The Nightingale Gallery

'Like life, is it not, Sir John?' Athelstan queried. 'Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.'

Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.

'Bugger philosophy!' he said. 'I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!'

'Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.'

Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,' Cranston grated. 'I haven't forgotten yesterday.'

The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.

'Sir John, you feel better?' Springall asked.

'Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.'

Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston's riddle.

'You have heard of Vechey's death?'

Sir Richard nodded. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.'

He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the hearth.

'Even in the height of summer,' Sir Richard observed, 'it's cool in here.'

Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant – the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.

'Come in!' Sir Richard called.

Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan's glance and smiled bravely.

'Don't worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it's always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,' he added bitterly.

Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest's hand. 'Father, I am sorry,' she whispered. 'Come, join us.'

They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.

'So,' said Sir John, smacking his lips, 'a third death, Master Vechey's suicide.' He held three fingers up. 'One murder and two suicides in the same household.' He stared around. 'You do not grieve?'

Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.

Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.'

'A dour man,' Buckingham observed, 'with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.' He smiled thinly. 'At least not in the lists of love.'

"What do you mean?' Cranston asked.

'Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies' man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.' Buckingham grimaced. 'You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him behind their hands.'

'What the clerk is saying,' Sir Richard interrupted, 'is that Master Vechey was immersed in the pleasures of the flesh. He had few friends. Only my brother really listened to him. It could well, be that Sir Thomas's death turned Vechey's mind on to the path of self-destruction.' He spread his hands. 'I do not claim to be my brother's keeper, so how can I claim to be Vechey's? We are sorry for his death but how are we responsible?'

'Master Vechey left the house when?'

'About an hour after you.'

'Did he say where he was going?'

'No. He never did.'

Cranston eased himself in his chair, head back, rolling the white Rhenish wine round his tongue.

'Let me change the question. Where were you all last night?'

Sir Richard shrugged and looked around. 'We went our different ways.'

'Father Crispin?'

The priest coughed, shifting his leg to favour it.

'I went to the vicar of St Mary Le Bow to arrange Sir Thomas's funeral.'

'Sir Richard? Lady Isabella?'

'We stayed here!' the woman retorted. 'A grieving widow does not walk the streets.'

'Master Buckingham?'

'I went to the Guildhall taking messages from Sir Richard about the pageant we are planning.'

'My brother would have liked that,' Sir Richard intervened. 'He would see no reason why we should not make our contribution to the royal coronation.' His voice rose. 'Why, what is this? Do you hold us responsible for Vechey's death? Are you saying that we bundled him down to the waterside and had him hanged? For what reason?'

'The coroner is not alleging anything,' Athelstan remarked smoothly. 'But, Sir Richard, you must agree it is odd, so many deaths in one household?'

'Does this mean anything to you?' Cranston took the greasy piece of parchment out of his wallet and handed it over. Sir Richard studied it.

'Vechey's name, my brother's, and two verses from the Bible. Ah!' Sir Richard looked up and smiled. 'Two verses my brother always quoted: Apocalypse Six, Verse Eight and Genesis Three, Verse One.'

'You know the verses, Sir Richard?'

'Yes.' The merchant closed his eyes. 'The second one refers to the serpent entering Eden.'

'And the first?'

'To Death riding a pale horse.'

'Why did your brother always quote these?' Cranston asked.

'I don't know. He had a sense of humour.'

'About the Bible?'

'No, no, about these two verses. He claimed they were his key to fame and fortune. Sometimes, when deep in his cups, he would quote them.'

'Do you know what he meant?' Athelstan asked.

'No, my brother loved riddles from boyhood. He just quoted the verses, smiled, and said they would bring him great success. I don't know what he meant.'

'What other riddles did your brother pose?' Cranston asked.

'None.'

'Yes, he did,' Lady Isabella spoke up, pushing back the black veil from her face. 'You remember, the shoemaker?'

'Ah, yes,' Sir Richard smiled. 'The shoemaker.'

'Lady Isabella,' Cranston queried, 'what about the shoemaker?'

She played with the sparkling ring on her finger. 'Well, over the last few months, my husband used to make reference to a shoemaker. He claimed the shoemaker knew the truth, and the shoemaker was guilty.' She shook her head. 'I don't know what he meant. Sometimes, at table,' she smiled falsely, 'my husband was like you, Sir John. He loved a deep-bowled cup of claret. Then he used to chant: "The shoemaker knows the truth, the shoemaker knows the truth".'