The Nightingale Gallery

'Who?' Cranston asked softly.

'Fortescue, of course!'

The Chief Justice looked up, his face white with terror.

'I asked the priest to get the secrets Sir Thomas held. I did not plan murder.'

'Perhaps not,' Athelstan replied. 'But your accomplice, Father Crispin did. On your orders, Chief Justice Fortescue, he tried to find out Sir Thomas SpringalPs secrets. Sir Thomas, a canny man, knew his private accounts had been scrutinised and the blame was put on Brampton. However, Sir Thomas and Brampton may have reached an accord and questions been asked, so Father Crispin plotted Springall's death. Brampton would be blamed after his supposed suicide and the way left clear for you to search for Sir Thomas's secret.'

John of Gaunt suddenly stood up. 'Sir Coroner, do your duty!' he ordered.

Cranston waddled round the table. 'Father Crispin, I arrest you in the name of the king for the dreadful crimes of treason, homicide and sedition!'

The priest gazed stonily back and continued to do so when the burly serjeant-at-arms, summoned by Gaunt, tied his thumbs together behind his back.

'Wait!*

Athelstan walked over to Fortescue. He noticed how Buckingham was quivering with fright, his face drenched in sweat. The effete young secretarius would never forget this day.

'Chief Justice Fortescue,' Athelstan murmured, 'you are the king's highest law officer. Why did you act as you did? Was it the lust for power, wealth, or the desire to control the regent? You knew Springall held some great secret and, in one of your visits to his household, made a pact with this priest, this limb of Satan.'

Fortescue tried to reply but the words stuck in his throat.

'Don't you realise, my Lord Chief Justice, that when you make a pact with the devil, you lose your soul?'

'I am no murderer,' he muttered.

Athelstan turned back to the priest. 'You murdered the page boy, Eudo, didn't you? You sent the assassins after Sir John and myself. You were the red-haired woman, as well as the scarlet whore.'

Father Crispin laughed and, bringing his head back, spat full in Athelstan's face.

'Ask me in hell, Brother!' he shrieked. 'When we both dance with the devil!'

He was still laughing like a madman when the door closed behind him.

'I did not plan murder. I was curious but I am no murderer,' Fortescue proclaimed, half rising from his chair.

'In forty-eight hours,' Gaunt snapped, 'I shall send soldiers to your house. If you haven't abjured the realm by then, I will arrest you, Fortescue, for treason! You may well rot a long time before I gather the evidence to try you!'

Fortescue fled from the room.

Athelstan studied the duke, noting the beads of sweat on his face, the agitation in his eyes. He looked almost pleadingly at Cranston.

'Sir Richard Springall,' the coroner barked, 'and Lady Isabella, you had best leave now, together with your household. If you still wonder about the Bible texts Sir Thomas quoted, examine the posts of his bed which you desecrated!'

The merchant, Lady Isabella, a nervous Buckingham and the now not so proud Dame Ermengilde hastily left the room, cowed by the dreadful things they had seen and heard. Cranston followed them out and muttered a command to the guard there. He had no sooner re-entered than the young king rose to his feet.

'What was Sir Thomas's secret?' he asked.

'Nephew!' Gaunt's voice was harsh and brittle. 'Your Grace,' he stammered, 'I think you should leave. These matters are not for tender minds.'

King Richard turned, a stubborn look on his thin, pale face.

'Your Grace,' Gaunt repeated, 'these matters do not concern you. I must insist. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you are to say no word!'

The young king walked towards the door. With his gloved fingers on the handle, he stopped and beckoned Athelstan over. The friar went and bent so that the king could whisper in his ear.

'Brother,' he hissed, 'when I grow up, I will make you an abbot! And you will take my side when…' The young king's voice trailed off.

'When what, Your Grace?' he murmured.

Richard put his lips closer against the friar's ears. 'When I murder my uncle!' he whispered.

Athelstan stared into those childlike yet totally chilling blue eyes. The young king smiled and kissed him on both cheeks before disappearing through the half-open door, a boy going out to play. Athelstan rose and closed the door.

'What did he say, Brother?'

'Nothing, My Lord, some childish game.'

Gaunt grinned to himself as if savouring some private joke and stretched out his hand.

'The indenture. You have it?'

'Yes, My Lord.'

Gaunt snapped his fingers. 'Give it to me!'

Cranston handed both it and the love poem over. Gaunt scrutinised them carefully, crumpled them up in his hand and watched the flames of the fire burn them to black feathery ash.

'You know what it said?'

Cranston chewed his lip, not replying.

'Yes, My Lord, we do.' Athelstan sat down uninvited, not caring for idle ceremony. 'My Lord, we are tired. We know what the document says, but it does not concern us. Fourteen months ago your brother, the Black Prince, the young king's father, was dying. You drew up an indenture with Sir Thomas Springall in which he promised you vast sums of money to raise troops. As surety you offered the crown jewels, the ring, the orb, the sceptre, and the crown of Edward the Confessor. They were not yours to offer. If your brother had known, if your father, the old king, had even suspected, you might well have lost your head. If the Commons found out now they would suspect you of plotting against the king. If your noble brothers and the other great lords, Gloucester and Arundel, even glimpsed that document, they would tear you to pieces!'

'I was worried,' Gaunt haltingly replied. 'My brother was dying, my father senile, young Richard sickly. This realm needs strong government. Yes, if necessary, I would have seized the crown.'

'And now, My Lord?' Cranston asked.

'I am the king's most loyal servant,' Gaunt answered glibly. 'I am indebted to you, Sir John. I will not forget it.'

'Then, My Lord, we bid you goodnight.'

'Sir John,' Gaunt called after them, 'I will see you later on this matter. Brother Athelstan, ask any favour you wish.'

'Yes, My Lord. I would like some silver for my church and, secondly, a pension for a poor woman, widow of Hob the grave-digger.'

Gaunt grinned. 'So little for so much! See my clerks. It will be done.'

Athelstan and Cranston strode out along the now emptying corridors of the Savoy Palace, down through the heavily perfumed garden and on to the riverside.

Athelstan rubbed his eyes wearily. 'The murderer made one mistake and so did we, Sir John. First, I suspect Father Crispin waited until the tide fell before stringing the hapless corpse up.'

'But he told us he was gone on errands?'

'And that's where we made our mistake, Lord Coroner. We didn't ask when he returned, not that it would have made any difference in the Springall house where Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were lost in themselves and Allingham led his own lonely existence. Moreover, I am sure the priest had ways of sneaking in and out of such a large mansion without being noticed.'

'Do you think Crispin will hang?' asked Cranston.

Athelstan shook his head.

'Fortescue asked him to get the information but then, as we know, matters got out of hand. Fortescue will go abroad and gain employment in some foreign court. Father Crispin, being a priest, will probably be immured in a monastery for the rest of his life and eat the bitter bread of repentance.' He crossed himself. 'Gaunt would never dare bring either of them to trial. But I suspect, within a year, Fortescue and our evil priest will both suffer some "accident" and answer for their crimes before God's tribunal.' Suddenly he remembered Benedicta. 'Sir John!' he cried. 'Your lady wife? Benedicta?'