Текст книги "The Nightingale Gallery"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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'This matter,' he said. 'Springall's death. Do you think there is a mystery?'

Athelstan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

'There is something strange,' he muttered. 'A merchant is murdered by his servant who then commits suicide. A very neat death, orderly. All the ends tied up like a parcel, a package, a gift for Twelfth Night. Surely two mysteries? The first one is the neatness of the deaths, the second my Lord of Gaunt's interest in them. Yes, Sir John, I think there is a mystery but only the good Lord knows whether we will solve it!'

'There is more, isn't there?' Cranston said, pleased to have confirmation of his own thoughts.

'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied, sitting up and stretching. 'Gaunt seems frightened that Springall has died, as if the death poses a personal threat. It must be so otherwise why would he get the Chief Justice of the Courts to interview us? To impress upon us the importance of the task? To test our loyalty and give us a special commission?'

He got up. 'If you are refreshed, Sir John, perhaps it is time we found out.'

Cranston rose, picked up his cloak and threw it across his arm. He adjusted his great sword belt round his girth. From it hung a long thin Welsh dagger shoved into a battered leather sheath and the broadest sword Athelstan had ever seen. Once again he tightened his lips to hide his smile. Cranston waddled through the tavern, shouting goodbye to the landlord and his wife who were busy amongst the barrels at the far end of the room. The coroner's good spirits were restored and Athelstan braced himself for an exciting day.

They walked back up Cheapside. It was now early afternoon and the traders were busy.

'A fine hat for the French block!' one called. 'Pins! Points! Garters! Spanish gloves! Silk ribbons!' shouted] another.

'Come,' a woman cackled from a doorway, 'have your ruffs starched, fine cobweb lawn!'

The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning's trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes; were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in: from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber's shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.

'You know the house, Sir John?'

Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'

Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.

'What is it, Monk?'

'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.'

Cranston beamed. 'I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?'

'Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.'

The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.

'Nothing much,' he muttered, reading them quickly. 'They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.' He looked sharply at Athelstan. 'I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?'

The friar shrugged.

'You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.*

Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.

'Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!'

CHAPTER 2

The house was a fine building, very similar to that of Lord Fortescue, though today great black banners of costliest lawn hung from the upstairs windows and the broad shield of the goldsmith above the main door was hidden under black damask. An old manservant, dressed like death itself, answered the door; his face was soaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,' the friar quietly announced.

The fellow nodded and led them down a dark passageway into the great banqueting hall, also hung in black. As they crossed the black and white chess-board floor, Athelstan felt he was entering the valley of shadows. Black cloths hid the tapestries and paintings on the walls. The air seemed thick and heavy, not due to the heat and the closeness of the day but to something else which prickled the hair at the back of his neck and made him shiver. Cranston, however, lumbered along, his bleary eyes fixed on a group sitting round the table on the dais at the end of the hall. In the centre a great silver salt cellar winked like a beacon light in the glow of the glittering candles. The small oriel window above the table let in some brightness but Athelstan could not make out the figures clearly. They seemed concealed in the shadows, talking quietly. All conversation ceased as they stared at Cranston's huge form stumbling towards them.

'Can I help you?'

Cranston stopped abruptly, almost colliding with Athelstan as they turned to look at the speaker. A young woman who had been sitting in the window embrasure inside the hall got up and came forward.

'You are?' Athelstan asked.

'Sir Thomas Springall's wife,' the woman replied coolly, stepping into the light.

Sweet God, Athelstan thought, she was beautiful. Her face a vision of loveliness with dark-ringed eyes and the face of an angel like those painted on windows in the abbey church. Her slender body was exquisitely formed, her skin of burnished gold. She had dark, blood-red hair and lips as crimson and as lush as a spring rose.

'Sir Thomas's widow?' Cranston asked tactfully.

'Yes.' The voice grew harsh. 'And you, sirs, what are you doing here?'

Cranston glanced up at the group still sitting silently round the table on the dais, and drunkenly doffed his hat.

'Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. And this,' he waved behind him, 'is my faithful Mephistopheles, Brother Athelstan.'

The woman looked puzzled.

'My clerk,' Cranston slurred.

'Madam,' Athelstan interrupted, 'God rest your husband's soul, but he is dead. Sir John and I have orders to examine the body to determine the true cause of death. We are sorry to intrude on your grief.'

The woman stepped closer and Athelstan noticed how pale her face was, her eyes red-rimmed with crying. He noticed that the cuffs on the sleeves of her black lace dress were wet with tears.

The woman waved them up to the dais and the group sitting there rose. They were all dressed in black and seemed to hide behind a broad-chested man, sleek and fat, with a balding head, fleshy nose, and eyes and mouth as hard as a rock.

'Who are you, sirs?' he snapped. 'I am Sir Richard Springall, brother and executor to the late Sir Thomas!'

Cranston and Athelstan introduced themselves.

'And why are you here?'

'At the Chief Justice's request.'

Cranston handed over his commission. Sir Richard undid the red silk cord, unrolled the parchment and gave its contents a cursory glance. He waved expansively to the table.

'You may as well join us. We have business to discuss. Sir Thomas's death is a great blow.'

Athelstan thought Sir Richard looked more the eager merchant than the grieving brother but they took their seats and Sir Richard introduced his companions. At the far end of the table was Father Crispin, chancery priest and chaplain to the Springall household. He was a young man, gaunt-faced, dark-eyed, clean shaven, his hair not cut in a tonsure but hanging in ringlets down to his shoulders. His dark gown was expensive, tied at the throat with a gold clasp and silver white bows. On the other side sat Edmund Buckingham, clerk to Sir Thomas, about the same age as Father Crispin, but darker, sallow-faced, hard-eyed and thin-lipped. A born clerk or secretarius, a counter of bales and cloths, more suited to tidying accounts and storing parchment away than engaging in idle conversation. He drummed the table loudly with his fingers, showing his annoyance at what he considered an unwarranted intrusion. The two remaining members of the group, Allingham and Vechey, were typical merchants in their dark samite jerkins, gold chains and silver wire rings on fleshy fingers. Stephen Allingham was tall and lanky, with a pockmarked, dour face and greasy red hair. His front teeth stuck out, making him look like a frightened rabbit; his fingers, the nails thick with dirt, kept fluttering to his mouth as if he was trying to remember something. Theobald Vechey was short and fat; his face puffy white like kneaded dough, his eyes small black buttons, his nose slightly crooked and his mouth pursed tight with sourness.

After the introductions, Sir Richard ordered cups of sack.

Oh, God! Athelstan prayed. Not more!

Sir John, already heavy-eyed, beamed expansively. A servant brought a tray of cups. Sir John downed his in one noisy gulp and looked greedily at Athelstan's; the friar sighed and nodded. Sir John grinned and supped that one, impervious to the astonished looks of those around him. Athelstan emptied his leather bag, smoothing the creases out of the parchment and arranging the quills and silver ink horn in his writing tray. Sir John, refreshed, clapped his hands and leaned forward, glancing towards Sir Richard at the head of the table. Cranston's elbow slipped and he lurched dangerously. Athelstan heard the young clerk titter and glimpsed the silent mockery in Lady Isabella's beautiful eyes.

'Yes, quite,' Cranston trumpeted. 'Sir Richard, your account? Your brother has been slain.'

'Last night,' Sir Richard began, 'a banquet was held. All of us were present, together with Sir John Fortescue, the Chief Justice. He left about eleven, before midnight.' Sir Richard licked his hps and Athelstan wondered why the Chief Justice had lied about the hour at which he had left the house.

'My brother,' Sir Richard continued, 'bade us good night here in the hall and went up to his chamber.'

'Lady Isabella,' Cranston interrupted,*you have your own separate room?

'Yes.' The lady glared back frostily. 'My husband preferred it that way.'

'Of course.' Cranston beamed. 'Sir Richard?'

'I went to say goodnight to my brother. He was dressed for bed, the drapes pulled back. I saw the wine cup on the table beside his bed. He wished me a fair night's sleep. As I walked away, I heard him lock and bolt the door behind me.'

Athelstan put down his quill. 'Why did he do that?'

Sir Richard shook his head. 'I don't know, he always did. He liked his privacy.'

'Then what?'

'Next morning,' Father Crispin began, leaning forward, 'I went to wake…'

'No!' Lady Isabella interrupted. 'I sent my maid, Alicia. She tapped on my husband's door a few minutes after he had retired and asked if there was anything he wanted.' She smoothed the table in front of her with long, white elegant fingers. 'My husband called out that all was well.'

Athelstan looked sideways at Cranston. The coroner's heavy-lidded eyes were closing. Athelstan kicked him fiercely under the table.

'Ah, yes, of course.' Cranston pulled himself up, burping gently like a child. 'Father Crispin, you were saying?'

'At Prime – yes, about then – the bells of St Mary Le Bow were ringing. It was a fair morning, and Sir Thomas had asked to be roused early. I went up to his chamber and knocked. There was no reply. So I went for Sir Richard. He also tried to waken Sir Thomas.' The young priest's voice trailed off.

'Then what?*

'The door was forced,' Sir Richard replied. 'My brother was sprawled on the bed. We thought at first he had had some seizure and sent for the family physician, Peter de Troyes. He examined my brother and saw his mouth was stained, the lips black. So he sniffed the cup and pronounced it drugged, possibly with a mixture of belladonna and red arsenic. Enough to kill the entire household!'

'Who put the cup there?' Athelstan asked, nudging Cranston awake.

'My husband liked a goblet of the best Bordeaux in his chamber at night before retiring. Brampton always took it up to him.'

'Ah, yes, Brampton brought a cup of claret!' Cranston smacked his hps. 'He must have been a fine servant, a good fellow!'

'Sir John,' Lady Isabella shrieked in fury, 'he poisoned my husband!'

'What makes you say that?'

'He took the cup up.'

'How do you know?'

'He always did!'

'So why did Brampton hang himself?'

'Out of remorse, I suppose. God and his saints,' she cried, 'how do I know?'

'Sir John…" Father Crispin raised his hand in a placatory gesture at Sir Richard's intended outburst in her defence. The merchant looked choleric, so red-faced Athelstan thought he might have a seizure. 'Lady Isabella is distraught,' continued the priest. 'Brampton took the cup up, we are sure of that.'

'Was he present at the banquet last night?' Athelstan asked.

'No.' Sir Richard shook his head. 'He and my brother had a fierce quarrel earlier in the day.'

'About what?'

Sir Richard looked nervously down the table at Vechey and Allingham.

'Sir Thomas was furious: he accused Brampton of searching amongst his documents and memoranda. There are caskets in my brother's room. He found the lid of one forced and, beside it, a silver button from Brampton's jerkin. Brampton, of course, denied the charge and the quarrel continued most of the day.'

'So Brampton sulked in his room, did not attend the banquet and retired for the night – but not before he had taken a goblet of wine along to his master's chamber?'

'So it would seem.'

Cranston had now gently nodded off to sleep, his head tilting sideways, his soft snores indicative of a good day's drinking. Athelstan ignored the company's amused glances, pushed away the writing tray and tried to assert himself.

'I cannot understand this,' he said. 'Brampton argues with Sir Thomas, who has accused him of rifling amongst his private papers?'

'Yes,' Sir Richard nodded, watching him guardedly.

'Brampton storms out but later takes up a cup of wine. A kind gesture?'

'Not if it was poisoned!' Allingham squeaked. 'The cup was poisoned, laced with a deadly potion.'

Athelstan felt caught, trapped in a mire. The listeners around the table were gently mocking him, dismissing Cranston as a drunk and himself as an ignorant friar.

'Who was present,' he asked, 'when Sir Thomas's body was found?'

'I was,' Sir Richard replied. 'And course Father Crispin. Master Buckingham also came up.'

'As did I,' Allingham grated.

'Yes, that's correct,' Sir Richard added.

'So you sent for the physician?'

'Yes, as I have said.'

'And then what?'

'I dressed the body,' Father Crispin offered. 'I washed him, did what I could, and gave Sir Thomas the last rites, anointing his hands, face and feet. You may recall, Brother, there are some theologians, Dominicans,' the priest smiled thinly, 'who maintain the soul does not leave the body until hours after death. I prayed God would have mercy on Sir Thomas's soul.'

'Did Sir Thomas need mercy?'

'He was a good man,' Father Crispin replied sharply. 'He founded chantries, gave money to the poor, distributed food, looked after widows and orphans.'

'I am sure the good Lord will have mercy on him,' Athelstan murmured. 'Now for Brampton. You made a search for him?'

'Yes,' Sir Richard replied briskly. 'We suspected he was involved so we searched his chamber. We found a small stoppered phial in a chest beneath some robes. A servant took it round to Peter de Troyes, who pronounced it held the same mixture found in my brother's wine cup. We then searched for Brampton.'

'I found the corpse,' Vechey interrupted. 'I noticed that the door leading to the garret was half open, so I went up.' He swallowed. 'Brampton was hanging there.' The fellow shivered. 'It was dreadful. The garret was empty and cold. There was a horrible smell. Brampton's body was hanging there like a broken doll, a child's toy, his neck askew, his face blackened, tongue lolling out!'

He gulped at his wine.

'I cut him down and loosened the rope but he was dead, the corpse clammy and cold.' He looked pleadingly at Sir Richard. 'The body's still there. It must be removed!'

'Tell me,' Athelstan said, 'do you all live here?'

'Yes,' Sir Richard replied. 'Master Allingham is a bachelor. Master Vechey is a widower,' he smiled, 'though still with an eye for the ladies. This mansion is great, four storeys high, built in a square round a courtyard. Sir Thomas saw no reason why his business partners should not share the same house. Tenements, property, their value has increased, and with royal taxes…' His voice trailed off.

Athelstan nodded understandingly, trying to mask his frustration. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. A merchant had been killed, his assassin had hung himself. At the same time Athelstan detected something. These people were pompous, arrogant, sure of themselves. They walked the streets like cocks, confident of their wealth, their power, their friends at court or in the Exchequer.

'Sir Thomas treated Brampton well?' Athelstan asked. 'Was he a good lord?'

'A more courteous gentleman you could not hope to meet,' Allingham answered. 'Sir Thomas gave generously in alms to the poor of the parish of St Bartholomew's, to the Guild, and,' he ended contemptuously, 'to friars like you!'

'So why should he quarrel so violently with Brampton? Had he done it before?'

Allingham stopped, wrong-footed.

'No,' he murmured. 'No, he had not. There were just disagreements.'

'Lady Isabella,' Athelstan asked, 'your husband – was he anxious or concerned about anything?'

Sir Richard patted Lady Isabella's wrist as a sign that he would answer for her.

'He was worried about the war, and the increase of piracy in the Narrow Seas. He lost two ships recently to Hanse pirates. He resented the old king's growing demands for loans.'

'And Brampton, was he a good steward?'

'Yes,' Lady Isabella answered quickly, 'he was.'

'What kind of man?'

She made a grimace. 'Quiet, gentle, a loyal servant.' Her eyes softened. 'I saw him just after the quarrel with my husband. I have never seen Brampton in such a state, fretting and anxious, so angry he could hardly sit still.'

'Your husband, did he mention the quarrel?'

'He said he would investigate the matter later. He was surprised more than angry that Brampton could do such a thing. He said it was out of character.' She paused. 'At the banquet my husband broached a cask of his best Bordeaux. I sent up a cup as a peace offering to Brampton.'

'You are sure Sir Thomas thought highly of Brampton?'

'Oh, I am certain.' Lady Isabella shook her head and stared down at the table.

'Shall we move on to other matters? The banquet last night.'

Cranston farted gently. The sound, however, rang through the hall like a loud bell and Lady Isabella looked away in disgust. Sir Richard glared at the coroner whilst Athelstan blushed with embarrassment at the sniggering and laughter from Buckingham.

'Why was the banquet held last night?'

'The young king's coronation,' Sir Richard replied. 'Each guild must prepare its pageant. We were discussing the plans the Guild of Goldsmiths had for their spectacle.'

'So why was Chief Justice Fortescue present?'

'We do not know,' Allingham squeaked. 'Sir Thomas said that the Chief Justice would be coming. He often did business with him.' He smirked. 'Fortescue owed him money, like many judges and lords in the city.'

'Why all these questions?' Sir Richard asked softly. 'Surely the matter is clear. Even a child,' glancing contemptuously at Sir John, 'can see that! My brother was murdered, his assassin was Brampton. Why must we go over these matters, muddying waters, causing pain and grief? We are busy men, Brother Athelstan. Your friend may sleep but we have business to attend to. My brother's corpse lies cold upstairs. There is a funeral to arrange, matters to put straight, business colleagues to contact.'

'Strange!' Cranston stirred and opened his eyes. 'I find it very strange!'

Athelstan looked down the table and grinned to himself. One of the things he could never understand but most enjoyed about Cranston was how the big, fat coroner could doze and yet be aware of conversations going on around him.

'What is strange?' Lady Isabella snapped, her distaste for the coroner now openly apparent.

'Well, My Lady,' Cranston licked his lips, 'your husband has a servant, Brampton. Brampton is faithful and obedient, like the good steward in the gospel. Why should he wish to search amongst your husband's papers? What did your husband have to hide?'

Lady Isabella just glared back.

'Let us say he did,' Cranston continued, breathing in heavily. 'Just let us say he did and there was a quarrel – surely no cause for murder or suicide? You have said, Madam, how Brampton was a quiet, placid fellow. Not a man of hot humours or rash disposition who would commit such a dreadful act and then compound it by taking his own life.'

'How else did it happen?' Sir Richard asked stiffly.

'Well,' Cranston said, 'is it possible that Brampton took the wine cup as a peace offering to his master?' He ignored the sneer on Vechey's face. 'Placed it on the table and then left?'

'And?' Lady Isabella asked.

'Someone else went up those stairs during the banquet and put poison into the cup. Or,' Cranston rubbed his fat hands together, now warming to his subject, 'how do we know that Sir Thomas did not have a visitor after he retired? Someone who went up the stairs and along the gallery, slipped into Sir Thomas's room, perhaps engaging him in conversation and, while doing so, secretly poured the poison into the cup.' He held up a hand to still the murmur. 'I am just theorising, as the theologians say, speculating on the nature of things.'

Then, Sir, you are a fool!'

Cranston, Athelstan and the whole company turned round in astonishment and looked down the hall. In the doorway stood an old lady dressed completely in black like a nun. Her head was covered by a thick, lawn veil arranged in the old-fashioned wimple which framed her sour lemon face in its black lace. She walked forward, her silver-topped stick beating loudly on the hall floor.

'You are a fool!'

Cranston rose.

'Perhaps I am, Madam, but who are you?'

Sir Richard darted forward.

'Lady Ermengilde, may I present Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.'

The old lady glared at the coroner with eyes like two dark pools.

'I have heard of you, Cranston, your drinking and your lechery! What are you doing in my son's house?'

'Sir John is here at the request of Chief Justice Fortescue.' Sir Richard's voice was soft, almost pleading.

'Another rogue!' the lady snapped.

'I asked, Madam, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' Sir John repeated.

'My name is Lady Ermengilde Springall. I am the mother of Sir Richard,' she stroked Springall's arm. 'My other son now lies dead upstairs and I come down to hear you chatter on about nonsense. Brampton may have been a good steward. He was also a varlet, a commoner! He had ideas above his station. Thomas rebuked him, and like many of his kind Brampton could not take it. His heart was filled with malice. Satan whispered in his ear, and he carried out his dreadful deed.' The old woman crashed her stick to the floor and held it between her two hands, resting on it. 'At least Brampton did us all the courtesy of hanging himself and so sparing the public expense and the work of the hangman at the Elms!'

Athelstan watched Cranston. The coroner was now in one of his most dangerous moods. He smiled but only round the lips. His eyes were hard and fixed, watching the old lady as a swordsman might an opponent waiting for the next parry.

'Lady Ermengilde, you seem well appraised of what happened. I crave your indulgence. Can you explain more?'

'My chamber is close to that of my son,' she snapped. 'The staircase beyond,' she indicated with a nod of her head, 'leads up to two galleries, one running to the right. At the end was Sir Thomas's chamber and, next to his, mine.'

'Any other?'

Lady Ermengilde's eyes slid towards her daughter-in-law.

'That of the Lady Isabella. There is a gallery to the left, identical to the one I've described except for one thing.' She raised one bony finger. 'My chamber, as well as those of Sir Thomas and Lady Isabella, stands on the Nightingale Gallery.'

'The Nightingale Gallery?' Athelstan asked. 'What is that?'

Dame Ermengilde smiled and walked nearer, her face looking more than ever like a sour apple. Athelstan noticed she was not dressed in black but in the dark brown habit of a nun, though her scorn for the luxuries of this world must have been shallow for the rings on her fingers held jewels the size of birds' eggs. A worldly lady, Athelstan thought, for all her prim face, sour lips and arrogant eyes.

'It's well known,' she continued, her voice tinged with patronising arrogance. 'This house was built on a square, and on the opposite corner of the square are stairs to the second storey.' She waved her hand to the far doorway which stood slightly ajar. Through it Athelstan could glimpse steep stairs. 'They will take you up to Sir Thomas's chamber,' she added. 'At the top are two corridors. The gallery to the right is the Nightingale Gallery because it "sings" when anyone walks through it.' She must have seen the disbelief in Cranston's bleary eyes. 'This house is very old,' she continued, looking up at the great blackened beams. 'It was built in the reign of King John.' She smirked. 'A time very like our own. A strong ruler was needed. Anyway, one of John's mercenary captains used this house as a base from which to control London. He trusted no one, not even his own men.' Her eyes drifted to Lady Isabella who was standing behind Athelstan. 'Anyway, he had the floor of that gallery taken up and replaced with special boards of yew. No one can approach any of the three chambers on that gallery without making it creak, or "sing". Hence its name.'

'And the importance of this?' Cranston asked.

'The importance, my dear coroner,' she purred in reply, 'is that I was in my chamber all evening. I am old and banquets bore me. Oh, I heard the talk and the laughter from the hall below. It disturbed my sleep. Fortunately I need very little.' She glared at Cranston. 'You will find out for yourself, Sir John, age makes you sleep lightly.'

'Just in case Death taps you on the shoulder!' he answered crossly.

'Quite,' she jibed back. 'But Death has a tendency, as you well know, Sir John, to take the heaviest first!'

'My Lady,' Athelstan intervened, 'the events of yesterday… You heard no one go up to Sir Thomas's chamber?'

'Before the banquet people were scurrying backwards and forwards,' she retorted. 'During the meal I heard the Nightingale sing once, I was surprised. I opened the door and saw Brampton, carrying a wine cup in his hand. I heard him open the door to my son's chamber and then go back downstairs again. I heard no other noise before Sir Thomas's footsteps when he came up to his chamber. Sir Richard followed him and bade him goodnight, then Lady Isabella's maid made her inquiry. After that the house was silent till this morning. Father Crispin came up, I heard him knock on the door, then he went for Sir Richard and brought him back.'

Cranston nodded. 'I thank you, Lady Ermengilde. You have solved one piece of the puzzle, Brampton did take the cup up. Now,' he looked at Sir Richard, 'disturbing and painful though it may be, I must insist that I view the bodies of both men.' He bowed to Lady Isabella. 'Your husband first, My Lady. You have no objection?'

Sir Richard shook his head and led them out across the hall and up the broad sweeping staircase. As Cranston passed Lady Ermengilde, he belched rather noisily.

At the top of the stairs the passageway, or gallery, to the left was unremarkable. The walls were white-washed and coated with fresh lime, the woodwork painted black. There were canvas paintings nailed there in between the three chambers which were now covered in black gauze veils; the doors of each chamber were huge, heavy set, and reinforced with iron strips. The gallery running to their right, however, was different. The doors and walls were similar but the floor was not made of broad planks but thin bands of light– coloured wood. As soon as Sir Richard stepped on them Athelstan realised the gallery was aptly named. Each footstep, wherever they stood, caused a deep, slightly melodious twang, similar to the noise of a dozen bowstrings being pulled back simultaneously. Immediately to their left was Lady Isabella's room, the central chamber was Lady Ermengilde's, and the last Sir Thomas's, now in utter disarray. The floor outside was gouged. The door, smashed off its leather hinges, stood crookedly against the lintel. Sir Richard dismissed the servant on guard and, with the help of Buckingham, pushed it gently to one side.

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.