As silence descended downstairs, Falconer became aware of the creaking of the old timbers of the house. And of his own solitude. He thought of Saphira only a few minutes’ walk away in Jewry. Convincing himself that he should consult her about Guillaume’s letter — that she would see through the text to the core of it — he scooped it up and went out into St John Street. Avoiding the already noisy taverns lining Shidyerd Street and Grope Lane, he crossed Vine Hall Lane and hurried down the dark narrow alley of Jewry Lane. Saphira’s house was just across Fish Street, and he let himself in. As he quietly closed the door, she called out from the back of the house.
‘William. I thought you might come. I have just taught Rebekkah how to make charoset. We are in the kitchen.’
Used to Saphira’s acute hearing and uncanny way of knowing his every move, Falconer made his way to the rear of the house. In the kitchen, sectioned off in the proper Jewish way, stood Saphira and her servant girl. Both had their sleeves rolled up, and Rebekkah had something stuck to the tip of her nose where she had rubbed it as she worked. Saphira spotted it and wiped it off, causing the girl to descend into a fit of the giggles. Sternly, Saphira told her she could go home now, as she would no longer be needed. Rebekkah looked at Falconer and started giggling again, before running off. The slam of the front door announced her departure. Saphira sighed.
‘One day I will teach her to be quiet in all things. Now sit down, William, and eat while you tell me what you have come here concerning.’
Falconer grinned and took a wooden spoon and dipped into the bowl of the delicious-looking dark concoction. He swallowed the sweetness and enquired what it was made of.
‘Nuts and apples chopped up, cinnamon, sweet wine and honey. The honey is for you, as the great Maimonides says honey is good for old people.’
Falconer took a swipe at her with the sticky spoon. But she was too quick for him, and he contented himself with taking another big helping from the bowl. Relieved to be back in favour with Saphira, and with their former relationship restored, he produced the letter and passed it over to her.
‘What do you make of this?’
Sitting across the table from him, she read it by the light of the candle that stood between them. She sighed.
‘Odo was your main hope for enlightenment about Richard’s death, wasn’t he?’
Falconer nodded.
‘Yes. And I have once again spoken to Sir Humphrey Segrim since returning home. He tells me the same story. Of seeing the Templar sneak out of Berkhamsted under cover of darkness on the very night Richard died. Why would he have done that other than because he had killed him?’
‘Did you reassure Segrim that Odo hadn’t been aware of his presence in Berkhamsted also on that night? That that could not then have been the reason Segrim’s wife Ann was killed — as some form of warning?’
‘Yes, he now accepts that he was not unwittingly the cause of her death.’
‘Good. Now tell me again what Odo told you when you spoke to him in the Templar prison.’
Falconer closed his eyes in concentration, picturing that horrible cell and the ragged skeleton that was all that was left of the once-strong and powerful Templar. He could see again how the man had been chained down to the floor apparently without the strength to lift up his burden. He strived to recall the words Odo had spoken.
‘He said he did go there to kill Richard at the behest of the de Montforts. He explained that he was King Henry’s brother after all, and what he called that same nest of vipers. Then he said… that when he had got there, he found he had no need to do anything. That God would not punish him for that death.’
Falconer opened his eyes and looked at Saphira.
‘I took him to mean that Richard’s stroke had already done that for him. But now I think he intended me to know that he had been beaten to it. That someone else had killed Richard, who up to then had apparently survived the stroke quite well.’
Now something else was trying to wriggle to the surface of Falconer’s mind, a piece of information Saphira had almost caused to surface. She looked at the letter again.
‘I wonder why he added the line at the end about praying for Edward’s success?’
‘I suppose because it is a formal letter, not a personal one. That is what I found odd in the first place. It is so unlike Guillaume.’
‘But now he is Grand Master of his order, he has so great a responsibility that personal friendships may not survive it. It is also odd that he says he prayed for Odo’s soul, and that he thought he was now free. Is it not a sin in Christian eyes to commit self-murder?’
Falconer suddenly saw again the picture in his mind of Odo on the floor of his cell, and he knew what Guillaume had been trying to tell him. What a fool he was — it had been in front of his eyes all the time. He leaned across the table and gave Saphira a honey-laden kiss.
‘Thank you, Mistress Le Veske. You have solved the case.’
THIRTY-TWO
The Feast of St Magnus Martyr, the Nineteenth Day of August 1274
The Palace of Westminster was abuzz with activity. Every kitchen available had been commandeered to prepare a feast of swans, peacocks, cranes, oxen, swine, sheep, goats, chickens and rabbits. A silken canopy hung with silver bells had been set up above carpeted paths running from the palace to the Abbey Church. It was the day of Edward’s coronation, and yet among all this bustle he had found a moment for himself. Away even from Eleanor, his queen. Only a short while ago, a harassed Sir John Appleby had come to him with a message. The courtier was gaudier than ever on this auspicious day, but his face was ashen.
‘Majesty, I am truly sorry to disturb you at such a time. But Master Falconer says he must see you as a matter of urgency. I tried to put him off, insisting that you could not be interrupted in your preparations for the coronation. But he said to tell you it was about… Prince John.’
Edward’s face had fallen, and he had told Appleby to bring Falconer to him in his private chamber. Now he awaited the meeting wondering what information the Oxford master had concerning the death of his child. He did not have long to wait, as almost immediately footsteps could be heard outside his chamber. They stopped outside the door, and there was a brief silence, presumably while Appleby plucked up the courage to knock. Edward spared him the anguish and called out his command.
‘Send Master Falconer in, Sir John. We will get this over with, and then we can concentrate on the coronation ceremony.’