The Nightingale Gallery smoba-1 Read online

  'And I suppose that I am responsible for Brampton's murder?'

  'Yes.' Cranston took up the tale. 'My good secretarius here, my faithful clerk, has established that Brampton probably went back to his room after the banquet had begun. He felt hurt by Sir Thomas's accusation that he had been meddling with his private papers. Now, of course, Brampton had not. You had. However, we will return to that. You probably drugged Brampton.'

  'Drugged!' the priest snapped. 'Brampton wasn't drugged! That's nonsense!'

  He looked around the room, appealing for support, but Athelstan noticed how the others were beginning to distance themselves from the priest. Chief Justice Fortescue looked steadily at the table top. Gaunt had a smile on his twisted lips. The young king seemed totally absorbed. Cranston shook his head.

  'It's no use lying, murderer,' he snapped. 'You know Brampton had drunk deeply that day. A servant told us as much. And you, Lady Isabella, didn't you say your husband had broached his best cask of Bordeaux and that you sent a cup to Brampton as a peace offering?'

  'Yes, I did,' she murmured. 'No! I sent the cup up – ' she pointed at the priest '-but you poured it, Father Crispin. Yes, it was your idea. It was drugged!' she exclaimed.

  That night,' Athelstan interrupted, 'after the rest of the household retired, Father Crispin went up to Brampton's room. You are a strong young man, Crispin. Brampton was small and light; he lived on the second storey of the house, very near the stairs to the garret. You took him off his bed and carried him up, half sat him on the table, fastened the waiting noose round his neck and left him to hang, God save his soul! But poor Brampton knew for a while that he was choking to death. He grabbed the rope but it was useless. His breath was choked off and his unshriven soul fled into the darkness.'

  Athelstan went and stood over the priest. 'You are steeped in mortal sin,' he murmured. 'Your soul is red, scarlet and wounded. You killed that man but you made a mistake! Why should Brampton walk up to the garret with his boots off. And, if he had worn them, he would have kicked them off in his death throes.' Athelstan bent down, his face only inches from Crispin's. 'But let us say he did go up without his boots. The garret was dirty, there was broken glass on the floor, yet the soles of Brampton's feet, even after his corpse had been cut down, were clean and unscarred. Why? Because his feet never touched the ground.'

  'Vechey was murdered too, wasn't he?' Lady Isabella stammered.

  'Yes,' Athelstan replied. 'And do you know why? When the door to your husband's chamber was forced, Vechey came in. At one point he must have looked at the chess board after Crispin had removed the poisoned piece to clean it.'

  'Of course,' Dame Ermengilde trumpeted. 'That's why Vechey kept talking about there being only thirty-one. He noticed the missing piece. Vechey always coveted the Syrians!'

  'And then the piece was returned,' Athelstan answered, 'which only perplexed him further. Nevertheless, Vechey's sharp eyes cost him his life and he, too, was marked down for murder lest he voice his doubts.'

  'God knows how you managed that murder!' Cranston bawled. 'The red-haired whore may have been a lure in your pay. It may, cunning priest, even have been you in disguise. I wonder, a thorough search being made, if we wouldn't find a red wig and dress in your possession. But, there again, you made a mistake. Vechey was probably drugged or knocked on the head. You hung him up under an arch of London Bridge, but the water level would have made such a death impossible. You hoped no one would notice that.'

  'Wait!' Crispin cried. 'You allege / had the poison, but you know a lady very similar to our Lady Isabella in dress and appearance bought the identical poison from the apothecary, Simon Foreman!'

  'Yes,' Cranston said, 'and that's your third mistake. I did ask Lady Isabella about that but you were not in the room. Remember, we asked you to withdraw? Lady Isabella, Sir Richard, is that correct?'

  Both nodded their heads.

  'And did you ever tell the priest about my question?'

  Again, both shook their heads wordlessly.

  'You couldn't have overhead!' Dame Ermengilde snapped. 'Because I stood near the door of the hall. I tried to listen but I couldn't hear anything.'

  'The only way you could know,' Athelstan murmured, "was because you dressed in clothes secretly borrowed from Lady Isabella's wardrobe. Your head was hidden by a red wig as well as a hood. You went to Nightshade House and bought the poison.' Athelstan sipped from his wine cup. 'You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?'

  The priest refused to answer.

  'But such subterfuge!' Lady Isabella cried.

  'Oh, Crispin planned well. One of Brampton's buttons was placed near your husband's manuscripts to start the tragedy. However, in case something went wrong and the poison was traced…'

  'What better person than you to implicate, Lady Isabella?' Cranston observed. 'After all, you were playing the two-backed beast with your husband's brother!'

  Lady Isabella looked away whilst Crispin placed his head in his hands. Dame Ermengilde turned to Cranston, her eyes full of malice.

  'You are not such a fool, Master Coroner. But haven't you forgotten a few things? If my son had touched the poisoned chess pieces, his hands would have been stained. And how do you explain Allingham's death?'

  Athelstan looked down at the priest. Father Crispin raised his head and stared unblinkingly back.

  'Remember, our murderer also bestowed the rites of the Church. He made sure that the hands of both Sir Thomas Springall and Master Allingham were washed before he anointed them with holy oils.'

  'That's right,' Sir Richard whispered. 'And the anointing took place immediately!'

  'So there was no stain,' Athelstan continued conversationally, 'as in all his murders, no real evidence. You are a killer, Father. An assassin. And we know why. You remember the young page boy who fell from the window? Sir Thomas lusted after him, in fact he found you wrote a love poem to him. We have seen it. I suspect you tried to seduce the boy. God knows what happened. Tell us, Father, did he jump because he was frightened or did you push him?'

  The priest glared back at him but made no answer.

  'I think Sir Thomas knew the truth but dared not accuse you openly. After all, he was guilty of the same sin of sodomy as you. Of course, being a chaplain, you were privy to the secrets of others. So what Sir Thomas did was take his revenge through the carving, the panel he was going to use in the coronation pageant and later hang in the chapel.' Athelstan glanced at Sir Richard. 'Do you remember the carving? What was it of?'

  'A shoemaker being dragged away by devils.'

  'Did you ever look at the shoemaker's feet?'

  'No.'

  Cranston banged the heel of his boot on the floor.

  'Poor Father Crispin, always hobbling around, using his injury as a banner. But when he so chooses, he puts on his boots with their raised heel – and, behold, he can walk like any of us. That's true, isn't it, Priest? You were out riding the day Allingham died?'

  Father Crispin dismissed Cranston's accusation with a flicker of his eyes.

  'Sir John is correct,' Athelstan took up the story. 'A priest can go anywhere, be it in his master's chamber to poison a chess piece, around the house at the dead of night to comfort poor Brampton, to say prayers at St Mary Le Bow… whereas in fact on the night Vechey died Father Crispin disguised himself as the red-haired whore and went hunting his prey amongst the riverside stews.' Athelstan paused and looked quickly at Fortescue. 'I told Sir John that there was more than one murderer. In a sense I was correct. You are two people, Father, the hobbling priest and the cunning assassin.'

  Athelstan noticed how the Chief Justice's face had become so pale it looked as if he was going to vomit.

  'Of course, Crispin,' Athelstan continued,*you had your accomplice. Someone you had met at your master's table. Someone who could tell you where we went so you could have assassins lying in waiting. You remember the gospel, Father, and the man who claimed his name was Legion, so many devils possessed him? He would recognise you
, Priest. You murdered for revenge, for profit, but also for the sheer malicious delight of plot and counter-plot.'

  'What has that got to do with the carving in the Springall yard?' Gaunt sharply interrupted.

  Athelstan looked at Sir Richard.

  'You should have examined that carving,' he remarked. 'Especially the shoemaker. He is very like our Father Crispin. He has a clubbed foot.'

  Athelstan ignored Lady Isabella's gasp. Instead he looked up at young King Richard, who seemed fascinated by the priest, whilst Gaunt was now staring at Fortescue out of the corner of his eye.

  'And Father, who is the patron saint of shoemakers?'

  Athelstan admired the priest's composure, not a muscle twitched in that gaunt, haunted face.

  'Come, Father, you know. Crispin Crispianus! We celebrate his feast in October. Sir Thomas was mocking you. The insult would be carried throughout the length and breadth of London and afterwards it would ridicule you every time you entered the small chapel in Sir Thomas's house. Perhaps one day a more astute person might notice it. Allingham certainly did, didn't he, Father? He began to wonder, as well as to remember Vechey's absorption with the number thirty-one!'

  Cranston belched and rose to his feet unbidden, as if he had forgotten he was in the presence of royalty.

  'My clerk,' he announced grandly, 'is correct. So you, Father, the master poisoner, struck again. You bought your poisons from Foreman, mixing them deliberately so the wine cup smelt rank and offensive, to ensure Brampton got the blame. But Allingham was different. He took a poison which was more difficult to trace. After his mid-day meal Allingham went back to his chamber and fell asleep. What he did not know was that the handle of his door had been smeared with poison. The same trick you had played on Sir Thomas, but you were sure it would work again.'

  Cranston stopped to refill his cup, rather shakily so the wine spilled over on the table. But the coroner, in full flow and bent on refreshment, didn't give a fig.

  'Brother Athelstan,' he announced expansively, 'will summarise my conclusions.'

  Athelstan hid his smile. Cranston was amusing but the hard-faced priest, the wolf in sheep's clothing, was not.

  'You see, first, Allingham had a nervous gesture. Do you remember? His hands were constantly at his lips, fluttering up and down like a butterfly. During his final sleep, Father Crispin here probably locked him in his chamber. Allingham wakes, and finds there is no key. Nervous and agitated, he tries the door; all the time his death-bearing fingers are going to his mouth. He feels ill, goes back to the bed where he collapses and dies. The door is forced, the priest makes sure he is there, the key is dropped on the ground. Naturally, people would think it fell due to the door's being forced. Of course, Crispin here acts the perplexed innocent. He poses the question, if Allingham had a seizure, why did he not try and open the door? Strangely enough, while trying the lock our murderer holds a napkin which he had been using to mop up some wine he had spilt. He examines the handle, using the napkin to gain a better grip. Of course, what he is really doing is cleaning the poison off.' Athelstan dug beneath his robe and brought out the soiled cloth he had begged from the laundress. 'This is the cloth.'

  'It can't be!' Fortescue suddenly shouted.

  'Shut up!' the priest yelled at him, his eyes and face full of hatred. 'Shut up, you idiot!'

  "Why can't it be?' Cranston asked softly. 'Isn't it strange that you should remember what happened to an innocent napkin?'

  Athelstan held his breath. Would a confession come?

  'I only did what he asked,' Crispin whispered.

  '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.'