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

discovery of the skeleton.
    ‘How should I know? He must have died years ago to end up in the wall in-fill.’ He grinned evilly, knowing he could scare the big ox out of his wits. ‘Maybe he was a builder like you, John, who just fell in, and got covered over. Imagine being buried alive like that, calling for help as the sand and stones fill your gullet.’
    He gurgled horribly as though his mouth was filling with rubble. Trewoon shivered, and punched Pawlyn’s shoulder.
    ‘Don’t say that, Peter. That could happen to any one of us.’ Pawlyn repented his jibe, and patted the big man’s muscular arm.
    ‘No it couldn’t, John. We would be spotted soon enough, and pulled out. No, that poor devil must have been buried there deliberately, and probably killed before he was even shoved down between the walls. Mark my words, it was murder, John Trewoon, and I think I know who was involved in it.’  
    Trewoon’s eyes were as round as two bowls, stating at his wiry little companion in wonderment.
    ‘Who, Peter? Who killed him?’
    ‘Who killed who, Trewoon?’
    Pawlyn looked up at the sound of another man’s voice. He hadn’t realized that Southo had crept up on them as they gabbed. He wondered how long the foreman had been standing there. Had he heard him speculate on the murder? He hoped not, or he could imagine the suntanned man with the big bushy beard hearing of it, and coming after him with a very sharp sword. After all, it could have been no one but the murderer who was so quickly on to the discovery.
    ‘Nothing, Wilfrid. Just talking about the body.’ Southo grunted suspiciously, and aimed a kick at Pawlyn’s leg.
    ‘Well, you can forget about that. It’s time to get off your arse and do some work.’
    Now it was Trewoon who protested. ‘But it’s still raining, sir.’
    ‘Nonsense. It’s just a drizzle. Besides, we need those houses down and the rubble cleared by the end of the day. So get on with it.’
    Grumbling, the men got up and tramped out into the rain, pulling their felt hats well on to their heads as protection. It was left to Wilfrid Southo to aim the parting shot.
    ‘And don’t find another bloody skeleton, or Master Thorpe will blow his top.’

    As the rain had petered out, William Falconer decided to visit the rabbi and piece together his recollections with what Jehozadok could remember of that time twenty years ago.
    Until he had begun to recall his own arrival in Oxford he had forgotten the matter of the murdered boy. It was as though his purpose in the town had been presaged by the event. For he had gone on to become embroiled in many puzzling murders. But the very nature of the incident would also have ensured that Jehozadok remembered the time. Accusations of ritual murder of a child would have been seared into every Jew’s mind, and the times would have been very unpleasant.
    He slung a cloak around him for extra protection, and made his way downstairs and out of Aristotle’s Hall.
    In the street the rain had had the compensating factor of washing away the filth and rubbish. The open sewer that ran down the centre and usually stank in warm weather at least ran with water and not with human waste for once. Falconer stepped tentatively over it, and made for the narrow opening to St John’s Lane. He hurried down the short cut, and then into Little Jewry Lane. Normally, he would have used Schitebarn Lane to cross over to Jewry. Even though the alley still bore the aroma of manure, it was some time now since it had truly earned its name. The barns that leaned precariously against each other to one side of the lane were still there, but no longer housed cattle. Today though Falconer used Little Jewry despite the chaos of the building work. He was curious to see again the place where the skeleton had been found. Indeed, perhaps the builders would at last have found the missing skull. He was to be disappointed.
    Little Jewry Lane was a mass of rubble, and where the half-demolished