The Nightingale Gallery smoba-1 Read online

  'The Ladies Benedicta and Maude are well able to look after themselves,' he said. 'You started this, Brother, so we'll see it through to the bitter end. Moreover,' he smiled, 'I asked the young gallant who was sitting by Benedicta to take care of both ladies. I am sure he will.'

  Athelstan ground his teeth and glared at the coroner but Sir John smiled sweetly back as if innocent of any devious stratagem. Athelstan again made him repeat all they knew, though this time excluding Sir Thomas Springall's murder. Then he walked over to the window and stared down at the chess board. Absentmindedly he began to count the squares, and his heart quickened.

  'There is a pattern, Sir John,' he said softly. 'Yes!' He turned, his lean face bright with excitement. 'There is a pattern!'

  'You know who the murderer is, don't you? Come on, you bloody friar!' Cranston roared. 'Tell me! I haven't sat here on this bed like a boy in a schoolroom reciting lists of facts for nothing!'

  'Tush, Sir John, patience,' Athelstan replied. 'Let me work it into a pattern. Let me get the proper sequence of events, then I shall tell you what I know and the problem will be resolved. But for now you stay here, examine the indenture, reflect on what you have said. I won't be long!'

  Before a bemused Cranston could reply, Athelstan had slipped out of the room, walking gingerly across the noisy Nightingale Gallery, down the stairs and out into Cheap- side. Just in case he met any of the Springall household he went down Friday Street, turning into Bread Street and back up St Mary Le Bow. The church was open. Athelstan went into the nave and sat at the base of a pillar, legs crossed, whilst he stared up at the high altar behind the rood screen. He looked round the cool, beautiful church, at the frescoes on the wall, lectern, and pulpit of exquisitely carved oak. From the stalls in the sanctuary he heard the master assembling the choir, rehearsing the hymns and canticles for the feast of Corpus Christi. Athelstan leaned back, letting his head rest against the coldness of the pillar whilst he stared into the darkness, trying to rearrange what he knew, to make the pattern complete and trap the murderer. This was one occasion when the sons of Cain, the killers, would not turn round and claim with mocking innocence, 'Are we our brother's keepers? We are not responsible because we are innocent,' while the blood of five human beings stained their hands and darkened their souls.

  The choir began the beautiful hymn 'Pange Lingua'. Athelstan let his mind and soul be calmed, moved by the rhythmical chanting. At one point the youngest boys, the choir's sopranos, took up the refrain, pure and lucid, filling the entire church with angelic sound.

  'Respice. Respice Domine. Look back, oh Lord, look back on us! '

  Athelstan muttered the words under his breath. 'Look back, oh Lord,' he prayed. 'Give me wisdom and light. Let me plumb the darkness, root out the wickedness. Let those things that were done in the dark of night be revealed for your justice and that of the king in the full light of day.'

  Athelstan meditated for an hour. He saw the irony that here he was in a church, the house of God and gate to heaven, thinking about murder. But gradually the pattern was resolved. The culprits were identified, their motives revealed, and he reluctantly admired their deviousness, the sheer wickedness of their plan. He built his own traps, hedging them about, and, when he was ready, returned to the Springall house.

  He found Cranston still resting on Sir Thomas's bed, a cup of claret in his hand, softly singing a lullaby. Athelstan could have sworn he was acting as if there was someone else there. As if he was singing to someone he loved. The friar noticed the coroner's eyes were brimming with tears. He looked away, pretending to stare out of the window as he began to summarise his conclusions. Behind him, Cranston regained control of himself. He listened to the friar describe the motive and the identity of the murderers. At first, the coroner rejected everything his assistant said.

  'Too ingenious!' he cried. 'Too clever! Too diabolic!'

  Athelstan turned.

  'Diabolic, yes. But these murders were crafted in the human soul and decided upon by the human mind even if carried out for malicious, devilish purposes. I think I speak the truth, Sir John.'

  Cranston stared moodily down at the floorboards, scuffing his boots over the polished surface. Suddenly the Nightingale Gallery outside creaked and sang. Cranston's hand went towards his dagger and Athelstan rapidly approached the door. It was only the old servant, deeper in his cups than Cranston. He staggered and leaned on the door post.

  'You have been here a long time, masters. Are you staying? Waiting for Sir Richard?'

  'No,' Cranston replied, 'I have told you already. We are here on the regent's orders!' He lifted the wine cup and drained it. 'But I do thank you for your hospitality, sir. I shall remember it.'

  'Oh,' Athelstan added, 'is it possible that I could speak to one of the laundresses?'

  The servant looked surprised. He blinked but agreed, and some time later ushered a scared girl into the room. She became even more frightened as Athelstan outlined his request and asked her to bring the napkin as soon as possible. When she did Athelstan poured the dregs of the wine over it, cleaned a dusty part of the room and put it beneath his cloak. The maid servant quickly left. Sir John looked bemused.

  'What I have done is vital, Sir John,' Athelstan assured him. 'It may well trap the murderers.'

  They left the deserted house, the old manservant locking the door behind them, and went down into a deserted Cheapside. Black rain clouds were scudding in over the Thames. It was dark and some of the merchants had lit the lantern-horns outside their doors, whilst Athelstan glimpsed the beacon light shining red and full in the steeple of St Mary Le Bow. They made their way down Friday Street, Old Fish Street and into the Vintry, and hired a wherry at Queenshithe Wharf to take them along the choppy river to the Savoy Palace. Viewed from the river bank John of Gaunt's palatial residence looked magnificent, and even more so tonight with the festivities going on. The windows were lit by the flames of thousands of beeswax candles and, as they approached the main entrance, they heard faint strains of music, chatter, and the sounds of merriment. A burly serjeant-of-arms stopped them, asked their business, and grudgingly let them through into the main courtyard where they were halted by a steward who took them up into the main hall.

  Athelstan was dumbfounded by the magnificent spectacle awaiting them: the hall was long, the hammer-beam roof high, whilst every piece of woodwork and stone was covered in the most luxurious velvet and samite hangings, gorgeous banners and hangings of every hue. Down the hall on each side were long trestle tables covered in the costliest silk. Every few feet were huge eight-branched candelabra, each with its own beeswax candles. Above them in the loft the musicians played, though their music had to compete with the noise of the revellers sitting at table.

  At the far end, on the dais, Athelstan glimpsed John of Gaunt. On the same table he saw the young king, Chief Justice Fortescue, and some of the leading nobility of the realm. At the table just beneath the dais, running parallel with it, they saw Sir Richard Springall, red-faced and deep in his cups. At his side was Lady Isabella who for that day had cast aside her mourning weeds and wore a pure gold dress with matching veil. Father Crispin and Master Buckingham were also visible, while at the other end of the table were Lady Maude and Benedicta, between them the young nobleman who had made his intentions so blatantly obvious earlier in the day. Lady Maude was looking down the hall, obviously looking out for her husband. Benedicta, cooler and more composed, was listening attentively to some story the nobleman was telling her, though now and again moving slightly away from him as if she had come to resent the young gallant's attentions. The steward was about to announce them but Athelstan put a hand on his arm.

  'No,' he muttered. 'Not now. The feast is in progress.' He looked down at the tablecloths splattered with grease and wine, the platters now cleared. The servants were bringing in bowls of fruit, junkets of cream, plates of thin pastries, sugar-filled doucettes, and jellies formed in exquisite shapes of castles, swans and horses. Soon the banquet would
be over. He looked at Sir John.

  'There's no point in joining the festivities. It is best if we have no dealings with Sir Richard and other members of his household.'

  The coroner, gazing longingly at the jugs of claret, was about to protest.

  'Sir John,' Athelstan reminded him, 'we have important business to attend to.'

  Cranston sighed, nodded, and turned to the steward, asking him to take them to one of the duke's private chambers. The man looked askance but Cranston insisted.

  'Yes, you will, sir,' he repeated. 'You will take us to one of the duke's private chambers here in the palace. Then you will tell your master and Chief Justice Fortescue that we have important matters to relate, matters affecting the crown. You will ask that Sir Richard and his household also join us as soon as the festivities are over.'

  Cranston made the man repeat the message as he reluctantly took them out of the main hall and up the wide, spacious stairs to one of the duke's private chambers. Athelstan gazed around and nodded. Yes, this would do. A small fire had been lit in the hearth. The room, possibly used as a chancery by the duke, was dominated by a long table with chairs down either side and a high-backed, throne-like seat at the top. The steward left Cranston and Athelstan, who stood examining the exquisite hangings on the wall and a small cupboard full of manuscripts bound with the costliest leather and vellum. A servant brought them some wine and sugared pastries which Cranston immediately attacked. Another servant entered, a young page who announced in a high, shrill voice that the duke had received Sir John's message and would be with him as soon as dignity and circumstances would allow.

  An hour candle placed on the table under the window had burnt a complete ring before Cranston heard footsteps outside. He and Athelstan rose as Gaunt swept into the room. Beside the duke was the young king, a silver chaplet around his head. Uncle and nephew were dressed identically in purple gowns edged with gold. The young king looked serene though Gaunt seemed angry and troubled, as if he resented Cranston's message. He slumped into the chair at the end of the table and ordered a servant to bring in a similar one for his nephew. Chief Justice Fortescue slid in like a spider, scuttling across to sit next to the Duke. He was followed by Sir Richard Springall and his household. The merchant was flushed with drink; he grinned at Cranston and Athelstan as if they were lifelong friends; Dame Ermengilde, her nose in the air, chose to ignore them. Father Crispin and Buckingham smiled wanly whilst Lady Isabella looked decidedly agitated.

  'Are we all assembled?' Gaunt asked sardonically.

  Chief Justice Fortescue glanced around and nodded. 'Yes, Your Grace, we are all here.'

  Athelstan noticed that a burly serjeant-at-arms had just stepped into the room.

  'I want this chamber guarded closely!' the regent ordered. 'No one is to leave or enter without my permission. Do you understand?'

  The man nodded. Outside Athelstan could hear him shouting orders, the sound of running feet and the clash of arms. He gazed at the assembled company. Sir Richard Springall had sobered up surprisingly quickly. Lady Isabella was looking across at him, nervously twisting her fingers. Dame Ermengilde, even though she was in the presence of royalty, sat staring at the wall opposite her. The rest of them kept their eyes fastened on the duke, waiting to see what lay behind his summons.

  Gaunt leaned forward, the jewels on his tanned hands flashing in the candlelight.

  'Sir John, coroner of the city, I am pleased to see you. And even though you were not present at the banquet, it is obvious that you have drunk well. I hope your day was a fruitful one?'

  Cranston caught the touch of menace in the duke's words and glanced at Athelstan.

  The friar acknowledged the regent and the young king. 'My Lord of Gaunt, Your Grace, we were given a commission to investigate the true causes and purposes behind Sir Thomas Springall's death, and in consequence the truth behind other deaths equally unfortunate.' He rose to his feet. 'Your Grace, I ask your indulgence but I would like us to perform a small mummer's play, a useful introduction to what we are about to declare.'

  Gaunt gazed at the friar crossly. 'What is it, Brother?' he asked.

  'A game, Uncle!' The young king suddenly spoke up, childish glee replacing the mask of royalty on his face. He clapped his hands.

  'Your Grace,' Gaunt smiled thinly at his nephew, 'perhaps you should not be here?'

  'Perhaps I should!' the young boy piped back. 'I want to be. It is my right!'

  Athelstan was surprised at the precociousness of the child and, despite his tender years, the sway he held over his formidable uncle.

  Gaunt sighed. 'Brother, we are in your hands. Though I warn you,' he gestured threateningly, 'don't waste my time or engage us in meddlesome, wasteful tricks. I am here for the truth!'

  CHAPTER 10

  Athelstan pointed to the chamber door.

  'My Lord of Gaunt, let us pretend that behind that door lies someone you dearly love.'

  Gaunt glared back at him.

  'The door is locked and you are about to rouse them. What would you do?'

  'A simple question! I would try the door, I would knock, I would hammer, I would shout!'

  'Thank you, Your Grace. Lady Ermengilde, you heard Father Crispin come up to rouse Sir Thomas that fateful morning. What happened?'

  The old dame had caught the drift of Athelstan's words, her face losing some of its haughty composure. She narrowed her eyes.

  'I heard him come up. He tried the handle of the door of my son's bed chamber. Then he walked away. He went to find Sir Richard.'

  'Now why was that, Father?' Athelstan asked. 'You went up to waken your master – he had asked to be roused early, remember? You went up as anyone would do, you tried the door, but then you went to get his brother. Why did you not try to rouse Sir Thomas Springall yourself? You tried the door but there was no sound from within. Anyone else would have pounded on the door, shouting Sir Thomas's name. You failed to do so. You immediately walked away to rouse Sir Richard. Why?'

  'Because I thought that was the best thing to do.'

  'It was not the logical thing to do,' Athelstan replied quickly. 'The logical thing was to pound on the door and shout Sir Thomas's name. You did not. It was as if you knew something was wrong.'

  The priest swallowed quickly but gazed coolly around the room.

  'What are you implying, Brother?'

  'At the moment I am implying nothing. Let us proceed a little further. Sir Richard comes upstairs with other members of the household. The door is forced. And inside?'

  'Why,' the priest replied, 'my master, Sir Thomas Springall, lying on the bed, poisoned.'

  'And what happened then? Precisely?'

  'I went across to look at Sir Thomas.'

  'No, he did not!' Sir Richard thrust himself forward. '/ did that. You came into the room with me but 1 did that!'

  'So what did you do, Father?' Athelstan continued.

  'I just stood there.'

  'No, you did something else.'

  'Oh, yes. I picked up the wine cup and smelt it. I took it over to the window to look at the contents because its odour was strange.'

  'And when you went to the window, you passed the chess board. Then what?'

  'I pronounced the cup was poisoned. The rest you know.'

  'And how were you dressed?'

  'I told you. I had been outside, visiting the stables.'

  'You were wearing gloves? A cloak?'

  'Yes, I was.'

  'I will tell you this, priest,' Athelstan replied, 'you wore the gloves for a purpose. You see, you knew that Sir Thomas was already dead before you went into that chamber. You had arranged it that way. The wine cup was not poisoned. You took it to the window and poured in the potion which you had concealed in your glove. As you passed the chess board you took a piece from it, the bishop, the reason being that it was heavily coated with a certain poison.'

  Father Crispin's face was marble white. He shook his head wordlessly.

  'This is what happ
ened,' Athelstan continued. 'On the afternoon of the banquet, you engaged Sir Thomas in a game of chess. You played with all your skill and finesse and managed to trap Sir Thomas. The game broke off just before the meal. You knew how Sir Thomas hated to be beaten, you admitted that yourself. He would be absorbed in the moves so that when the game recommenced he could try to escape from the trap posed by your pieces. Now, I put this to you, sir. Just before the banquet, as people were coming down, you went up to Sir Thomas's room, unnoticed by anyone else and, choosing a chess piece, coated it thickly with poison. Some time later Brampton took up the wine cup.

  'After the feast was over, Sir Thomas retired to his chamber, locking the door behind him. Then he did what you intended him to do, what any good chess player would have done. He went across to the chess board, trying to work out the best method to escape the trap you had placed him in. He picked up the bishop, the piece under threat, moving it around the board, attempting to find a way out. Like anyone who is deeply puzzled, he would raise his fingers to his lips. Little did he know that every time he did so, he was poisoning himself. It would not have taken long. The poisons you had bought from the apothecary were potent. Sir Thomas may have felt strange from the first symptoms; he left the chess board and went to his bed where he later died.

  'The next morning you came up to his chamber, gloved, because you knew you would have to touch the poison yourself. But you needed witnesses, you wanted to make it very clear that the blame lay with Brampton. Sir Richard entered the room with you, as did other members of the household. Like any people breaking into a room and finding someone unexpectedly dead, they gathered round the corpse. Meanwhile you had removed the chess piece, poisoned the wine cup and placed it back on the table.

  'The cup now seemed the bringer of death and the blame was placed on Brampton.'

  The priest regained his wits.

  'That's impossible!' he said. 'How could I know that Sir Thomas would touch the chess board after he had retired for that night?'

  'Oh, but you did,' Cranston broke in. 'You did, you admitted as much yourself. You said that Sir Thomas could not leave the chess board alone. And the only people that touched the cup were Brampton, Sir Thomas and yourself. Only after that was the poison detected in it.'