The Nightingale Gallery smoba-1

by Paul Doherty

  Cranston turned. His steel grey mop of hair seemed to bristle with anger, and his dark eyes held the ghost of malicious mockery as he stroked his beard and moustache.

  'I will do that, My Lord,' he said slowly. 'I will instruct Brother Athelstan in what I know about the law and I am sure it will not take long. Then, of course, I will instruct him in what you and I both know, and I am sure it will not take any longer!'

  Cranston spun on his heel and, with Athelstan scurrying behind him, choking on his laughter, swept out of Alphen House into Castle Yard and back to Holborn.

  'Bastard! Varlet! Lecher! Arse pimple!' Cranston indulged in a succinct summary of what he thought of the Chief Justice. Athelstan just shook his head, caught between admiration of Cranston's honesty and a desire to burst into laughter at the way he'd dealt with the Chief Justice. They paused on the corner of Holborn thoroughfare to let an execution cart rattle by, its iron wheels crashing on the cobbles. Inside a black-masked hangman and a parson, his sallow face covered in sweat, were standing over a pirate caught, so the notice pinned to the cart said, two days ago off the mouth of the Thames. Despite the placard around his neck, the fellow was laughing and joking with the small crowd which followed on either side, chanting a song popular on execution days: 'Put on your smocks on Monday.' The condemned man did not seem to give a fig for his impending death. He was more determined to cut up his scarlet cloak and taffeta jerkin and distribute the pieces amongst the spectators. Every so often he would look up and grin at the executioner.

  'You will take no share of my clothes!' he bawled. 'I came naked into the world and I will go out naked. And all the more merrily for knowing you got nothing from me!'

  The crowd roared with laughter at this sally and, as the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold at the Elms, broke into fresh chants and songs.

  'More like a wedding than an execution!' Cranston muttered. 'The hangman will slip the knot. This fellow will dance for a long time before he dies.'

  They crossed the rutted track leading to the shady side of the street for the sun now shone much stronger, beating fiercely down on them. Cranston mopped his sweating face and pushed Athelstan into the welcoming shadows of the Bishop's Pig tavern. The tap room inside was dark and cool with a high, black-timbered ceiling letting the air circulate as it poured through the great open windows at the far end. Cranston and Athelstan sat there, the friar silently wondering to himself about Sir John's constant need for refreshment; the coroner seemed to eat and drink as if there was no tomorrow. As usual Sir John did full justice to himself, ordering two large tankards of frothy dark ale, an eel pie and a dish of vegetables. All disappeared down his yawning throat as the coroner continued to berate Fortescue. At last, the rancour drained from him, Sir John wiped his lips, leaned back against the wall and glanced across at the friar. Athelstan, looking up from his own thoughts about his church, realised Sir John's good humour had returned and now they would concentrate on the matter in hand.

  'Was the Chief Justice right?'

  'About what?' Athelstan asked.

  'About you and your brother?'

  Athelstan made a face.

  'To a certain extent he spoke the truth, but I do not think the Chief Justice was concerned with that. More with the malicious desire to hurt.'

  Cranston nodded and looked away. Now, he did not like priests. He did not like monks. He certainly did not like friars, but Athelstan was different. He looked at the friar's dark face, the black hair cut neatly in a tonsure. More like a soldier, he thought, than a monk. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his throat; every man had his secrets, and Cranston had his own.

  'This matter,' he said. 'Springall's death. Do you think there is a mystery?'

  Athelstan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  'There is something strange,' he muttered. 'A merchant is murdered by his servant who then commits suicide. A very neat death, orderly. All the ends tied up like a parcel, a package, a gift for Twelfth Night. Surely two mysteries? The first one is the neatness of the deaths, the second my Lord of Gaunt's interest in them. Yes, Sir John, I think there is a mystery but only the good Lord knows whether we will solve it!'

  'There is more, isn't there?' Cranston said, pleased to have confirmation of his own thoughts.

  'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied, sitting up and stretching. 'Gaunt seems frightened that Springall has died, as if the death poses a personal threat. It must be so otherwise why would he get the Chief Justice of the Courts to interview us? To impress upon us the importance of the task? To test our loyalty and give us a special commission?'

  He got up. 'If you are refreshed, Sir John, perhaps it is time we found out.'

  Cranston rose, picked up his cloak and threw it across his arm. He adjusted his great sword belt round his girth. From it hung a long thin Welsh dagger shoved into a battered leather sheath and the broadest sword Athelstan had ever seen. Once again he tightened his lips to hide his smile. Cranston waddled through the tavern, shouting goodbye to the landlord and his wife who were busy amongst the barrels at the far end of the room. The coroner's good spirits were restored and Athelstan braced himself for an exciting day.

  They walked back up Cheapside. It was now early afternoon and the traders were busy.

  'A fine hat for the French block!' one called. 'Pins! Points! Garters! Spanish gloves! Silk ribbons!' shouted] another.

  'Come,' a woman cackled from a doorway, 'have your ruffs starched, fine cobweb lawn!'

  The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning's trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes; were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in: from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber's shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.

  'You know the house, Sir John?'

  Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'

  Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.

  'What is it, Monk?'

  'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.'

  Cranston beamed. 'I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?'

  'Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.'

  The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.

  'Nothing much,' he muttered, reading them quickly. 'They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.' He looked sharply at Athelstan. 'I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?'

  The friar shrugged.

  'You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.*

  Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.

  'Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!'

  CHAPTER 2

  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 announc
ed.

  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.