The Nightingale Gallery (20 page)

‘Tell me,’ Athelstan said, ‘who found the corpse?’

‘I did,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘We had all risen early this morning. Father Crispin here took one of the horses, a young one, out through Aldgate to gallop in the fields. He came back, stabled the horse and came in to break fast with us. We then noticed Allingham had not come down although he was generally an early riser. We sent up a manservant. He tried to rouse Stephen but, unable to, came down to tell us. Father Crispin had unfortunately just knocked over a wine cup and was cleaning up the mess with a napkin. When the servant summoned me, I went up; Father Crispin, Master Buckingham and Lady Isabella followed me. Allingham could not be roused so we then sent for the workmen in the yard. They brought up a timber and forced the door.’

Athelstan went over to the door and looked carefully at it. Both the bolt and the lock were now broken beyond repair where the makeshift battering ram had forced a way in.

‘Inside, Stephen Allingham was lying on the bed, as you see him now. Father Crispin examined him and said there was no sign of life.’

‘What else happened?’

‘Nothing. We arranged the body which was lying half sprawled, legs on the floor, the rest on the bed.’

‘Nothing suspicious?’

‘No.’

‘Except one thing,’ Father Crispin spoke up, ignoring Sir Richard’s warning glance. ‘I could not understand why, if Allingham had been taken by a seizure, he had not tried to open the door, turn the key and call for help. I thought the lock might have stuck.’ He shrugged. ‘I went back and examined it. The handle of the door was jammed. I tried to free it, using the cloth I had brought up from the hall to gain a better purchase. I did not succeed, perhaps because of the way it had been forced. The lock itself seemed good, though wrenched away by the forced entry. The key was lying on the floor.’

‘And how had Master Allingham been in recent days?’

‘Morose!’ Sir Richard snapped back. ‘He kept to himself. On one occasion my mother, Lady Ermengilde, found him muttering to himself, something about the same number Vechey mentioned - thirty-one. And about shoemakers!’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lady Isabella said. ‘At table he would just glower at his food and refuse to talk. He said he must be more careful about what he ate and drank. He spent a great deal of time in the yard below with the carpenters and masons who were making the pageant cart for the coronation procession. He spent hours talking to them, especially the master carpenter, Andrew Bulkeley.’

‘What was so important?’ Cranston asked.

Lady Isabella shrugged her pretty shoulders, a movement which made even Athelstan’s breath catch in his throat.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘He used to go down there and stand and look at the frieze Bulkeley was carving; the one that will surmount the cart and later be hung in the chantry chapel at the other end of this house. Perhaps you should speak to him?’

Cranston looked across at Athelstan and nodded.

‘Oh, one further question, Lady Isabella, and I ask it here in the presence of your household. Your husband’s wealth - he made a will?’

‘Yes, it’s already with the Court of Probate in Chancery at Westminster Hall. Why do you ask?’

Athelstan noticed how her cheeks had become flushed and Sir Richard moved restlessly.

‘Who were your husband’s heirs?’

‘Sir Richard and myself.’

‘You are to receive all his wealth?’

‘Yes, all.’

‘And, Sir Richard,’ Cranston continued, ‘you have now been through all the memoranda, documents, household books and accounts in your brother’s possession. Have you found anything suspicious? Loans made perhaps to powerful men who refused to pay?’

Sir Richard smiled.

‘Nothing of the sort. Oh, the powerful lords owed my brother, and now me, monies but none of them would dare renege. Remember, they can only do it once. After that who else will loan them monies?’

Cranston patted his thigh and grinned.

‘The world of finance, Sir Richard, escapes me - and of course Brother Athelstan here, with his vow of poverty. Come, Brother!’ He rose and Athelstan followed him out.

‘Where are you going?’ Sir Richard hurried to catch up with them.

‘Why, to see Master Bulkeley, of course! I would like to know what Master Allingham found so interesting in the yard.’

Sir Richard led them down through a flagstoned kitchen and scullery, out into the great yard around which the house was built. The place was a hive of activity. Dogs charged about like lunatics, scattering the chickens and geese which pecked for food in the hard-packed soil. Grooms, farriers and ostlers were taking horses in and out of the stables, checking legs, hooves and coats for any injuries or blemishes. A few small boys, the children of servants, played hide and seek behind the carts, baskets and bales of straw. Servants hurried in and out of kitchens with pitchers of water while others sat in the shade whiling their time away with dice and other games of hazard. Outside the kitchen door scullions were bringing out steaming chunks of bloody red meat to throw into huge casks of pickle and salt to preserve them. At the other end of the yard, carpenters were busy around a huge, gaily decorated cart, the four sides now being covered with elaborate cloths and carvings. Sir Richard took Cranston and Athelstan over.

‘Oh, by the way, Sir Richard. The Syrians, the beautiful chess set, what happened to them?’ asked Cranston.

Sir Richard stood still, staring up at the blue sky, turning his face to feel the sun.

‘Too precious to be left out on display. Master Buckingham has polished them and put them away, locked in a casket. They are safe. Why do you ask?’

Cranston shrugged. ‘I wondered, that’s all.’

The noise around the carts was terrible: the banging and the sawing and the moving of wood. The air was thick with sawdust and the sweet smell of freshly cut wood. The pageant prepared by Springall, which was only a small part of the vast coronation procession, looked even more magnificent at close quarters. The cart was huge, about nine feet high. The merchant explained there would be a tableau which would give honour to the king as well as reflect the glory of the Goldsmith’s Guild, with huge screens on which the carpenters and masons had carved elaborate scenes.

‘There are four,’ Sir Richard explained, ‘one for the front, one for the back and one for each side of the cart. These will be fastened on and above them a platform. On that will be set the tableau. Everything has to be correct,’ he commented. ‘We do not wish to bring any disgrace or dishonor on the guild from our cart collapsing as it rolls through the streets of Cheapside.’

No expense had been spared. Athelstan particularly examined each of the screens showing the four last things; Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell. He admired the sheer complexity of the scenes as well as the genius of the craftsmen, in particular in their depiction of Hell. There was a representation of the devil carrying off the wicked to Hades. Each of the damned souls was guarded by a group of hideous demons. In the centre of the piece was a carving of a shoemaker resisting four shaggy devils who were dragging him from the embraces of what at first Athelstan thought was a young lady but, on looking closer, realised that with his tail and close-cropped hair, it was a depiction of a male prostitute. The profession of the Devil’s captive, a shoemaker, was made apparent by the bag of tools clutched in one hand and the unfinished shoe in the other.

‘Who carved this?’ Athelstan asked Sir Richard.

‘Andrew Bulkeley.’

‘Where is he?’

Sir Richard turned and called the man’s name and a small, bald-headed man wandered over. His vast form, more corpulent than that of Cranston, was swathed in a dirty white apron. He looked like one of the carefree devils he had carved, with his fat, cheery face, snub nose and large blue eyes which seemed to dance with wicked merriment.

‘Master Bulkeley.’ Athelstan smiled and shook the proffered hand. ‘Your carvings are exquisite.’

‘Thank you, Brother.’ The voice betrayed a soft burr of warmer, fresher climes.

Athelstan pointed to the depiction of Hell. ‘This particular carving, it’s your work?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘And the idea is yours?’

‘Oh, no, Brother. Sir Thomas himself laid down what we should do and how we should carve it.’

‘But why the shoemaker and why the male prostitute?’

The craftsman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t really know. I have done such scenes many times. It’s always the same. Someone being dragged from the warm embraces of a group of young ladies. But this time, I think Sir Thomas had some secret joke. He insisted that it be a shoemaker and the prostitute be male. That’s all I know. He paid the money, I did what he asked. Have you seen the others?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Athelstan said, and looked across at Cranston.

‘Master Allingham came out to look at these carvings?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘Any carving in particular?’

The craftsman shrugged.

‘He’d look at them all, usually when we were not there, but he constantly asked why Sir Thomas had chosen certain themes. I gave him the same answer I gave you.’

Athelstan turned to the merchant. ‘Was your brother fascinated by shoemakers?’

‘I told you,’ Sir Richard replied, exasperated, ‘he liked riddles. Perhaps a shoemaker had offended him. I don’t know!’

Athelstan touched Sir John gently on the elbow. ‘I have seen enough. Perhaps we should go?’

The coroner looked puzzled but quietly agreed. They walked back through the kitchen and down the hallway to the front entrance of the house. They were about to leave when Sir Richard called out: ‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John!’

They both spun round.

‘You keep coming back here, yet you have not found any evidence linking the deaths, or the reasons for them. Is that not so?’

The merchant had regained some of his arrogance and Cranston could not stop himself.

‘Yes, that’s so, Sir Richard. So far we have found nothing conclusive. But, I can tell you something fresh and you may tell the others.’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘Whatever the evidence, whatever you may think, Stephen Allingham was murdered. You should all take care!’

Before the startled merchant could think of a reply, Cranston had taken Athelstan by the elbow and steered him out into the sun-baked street.

‘Last time we were here,’ Athelstan quipped, ‘you warned me, Sir John, not to open my mouth and say things I was not bidden to. Yet you have done so today. There is no evidence that Allingham was murdered.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ Sir John grunted. ‘And so do you.’ He stopped and tapped the friar gently on the temple. ‘But up there, Athelstan, and here in your heart, what do you really think?’

Athelstan stared at the hubbub around them, the people oblivious to his dark thoughts of murder, fighting their way through the stalls, gossiping, talking, buying and selling, engaged in everyday matters.

‘I think you are right, Sir John. Allingham’s murder was well planned, and the murderer is in that house.’ He pulled his cowl up against the hot midday sun. ‘Shall we collect our horses?’

Sir John looked away sheepishly. ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘the horses, shall we collect them?’

Cranston let out a sigh, shook his head and gazed appealingly at Athelstan.

‘I have bad news, Brother. We are summoned to Westminster. Chief Justice Fortescue believes that we have spent enough public money and time in the pursuit of what he calls will-o’-the-wisps. He wants us to account for our stewardship. But before I clap eyes on his miserable face, I intend to down as many cups of sack as I can! You are with me?’

For the first time ever Athelstan fully agreed with Sir John’s desire for refreshment. They walked quickly through Cheapside down to Fleet Street and into the Saracen’s Head, a cool, dark place off the main thoroughfare. Athelstan was pleased to see that it was empty and insisted that this time he should be host. He ordered the taverner to bring two black-jacks of brimming ale and, since it was Friday, not meat but a dish of lampreys and fresh white bread for himself and Sir John. Cranston took to the food like a duck to water, smacking his lips, draining the black-jack, and shouting for the taverner’s pot boy to come and fill it again. Once the first pangs of hunger had been satisfied, Cranston interrogated the friar.

‘Come, Brother, what do you think? Is there a solution? You are the philosopher, Athelstan, though didn’t one of your famous theologians say “From nothing comes nothing -
Nihil ex nihilo!
”’

‘There must be an answer,’ Athelstan said, reclining against the cool stone at his back. ‘When I studied Logic, we learnt one central truth. If the problem exists there must be a solution, if there’s no solution there’s no problem. Consequently, if there is a problem there must be a solution.’

Cranston belched and blinked at Athelstan. ‘Where did you learn that?’ he taunted.

‘Logic will resolve this problem,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘That and evidence. The problem, Sir John, is that we have no evidence. We can build no premise without it. We are like two men on the edge of a cliff. A chasm separates us from the other side and now we are looking round for the bridge.’ Athelstan paused before continuing, ‘Our bridge will be evidence, the resolving of Sir Thomas’s riddles about the biblical verses and the shoemaker.’

Cranston shook his head. ‘We should have talked to Allingham.’

‘We did try, Sir John, but he obstinately refused to confide in us though I agree that he knew something. I think he was either going to flee or perhaps blackmail the murderers, without telling us. He made one mistake. He under estimated the sheer malice of his opponents.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Athelstan bit his lip, cradling the black-jack in his hands, enjoying its coolness.

‘They relish what they are doing. They plot, they devise stratagems, they cause as much confusion as they can. They not only pursue a certain quarry, the mysteries and riddles of Sir Thomas, I think they enjoy the killing. They have insufferable arrogance. Satan has set up camp in their souls. In a word, Sir John, they enjoy what they do as much as you do a goblet of claret or a game of hazard or teasing me. To them murder is now part of their lives, a piece in the fabric of their souls. They will continue to murder for profit, to protect themselves but also because they want to. All the more to see us floundering around in the dark. The more we flounder, the more enjoyment we give them.’