The Nightingale Gallery

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.'