The Nightingale Gallery Read online

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Cranston cried as he looked around. Vechey’s corpse lay in the centre of the tower near a rickety hut, formerly used by guards on sentry duty. The body lay sprawled, its face covered by a dirty rag. Athelstan thought the odour came from that but, looking around, he saw the rotting heads which had been placed on spikes in the gaps of the crenellated wall.

  ‘Traitors’ heads!’ Cranston muttered. ‘Of course, they spike them here!’

  Athelstan looked closely, trying not to gag. Like all Londoners he knew that once the bodies of traitors had been cut and quartered, their heads were sent to adorn London Bridge. He looked closer. Thick, black pools around the spikes showed some of the heads were fresh, though all were rotting, crumbling under the rain and wind which whipped up their oddly silken hair. Large ravens which had been busy, plucking out juicy morsels with their yellow beaks, rose in angry circles above them.

  ‘Their hair,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Look, it’s combed!’

  ‘I do that!’ the mannikin cried. ‘I always look after my heads! Every morning I come up and comb them, keep them soft, pleasant-looking. That is,’ he added morosely, ‘until the ravens start pecking them, though they usually leave that bit for the last. Oh, yes, I comb their hair and, when I am finished, I sing to them. I bring my viol up. Lullabyes are best.’ He looked up at Athelstan, his face beaming with pride. ‘Never lonely up here,’ he said. ‘The things these heads must know!’

  ‘God’s teeth,’ muttered Cranston. ‘I need refreshment! But never mind that. This morning I swore a mighty oath not to touch the juice of the grape or the crushed sweetness of the hop. But first let’s see Vechey’s corpse.’

  The mannikin skipped over to show them the unexpected addition to his ghastly collection. He whipped off the rag which the wind caught and blew against one of the spiked heads.

  ‘You examine it, Brother,’ whispered Cranston. ‘I feel sick. Last night’s wine.’

  Athelstan crouched down. Vechey was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. The soft face was now puffier, its colour a dirty white. His eyes were half open, mouth slack, lips apart, displaying rows of blackened teeth. Vechey seemed to be grinning up at him, taunting him with the mystery of his death. Athelstan turned his head slightly to one side. He caught his knee on his robe and slipped. He felt queasy as his hand touched the cadaver’s bloated stomach and noted that the dead man’s legs were soaking wet. He inspected the gash round Vechey’s neck, which was very similar to that of Brampton; black-red like some ghastly necklace and the dark, swollen bruise behind the left ear. He held his breath and sniffed at the dead man’s lips. Nothing but the putrid rottenness of the grave. Then he examined the corpse’s hands. No scars, the nails neat and clean, shorter than Brampton’s. There was no trace of a strand of rope caught there. Athelstan looked at the mannikin.

  ‘Where’s the noose?’

  ‘I tossed it away,’ the fellow replied triumphantly. ‘I see’d him there, I cuts him down, I loosened the noose and it falls in the water.’ His face grew solemn, his eyes anxious. ‘Why, shouldn’t I have done that?’

  ‘You did well, Robert,’ Athelstan replied quietly. ‘Very well. You found the body?’

  ‘Well, no, my children did. They were playing where they shouldn’t, on the starlings under the bridge. You know the wooden barriers around the arches?’ He shook his head. ‘So many of them. Nine, I have,’ he declared. ‘Should be ten but the eldest got drunk and fell in the river!’

  Cranston stared in utter disbelief at the mannikin’s potency.

  ‘So you cut him down?’ he asked. ‘How did you know it was Vechey?’

  ‘I found coins in his pocket and a piece of parchment. It had his name on it. That and someone else’s. Thomas . . .’ he closed his eyes.

  ‘Thomas Springall?’

  ‘That’s right. Look, I have it here. There’s something else written.’

  The little guardian of the great gateway dug into his wallet and brought out a greasy scrap of parchment. Two names were written on it: Theobald Vechey and Sir Thomas Springall. Beneath the latter’s name, written in the same hand, was Genesis 3, Verse 1 and the Book of the Apocalypse, 6, Verse 8.

  ‘Here, Monk,’ Cranston muttered. ‘You are the preacher, what do you make of it?’

  ‘First, Sir John, as I keep saying, I am a friar not a monk. And, secondly, though I have studied the Bible, I can’t recollect every verse.

  Cranston smirked.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  The little man bobbed up and down.

  ‘Yes, some rings and some coins, but the sheriffs men took them. I sent one of my boys to the Guildhall, they sent down constables of the ward. That must have been,’ he sucked on his finger, ‘just after dawn. I heard them say they had sent for you.’

  ‘Well,’ Sir John sighed, ‘we have a corpse and a scrap of paper, and the sheriff’s men have the valuables - and that’s the last any one will see of them,’ he added bitterly. He looked down. ‘The man was just hanging, his hands were free?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the little fellow replied. ‘Just hanging there from one of the beams, swaying as free as a leaf in the wind. Come, I will show you!’

  He led Cranston and Athelstan downstairs past the closed chamber where the noise of his large brood sounded like the howling of demons in hell. They went back through the gatehouse, following the line of the river bank down some rough hewn stairs cut into the rock and beneath the bridge.

  ‘Be careful!’ the mannikin shouted.

  Cranston and Athelstan needed no such warning. The Thames was flowing full and furious, the water greedily lapping their feet as if it would like to catch them and drag them under its swollen black surface. The bridge was built on nineteen great arches. Vechey had decided to hang himself on the last. He’d climbed on to one of the great beams which supported the arch, tied a length of rope round it and, fastening the noose around his neck, simply stepped off the great stone plinth. Part of the rope still swung there, hanging down directly over the water.

  ‘Why should a man hang himself here?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘It’s been done before,’ the gateman replied. ‘Hangings, drownings, they always choose the bridge. It seems to attract them!’

  ‘Perhaps its the span which represents the gap between life and death?’ Athelstan remarked.

  He looked at Cranston. ‘Bartholomew the Englishman wrote a famous treatise in which he remarked how strange it was that people chose bridges as their place to die.’

  ‘Give my thanks to Bartholomew the Englishman,’ Cranston replied drily, ‘but it doesn’t explain why a London merchant came down here in the dark, fastened a rope round a beam and hanged himself.’

  ‘Bangtails come here,’ the mannikin piped up. ‘Bawds! Whores!’ he explained. ‘They often bring their customers down here.’

  ‘What does Bartholomew the Englishman say about that, Friar?’

  ‘I don’t know but, when I do, you will be the first to know!’

  They examined the rope again and, satisfied that they had seen everything, climbed the stone steps back on to the track high on the river bank. Cranston thanked the gatekeeper for his pains, quietly slipping some coins into his hands.

  ‘For the children,’ he murmured. ‘Some pastries, some doucettes.’

  ‘And the corpse?’

  Cranston shrugged.

  ‘Send a message to Sir Richard Springall. He has a mansion in Cheapside. Tell him you have Vechey’s body. If he does not collect it, the sheriffs men who pocketed poor Vechey’s valuables, will find him a pauper’s grave!’

  ‘At the crossroads,’ the fellow said, eyes rounded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He means, Sir John,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘that Vechey was a suicide. Like Brampton, a stake should be driven through his heart and the cadaver buried at the crossroads. They still do that in country parts. They claim it prevents the dead man’s troubled soul from walking abroad. But what does it
matter? It’s only the husk. I will remember poor Vechey at Mass.’

  They bade farewell to the little gateman, collected their horses from the urchin and, seeing the busy crowds ahead of them, decided to walk up to Cheapside. The throng was thick, massing like a swarm of bees, the noise and clamour so intense they were unable to hear one another speak. In Cheapside, where the thoroughfare was broader and the houses did not press so close, they relaxed. Athelstan, patting Philomel’s nose, stared across at a now perspiring Cranston.

  ‘Why should Vechey kill himself?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t bloody ask me!’ Cranston retorted crossly, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘If it wasn’t for that poor bugger, I would be getting as pissed as a bishop’s fart in the Crossed Keys and you would be back in your decrepit church feeding that bloody cat or watching your bloody stars! Or trying to save the soul of some evil little sod who would slit your throat as quickly as look at you!’

  Athelstan grinned.

  ‘You need refreshment, Sir John. You have had a hard morning. The rigours of office, the exacting duties of coroner- they would break many a lesser man.’

  Cranston looked evilly at the friar.

  ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said. ‘Your words of comfort soothe my heart.’

  ‘Be at peace, my son,’ Athelstan said mockingly and pointed. ‘Over there is the Springall mansion. And here,’ he turned and gestured to the great garish sign, ‘is the tavern of the Holy Lamb of God. The body needs refreshment.’

  He grinned. ‘And your body, great as it is, more than any other!’

  Cranston solemnly tapped his bell-like stomach.

  ‘You are correct, Brother.’ He sighed. ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is very, very weak.’

  And there’s a lot of weakness there, thought Athelstan

  ‘But not now,’ he added hastily, catching the gleam in Cranston’s eyes. ‘Sir Richard Springall awaits us. We must see him.’

  Cranston’s mouth set in a stubborn line.

  ‘Sir John, we must do it now!’ Athelstan insisted.

  Cranston nodded, his eyes petulant like those of a child being refused a sweet. They stabled their horses at the Holy Lamb of God and threaded their way across the noisy market place. A figure garbed in black, a white devil’s mask on its face, was jumping amongst the stalls, shouting imprecations at the rich and the avaricious. A beadle in his striped gown tried to arrest him but the ‘devil’ scampered off to the cheers of the crowd. Cranston and Athelstan watched the drama play itself out; the beadle chasing, the ‘devil’ dodging. The small, fat official was soon lathered in sweat. Another ‘devil’ appeared, dressed identically to the first, and the crowd burst into roars of laughter. The beadle had been tricked, fooled by two mummers and their game of illusion.

  ‘Like life, is it not, Sir John?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.’

  Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.

  ‘Bugger philosophy!’ he said. ‘I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!’

  ‘Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.’

  ‘Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,’ Cranston grated. ‘I haven’t forgotten yesterday.’

  The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.

  ‘Sir John, you feel better?’ Springall asked.

  ‘Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.’

  Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston’s riddle.

  ‘You have heard of Vechey’s death?’

  Sir Richard nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.’

  He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle around the hearth.

  ‘Even in the height of summer,’ Sir Richard observed, ‘it’s cool in here.’

  Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant - the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Sir Richard called.

  Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan’s glance and smiled bravely.

  ‘Don’t worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it’s always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,’ he added bitterly.

  Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest’s hand. ‘Father, I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Come, join us.’

  They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.

  ‘So,’ said Sir John, smacking his lips, ‘a third death, Master Vechey’s suicide.’ He held three fingers up. ‘One murder and two suicides in the same household.’ He stared around. ‘You do not grieve?’

  Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.

  ‘Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.’

  ‘A dour man,’ Buckingham observed, ‘with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.’ He smiled thinly. ‘At least not in the lists of love.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies’ man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.’ Buckingham grimaced. ‘You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him behind their hands.’

  ‘What the clerk is saying,’ Sir Richard interrupted, ‘is that Master Vechey was immersed in the pleasures of the flesh. He had few friends. Only my brother really listened to him. It could well be that Sir Thomas’s death turned Vechey’s mind on to the path of self-destruction.’ He spread his hands. ‘I do not claim to be my brother’s keeper, so how can I claim to be Vechey’s? We are sorry for his death but how are we responsible?’

  ‘Master Vechey left the house when?’

  ‘About an hour after you.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No. He never did.’

  Cranston eased himself in his chair, head back, rolling the white Rhenish wine round his tongue.

  ‘Let me change the question. Where were you all last night?’

  Sir Richard shrugged and looked around. ‘We went our different ways.’

  ‘Father Crispin?’

  The priest coughed, shifting his leg to favour it.

  ‘I went to the vicar of St Mary Le Bow to arrange Sir Thomas’s funeral.’

  ‘Sir Richard? Lady Isabella?’

  ‘We stayed here!’ the woman retorted. ‘A grieving widow does not walk the streets.’

  ‘Master Buckingham?’

&n
bsp; ‘I went to the Guildhall taking messages from Sir Richard about the pageant we are planning.’

  ‘My brother would have liked that,’ Sir Richard intervened. ‘He would see no reason why we should not make our contribution to the royal coronation.’ His voice rose. ‘Why, what is this? Do you hold us responsible for Vechey’s death? Are you saying that we bundled him down to the waterside and had him hanged? For what reason?’

  ‘The coroner is not alleging anything,’ Athelstan remarked smoothly. ‘But, Sir Richard, you must agree it is odd, so many deaths in one household?’

  ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ Cranston took the greasy piece of parchment out of his wallet and handed it over. Sir Richard studied it.

  ‘Vechey’s name, my brother’s, and two verses from the Bible. Ah!’ Sir Richard looked up and smiled. ‘Two verses my brother always quoted: Apocalypse Six, Verse Eight and Genesis Three, Verse One.’

  ‘You know the verses, Sir Richard?’

  ‘Yes.’ The merchant closed his eyes. ‘The second one refers to the serpent entering Eden.’

  ‘And the first?’

  ‘To Death riding a pale horse.’

  ‘Why did your brother always quote these?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He had a sense of humour.’

  ‘About the Bible?’

  ‘No, no, about these two verses. He claimed they were his key to fame and fortune. Sometimes, when deep in his cups, he would quote them.’

  ‘Do you know what he meant?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No, my brother loved riddles from boyhood. He just quoted the verses, smiled, and said they would bring him great success. I don’t know what he meant.’

  ‘What other riddles did your brother pose?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Lady Isabella spoke up, pushing back the black veil from her face. ‘You remember, the shoemaker?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sir Richard smiled. ‘The shoemaker.’

  ‘Lady Isabella,’ Cranston queried, ‘what about the shoemaker?’

  She played with the sparkling ring on her finger. ‘Well, over the last few months, my husband used to make reference to a shoemaker. He claimed the shoemaker knew the truth, and the shoemaker was guilty.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what he meant. Sometimes, at table,’ she smiled falsely, ‘my husband was like you, Sir John. He loved a deep-bowled cup of claret. Then he used to chant: “The shoemaker knows the truth, the shoemaker knows the truth”.’