The Nightingale Gallery (8 page)

‘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 woolen 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, ‘why 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, Athelstan 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.

CHAPTER 3

Outside the alehouse Sir John paused to vomit, afterwards loudly protesting he was all right. Athelstan linked his arm through that of the coroner and they carefully made their way down Cheapside. It was raining and had become messy underfoot. They were stopped by the Watch, a collection of arrogant servants and retainers from the households of some of the great aldermen. They would have arrested them both, delighted to pick on a friar. Athelstan, however, informed them his companion was no less a personage than Sir John Cranston, who was now ill, so they stepped aside, doing their best to hide their smirks. As Athelstan turned off Cheapside into Poultry, he could still hear their loud guffaws of laughter.

The coroner’s house was a pleasant, two-storeyed affair in an alleyway off the Poultry. Athelstan hammered on the door until Sir John’s wife appeared - a small, birdlike woman much younger than Cranston, who greeted her husband as if he was Hector back from the wars.