The Nightingale Gallery Page 21

  ‘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 Springall’s 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?’

  Cranston turned and looked slyly at him.

  ‘I asked the captain,’ he said, to have two of his men escort the Lady Maude home. Benedicta was invited to go with her, but whether she did or not . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Athelstan stared up at the sky, now blood red as the sun began to set. He felt the evening breeze cool his face. He hardly spared a thought for assassins steeped in murder and ambition. How crimson was his own soul? Had not he too committed a secret sin?

  ‘What shall we do, Brother?’ Cranston interrupted.

  Athelstan looked at that fat, friendly face, the good-humoured smile, the compassion in the bleary, drink-sodden eyes.

  ‘You are a good man, Sir John.’

  The coroner looked away.

  ‘And I shall tell you what we shall do,’ Athelstan continued, taking him by the elbow. ‘We shall celebrate!’

  He led Sir John along the waterside into the nearest tavern where he secured the best seats near the window. Athelstan raised a hand and called the landlord over.

  ‘I want a jug of your best Bordeaux and two deep cups. My friend and I are going to get drunk!’

  Sir John clapped his hands like a child, crowing with excitement. They drank like parched men. They heard the chimes of midnight and saw the stars come out before reeling back into the city and the warm security of Cranston’s house. The Lady Maude screeched how she had heard of good seed falling amongst briars but never of good men falling from grace amongst friars! Cranston told her to shut up, announced he was going to give up ale and become a Dominican. He was still grinning beatifically when he passed out. Lady Maude knelt near her husband’s porpoise-like body and made him comfortable for the night. She talked softly, keening over him as if he was Abelard and she Heloise. Love is strange, Athelstan thought, and has so many forms!

  Late the next morning, thick-headed and a little wiser, Athelstan went back to his church. He said Mass with no congregation present and sang his matins, wondering what had happened to Benedicta. He had lacked the courage to question Lady Maude. He was just finishing a psalm when the door opened behind him. He knew Benedicta was standing there as she always did, leaning against the pillar at the back of the church. She called his name softly, once, twice, but Athelstan did not turn. He heard her footsteps and the door close behind her. The friar remembered the words of the poet: ‘When a heart breaks, worlds shatter without a sound.’

  Father Prior came to visit Athelstan, appearing suddenly like a thief in the night. He was courteous enough for he had also visited Sir John Cranston to inquire how Athelstan was progressing, and the good coroner had escorted him across London Bridge to Southwark to see. Of course, Athelstan had had some warning: Cranston sending ahead Walt, son of Lionel the hangman, to advise him of the prior’s intended arrival. Athelstan hastily rounded up some of his parishioners, a not too difficult task as they constantly loitered around the steps of the church, each involved in his or her own nefarious activities.

  Cecily the courtesan brushed and scrubbed the porch, while Watkin did his best to clean some of the dirt from the nave and refilled the holy water stoups which the children always drank from. Athelstan had just preached a sermon on how men and women were all God’s flowers, some being roses, others bluebells. He’d hoped to convince his parishioners that God loved their differences and that a garden full of roses might be very pleasant but also very boring. The sermon was difficult to give as Benedicta persisted in kneeling in front of him, staring up with those beautiful eyes. She would have resembled the holy Agatha had it not been for the laughter lines round her mouth.

  At last Father Prior arrived with his clerks, secretarius, sacristan and other officials. Cranston was stone sober, sitting on his horse like a Solomon come to judgement. Athelstan’s parishioners thronged round; Orme, one of the many sons of Watkin, thought Father Prior was the Pope but Cecily the courtesan loudly proclaimed he was the bishop. Athelstan shooed them away and brought his guests into the church whilst Crim and Dyke guarded the horses. Father Prior’s retainers amused themselves by looking round. It didn’t take them long and Athelstan saw the snotty-nosed sacristan laughing at his pathetic attempts to turn this church into a house of God. But who cared for his opinion? thought Athelstan. Perhaps someone should remind him that it all began in a manger, and the sta
ble in Bethlehem had no fine paintings. Father Prior, however, was kind; he sat opposite Athelstan on the other of the church’s two benches and gently questioned him on his doings over the last few months. Cranston sat beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Father Prior heard the friar out before taking him by the hand.

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ he said, ‘if you wish, you may come back to the Mother House. Your work and your penance are over.’ He turned to the coroner. ‘What do you think, Sir John?’

  Cranston smiled and shrugged. ‘He’s a better priest,’ he quipped, ‘than he is a coroner’s clerk! I think it best he should return.’

  His eyes refused to meet Athelstan’s.

  The prior nodded, rose, and patted Athelstan on the shoulder.

  ‘I have to go somewhere else,’ he said. ‘Sir John has kindly agreed to escort me. It’s only a short distance. We shall return within the hour and receive your answer then.’

  He walked out of the church, his black and white robe billowing behind him. Cranston did not spare Athelstan a second glance as he waddled out. A moment later Athelstan heard him roaring to Cecily the courtesan that he didn’t care how pretty her arse was, she was to get out of his saddle! Father Prior’s retainers, eager to leave, needed no second invitation. Athelstan heard their horses clatter off and told Watkin to guard the church door and leave him alone.

  ‘Are you leaving us, Father?’ the man asked anxiously.

  Athelstan couldn’t answer. He shut the door, barred it, and went to sit on the sanctuary steps. What should he do? On the one hand, he was glad Father Prior had come to take him back, but on the other what would happen to his parishioners? Watkin’s bevy of children? The youngest, Edmund, seemed a clever boy. If schooled properly, he might become a clerk. And Cecily the courtesan? What would happen if he no longer gave her pennies for cleaning the church? And Benedicta? He shut his eyes and tried to expunge her face from his mind. He prayed for a sign. The good Lord would surely guide him. He opened his eyes, got up and noticed the candle, the one Benedicta always lit in front of the Madonna. Athelstan went across and stared down at it. Only then did he notice the rose, a small white one, placed at the foot of the statue. He had his answer.