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He thought back over the recent attempt on his own life in Acre. And the members of his own family who had died in the last few years, beginning with his eldest son, John. Too many deaths to let things lie. There were matters here to resolve, but he didn’t yet know how to begin.
    William Falconer hurried through the Porte St-Victor and made his way through the narrow streets of Paris towards the Franciscan friary near Porte St-Germain. He had news that at last permission had been given for Roger to see him. It was about time. He and Thomas Symon had been in Paris for almost two months now, and Falconer was tired of endless debates with the French masters about Aristotle and Bishop Tempier’s rulings. Just before learning of Roger, his latest encounter had been with Girard d’Angers in the cloister of the Abbey of St Victor that very morning. The tall, etiolated master had bristled at Falconer’s accusation of his succumbing to conservative oppression over his teaching of Aristotle.
    ‘How dare you! Do you not agree with Bishop Tempier that Aristotle must be wrong to assert that the world is eternal, when we know God created the world? Or that God does not know things other than Himself.’
    Falconer had snorted and turned away from the skinny cleric. In truth, he could not deny that it was an insidious pressure that the Church was putting the teachers at Paris under. If any of them were found to have knowingly taught any one of the thirteen propositions that Tempier had banned, the master could suffer automatic excommunication. And the threat of the Inquisition if he persisted. But Falconer’s intellectual rigour was offended by the craven nature of such as Master d’Angers at the university. He came back at the man like a ravenous dog savaging a bone.
    ‘Your bishop also denies Aristotle’s proposition that human acts are not ruled by the providence of God. Do you agree with him?’
    D’Angers, with a face like thunder, stood his ground.
    ‘Naturally.’
    Falconer smiled sweetly at the springing of his trap.
    ‘Then tell me if the death of that young student yesterday was an act to be found within God’s providence.’
    It was fortunate that, at that very moment, Thomas Symon came scurrying along the covered cloister of the abbey. Or Falconer may have said something that got him further into trouble. D’Angers wasn’t above passing on this conversation to those who would be less tolerant of this English master’s intemperance. Even though Thomas Symon, as scribe to Falconer’s meetings with the Paris masters, had not been present at this informal dispute, its content could still be reported. But now it seemed that Thomas had news for his master, and he drew Falconer away from d’Angers. As they retreated along the cloister, the French master tossed his head and stormed off in the opposite direction. For his part, Falconer did not regret the intervention.
    ‘Tell me. What have you learned about the dead student?’
    He had been unable to resist finding out about the incident as soon as he had been told of it. Though he was in a foreign country, and had no authority at the University of Paris, a suspicious death aroused all the usual instincts in him. He had required Thomas to ask around, and to listen to the gossip that no doubt already filled the narrow alleys of the university quarter. But Thomas was now waving away his enquiry.
    ‘William, it is not the murder that I have come to tell you about. It’s Friar Bacon. He has sent a message. He can see you now.’
    ‘Roger? Then let us go to him’
    The streets of the university quarter, which took up most of the city south of the river, were narrow. And the houses’ upper floors hung out either side, making the streets like tunnels. Falconer was reminded of the back lanes to the south and east of the main thoroughfares of his home town, Oxford. Except for one specific difference. The streets of Oxford could be muddy and clinging when it had rained. In