The Nightingale Gallery

The lanky merchant leaned forward, his face screwed up, eyes pinpricks of hatred.

'I don't know,' he hissed. 'And, if I did, I would not tell you, Friar. What can you do?'

'On your allegiance,' Cranston bawled, 'I ask you, do you know anything about the deaths which have occurred in this household?'

'No!' Allingham grated. 'They are a mystery. But Sir Thomas liked riddles and his own private jokes. There must be something in this house which would explain it all.'

'What are you talking about, man?' asked Sir Richard.

But the merchant rubbed the side of his face uneasily. 'I have spoken enough,' he mumbled, and fell silent.

'In which case,' Cranston began, 'let us make a brief summary of what we do know. Correct me if I am wrong but Sir Thomas Springall was an alderman and a goldsmith. On the night he died he held a great banquet, a feast for his household, and invited Chief Justice Fortescue. He drank deeply, yes?'

Lady Isabella nodded, her beautiful eyes fixed on Cranston's face. Sir Richard, however, watched Athelstan's quill skim over the piece of vellum.

'The banquet ends,' Cranston continued. 'Sir Thomas retires. You, Sir Richard, wish him good night whilst Lady Isabella sends down a maidservant to ask if he wishes for anything.'

Both of them acknowledged this.

'You, Dame Ermengilde, heard Brampton take a cup of wine up to Sir Thomas's room during the feast?'

'I did not just hear!' she retorted. 'I opened my door and saw him. Then he went down.'

'And how was he dressed?'

'In a jerkin and doublet.'

'And his feet?'

'He had on the usual soft pair of boots which he always wore.'

'Why do you remember this?'

'Brampton was a quiet man,' Dame Ermengilde replied, a touch of softness in her voice. 'A good steward. He moved slowly, quietly, like a dutiful servant.'

'And how did he seem?'

'As normal. A little white-faced. He knew I opened the door but he never looked at me. He went down the stairs. No! He went along the other gallery up to the second floor and his own room.'

'Did you ever see him again?'

'No, I did not.'

'And you say that only Sir Thomas, then Sir Richard and Lady Isabella's maidservant, went along the Nightingale Gallery?'

'Yes, I am certain of that.'

'And you are sure that Sir Thomas was not disturbed during the night?'

'Yes, I told you, man!' she snapped. 'I am a light sleeper. I heard no one.'

'And you, Father Crispin?' Cranston leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of the young clerk's face. 'You went up the next morning. Dame Ermengilde heard you go along the Nightingale. When you failed to rouse Sir Thomas you went for Sir Richard whose chamber is on the adjoining passageway. Sir Richard came back with you. You were unable to arouse Sir Thomas so you asked the servants to break down the door?'

'Yes.' The priest nodded, his eyes bright. 'That is exactly what I did.'

'When the room was broken into, all of you here were present? You went in. Sir Thomas was sprawled on his bed, a cup of poison on the table beside him. Nobody said anything…'

'Except Vechey!' Allingham broke in. 'He said, "There were only thirty-one!" '

'Do you know what he meant by that?' Cranston asked.

'No, I wish to God I did!'

'The physician was sent for,' Cranston continued. 'Master de Troyes. He came. He examined Sir Thomas's corpse, pronounced him to have been poisoned, and claimed the potion was placed in a half-drunk cup of wine beside Sir Thomas's bed. Now Brampton was last seen late in the evening taking a wine cup up to Sir Thomas's chamber and was not seen alive again. The next morning, after Sir Thomas had been discovered dead, Brampton's corpse was found swinging from a beam up in the garret. Master Vechey was here when Brother Athelstan and I came to the house for the first time. He went out late on the same evening, God knows where, and was found hanging from a beam under London Bridge. Now we have evidence which we will keep privy for the time being which will prove that neither Brampton nor Vechey committed suicide. Though, Lady Isabella, we are no further forward in resolving the mystery of your husband's death.'

'It could still have been Brampton!'

It was Buckingham who spoke. Cranston looked at him.

'What makes you say that?'

The clerk shrugged. 'I accept you have your own reasons for claiming Brampton did not commit suicide but that does not mean he is innocent of Sir Thomas's death.'

Cranston grinned.

'A good point, Master clerk. You would make a good lawyer. I shall remember that.'

There was a sudden commotion at the door. A servant scurried in, leaned over Sir Richard's shoulder and whispered in his ear. The merchant looked up.

'Sir John, there is a messenger, a cursitor from the sheriffs office, who wishes to speak to you.'

'I will see him, Sir Richard, by your leave. Tell him to come in.'

The cursitor, a pompous young man, swaggered in. 'Sir John, a message from the under sheriff.' He looked around him. 'It concerns Master Vechey.'

'Yes!' Cranston said. 'You may speak here.'

'He was seen in a tavern down near the riverside. The landlord of the Golden Keys said a man who fitted Vechey's description was there drinking late at night. He left with a young, red-haired whore whom he had never seen before.'

'Is that all?' Cranston asked.

'Yes, Sir John."

Cranston dismissed the cursitor. Athelstan felt the mood of the company in the hall lift.

'See!' Dame Ermengilde cried exultantly. 'Vechey was seen with one of his whores. Master Buckingham must be right. Brampton may still have killed my son, and Vechey's death be totally unconnected with this.'

Athelstan could see Cranston was not pleased by the news.

'Nevertheless,' he snapped, 'I have other questions. Lady Isabella and Sir Richard, I must ask you to stay. The others, I would prefer to leave.'

Dame Ermengilde was about to protest. Her son stretched across the table and touched her gently on the wrist, his eyes pleading with her. She rose, threw one withering look at Cranston and followed the others out. Sir John watched them go.

'Lady Isabella,' he said softly, 'have you ever been to Nightshade House in Piper Alley near Whitefriars?'

'Never!'

'And you have no knowledge of an apothecary called Simon Foreman?'

'I have heard of him but never met him.'

Athelstan saw the fear in Lady Isabella's eyes. Her face lost its golden hue, becoming pale and haggard.

'Sir Richard?'

'No!' As he leaned forward, he clapped his hand to his side, where his sword should have been. 'You come into this house!' he hissed. 'You insult both me and Lady Isabella, hinting we go amongst rogues and vagabonds. Don't be clever, Cranston! My brother was murdered by poison. I resent the inference in your questions that one of us visited that apothecary and secured the poison to carry the murder out.'

'Yet this afternoon,' Cranston said conversationally, 'both Brother Athelstan and myself went to that apothecary's shop. He claims he sold poison to a woman fitting your description, Lady Isabella. She was dressed in a black cloak lined with white fur, had chestnut hair, was of your height and colouring.'

'I have never been to Whitefriars! I have never visited an apothecary's shop!'

'You do have a black cloak lined with white fur?'

'Yes, like hundreds of women in the city!'

'Have you ever met Foreman?'

'I don't know. I could have done. My husband had many strange friends. Anyway, why should I kill him?' Lady Isabella cried, half rising from the chair. 'He was a good man. He gave me everything a woman could desire.'

'Lady Isabella,' Cranston said smoothly, 'it is well known that your husband had strange tastes and foibles. Did you love him?'