The house was a fine building, very similar to that of Lord Fortescue, though today great black banners of costliest lawn hung from the upstairs windows and the broad shield of the goldsmith above the main door was hidden under black damask. An old manservant, dressed like death itself, answered the door; his face was soaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.
'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,' the friar quietly announced.
The fellow nodded and led them down a dark passageway into the great banqueting hall, also hung in black. As they crossed the black and white chess-board floor, Athelstan felt he was entering the valley of shadows. Black cloths hid the tapestries and paintings on the walls. The air seemed thick and heavy, not due to the heat and the closeness of the day but to something else which prickled the hair at the back of his neck and made him shiver. Cranston, however, lumbered along, his bleary eyes fixed on a group sitting round the table on the dais at the end of the hall. In the centre a great silver salt cellar winked like a beacon light in the glow of the glittering candles. The small oriel window above the table let in some brightness but Athelstan could not make out the figures clearly. They seemed concealed in the shadows, talking quietly. All conversation ceased as they stared at Cranston's huge form stumbling towards them.
'Can I help you?'
Cranston stopped abruptly, almost colliding with Athelstan as they turned to look at the speaker. A young woman who had been sitting in the window embrasure inside the hall got up and came forward.
'You are?' Athelstan asked.
'Sir Thomas Springall's wife,' the woman replied coolly, stepping into the light.
Sweet God, Athelstan thought, she was beautiful. Her face a vision of loveliness with dark-ringed eyes and the face of an angel like those painted on windows in the abbey church. Her slender body was exquisitely formed, her skin of burnished gold. She had dark, blood-red hair and lips as crimson and as lush as a spring rose.
'Sir Thomas's widow?' Cranston asked tactfully.
'Yes.' The voice grew harsh. 'And you, sirs, what are you doing here?'
Cranston glanced up at the group still sitting silently round the table on the dais, and drunkenly doffed his hat.
'Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. And this,' he waved behind him, 'is my faithful Mephistopheles, Brother Athelstan.'
The woman looked puzzled.
'My clerk,' Cranston slurred.
'Madam,' Athelstan interrupted, 'God rest your husband's soul, but he is dead. Sir John and I have orders to examine the body to determine the true cause of death. We are sorry to intrude on your grief.'
The woman stepped closer and Athelstan noticed how pale her face was, her eyes red-rimmed with crying. He noticed that the cuffs on the sleeves of her black lace dress were wet with tears.
The woman waved them up to the dais and the group sitting there rose. They were all dressed in black and seemed to hide behind a broad-chested man, sleek and fat, with a balding head, fleshy nose, and eyes and mouth as hard as a rock.
'Who are you, sirs?' he snapped. 'I am Sir Richard Springall, brother and executor to the late Sir Thomas!'
Cranston and Athelstan introduced themselves.
'And why are you here?'
'At the Chief Justice's request.'
Cranston handed over his commission. Sir Richard undid the red silk cord, unrolled the parchment and gave its contents a cursory glance. He waved expansively to the table.
'You may as well join us. We have business to discuss. Sir Thomas's death is a great blow.'
Athelstan thought Sir Richard looked more the eager merchant than the grieving brother but they took their seats and Sir Richard introduced his companions. At the far end of the table was Father Crispin, chancery priest and chaplain to the Springall household. He was a young man, gaunt-faced, dark-eyed, clean shaven, his hair not cut in a tonsure but hanging in ringlets down to his shoulders. His dark gown was expensive, tied at the throat with a gold clasp and silver white bows. On the other side sat Edmund Buckingham, clerk to Sir Thomas, about the same age as Father Crispin, but darker, sallow-faced, hard-eyed and thin-lipped. A born clerk or secretarius, a counter of bales and cloths, more suited to tidying accounts and storing parchment away than engaging in idle conversation. He drummed the table loudly with his fingers, showing his annoyance at what he considered an unwarranted intrusion. The two remaining members of the group, Allingham and Vechey, were typical merchants in their dark samite jerkins, gold chains and silver wire rings on fleshy fingers. Stephen Allingham was tall and lanky, with a pockmarked, dour face and greasy red hair. His front teeth stuck out, making him look like a frightened rabbit; his fingers, the nails thick with dirt, kept fluttering to his mouth as if he was trying to remember something. Theobald Vechey was short and fat; his face puffy white like kneaded dough, his eyes small black buttons, his nose slightly crooked and his mouth pursed tight with sourness.
After the introductions, Sir Richard ordered cups of sack.
Oh, God! Athelstan prayed. Not more!
Sir John, already heavy-eyed, beamed expansively. A servant brought a tray of cups. Sir John downed his in one noisy gulp and looked greedily at Athelstan's; the friar sighed and nodded. Sir John grinned and supped that one, impervious to the astonished looks of those around him. Athelstan emptied his leather bag, smoothing the creases out of the parchment and arranging the quills and silver ink horn in his writing tray. Sir John, refreshed, clapped his hands and leaned forward, glancing towards Sir Richard at the head of the table. Cranston's elbow slipped and he lurched dangerously. Athelstan heard the young clerk titter and glimpsed the silent mockery in Lady Isabella's beautiful eyes.
'Yes, quite,' Cranston trumpeted. 'Sir Richard, your account? Your brother has been slain.'
'Last night,' Sir Richard began, 'a banquet was held. All of us were present, together with Sir John Fortescue, the Chief Justice. He left about eleven, before midnight.' Sir Richard licked his hps and Athelstan wondered why the Chief Justice had lied about the hour at which he had left the house.
'My brother,' Sir Richard continued, 'bade us good night here in the hall and went up to his chamber.'
'Lady Isabella,' Cranston interrupted,*you have your own separate room?
'Yes.' The lady glared back frostily. 'My husband preferred it that way.'
'Of course.' Cranston beamed. 'Sir Richard?'
'I went to say goodnight to my brother. He was dressed for bed, the drapes pulled back. I saw the wine cup on the table beside his bed. He wished me a fair night's sleep. As I walked away, I heard him lock and bolt the door behind me.'
Athelstan put down his quill. 'Why did he do that?'
Sir Richard shook his head. 'I don't know, he always did. He liked his privacy.'
'Then what?'
'Next morning,' Father Crispin began, leaning forward, 'I went to wake…'
'No!' Lady Isabella interrupted. 'I sent my maid, Alicia. She tapped on my husband's door a few minutes after he had retired and asked if there was anything he wanted.' She smoothed the table in front of her with long, white elegant fingers. 'My husband called out that all was well.'
Athelstan looked sideways at Cranston. The coroner's heavy-lidded eyes were closing. Athelstan kicked him fiercely under the table.
'Ah, yes, of course.' Cranston pulled himself up, burping gently like a child. 'Father Crispin, you were saying?'
'At Prime – yes, about then – the bells of St Mary Le Bow were ringing. It was a fair morning, and Sir Thomas had asked to be roused early. I went up to his chamber and knocked. There was no reply. So I went for Sir Richard. He also tried to waken Sir Thomas.' The young priest's voice trailed off.
'Then what?*
'The door was forced,' Sir Richard replied. 'My brother was sprawled on the bed. We thought at first he had had some seizure and sent for the family physician, Peter de Troyes. He examined my brother and saw his mouth was stained, the lips black. So he sniffed the cup and pronounced it drugged, possibly with a mixture of belladonna and red arsenic. Enough to kill the entire household!'
'Who put the cup there?' Athelstan asked, nudging Cranston awake.
'My husband liked a goblet of the best Bordeaux in his chamber at night before retiring. Brampton always took it up to him.'
'Ah, yes, Brampton brought a cup of claret!' Cranston smacked his hps. 'He must have been a fine servant, a good fellow!'
'Sir John,' Lady Isabella shrieked in fury, 'he poisoned my husband!'
'What makes you say that?'
'He took the cup up.'
'How do you know?'
'He always did!'
'So why did Brampton hang himself?'
'Out of remorse, I suppose. God and his saints,' she cried, 'how do I know?'
'Sir John…" Father Crispin raised his hand in a placatory gesture at Sir Richard's intended outburst in her defence. The merchant looked choleric, so red-faced Athelstan thought he might have a seizure. 'Lady Isabella is distraught,' continued the priest. 'Brampton took the cup up, we are sure of that.'
'Was he present at the banquet last night?' Athelstan asked.
'No.' Sir Richard shook his head. 'He and my brother had a fierce quarrel earlier in the day.'
'About what?'
Sir Richard looked nervously down the table at Vechey and Allingham.
'Sir Thomas was furious: he accused Brampton of searching amongst his documents and memoranda. There are caskets in my brother's room. He found the lid of one forced and, beside it, a silver button from Brampton's jerkin. Brampton, of course, denied the charge and the quarrel continued most of the day.'
'So Brampton sulked in his room, did not attend the banquet and retired for the night – but not before he had taken a goblet of wine along to his master's chamber?'
'So it would seem.'
Cranston had now gently nodded off to sleep, his head tilting sideways, his soft snores indicative of a good day's drinking. Athelstan ignored the company's amused glances, pushed away the writing tray and tried to assert himself.
'I cannot understand this,' he said. 'Brampton argues with Sir Thomas, who has accused him of rifling amongst his private papers?'
'Yes,' Sir Richard nodded, watching him guardedly.
'Brampton storms out but later takes up a cup of wine. A kind gesture?'
'Not if it was poisoned!' Allingham squeaked. 'The cup was poisoned, laced with a deadly potion.'
Athelstan felt caught, trapped in a mire. The listeners around the table were gently mocking him, dismissing Cranston as a drunk and himself as an ignorant friar.
'Who was present,' he asked, 'when Sir Thomas's body was found?'
'I was,' Sir Richard replied. 'And course Father Crispin. Master Buckingham also came up.'
'As did I,' Allingham grated.
'Yes, that's correct,' Sir Richard added.
'So you sent for the physician?'
'Yes, as I have said.'
'And then what?'
'I dressed the body,' Father Crispin offered. 'I washed him, did what I could, and gave Sir Thomas the last rites, anointing his hands, face and feet. You may recall, Brother, there are some theologians, Dominicans,' the priest smiled thinly, 'who maintain the soul does not leave the body until hours after death. I prayed God would have mercy on Sir Thomas's soul.'
'Did Sir Thomas need mercy?'
'He was a good man,' Father Crispin replied sharply. 'He founded chantries, gave money to the poor, distributed food, looked after widows and orphans.'
'I am sure the good Lord will have mercy on him,' Athelstan murmured. 'Now for Brampton. You made a search for him?'
'Yes,' Sir Richard replied briskly. 'We suspected he was involved so we searched his chamber. We found a small stoppered phial in a chest beneath some robes. A servant took it round to Peter de Troyes, who pronounced it held the same mixture found in my brother's wine cup. We then searched for Brampton.'
'I found the corpse,' Vechey interrupted. 'I noticed that the door leading to the garret was half open, so I went up.' He swallowed. 'Brampton was hanging there.' The fellow shivered. 'It was dreadful. The garret was empty and cold. There was a horrible smell. Brampton's body was hanging there like a broken doll, a child's toy, his neck askew, his face blackened, tongue lolling out!'
He gulped at his wine.
'I cut him down and loosened the rope but he was dead, the corpse clammy and cold.' He looked pleadingly at Sir Richard. 'The body's still there. It must be removed!'
'Tell me,' Athelstan said, 'do you all live here?'
'Yes,' Sir Richard replied. 'Master Allingham is a bachelor. Master Vechey is a widower,' he smiled, 'though still with an eye for the ladies. This mansion is great, four storeys high, built in a square round a courtyard. Sir Thomas saw no reason why his business partners should not share the same house. Tenements, property, their value has increased, and with royal taxes…' His voice trailed off.
Athelstan nodded understandingly, trying to mask his frustration. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. A merchant had been killed, his assassin had hung himself. At the same time Athelstan detected something. These people were pompous, arrogant, sure of themselves. They walked the streets like cocks, confident of their wealth, their power, their friends at court or in the Exchequer.
'Sir Thomas treated Brampton well?' Athelstan asked. 'Was he a good lord?'
'A more courteous gentleman you could not hope to meet,' Allingham answered. 'Sir Thomas gave generously in alms to the poor of the parish of St Bartholomew's, to the Guild, and,' he ended contemptuously, 'to friars like you!'
'So why should he quarrel so violently with Brampton? Had he done it before?'
Allingham stopped, wrong-footed.
'No,' he murmured. 'No, he had not. There were just disagreements.'
'Lady Isabella,' Athelstan asked, 'your husband – was he anxious or concerned about anything?'
Sir Richard patted Lady Isabella's wrist as a sign that he would answer for her.
'He was worried about the war, and the increase of piracy in the Narrow Seas. He lost two ships recently to Hanse pirates. He resented the old king's growing demands for loans.'
'And Brampton, was he a good steward?'
'Yes,' Lady Isabella answered quickly, 'he was.'
'What kind of man?'
She made a grimace. 'Quiet, gentle, a loyal servant.' Her eyes softened. 'I saw him just after the quarrel with my husband. I have never seen Brampton in such a state, fretting and anxious, so angry he could hardly sit still.'
'Your husband, did he mention the quarrel?'
'He said he would investigate the matter later. He was surprised more than angry that Brampton could do such a thing. He said it was out of character.' She paused. 'At the banquet my husband broached a cask of his best Bordeaux. I sent up a cup as a peace offering to Brampton.'
'You are sure Sir Thomas thought highly of Brampton?'
'Oh, I am certain.' Lady Isabella shook her head and stared down at the table.
'Shall we move on to other matters? The banquet last night.'
Cranston farted gently. The sound, however, rang through the hall like a loud bell and Lady Isabella looked away in disgust. Sir Richard glared at the coroner whilst Athelstan blushed with embarrassment at the sniggering and laughter from Buckingham.
'Why was the banquet held last night?'
'The young king's coronation,' Sir Richard replied. 'Each guild must prepare its pageant. We were discussing the plans the Guild of Goldsmiths had for their spectacle.'
'So why was Chief Justice Fortescue present?'
'We do not know,' Allingham squeaked. 'Sir Thomas said that the Chief Justice would be coming. He often did business with him.' He smirked. 'Fortescue owed him money, like many judges and lords in the city.'
'Why all these questions?' Sir Richard asked softly. 'Surely the matter is clear. Even a child,' glancing contemptuously at Sir John, 'can see that! My brother was murdered, his assassin was Brampton. Why must we go over these matters, muddying waters, causing pain and grief? We are busy men, Brother Athelstan. Your friend may sleep but we have business to attend to. My brother's corpse lies cold upstairs. There is a funeral to arrange, matters to put straight, business colleagues to contact.'
'Strange!' Cranston stirred and opened his eyes. 'I find it very strange!'
Athelstan looked down the table and grinned to himself. One of the things he could never understand but most enjoyed about Cranston was how the big, fat coroner could doze and yet be aware of conversations going on around him.
'What is strange?' Lady Isabella snapped, her distaste for the coroner now openly apparent.
'Well, My Lady,' Cranston licked his lips, 'your husband has a servant, Brampton. Brampton is faithful and obedient, like the good steward in the gospel. Why should he wish to search amongst your husband's papers? What did your husband have to hide?'
Lady Isabella just glared back.
'Let us say he did,' Cranston continued, breathing in heavily. 'Just let us say he did and there was a quarrel – surely no cause for murder or suicide? You have said, Madam, how Brampton was a quiet, placid fellow. Not a man of hot humours or rash disposition who would commit such a dreadful act and then compound it by taking his own life.'
'How else did it happen?' Sir Richard asked stiffly.
'Well,' Cranston said, 'is it possible that Brampton took the wine cup as a peace offering to his master?' He ignored the sneer on Vechey's face. 'Placed it on the table and then left?'
'And?' Lady Isabella asked.
'Someone else went up those stairs during the banquet and put poison into the cup. Or,' Cranston rubbed his fat hands together, now warming to his subject, 'how do we know that Sir Thomas did not have a visitor after he retired? Someone who went up the stairs and along the gallery, slipped into Sir Thomas's room, perhaps engaging him in conversation and, while doing so, secretly poured the poison into the cup.' He held up a hand to still the murmur. 'I am just theorising, as the theologians say, speculating on the nature of things.'
Then, Sir, you are a fool!'
Cranston, Athelstan and the whole company turned round in astonishment and looked down the hall. In the doorway stood an old lady dressed completely in black like a nun. Her head was covered by a thick, lawn veil arranged in the old-fashioned wimple which framed her sour lemon face in its black lace. She walked forward, her silver-topped stick beating loudly on the hall floor.
'You are a fool!'
Cranston rose.
'Perhaps I am, Madam, but who are you?'
Sir Richard darted forward.
'Lady Ermengilde, may I present Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.'
The old lady glared at the coroner with eyes like two dark pools.
'I have heard of you, Cranston, your drinking and your lechery! What are you doing in my son's house?'
'Sir John is here at the request of Chief Justice Fortescue.' Sir Richard's voice was soft, almost pleading.
'Another rogue!' the lady snapped.
'I asked, Madam, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' Sir John repeated.
'My name is Lady Ermengilde Springall. I am the mother of Sir Richard,' she stroked Springall's arm. 'My other son now lies dead upstairs and I come down to hear you chatter on about nonsense. Brampton may have been a good steward. He was also a varlet, a commoner! He had ideas above his station. Thomas rebuked him, and like many of his kind Brampton could not take it. His heart was filled with malice. Satan whispered in his ear, and he carried out his dreadful deed.' The old woman crashed her stick to the floor and held it between her two hands, resting on it. 'At least Brampton did us all the courtesy of hanging himself and so sparing the public expense and the work of the hangman at the Elms!'
Athelstan watched Cranston. The coroner was now in one of his most dangerous moods. He smiled but only round the lips. His eyes were hard and fixed, watching the old lady as a swordsman might an opponent waiting for the next parry.
'Lady Ermengilde, you seem well appraised of what happened. I crave your indulgence. Can you explain more?'
'My chamber is close to that of my son,' she snapped. 'The staircase beyond,' she indicated with a nod of her head, 'leads up to two galleries, one running to the right. At the end was Sir Thomas's chamber and, next to his, mine.'
'Any other?'
Lady Ermengilde's eyes slid towards her daughter-in-law.
'That of the Lady Isabella. There is a gallery to the left, identical to the one I've described except for one thing.' She raised one bony finger. 'My chamber, as well as those of Sir Thomas and Lady Isabella, stands on the Nightingale Gallery.'
'The Nightingale Gallery?' Athelstan asked. 'What is that?'
Dame Ermengilde smiled and walked nearer, her face looking more than ever like a sour apple. Athelstan noticed she was not dressed in black but in the dark brown habit of a nun, though her scorn for the luxuries of this world must have been shallow for the rings on her fingers held jewels the size of birds' eggs. A worldly lady, Athelstan thought, for all her prim face, sour lips and arrogant eyes.
'It's well known,' she continued, her voice tinged with patronising arrogance. 'This house was built on a square, and on the opposite corner of the square are stairs to the second storey.' She waved her hand to the far doorway which stood slightly ajar. Through it Athelstan could glimpse steep stairs. 'They will take you up to Sir Thomas's chamber,' she added. 'At the top are two corridors. The gallery to the right is the Nightingale Gallery because it "sings" when anyone walks through it.' She must have seen the disbelief in Cranston's bleary eyes. 'This house is very old,' she continued, looking up at the great blackened beams. 'It was built in the reign of King John.' She smirked. 'A time very like our own. A strong ruler was needed. Anyway, one of John's mercenary captains used this house as a base from which to control London. He trusted no one, not even his own men.' Her eyes drifted to Lady Isabella who was standing behind Athelstan. 'Anyway, he had the floor of that gallery taken up and replaced with special boards of yew. No one can approach any of the three chambers on that gallery without making it creak, or "sing". Hence its name.'
'And the importance of this?' Cranston asked.
'The importance, my dear coroner,' she purred in reply, 'is that I was in my chamber all evening. I am old and banquets bore me. Oh, I heard the talk and the laughter from the hall below. It disturbed my sleep. Fortunately I need very little.' She glared at Cranston. 'You will find out for yourself, Sir John, age makes you sleep lightly.'
'Just in case Death taps you on the shoulder!' he answered crossly.
'Quite,' she jibed back. 'But Death has a tendency, as you well know, Sir John, to take the heaviest first!'
'My Lady,' Athelstan intervened, 'the events of yesterday… You heard no one go up to Sir Thomas's chamber?'
'Before the banquet people were scurrying backwards and forwards,' she retorted. 'During the meal I heard the Nightingale sing once, I was surprised. I opened the door and saw Brampton, carrying a wine cup in his hand. I heard him open the door to my son's chamber and then go back downstairs again. I heard no other noise before Sir Thomas's footsteps when he came up to his chamber. Sir Richard followed him and bade him goodnight, then Lady Isabella's maid made her inquiry. After that the house was silent till this morning. Father Crispin came up, I heard him knock on the door, then he went for Sir Richard and brought him back.'
Cranston nodded. 'I thank you, Lady Ermengilde. You have solved one piece of the puzzle, Brampton did take the cup up. Now,' he looked at Sir Richard, 'disturbing and painful though it may be, I must insist that I view the bodies of both men.' He bowed to Lady Isabella. 'Your husband first, My Lady. You have no objection?'
Sir Richard shook his head and led them out across the hall and up the broad sweeping staircase. As Cranston passed Lady Ermengilde, he belched rather noisily.
At the top of the stairs the passageway, or gallery, to the left was unremarkable. The walls were white-washed and coated with fresh lime, the woodwork painted black. There were canvas paintings nailed there in between the three chambers which were now covered in black gauze veils; the doors of each chamber were huge, heavy set, and reinforced with iron strips. The gallery running to their right, however, was different. The doors and walls were similar but the floor was not made of broad planks but thin bands of light- coloured wood. As soon as Sir Richard stepped on them Athelstan realised the gallery was aptly named. Each footstep, wherever they stood, caused a deep, slightly melodious twang, similar to the noise of a dozen bowstrings being pulled back simultaneously. Immediately to their left was Lady Isabella's room, the central chamber was Lady Ermengilde's, and the last Sir Thomas's, now in utter disarray. The floor outside was gouged. The door, smashed off its leather hinges, stood crookedly against the lintel. Sir Richard dismissed the servant on guard and, with the help of Buckingham, pushed it gently to one side.
Athelstan looked around. The company from the hall had followed them up, making the Nightingale Gallery sing and echo with its strange melody.
'Where is Father Crispin?' he asked. 'Dame Ermengilde?'
'Down in the hall,' Allingham muttered. 'The priest has had a deformed foot since birth. At times he finds the stairs painful. Dame Ermengilde is old. They send their excuses!'
Athelstan nodded and followed Cranston into the death chamber. The room was a perfect square, the ceiling a set design, the black timber beams contrasting sharply with the white plaster. The walls were whitewashed, and costly, coloured arras hung from each, depicting a number of themes from the Old and New Testaments. No carpets but the rushes on the floor were clean, dry, and sprinkled with fresh herbs. There was a small cupboard, a huge chest and two small coffers at the base of the great four poster bed. Next to it stood a small table, a wine cup still on it, and over near the window, on a beautiful marble table top, was ranged the most exquisite chess set Athelstan had ever seen. Sir Richard caught his glance just as Father Crispin hobbled into the room.
'The Syrians,' Sir Richard explained.
Athelstan, a keen chess player, went over and looked down at them. The Syrians were resplendent in their beauty. Each figure, about nine inches high, was a work of great craftsmanship, fashioned out of gold and filigree silver. Athelstan whistled under his breath, shaking his head in admiration.
'Beautiful!' he muttered. 'The most exquisite pieces I have ever seen!'
Sir Richard, who had followed him over, nodded.
'A hundred years ago, a Springall, one of our ancestors, went on a crusade in the Holy Land with King Edward I. He won a name for himself as a great warrior. In Outremer there was a secret sect of assassins led by a mysterious figure called The Old Man of the Mountains.' He straightened and looked across to where Sir John was now swaying drunkenly in the middle of the room, the rest of the group watching him attentively, only half listening to Sir Richard's account. He smirked. 'Anyway, the members of this sect were fed on hashish and sent out to assassinate anyone their leader marked down for destruction. They had castles and secret places high in the mountains. Our ancestor found one of these, laid siege, captured and destroyed it. He seized a great deal of plunder and, as a reward for his bravery, the English king allowed him to keep this magnificent chess set. My brother,' he added softly, 'was a keen player.'
'He was in the middle of that game last night,' Father Crispin interrupted, coming up behind them. 'Sir Thomas was so angry with Brampton, I persuaded him that a game would soothe his humour.'
Athelstan smiled.
'Did you win, Father Crispin?'
'We never finished the game,' Father Crispin murmured. 'We broke off for the banquet. I was threatening his bishop.' The priest looked up, his eyes smiling. 'So easy to trap a churchman, eh, Brother?'
'Did Sir Thomas think that?'
'No, he was furious,' Lady Isabella interrupted. 'During the banquet he kept plotting how to break out of the impasse.'
Athelstan just nodded and went over to where Cranston was staring at the ruined door.
'Both locked and bolted?' the coroner murmured.
'Yes,' answered Buckingham.
Cranston bent down, crouching to look at it, nodded and rose.
'And the corpse?'
Lady Isabella gulped at his harshness. Sir Richard led them over, pulling back the heavy bed curtains. The huge four poster bed had been stripped as a pallet for Springall's corpse which lay rigid and silent under a leather sheet. Cranston pulled back the cloth. Now Athelstan had seen many a corpse, male and female, with the most horrible injuries, yet he thought there was something nightmarish in seeing a man in his bed, dressed in his nightshirt, eyes half open, mouth gaping like a landed fish. When alive Sir Thomas must have been a fine-looking man with his tawny hair, sharp soldier's face and military appearance. In death he looked grotesque.
Cranston sniffed the man's mouth and gently pushed back the lolling head. Athelstan watched fascinated, noting the slight purplish tinge in the corpse's face and sunken cheeks. Someone had attempted to close the dead merchant's eyes and, unable to, had placed a coin over each of his eyelids. One of these had now slipped off and Sir Thomas glared sightlessly at the ceiling. Cranston turned, waving Athelstan closer to examine the body. He always did this. The friar suspected Cranston took enjoyment in making him pore over each corpse, the more revolting the better. Athelstan pulled back the nightshirt and examined the rest of the body, impervious to the groans and gasps behind him. He looked over his shoulder; Lady Isabella had walked back towards the door, Sir Richard's arm around her waist. Buckingham just stood with eyes half closed. Both merchants looked squeamish, as if they were about to be sick. Outside the Nightingale Gallery sang and Lady Ermengilde, her hands grasping a black stick, her face covered in a fine sheen of sweat, pushed into the room and glared at Cranston.
'Is this necessary?' she asked. 'Is it really necessary?'
'Yes, Madam, it is!' he barked in reply. 'Brother Athelstan, have you finished?'
The friar examined the corpse from neck to crotch. No mark of violence, no cut. Then the hands. They had been washed and scrubbed clean, the nails manicured. The body was now ready for the embalmer's, before being sheeted and coffined and the funeral ceremony carried out.
'Poison,' Athelstan confirmed. 'No mark of any other violence. No sign of an attack.'
Athelstan picked up the cup and sniffed it. The smell was rich, dark, dank and dangerous. It cloyed in his mouth and nostrils. He put it down quickly and bent over the corpse, sniffing at the dead man's mouth from which issued the same acrid, richly corrupting smell.
'Belladonna and arsenic?' Athelstan remarked.
Buckingham nodded.
'A deadly combination,' the friar observed. 'The only consolation is that Sir Thomas must have died within minutes of putting the cup down. Sir John, you have seen enough?'
Cranston nodded, straightened, and went to sit in a chair over near the chess table. Sir Richard came back into the room.
'You have found nothing new, Brother?'
Athelstan shook his head.
'I speak for Sir John. Sir Thomas's body may be released for burial whenever you wish.' He looked round the chamber. 'There are no other entrances here?'
'None whatsoever,' Sir Richard replied. 'Sir Thomas chose this chamber because of its security.' He pointed to the chests. 'They hold gold, indentures and parchments.'
'And have you been through these?'
'Of course.'
'Have you found anything which may explain Brampton's strange conduct in trying to rifle his master's records?'
Sir Richard shook his head.
'Nothing. Some loans to rather powerful nobles and bishops who should have known better, but nothing else.'
Athelstan took one look round the bed chamber, noting the exquisite beauty of the carved four poster bed, with its writhing snakes and other symbols. A luxurious chamber but not opulent. He tapped gently on the floor with his sandalled foot. It sounded thick and heavy. No trap doors.
'Did Sir Thomas have a…'
'A secret place?' Sir Richard completed his sentence. 'I doubt it. Moreover, Master Buckingham and I have been through the accounts. Everything is in order. My brother was a tidy man.'
'Sir Richard, we are finished here. I would like to view Brampton's corpse.'
'Brother Athelstan,' the merchant smirked and nodded towards where Cranston sat, a contented smile on his face, fast asleep, 'your companion, good Sir John, appears good for nothing! Perhaps tomorrow?'
'Yes, yes,' Athelstan replied. 'But first I must see where Brampton killed himself.'
'I will take care of it, Sir Richard,' Buckingham murmured.
Sir Richard nodded and the clerk left the room, returning within seconds with a candle in its metal hood. He led Athelstan out of the bed chamber, back along the passageway and up to the second floor. Behind them the Nightingale sang as if mocking Athelstan's departure. At the bottom of the second gallery was a narrow, winding, wooden staircase.
'It leads to the garrets,' Buckingham said, sensing the friar's thoughts.
They went up. Buckingham pushed open a rickety wooden door and Athelstan followed him in. The garret was built just under the eaves of the roof. The wooden ceiling sloped high at one end and low at the other. Just inside the door stood an old table, a stool beside it. Buckingham held the candle up and Athelstan studied the stout beam directly above the table. A piece of rope hung from it, scarred and frayed. It swung eerily in the breeze which came through a gap in the roof tiles. On the table beneath, covered by a dirty sheet, lay Brampton's corpse. Athelstan took the candle off Buckingham and looked around. Nothing but rubbish: broken pitchers, shattered glass, a coffer with the lid broken, and a mound of old clothes. The garret smelt dank and dusty and of something else – corruption, decay, the odour of rotting death. Athelstan went across to the table and pulled back the filthy sheet. Brampton lay there, a small man dressed in a simple linen shirt, open at the neck, and wearing dark green hose on his scrawny legs. He would have appeared asleep if it had not been for the curious lie of his head. The neck was twisted slightly askew to one side. The heavy-lidded eyes were half open, his lips parted in death, and a dark blue-purplish ring circled the scraggy neck. Athelstan peered closer. There were no signs of violence on the yellow, seamed face. The small goatee beard was still damp with spittle; the gash on the throat quite deep, with a large bruise behind the ear where the noose had been tied. He scrutinised the man's hands, long and thin, manicured like a woman's. Carefully he examined the nails, noticing the strands of rope caught there. Behind him Buckingham muttered darkly, as if resenting his scrutiny. There was a crashing on the stairs and Cranston burst in, the ill effects of the wine readily apparent. He slumped on the stool, mopping his sweaty face with the hem of his cloak.
'Well, Monk!' he called out. 'What have we?'
'Brampton,' Athelstan replied, 'bears all the marks of a hanged man, though some attempts have been made to redress the ill effects of such a death. The mouth is half open, the tongue swollen and bitten, the neck bears the sign of a noose. There is a bruise behind his left ear and Brampton apparently grasped the rope in his death agonies.' He turned to Buckingham. 'So Brampton came up here, intending to hang himself. There is rope kept here?'
Buckingham pointed to the far corner.
'A great deal,' he replied. 'We often use it to tie up bales.'
'I see, I see. Brampton therefore takes this rope, climbs on the table, ties one length round the rafter beam, forms a noose and puts it round his neck, tying the knot securely behind his left ear. He steps quietly off the table and his life flickers out like a candle flame.'
Buckingham narrowed his eyes and shivered.
'Yes,' he muttered. 'It must have been like that.'
'Now,' Athelstan continued conversationally, ignoring Cranston's glares, 'Vechey finds the corpse. He searches for a knife amongst the rubbish,' Athelstan tapped it with the toe of his sandal where it lay on the floor, 'cuts Brampton down, but finds he is dead.'
'Yes,' Buckingham replied, 'something like that. Then he came down and notified us all.'
Athelstan picked the dagger up from the floor. He had glimpsed it when he had first entered the room and could see why it had been discarded. The handle was chipped and broken, there were dents along one side, but the cutting edge was still very sharp. Athelstan climbed on to the stool, then on to the table. He looked at the hacked edge of the rope. Yes, he thought, Brampton had been tall enough to fix the rope round the beam, put the noose round his neck, and tie it securely with a knot before stepping off the table.
'Master Buckingham,' Athelstan said, getting down, 'we have kept you long enough. I should be most grateful if you would present my compliments to Lady Isabella and Sir Richard and ask them'to meet me in the solar below. I would like the physician present. I believe he lives nearby? The servants, too, should be questioned.'
Buckingham nodded, relieved that the close questioning of himself was over, and left Athelstan dragging a dozing Cranston to his feet. The coroner struggled and murmured. Athelstan put one of his arms around Sir John's shoulders and carefully escorted him downstairs. Thankfully, the gallery below was deserted. He rested the coroner against the wall, slapping him gently on the face.
'Sir John! Sir John! Please wake up!'
Cranston's eyes flew open. 'Do not worry, Brother,' he slurred, 'I won't embarrass you.' He stood and shook himself, trying to clear his eyes, jerking his head as if he could dislodge the fumes from his brain.
'Come,' Athelstan said. 'The physician and servants still await us.'
Athelstan was partially correct. The servants were waiting in the small, lime-washed buttery next to the flagstoned kitchen, but the physician had not yet arrived. Buckingham introduced them as Cranston went over to a large butt, ladling out cups of water which he noisily drank, splashing the rest over his rosy-red face. Athelstan patiently questioned the servants, preferring to deal with them as a group so he could watch their faces and detect any sign of connivance or conspiracy. He found it difficult enough with Buckingham lounging beside him as if to ensure nothing untoward was said, whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.
'And Brampton?' Athelstan asked.
'He sulked all day,' the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. 'He kept to his chamber. He…' she stammered. 'I think he was in his cups.'
'Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?' Athelstan queried. 'Late at night, when everyone had retired?'
The maid blushed and looked away.
'No one came through the yard,' the young groom hotly stated. 'If they had, they would have woken the dogs!'
'Brampton – what was he like?' Cranston barked.
The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.
'A good man,' he quavered.
'So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?'
The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.
'He was accused of searching amongst the master's papers. A button from his jerkin,' he stammered, 'or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.'
'What was Brampton looking for?'
A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.
'Good friar,' the clerk intervened, 'surely you do not expect servants to know their master's business?'
'Brampton apparently tried to!' Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.
'So it would seem,' Buckingham answered sweetly.
Athelstan gazed at the servants. 'These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,' he murmured.
'And neither can I!'
Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woollen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted back. A nose sharp as a quill prodded the air like the beak of a bird. In one hand he held a silver-topped walking cane, in the other a pomander full of spiced cloves. Now and again he would hold it to his face.
'You are, Sir?' Athelstan asked.
'Peter de Troyes, physician.'
He looked distastefully at Cranston.
'And you must be Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city? Do you need my help?'
The arrogant physician sat on the corner of the table. Athelstan watched Cranston carefully and held his breath. From experience he knew that Sir John hated physicians and would like to hang the lot as a bunch of charlatans. Cranston smiled sweetly, ordering Buckingham to clear the buttery whilst he lumbered across to stand over the physician.
'Yes, Doctor de Troyes, I am the Coroner. I like claret, a good cup of sack and, if I had my way, I would investigate the practices and potions of the physicians of this city.' His smile faded as de Troyes stuck out his plump little chest. 'Now, Master de Troyes, physician, you inspected Sir Thomas's corpse?'
'I did.'
'And the goblet he drank from?'
'Quite correct, Sir John.'
'And you think it was a mixture of belladonna and arsenic?'
'Yes, yes, I do. The cadaver's skin was slightly blueish, the mouth smelt rank.' He shrugged. 'Death by poisoning, it was obvious.'
Athelstan walked across to them. The physician didn't even turn to greet him.
'Would death have been quick?' the friar asked.
'Oh, yes, and rather silent. Very much like a seizure, within ten or fifteen minutes of taking the potion.'
'Master physician,' Athelstan continued, 'please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I ask you a question.'
De Troyes turned, his eyes glittering with malice.
'Yes, Friar, what is it?'
'Surely Sir Thomas would have detected the poison in the wine cup? You smelt it. Why didn't he?'
The fellow pursed his lips. 'Simple enough,' he replied pompously. 'First, Sir Thomas had drunk deeply.' He glanced slyly at Cranston. 'Wine is a good mask for poison, and if there is enough in the belly and throat the victim will never suspect. Secondly, the wine cup has stood all night.' He wetted his lips. 'The smell could become more rank.'
'And the phial found in Brampton's coffer was the same potion?'
'Yes. A deadly mixture.'
'Where can it be bought?'
The physician's eyes slid away. 'If you have enough money, Sir John, and know the right person, anything or anyone can be bought in this city.' De Troyes stood up. 'Do you have any more questions?'
Cranston belched, Athelstan shook his head and the physician swept out of the room without a backward glance.
They found Sir Richard's group still waiting in the solar. Athelstan gathered his writing tray, paper and quills, putting them carefully back into the leather bag. He had written very little, but would make a thorough report later. He hurried back to where Sir John, legs apart and swaying slightly, stood leering lecherously at Lady Isabella, who stared back frostily.
'I think,' Sir Richard said quietly, that Sir John needs a good night's sleep. Perhaps tomorrow, Brother?'
'Perhaps tomorrow, Sir Richard,' Athelstan echoed, and slipping his arm through Cranston's turned him gently and walked him out of the hall. Sir John suddenly spun round and looked back at the company, his heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Athelstan followed suit and glimpsed Sir Richard's hand fall away from Lady Isabella's shoulder. Something in the merchant's face made Athelstan wonder if they were more than just close kin. Was there adultery here as well as murder?
'Oh, Sir Richard!' Cranston called.
'Yes, Sir John?'
'The Sons of Dives – who or what are they?'
Athelstan saw the group suddenly tense, their faces drained of that pompous, amused look as if they regarded Cranston as the royal jester rather than the king's coroner.
'I asked a question, Sir Richard,' Cranston slurred. 'The Sons of Dives? Who are they?'
'I don't know what you are talking about, Sir John. The ill effects of the wine?'
'The wine does not affect me as much as you think, Sir Richard,' Cranston snapped back. 'I will ask the question again.' He bowed towards Lady Isabella. 'Good night.'
And, spinning on his heel, Cranston lurched with as much dignity as he could muster through the door, Athelstan following behind.
Once clear of the house, Cranston waddled as sure as a duck to water towards the welcoming, half-open door of an ale-house across Cheapside. Athelstan stopped and looked up at the starlit sky.
'Oh, good God!' he groaned. 'Surely not more refreshment, Sir John?'
Nevertheless, he hurried after; the water had apparently revived the good coroner and Athelstan wanted to clear his own mind and define the problems nagging at him. The alehouse was almost deserted. Sir John seized a table near the wine butts.
'Two cups of sack!' he roared. 'And some-?' He glared at Athelstan.
'Watered wine,' the friar added meekly.
The sack disappeared down Sir John's cavernous throat. More was ordered, and the coroner clapped his podgy hands.
'An excellent evening's work!' he boomed. He nodded in the direction of the Springall mansion. 'A coven of high- stepping hypocrites.' He turned to Athelstan, bleary-eyed. 'What do you think, Monk?'
'Friar!' Athelstan corrected him despairingly.
'Who gives a sod?' Cranston snapped. 'First, I wonder why our good Lord Fortescue was there? I think he left a little later than he claims.' Cranston belched. 'Secondly, Brampton. They say he was rifling through his master's papers, and they have evidence of it, so it is easy to imagine the quarrel between him and Sir Thomas. Springall would feel betrayed, Brampton furious that he had been caught as well as fearful of dismissal.' Cranston drummed his stubby fingers on the wine-stained table top. 'But if Brampton was innocent,' he slurred, Vhy was he made to appear guilty? There's no answer to that.'
'And if he was guilty,' Athelstan added, 'what was he looking for? What great secret did Sir Thomas Springall possess?'
Athelstan gazed across the tap room, watching two drunken gamblers shove and push each other over a game of dice.
'Even so,' he murmured,*why should Brampton kill his master and take his own life? Revenge followed by remorse?'
A loud snore greeted his question. Cranston had now fallen back against the wall, his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his fat, good-natured face.
'Was Sir Thomas murdered because of the secret?' Athelstan muttered. 'Or was his wife an adulteress, playing the two-backed beast with her husband's brother?'
Some men kill for gold, he thought, others for lust. And Dame Ermengilde? Did she play a part in this charade, trying to advance the interests of her favourite son, Sir Richard? And the other two, Vechey and Allingham? Strange creatures, battening like fleas on the skill and acumen of Sir Thomas. And, of course, young Buckingham. Athelstan shuddered. He had met men like Buckingham, with their fluttering eye-lashes and graceful, dainty gestures; men who preferred to be women but hid their natures under the cloak of darkness lest they be discovered and boiled alive at Smithfield. Finally, the good priest Crispin. Was his leg as malformed as he pretended? When he first met the priest in the solar Athelstan had noticed how ungainly he walked, but when later he had joined them in Springall's chamber, Atheistan had observed how the priest had changed into Spanish riding boots, the heel of one slightly raised to lessen his deformity. In these he moved quietly and quickly.
Sir John suddenly groaned and sat up.
'Oh, God, Athelstan,' he moaned, 'I feel sick!'
The coroner rose and staggered to the door.