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

building had stood there was now only a yawning gap like a missing tooth in a rotten jaw. A disconsolate bunch of damp workmen, their soft felt hats clinging wetly to their heads, shovelled rubble into barrows, which were trundled down the lane and out of sight. They were probably being shot into the wet meadows outside the South Gate. As he Watched, Falconer recognized the heavy-set man he had passed a few words with the previous night. He was picking up large stones, which would have been beyond the power of the other workers to move, and carrying them to the edge of the building site. They would no doubt form part of the new edifice as it rose in place of the demolished buildings. Falconer wandered over to the big man, and waited until he had loaded the latest prodigious stone on to the new pile.
    ‘Trial is some task you have there. It reminds me of the labours of Hercules.’
    The man turned round, a puzzled frown on his face.
    ‘I don’t know him, master, this Hercules. But if he works for someone as hard a slave-driver as Master Thorpe, then he has my sympathy.’
    Falconer smiled.
    ‘He performed his tasks for a king. Looking at what you are doing, I was put in mind of the clearing of the Auger, stables.’
    ‘I have heard King Henry is a fair man, sir. Though I would not like to clear his stables myself. I am apprentice to a mason.’
    He spoke the last words proudly, and Falconer felt and foolish to have paraded his superior knowledge in face of a simple but honest man. He blushed, and returned to his sudden reason for speaking to him.
    ‘I wanted to ask you a question .. I am sorry, I do not know your name.’
    ‘John Trewoon, sir.’ He pronounced his surname in way of the Cornish Celt as Trewan. ‘That is spelled E-W-O-O-N.’
    Falconer saw he was proud of being able to spell, thanked him.
    ‘Well, John Trewoon, I wished to know if you have the rest of that skeleton we unearthed yesterday.’ John looked over his shoulder at where the foreman stood.
    But Wilfrid had his back to them, so he spoke up.
    ‘We are not supposed to find anything more, sir, or Thorpe will blow his top.’
    Falconer thought from what Trewoon was saying something had been found, and kept secret. Especially as big man was still casting furtive glances over his shoulder.
    ‘You can tell me the truth, John. I promise I won’t anyone.’
    Trewoon frowned, and then his face split into a wide smile.
    ‘Oh, no, sir, you misunderstand. We have knocked that wall down completely and found nothing.’
    Falconer was not sure if he had really been made a fool of, or not. He certainly felt confused, but believed the man.
    ‘And how is your friend this morning?’
    ‘Who, Peter Pawlyn?’ Trewoon grinned again. ‘His head hurts something awful.’
    Falconer thanked him, and left Trewoon to his Herculean task. Turning away, he soon spotted the wiry little man who had accused him of unspeakable acts with his students. Pawlyn was definitely suffering from his excesses of the night before.
    Falconer watched as he shovelled the heaps of rubble. He groaned, and screwed up his eyes against the morning light, dull though it was. Falconer grinned maliciously, and strode over to him. He slapped the man heartily on the back, extracting a yelp of pain, and spoke in the loudest and most jovial of tones.
    ‘Tell me, my good fellow, where I might find Master Thorpe.’
    Pawlyn clasped his head as if it might shatter and fall to the ground in pieces.
    ‘May it please you, sir, he is over there in his lodge.’ He squinted at Falconer through eyes that were a haze of red, and clearly didn’t recognize him. He pointed silently to where Richard Thorpe attended to his bills, and returned to his tentative shovelling. Falconer smiled, and only just refrained from slapping the unfortunate man on the back again.
    Pawlyn was so pale he looked as though he would collapse if he did. Instead the regent master made his way over to Thorpe’s workbench. He did have