The Nightingale Gallery Page 6
Athelstan looked around. The company from the hall had followed them up, making the Nightingale Gallery sing and echo with its strange melody.
‘Where is Father Crispin?’ he asked. ‘Dame Ermengilde?’
‘Down in the hall,’ Allingham muttered. ‘The priest has had a deformed foot since birth. At times he finds the stairs painful. Dame Ermengilde is old. They send their excuses!’
Athelstan nodded and followed Cranston into the death chamber. The room was a perfect square, the ceiling a set design, the black timber beams contrasting sharply with the white plaster. The walls were whitewashed, and costly, coloured arras hung from each, depicting a number of themes from the Old and New Testaments. No carpets but the rushes on the floor were clean, dry, and sprinkled with fresh herbs. There was a small cupboard, a huge chest and two small coffers at the base of the great four poster bed. Next to it stood a small table, a wine cup still on it, and over near the window, on a beautiful marble table top, was ranged the most exquisite chess set Athelstan had ever seen. Sir Richard caught his glance just as Father Crispin hobbled into the room.
‘The Syrians,’ Sir Richard explained.
Athelstan, a keen chess player, went over and looked down at them. The Syrians were resplendent in their beauty. Each figure, about nine inches high, was a work of great craftsmanship, fashioned out of gold and filigree silver. Athelstan whistled under his breath, shaking his head in admiration.
‘Beautiful!’ he muttered. ‘The most exquisite pieces I have ever seen!’
Sir Richard, who had followed him over, nodded.
‘A hundred years ago, a Springall, one of our ancestors, went on a crusade in the Holy Land with King Edward I. He won a name for himself as a great warrior. In Outremer there was a secret sect of assassins led by a mysterious figure called The Old Man of the Mountains.’ He straightened and looked across to where Sir John was now swaying drunkenly in the middle of the room, the rest of the group watching him attentively, only half listening to Sir Richard’s account. He smirked. ‘Anyway, the members of this sect were fed on hashish and sent out to assassinate anyone their leader marked down for destruction. They had castles and secret places high in the mountains. Our ancestor found one of these, laid siege, captured and destroyed it. He seized a great deal of plunder and, as a reward for his bravery, the English king allowed him to keep this magnificent chess set. My brother,’ he added softly, ‘was a keen player.’
‘He was in the middle of that game last night,’ Father Crispin interrupted, coming up behind them. ‘Sir Thomas was so angry with Brampton, I persuaded him that a game would soothe his humour.’
Athelstan smiled.
‘Did you win, Father Crispin?’
‘We never finished the game,’ Father Crispin murmured. ‘We broke off for the banquet. I was threatening his bishop.’ The priest looked up, his eyes smiling. ‘So easy to trap a churchman, eh, Brother?’
‘Did Sir Thomas think that?’
‘No, he was furious,’ Lady Isabella interrupted. ‘During the banquet he kept plotting how to break out of the impasse.’
Athelstan just nodded and went over to where Cranston was staring at the ruined door.
‘Both locked and bolted?’ the coroner murmured.
‘Yes,’ answered Buckingham.
Cranston bent down, crouching to look at it, nodded and rose.
‘And the corpse?’
Lady Isabella gulped at his harshness. Sir Richard led them over, pulling back the heavy bed curtains. The huge four poster bed had been stripped as a pallet for Springall’s corpse which lay rigid and silent under a leather sheet. Cranston pulled back the cloth. Now Athelstan had seen many a corpse, male and female, with the most horrible injuries, yet he thought there was something nightmarish in seeing a man in his bed, dressed in his nightshirt, eyes half open, mouth gaping like a landed fish. When alive Sir Thomas must have been a fine-looking man with his tawny hair, sharp soldier’s face and military appearance. In death he looked grotesque.
Cranston sniffed the man’s mouth and gently pushed back the lolling head. Athelstan watched fascinated, noting the slight purplish tinge in the corpse’s face and sunken cheeks. Someone had attempted to close the dead merchant’s eyes and, unable to, had placed a coin over each of his eyelids. One of these had now slipped off and Sir Thomas glared sightlessly at the ceiling. Cranston turned, waving Athelstan closer to examine the body. He always did this. The friar suspected Cranston took enjoyment in making him pore over each corpse, the more revolting the better. Athelstan pulled back the nightshirt and examined the rest of the body, impervious to the groans and gasps behind him. He looked over his shoulder; Lady Isabella had walked back towards the door, Sir Richard’s arm around her waist. Buckingham just stood with eyes half closed. Both merchants looked squeamish, as if they were about to be sick. Outside the Nightingale Gallery sang and Lady Ermengilde, her hands grasping a black stick, her face covered in a fine sheen of sweat, pushed into the room and glared at Cranston.
‘Is this necessary?’ she asked. ‘Is it really necessary?’
‘Yes, Madam, it is!’ he barked in reply. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you finished?’
The friar examined the corpse from neck to crotch. No mark of violence, no cut. Then the hands. They had been washed and scrubbed clean, the nails manicured. The body was now ready for the embalmer’s, before being sheeted and coffined and the funeral ceremony carried out.
‘Poison,’ Athelstan confirmed. ‘No mark of any other violence. No sign of an attack.’
Athelstan picked up the cup and sniffed it. The smell was rich, dark, dank and dangerous. It cloyed in his mouth and nostrils. He put it down quickly and bent over the corpse, sniffing at the dead man’s mouth from which issued the same acrid, richly corrupting smell.
‘Belladonna and arsenic?’ Athelstan remarked.
Buckingham nodded.
‘A deadly combination,’ the friar observed. ‘The only consolation is that Sir Thomas must have died within minutes of putting the cup down. Sir John, you have seen enough?’
Cranston nodded, straightened, and went to sit in a chair over near the chess table. Sir Richard came back into the room.
‘You have found nothing new, Brother?’
Athelstan shook his head.
‘I speak for Sir John. Sir Thomas’s body may be released for burial whenever you wish.’ He looked round the chamber. ‘There are no other entrances here?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘Sir Thomas chose this chamber because of its security.’ He pointed to the chests. ‘They hold gold, indentures and parchments.’
‘And have you been through these?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you found anything which may explain Brampton’s strange conduct in trying to rifle his master’s records?’
Sir Richard shook his head.
‘Nothing. Some loans to rather powerful nobles and bishops who should have known better, but nothing else.’
Athelstan took one look round the bed chamber, noting the exquisite beauty of the carved four poster bed, with its writhing snakes and other symbols. A luxurious chamber but not opulent. He tapped gently on the floor with his sandalled foot. It sounded thick and heavy. No trap doors.
‘Did Sir Thomas have a . . .’
‘A secret place?’ Sir Richard completed his sentence. ‘I doubt it. Moreover, Master Buckingham and I have been through the accounts. Everything is in order. My brother was a tidy man.’
‘Sir Richard, we are finished here. I would like to view Brampton’s corpse.’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ the merchant smirked and nodded towards where Cranston sat, a contented smile on his face, fast asleep, ‘your companion, good Sir John, appears good for nothing! Perhaps tomorrow?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But first I must see where Brampton killed himself.’
‘I will take care of it, Sir Richard,’ Buckingham murmured.
Sir Richard nodde
d and the clerk left the room, returning within seconds with a candle in its metal hood. He led Athelstan out of the bed chamber, back along the passageway and up to the second floor. Behind them the Nightingale sang as if mocking Athelstan’s departure. At the bottom of the second gallery was a narrow, winding, wooden staircase.
‘It leads to the garrets,’ Buckingham said, sensing the friar’s thoughts.
They went up. Buckingham pushed open a rickety wooden door and Athelstan followed him in. The garret was built just under the eaves of the roof. The wooden ceiling sloped high at one end and low at the other. Just inside the door stood an old table, a stool beside it. Buckingham held the candle up and Athelstan studied the stout beam directly above the table. A piece of rope hung from it, scarred and frayed. It swung eerily in the breeze which came through a gap in the roof tiles. On the table beneath, covered by a dirty sheet, lay Brampton’s corpse. Athelstan took the candle off Buckingham and looked around. Nothing but rubbish: broken pitchers, shattered glass, a coffer with the lid broken, and a mound of old clothes. The garret smelt dank and dusty and of something else - corruption, decay, the order of rotting death. Athelstan went across to the table and pulled back the filthy sheet. Brampton lay there, a small man dressed in a simple linen shirt, open at the neck, and wearing dark green hose on his scrawny legs. He would have appeared asleep if it had not been for the curious lie of his head. The neck was twisted slightly askew to one side. The heavy-lidded eyes were half open, his lips parted in death, and a dark blue-purplish ring circled the scraggy neck. Athelstan peered closer. There were no signs of violence on the yellow, seamed face. The small goatee beard was still damp with spittle; the gash on the throat quite deep, with a large bruise behind the ear where the noose had been tied. He scrutinized the man’s hands, long and thin, manicured like a woman’s. Carefully he examined the nails, noticing the strands of rope caught there. Behind him Buckingham muttered darkly, as if resenting his scrutiny. There was a crashing on the stairs and Cranston burst in, the ill effects of the wine readily apparent. He slumped on the stool, mopping his sweaty face with the hem of his cloak.
‘Well, Monk!’ he called out. ‘What have we?’
‘Brampton,’ Athelstan replied, ‘bears all the marks of a hanged man, though some attempts have been made to redress the ill effects of such a death. The mouth is half open, the tongue swollen and bitten, the neck bears the sign of a noose. There is a bruise behind his left ear and Brampton apparently grasped the rope in his death agonies.’ He turned to Buckingham. ‘So Brampton came up here, intending to hang himself. There is rope kept here?’
Buckingham pointed to the far corner.
‘A great deal,’ he replied. ‘We often use it to tie up bales.’
‘I see, I see. Brampton therefore takes this rope, climbs on the table, ties one length round the rafter beam, forms a noose and puts it round his neck, tying the knot securely behind his left ear. He steps quietly off the table and his life flickers out like a candle flame.’
Buckingham narrowed his eyes and shivered.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘It must have been like that.’
‘Now,’ Athelstan continued conversationally, ignoring Cranston’s glares, ‘Vechey finds the corpse. He searches for a knife amongst the rubbish,’ Athelstan tapped it with the toe of his sandal where it lay on the floor, ‘cuts Brampton down, but finds he is dead.’
‘Yes,’ Buckingham replied, ‘something like that. Then he came down and notified us all.’
Athelstan picked the dagger up from the floor. He had glimpsed it when he had first entered the room and could see why it had been discarded. The handle was chipped and broken, there were dents along one side, but the cutting edge was still very sharp. Athelstan climbed on to the stool, then on to the table. He looked at the hacked edge of the rope. Yes, he thought, Brampton had been tall enough to fix the rope round the beam, put the noose round his neck, and tie it securely with a knot before stepping off the table.
‘Master Buckingham,’ Athelstan said, getting down, ‘we have kept you long enough. I should be most grateful if you would present my compliments to Lady Isabella and Sir Richard and ask them to meet me in the solar below. I would like the physician present. I believe he lives nearby? The servants, too, should be questioned.’
Buckingham nodded, relieved that the close questioning of himself was over, and left Athelstan dragging a dozing Cranston to his feet. The coroner struggled and murmured. Athelstan put one of his arms around Sir John’s shoulders and carefully escorted him downstairs. Thankfully, the gallery below was deserted. He rested the coroner against the wall, slapping him gently on the face.
‘Sir John! Sir John! Please wake up!’
Cranston’s eyes flew open. ‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he slurred, ‘I won’t embarrass you.’ He stood and shook himself, trying to clear his eyes, jerking his head as if he could dislodge the fumes from his brain.
‘Come,’ Athelstan said. ‘The physician and servants still await us.’
Athelstan was partially correct. The servants were waiting in the small, lime-washed buttery next to the flagstoned kitchen, but the physician had not yet arrived. Buckingham introduced them as Cranston went over to a large butt, ladling out cups of water which he noisily drank, splashing the rest over his rosy-red face. Athelstan patiently questioned the servants, preferring to deal with them as a group so he could watch their faces and detect any sign of connivance or conspiracy. He found it difficult enough with Buckingham lounging beside him as if to ensure nothing untoward was said, whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.
‘And Brampton?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He sulked all day,’ the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. ‘He kept to his chamber. He . . .’ she stammered. ‘I think he was in his cups.’
‘Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Late at night, when everyone had retired?’
The maid blushed and looked away.
‘No one came through the yard,’ the young groom hotly stated. ‘If they had, they would have woken the dogs!’
‘Brampton – what was he like?’ Cranston barked.
The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.
‘A good man,’ he quavered.
‘So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?’
The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.
‘He was accused of searching amongst the master’s papers. A button from his jerkin,’ he stammered, ‘or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.’
‘What was Brampton looking for?’
A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.
‘Good friar,’ the clerk intervened, ‘surely you do not expect servants to know their master’s business?’
‘Brampton apparently tried to!’ Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.
‘So it would seem,’ Buckingham answered sweetly.
Athelstan gazed at the servants. ‘These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,’ he murmured.
‘And neither can I!’
Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woolen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted back. A nose sharp as a quill prodded the air like the beak of a bird. In one hand he held a silver-topped walking cane, in the other a pomander full of spiced cloves. Now and again he would hold it to his face.
‘You are, Sir?’ Athelstan asked.
He looked distastefully at Cranston.
‘And you must be Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city? Do you need my help?’
The arrogant physician sat on the corner of the table. Athelstan watched Cranston carefully and held his breath. From experience he knew that Sir John hated physicians and would like to hang the lot as a bunch of charlatans. Cranston smiled sweetly, ordering Buckingham to clear the buttery whilst he lumbered across to stand over the physician.
‘Yes, Doctor de Troyes, I am the Coroner. I like claret, a good cup of sack and, if I had my way, I would investigate the practices and potions of the physicians of this city.’ His smile faded as de Troyes stuck out his plump little chest. ‘Now, Master de Troyes, physician, you inspected Sir Thomas’s corpse?’
‘I did.’
‘And the goblet he drank from?’
‘Quite correct, Sir John.’
‘And you think it was a mixture of belladonna and arsenic?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. The cadaver’s skin was slightly blueish, the mouth smelt rank.’ He shrugged. ‘Death by poisoning, it was obvious.’
Athelstan walked across to them. The physician didn’t even turn to greet him.
‘Would death have been quick?’ the friar asked.
‘Oh, yes, and rather silent. Very much like a seizure, within ten or fifteen minutes of taking the potion.’
‘Master physician,’ Athelstan continued, ‘please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I ask you a question.’
De Troyes turned, his eyes glittering with malice.
‘Yes, Friar, what is it?’
‘Surely Sir Thomas would have detected the poison in the wine cup? You smelt it. Why didn’t he?’
The fellow pursed his lips. ‘Simple enough,’ he replied pompously. ‘First, Sir Thomas had drunk deeply.’ He glanced slyly at Cranston. ‘Wine is a good mask for poison, and if there is enough in the belly and throat the victim will never suspect. Secondly, the wine cup has stood all night.’ He wetted his lips. ‘The smell could become more rank.’