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

a purpose in seeking the master mason, for he intended to ask him a question that had come to him during the sleepless hours of the night.
    ‘Master Thorpe. I see you are hard at work despite the Weather.’
    Thorpe turned to see who had interrupted him, and for a moment appeared not to recall Falconer. His thoughts were no doubt deep in the mysteries of calculating the layout of the new building.
    ‘Ah, Master... Falconer.’ The name came to him at the last minute. ‘Yes, I can at least plan, and order my materials until the weather improves and we can begin in earnest. Is there anything I can assist you with?’
    ‘Actually, yes, there is. Have these houses long been in your employer’s possession? Did the widow’s husband own them before he died?’
    Thorpe looked down at the ground, considering his reply.
    He could see what the regent master was moving towards.
    ‘You want to know who owned the land when the houses were built? Who might have arranged for the body to be incarcerated in the walls?’
    ‘Well, the owner may have been entirely innocent of the murder, but yes, I would like to know who he was.’
    ‘Then I can tell you that neither the houses nor the land were the property of the Bassett family twenty years ago. Dame Elia bought them specifically for building the new edifice with which she plans to perpetuate the name of her husband.’
    ‘And do you know who she purchased them from?’ Again Thorpe scanned the ground at his feet as though the answer was written in the packed earth.
    ‘I think you should ask that of Dame Elia.’
    The mason then abruptly turned back to his workbench, and began scrutinizing the detailed calculations on the parchment before him. Falconer saw he was not going to get any further with the man, though why he should be so incommunicative, he didn’t know. It was clearly time to speak to Rabbi Jehozadok.

    Thomas Brassyngton, Prior of St Frideswide’s, was planning how he was going to benefit from the revelations provided by the little curate Simon the previous evening. If the church was to revive its funds by means of a child martyr like Little Sir Hugh of Lincoln, the prior knew he would need the boy’s body. And with it, clear evidence of a Hebrew ritual murder. He was not going to miss his chance as had happened twenty years ago to his predecessor. On that occasion, the body had been hurriedly shown off in the church, only to have some interfering scholar ruin everything with his spurious erudition in matters Jewish. The old prior had railed against the evidence brought before him so publicly, but the damage had been done. Doubt had been sown, and the whole issue of martyrdom scorned in the streets of Oxford. Today he had a witness but no body, whereas then, they had a body but no witness to the ritual.
    In that year, Brother Thomas had been a fiery preacher of the impending End Times. He did not fully subscribe to the Augustinian rule that governed his order of the Austin Canons, in that he was not an inclusive sort of man, believing all were born equal. How could he, when he saw his own evident superiority in matters of the mind? He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of the old prior’s failure, and resolved that it would not be his too. He had sent Simon away the night before with a warning not to say anything of his discoveries, in the sure knowledge that his proscription would ensure the very opposite. The rumours would quickly spread of the iniquity of the Jews, and the case would be confirmed in people’s minds before the need arose to display the body.
    It was only left for him to lay his hands on the child’s remains, and the momentum begun by the rabble would be inexorable.
    He smiled coldly to himself, and tidied the skirt of his black cassock, so the folds draped more elegantly over his lap. As he laid his plans, sharp thoughts of his early preaching days came into his mind.

    The day after Pentecost, May 1250

    Brother Thomas watched