'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,' the friar quietly announced.
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!'