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

miss his wisdom and restraint in a world that bore down hard still on his people.
    But Jehozadok’s reference to a Jew carrying out proscribed rituals in 1250 was alarming in the context of his own insistence at the time of Jewish innocence concerning the dead boy.
    Falconer felt his confidence ebbing. Still, he needed to press the rabbi for more information.
    ‘But what has all this to do with a missing person?’ Jehozadok sucked a great breath into his body, as though reviving himself for one last effort. He turned his blind eyes on Falconer.
    ‘I think I might know who your dead man is.’

Twelve

    The two towers of Oseney Abbey’s church rose imposingly over the water meadows that surrounded them. They were a potent symbol of the abbey’s power. To Wilfrid Southo they were something infinitely greater. The culmination of a master mason’s achievements, and a permanent mark on the landscape. More permanent than any mortal’s fleeting life could be, anyway. He tore his gaze from them and hurried back across the meadows towards Oxford. He wanted to be within its walls before the gates were closed for the night. Let the workmen under him languish and carouse outside the walls in Beaumont and Broken Hays, he still had business to attend to, and it was already getting late. The darkness would hide his movements, and he still needed to be secretive. Until he had everything straight in his mind, and then he would be ready to act. He crossed the last wooden bridge over one of the many streams that criss-crossed the land west of the town, and made for North Gate.
    It had been a lucky chance that resulted in him seeing Pawlyn palm the ring out of the bucket of bones the other day. He had just happened to be desperate for a piss, and stepped behind the pile of stones that was accumulating in the yard near where the master mason’s lodge stood. Before he could get his cock out of his breeches, he saw Pawlyn bringing the bucket over. There was something suspicious about the man’s behaviour as he looked first into the bucket, then round about him. Wilfrid had forgotten his pressing.need to empty his bladder, and spied on the workman. Pawlyn plunged his hand into the bucket, and came out with something that glowed dully in the evening light. Wilfrid could tell it was a heavy ring that Pawlyn held up like a trophy before it was secreted in his rough clothes. He watched from his hiding place as the workman walked back to where the constable and that other fellow were directing Thorpe in the careful removal of the skeleton. He had resolved there and then to see what Pawlyn did when he left the site, rather than accuse him of theft straight out. It might tell him something about the business that had occupied his mind for some time now. But first, he had relieved himself, his piss splattering on the chiselled stone, leaving a dark stain on the yellow surface.
    Now, slipping inside North Gate just as it was closing, and mumbling an apology to the watchman, Wilfrid Southo decided it was time to take a look at the house where he had seen Pawlyn go the night of his theft, and then emerge with a fatter purse than when he went in. He had discovered it was in Pennyfarthing Street, tucked down the side of St Aldate’s Church. He would think of an excuse to knock on the door and see who lived there.
    Crossing Carfax at the heart of the town, he was so engrossed in his own affairs that he did not notice that the normally busy crossroads was unusually quiet. He did not know if Pawlyn’s activities had anything to do with the patchwork of events he had uncovered over the years. But he hoped that maybe this one would provide the key to his dark suspicions. Then he would be in a position to make his accusations openly, and bring down the man who he had long hated.
    He hastened down Fish Street that some called Great Jewry.
    The air felt oppressive as though threatening a thunderstorm, and he tilted his head against the spatters of rain that