bacon knelt down before the box and poked the rod into the keyhole. He jiggled one way and then the other, his ear cocked as if he was listening for a particular noise. Eventually, it came. With a heavy clunk, the lock was opened. Thomas was astonished.