Текст книги "The Nightingale Gallery"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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They moved out of Cheapside up towards the old city wall which housed the infamous gaol, past the small church of Nicholas Le Quern near Blow-Bladder Street and into the great open space before the prison. This was really no more than two huge towers linked by a high curtain wall. The area in front of Newgate, Athelstan thought, must be the nearest thing to hell on earth. There was a market down the centre, the stalls facing out, but the air and ground were polluted with the blood, dirt and ordure which ran down from the shambles where the animals were slaughtered and the gore allowed to find its own channel. Sometimes the blood oozed into great black puddles over which huge swarms of flies hovered. Athelstan was glad that Cranston had decided to ride.

The market place itself was full of people, jostling and fighting their way to the stalls, their tempers not helped by the heat, dust and flies. In front of the prison gate every type of disreputable under heaven was now thronging; pickpockets, knaves, apple squires, as well as the relatives of debtors and other people trying to gain access to their loved ones. Cranston and Athelstan stabled their horses in a dingy tavern and walked back, forcing their way through to the great prison door. Outside, standing on a beer barrel, a member of the ward watch rang a hand bell which tolled like a death knell through the noisy clamour of the place.

'You prisoners,' the fellow was shouting, 'that are within for wickedness and sin, know now that after many mercies you are appointed to die just before noon tomorrow!'

On and on he went, shouting the usual rubbish about God's mercy and justice over all. Cranston and Athelstan pushed by him and hammered at the great gate. A grille was opened, revealing an evil, narrow-faced, yellow-featured man with eyes of watery blue and a mouth as thin as a vice.

'What do you want?' the fellow snapped, his lips curled back to reveal blackened stumps of teeth. Cranston pushed his face to the grille.

'I am Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. Now open up!'

The grille slammed shut and they heard the noise of footsteps. A small postern door in the great gate opened. A guard stepped out with a club, forcing others back as Cranston and Athelstan were waved in. They shoved by, the stale odour of the gatekeeper's body making them choke. They stepped into the lodge or small chamber where the keeper always greeted new prisoners.

'I wish to see the keeper, Fitzosbert!' Cranston snapped.

The fellow grinned and took them along a dark, smelly passageway into another chamber where the keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert, was squatting behind a great oak table like a king enthroned in his palace. Athelstan had heard about the fellow but this was the first time he had met him. Indeed, anyone who had any business with the law in London knew Fitzosbert's fearsome reputation. A very rich and therefore powerful man, as head keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert had the pick of all the prisoners' possessions as well as the sale of concessions, be it beds, sheets, coals, drink, food, even a wench. Anyone who entered the prison had to pay a fee and Athelstan recollected that one of his parishioners, too poor to pay, had been beaten up for his poverty whilst Fitzosbert had stood by, smiling all the time. The keeper, Athelstan concluded, was not a pleasant man and on seeing him the friar believed every story he had heard. He had a louse-ridden face, dirty blond hair and carmine-painted lips. Fitzosbert's sunken cheeks were liberally rouged and this made his bulbous grey eyes seem even more fish-like. The friar just stared at him and concluded that Fitzosbert would have liked to have been born a woman. Only that would explain his short lace– trimmed jerkin and the tight red hose. Athelstan smiled, revelling in fantasies of revenge. One day perhaps, he thought, the bugger might be caught for sodomy and Athelstan vowed that for the first time in his life he might attend an execution. Fitzosbert, however, had already dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes and was staring coolly at Sir John as if to prove he was not cowed by any show of authority.

'You have warrants, Sir?'

'I don't need warrants!' Cranston snapped. 'I am the king's coroner. I wish to see a prisoner.'

'Who?'

'Nathaniel Solper.'

Fitzosbert smiled. 'And your business with him?'

'My own.'

Again Fitzosbert smiled though Athelstan had seen more humour and warmth on the silver plate of a coffin lid.

'You must explain, Sir John.' The fellow placed two effete ring-bedecked hands on the desk before him. 'I cannot allow anyone, even the regent himself, to come wandering through my prison asking to see prisoners, especially such as Solper. He's a condemned man.'

'He's not yet hanged and I wish to speak with him, now!' Cranston leaned over the table, placing his hands over those of Fitzosbert and pressing down hard until the keeper's face paled and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

'Now look, Master Fitzosbert,' Cranston continued slowly, 'if you wish, I will leave now. And tomorrow I will come back with warrants duly signed and sealed by the regent, and accompanied by a group of soldiers from the Tower. Then I will go through this prison, see Solper, and perhaps…' He smiled. 'We all have friends. Perhaps petitions could be presented in the Commons. Petitions demanding an investigation of your accounts. I am sure the Barons of the Exchequer would be interested in the profits to be made in the king's prison, and in what happens to money entrusted to you.'

Fitzosbert pursed his lips. 'I agree!' he muttered.

Cranston stood back.

'And now, Sir, Solper!'

The keeper got up and minced out of the room. Athelstan and Cranston followed him, the friar fascinated by the man's swaying walk. He was about to nudge Cranston, congratulate him on his skills of persuasion, when he heard a sound and turned quickly. Two huge gaolers, with the bodies of apes and the faces of cruel mastiffs, padded silently behind them. Fitzosbert stopped and turned.

'Gog and Magog!' he sang out. 'They are my bodyguards, Sir John, my assistants in case I am attacked.'

Cranston's hand flew immediately to his sword. He pulled out the great blade, tapping the toe of his boot with it.

'This is my servant, Master Fitzosbert! May I remind you that I carry the king's warrant. If anything happens to me, it's treason!'

'Of course.' Fitzosbert's smile made him look more hideous than ever. They walked on, wandering through a warren of tortuous passageways where the noise and stench grasped Athelstan by the throat. He had heard that Newgate was a hell-hole but now he experienced it first hand and understood why some prisoners went quickly insane. There were many who talked and sang incessantly, whilst others, particularly the women, who knew they were not there for too long, refused to clean themselves and lay about like sows in their own filth. Deeper into the prison they walked, past one open chamber where the limbs of quartered men lay like joints of meat on a butcher's stall, waiting to be soaked with salt and cumin seed before being tarred. Deeper into the hell, Athelstan shivered, folding his arms into the voluminous sleeves of his robe. Mad faces pushed against the grilles in the doors, tortured ones begging for mercy. The guilty baying their hatred, the innocent quietly pleading for a hearing. At last Fitzosbert stopped at one cell door and clicked his fingers. One of the giants shuffled forward, a ring of keys in his huge fist. A key was inserted in the lock and the door opened. Fitzosbert whispered something and the giant nodded and pushed his way into the cell. They heard screams, kicks, the sickening thud of a punch, and the ogre roaring Solper's name. He reappeared, grasping the unfortunate by the scruff of his shabby collar. Fitzosbert went up to the prisoner and tapped him gently on the cheek.

'Master Solper, you are fortunate. You have important visitors. Someone I believe you know, Sir John Cranston, and his – ' he looked coyly at Athelstan ' – companion.'

The friar ignored him, staring at Solper. The prisoner was nothing remarkable: young, white-faced, and so filthy it was difficult to tell where one garment ended and another began.

'We need a chamber to talk to this man,' demanded Cranston.

The head keeper shrugged and led them back up a passageway to a cleaner empty cell. The door was left open. Cranston waved Solper to a seat.

'Master keeper!' he called.

Fitzosbert came back into the room and Cranston laid some silver on the table.

'Some wine, bread, and two of your cleanest cups!'

The head keeper scooped up the coins as deftly as any tax collector. A few minutes later one of the giant gaolers pushed back into the cell, carrying a tray with all Cranston had asked for. He placed it on the table and left slamming the door behind him. The young prisoner just sat nervously on a stool watching Athelstan. Cranston took one of the cups and a small white loaf and thrust them into his hands.

Well, Solper, we meet again.'

The man licked his lips nervously.

Cranston grinned wolfishly. 'You have been condemned?'

'Yesterday, before the Justices,' the young man squeaked in reply, his voice surprisingly high.

'On what charge?'

'Counterfeiting coins.'

'Ah, yes! Let me introduce you, Brother,' Cranston said. 'Master Solper, counterfeiter, thief, footpad and seller of relics. Two years ago, Master Solper could get you anything; a piece of cloth from the napkins used at the Last Supper, a hair from the beard of St Joseph, part of a toy once used by the Baby Christ. Master Solper has tried his hand at – well, God only knows! You are marked?'

The young man nodded and puUed down his dirty jerkin. Athelstan saw the huge 'F' branded into his right shoulder, proclaiming him a felon.

'Twice indicted, the third time caught,' Cranston intoned. 'You are due to hang, and yet you may evade justice.'

Athelstan saw the hope flare in the young man's eyes. He squirmed nervously on the stool.

'What do you want? What do I have to do?'

'The Sons of Dives, have you ever heard of them?'

The young man pulled a face.

'Have you or haven't you?'

'Yes, everybody has. In the guilds,' the young man continued, 'there are always small groups or societies prepared to lend money at high interest rates to the nobles or to other merchants. They take names and titles: the Keepers of the Gate, the Guardians of the Coffers.' He shrugged. 'The Sons of Dives are another group.'

'And their leader?'

'Springall, Sir Thomas Springall. He's well known.'

'Now, another matter.'

Cranston delved into a small leather pouch he had taken from his saddle-bag, undid the cord at the neck and drew out a small vase containing the poison he had taken from Springall's house. He unstoppered the jar and handed it over.

'Smell that!'

The young man gingerly lifted the rim to his nose, took one sniff, made a face and handed it back.

'Poison!'

'Good man, Solper, poison. This is the real reason I came, I half guessed who the Sons of Dives were. But if I wanted to buy poison, a rare exotic poison such as belladonna, crushed diamond or arsenic, where would I go?'

The young man looked across at Athelstan.

'Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.'

'Ah, yes, but you can't very well knock on a monastery gate and say, "May I have some poison?" and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?'

Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.

'Master Solper,' Cranston continued conversationally, 'I have come here offering you your life. Not much perhaps, but if you answer my questions I can arrange for a pardon to be sent down under the usual condition: that you abjure the realm. You know what that means? Straight as an arrow to the nearest port, secure a passage and go elsewhere. Anywhere – Outremer, France, Scythia, Persia – but not England, and certainly not London! You do understand?'

The young man licked his lips.

'Yes,' he muttered.

'And if you do not satisfy my curiosity,' Cranston continued, 'I am going to knock on the door, leave, and tomorrow you will hang. So, if I want to buy a poison in London, where would I go?'

'Nightshade House.'

'Where's that?'

'It's owned by Simon Foreman. It's in an alleyway.' The young man screwed up his eyes, concentrating on getting the facts right. 'That's right, a street called Piper Street, Nightshade House in Piper Street. Simon Foreman would sell anything for a great price and not ask any questions. It is probable the poison in that phial came from him. He could tell you.'

'One further question. Sir Thomas Springall – you knew of him?*

The young man nodded his head towards the door.

'Like Fitzosbert, he liked young boys, the softer and more pliant the better, or so the whisper says. He went to houses where such people meet. Springall was also a moneylender, a usurer. He had few friends and many enemies. There was gossip about him.' The young man drained his cup and sat cradling it, eyes fixed on the wine remaining in the jug. 'It was only a matter of time before someone used that information.' He shrugged. 'But Springall had powerful friends at court and in the church. No bailiff or constable would touch him. He and all his kind meet in a tavern outside the city on the Mile End Road – it's called the Gaveston. You can buy what you want there, as long as you pay in good gold. That's all I know.'

Fitzosbert banged on the door.

'Sir John, are you finished?'

'Yes,' Cranston called. 'Listen!' he said to Solper. 'You are sure you know nothing else?'

The young fellow shook his head.

'I have told you all I know. The pardon, you will keep your word?'

'Of course. God keep you, Solper,' he muttered and went towards the door just as Fitzosbert threw it open. The coroner gently pushed the keeper out before him, took out his purse and clinked a few coins into his hand.

'I thank you again for your hospitality, Fitzosbert,' he said. 'Look after our friend here. Some more wine, a better cell. Letters will come down from the Guildhall tomorrow. You will act accordingly. You understand?'

Fitzosbert smiled and winked. 'Of course, Sir John. No problem. I will carry out any order given to me by such an illustrious coroner of the city.'

Cranston pulled a face and he and the friar walked as fast as dignity would allow from that loathsome place. When the great gate of Newgate slammed behind them, Cranston leaned against it, gasping for clean air, his great body quivering like a beached whale's.

'Thank God!' he spluttered. 'Thank God to be out of there! Pray to your God and anyone else you know that you never land up in the power of Fitzosbert, in one of those Godforsaken cells!'

He looked up at the great tower soaring above him.

'If I had my way, I would burn the entire place to the ground and hang Fitzosbert on a scaffold as high as the sky. But, come, Whitefriars and the Springall mansion await.'

CHAPTER 6

They collected their horses and made their way down Fleet Street towards the high white chalk store building of White– friars. As the press of people was so great, they walked their horses.

'Do you think Solper was right about Springall?' asked Athelstan.

Sir John nodded. 'I suspected as much. Many men have such inclinations. Yet, you know the sentence for such crimes: boiled alive in a great vat over a roaring fire at Southwark. Not the usual end for a powerful London merchant! Hence the secrecy, and hence perhaps the vicious quarrel with Brampton, the rather effete manners of Master Buckingham, as well as the fact that Sir Thomas did not sleep with his wife.' He looked slyly at the friar. 'Such a woman, such a body! It fair makes your mouth water. Why should a real man lock himself away from such pleasures, eh?' He stopped momentarily to watch a juggler. 'Springall, like many a man,' he said, pushing forward again, 'had his public life and his private one. I suspect if the drapes were really pulled aside, we would find a stinking mess.' He lifted his hand and gestured to the great houses on either side, soaring four storeys above them, blocking out the hot afternoon sun. 'In any of these buildings scandal, sin, failings and weaknesses are to be found. They even say,' he nudged Athelstan playfully, that vices similar to SpringalPs are found in monasteries and among friars. What do you think of that, Brother, eh?'

'I would say that priests are like any other men, be they lawyer or coroner, Sir John, they have their weaknesses. And, but for the grace of God…' Athelstan let his voice trail away. 'But why are we here?' he asked angrily, realising they were entering the area around the great Carmelite monastery.

Cranston touched him on the arm and pointed to the far corner, just past the huge gateway. An emaciated fellow with jet black hair, thin lips and large brooding eyes caught the friar's eye. The man was dressed completely in black, his dark cloak covered with the most fantastic symbols: pentangles, stars, moons, suns, and on his head a pointed hat. He had laid out a great canvas sheet before him, bearing different phials and small bowls. Now he stood still, his very appearance drawing the people around him.

'Watch this!' Cranston whispered. 'The fellow's our guide.'

The man took out two small whistles and, pushing one into each corner of his mouth, began to play a strange, rhythmic, haunting tune. He then put down the instruments and held up powerful hands.

'Ladies and gentlemen, knights, courtiers, members of the Guild!' He caught Athelstan's eye. 'Friars, priests, citizens of London! I am Doctor Mirablis. I have studied in Byzantium and Trezibond, and travelled across the land to the great Cham of Tartary. I have seen battle fleets in the Black Sea and the great war galleons of the Caspian. I have supped with the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan. I have crossed deserts, visited fabulous cities, and in my journeys I have amassed many secrets and mysteries!'

His claims were greeted with roars of laughter. Cranston and Athelstan drew closer. An apprentice from a nearby stall took out a bullock horn, scooped some dirty water from a rain barrel and began to sprinkle the magician with it. Dr Mirabilis just ignored him and held up his hands, calming the clamour and good natured cat-calls.

'I will show you I have power over matter. Over the very birds in the air.' He turned, pointing up to the top of the monastery wall. 'See that pigeon there!' Everyone's eyes followed the direction of his finger. 'Now, look,' the fellow continued, and taking a piece of black charcoal, painted a rough picture of the bird on the monastery wall. He then began to stab the drawing, uttering magical incantations. The clamour grew around him, Cranston and Athelstan moved closer, their hands on their wallets as the crowd was infested with naps, foists and pickpockets as a rick of hay with mice and rats. Mirabilis continued to stab the picture, muttering low-voiced curses, looking up at the walls where the pigeon was still standing. Suddenly the bird, as if influenced by the magical incantations against the picture below, twitched and dropped down dead. The 'oohs' and 'ahs' of reverence which greeted this would have been the envy of any priest or preacher. Cranston grinned and gripped Athelstan by the wrist.

'Wait awhile,' he said.

Doctor Mirabilis's reputation now enhanced by this miracle, he began to sell his jars and philtres of crushed diamond, skin of newt collected at midnight, batwing, marjoram, fennel and hyssop.

'Certain cures,' he said, 'for any agues, aches and rheums you suffer from.'

For a while business was brisk, then the crowd drifted away to watch an old man further down the lane who cavorted and danced in the most fantastical way. Cranston handed the reins of his horse to Athelstan and went over to the 'doctor.'

'Most Reverend Doctor Mirabilis, it is good to meet you again.'

The fellow looked up, his eyes milky blue like those of a cat. He studied Cranston then stared past him at Athelstan.

'Do I know you?' he asked. 'Do you wish to buy my physic?'

'Samuel Parrot,' continued Cranston, 'I would not buy green grass from you in the spring.'

The fellow's eyes shifted to right and left.

'Who are you?' he whispered.

'Surely you have not forgotten me, Mirabilis?' Cranston murmured. 'A certain case before the Justices in the Guildhall about physic which was supposed to cure. Instead, it made men and women sick for weeks.'

The famous Doctor Mirabilis stepped closer.

'Of course!' His face broke into a gap-toothed smile. 'Sir John Cranston, coroner!' The smile was hideously false. 'Is there anything I can do for you?'

'Not here,' Cranston said. 'But Piper Alley, Nightshade House. You can lead us there?'

The physician nodded and, scooping up his philtres and potions into a leather sheet, led Cranston and Athelstan from Whitefriars down a maze of streets so narrow they continued to lead their horses.

'How does he do it?' Athelstan whispered.

'Do what?'

'The bird, the pigeon?'

Cranston laughed and gestured to where Doctor Mirabilis was now walking ahead of them.

'If you went to his little garret, you would find baskets of trained pigeons – you know, the type which carries messages. Every so often our friend here drugs one of them with nox vomica, a slow acting poison. The pigeon is released and takes up a stance nearby. The poor bird will remain immobile because of the effects of the poison. After a while it will drop down dead, and there you have his magic!' He laughed. 'Sometimes, of course, it does not work. Doctor Mirabilis here is always ready to run, fleet as a deer, fast as any hare!'

The learned physician, as if he knew his name was being mentioned, turned and gave a gap-toothed grin, waving at them to follow a little faster.

Athelstan now saw why Cranston had hired Mirabilis. Southwark was bad but this area around Whitefriars was worse. Even though it was still daylight, the alleyways and runnels were dark, closed off by the houses built on either side. A silent, evil place, becoming more ominous the deeper they went. The houses around them, built hundreds of years ago, now derelict and unkempt, huddled close together, blocking out the summer sky. Underfoot the track was dirty, caking their boots and sandals with ordure and mud. Most of the doorways were empty. Now and again a shadow would slip out but, seeing Cranston's long sword, retreat again. Mirabilis twisted and turned, Athelstan and Cranston finding it hard to keep up. Abruptly he stopped and indicated an alleyway, a long, dark passage ahead.

'Piper Alley,' he whispered. 'Goodbye, Sir!'

And, before Cranston could object, Doctor Mirabilis slipped up another alleyway and disappeared out of sight.

Athelstan and Cranston walked cautiously down Piper Alley. The houses on either side were shuttered and closed. At last they came to one fitting Doctor Mirabilis's description of Simon Foreman's house. It had a huge, battered sign at the end of a long ash pole.

Nightshade House was separated from the street by a flagged courtyard, the general approach defended by iron railings. Even in daylight it had a sombre, suspicious air as if it wished to slink back from the adjoining houses. More like a prison than a private residence, the windows were grated and the huge door barred and bound with iron bands. There was no answer to Cranston's knock, so he banged again. Behind them a dog howled and a door opened and shut. Looking down towards the mouth of the street, they saw shadows gathering. Again Cranston knocked. Athelstan joined him, hammering on the door with his fist. There was a sound of soft footsteps, of chains being loosened and bolts drawn back. The door was swung open by an unprepossessing man of middle stature, creamy– faced, and merry-eyed. He constantly scratched the bald dome of his head. Mirabilis looked like a magician, Foreman had the appearance of some village parson in his dark fustian jacket, hose and soft felt slippers. Like a host in some cheerful tavern, he told them to tether their horses and ushered them in, asking them to sit at the table and wait while he finished his business in his own secret chamber. They sat and glanced around. The room was surprisingly neat, tidy and well kept. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Around the room were tables and chairs, some covered with quilted cushions, and on the walls shelves of jars which were neatly labelled. Athelstan studied the jars, dismissing them as nothing but mild cures for ague, aches and pains. They contained herbs such as hyssop, crushed sycamore leaves, moss – nothing that could not be bought at any apothecary's throughout the length and breadth of the city. At last Foreman came back, pulling up a chair beside them like some benevolent uncle ready to listen to a story or tell a merry tale.

'Well, sirs, who are you?'

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and my clerk, Brother Athelstan.'

The man smiled with his lips but his eyes became hard and watchful.

'You wish to purchase something?'

'Yes, red arsenic and belladonna. You do sell them?'

The transformation in Foreman was marvellous to behold. The merry mask slipped, his eyes became more vigilant. He straightened in his chair, looking nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan sensed that, if he had known who they were before he answered the door, he would never have let them inside, or else would have taken measures to hide whatever he had in the house.

'Well, sir?' Cranston asked. 'Do you have these poisons?'

Foreman shook his head, his eyes never leaving the coroner's.

'Sir, I am an apothecary. If you want a cure for the rheum in your knee, an ache in your head, or your stomach is churned up by bad humours, I can do it. But bella– d›nna and red arsenic are deadly poisons.' He let out a deep s.gh. 'Very few people sell them. They are costly and highly dangerous in the hands of those who might use them for the destruction of life.'

Cranston smiled and leaned closer, his face a few inches from that of the apothecary.

'Now, Master Foreman, I am going to begin again. You do sell red arsenic, nightshade, belladonna, and other deadly potions to those who are prepared to pay. Look,' he lied, 'I have in my wallet a warrant from the Chief Justice and I shall stay here whilst my clerk hurries back to the city and brings men from the under sheriff to search this house. If one grain of poison, red arsenic, white arsenic, the juice of the poppy or any other damnable philtre is here, then you will answer for it, not at the Guildhall but before King's Bench! Come, surely somewhere in this house there are records, memoranda of what you sell?'

The apothecary's face paled and beads of sweat broke out on his brow.

'There would be many,' the fellow whispered, "who would curse you, Cranston, for dragging me into court! I have powerful friends.' His eyes flickered towards Athelstan. 'Abbots, archdeacons, priests. Men only too willing to defend me and keep my secrets – and theirs – hidden from the light the law!'

'Good!' Cranston answered. 'Now we understand each other, Master Foreman. I have no desire to stop your evil trade in whatever you sell, buy and plot, or to search out your secrets, though one day perhaps I will.' He stared up at the shelves above him. 'What I want now is to know who in the last month has been here to buy arsenic and belladonna? Surely you recognise this?' He took out the small stoppered jar of poison and Foreman's eyes rounded in surprise. 'This is yours, sir,' Cranston probed gently. 'Look, on your shelves, there are similar ones. Who in the last few weeks purchased this poison?'

He held up the jar. Foreman sighed, rose, and wandered back into the chamber. Cranston took out his dagger and laid it on the floor beside him. A short while later the apothecary returned, looked at the dagger and smiled thinly.

'There is no need for that, Sir John. I will give you the information. Anything to have you gone!'

He sat down on the chair, a roll of parchment in his hands. He unrolled it slowly, muttering to himself.

'One person,' he said, looking up, 'bought both poisons in that jar about a week ago, as well as a rare odourless potion which can stop the heart but not be traced.'

'What did he look like?'

The apothecary smiled.

'Unlike any man! She was a lady, richly dressed. She wore a mask to conceal her face. You know the type ladies from the court wear when they go some place with a gallant who is usually not their husband? She came and paid me generously.'

'What kind of woman was she?'

'The woman kind,' the fellow replied sardonically, now realising he had very little information to give this snooping coroner.

'Describe her!'

Foreman rolled up the parchment and sat back in his chair.

'She was tall. As I said she wore a mask, and a rich black cloak with white lambswool trimmings. Her hood was well pulled forward but I glimpsed her hair, a reddish chestnut colour, like some beautiful leaf in autumn. Stately, she was.' He looked at Cranston and shrugged. 'Another lady, I thought, looking for poison to make her love life that little bit easier.' Foreman tapped the roll of parchment against his thigh. 'That, sirs, is all I can and will tell you.'

Once they had left the shop and collected their horses, Athelstan and Cranston rode as fast as they could up Piper Alley back into the main thoroughfare. Once or twice they lost their way but Cranston still kept his dagger unsheathed and soon they had reached Whitefriars and were back into Fleet Street.

'You know who the woman was, Cranston, don't you?'

The coroner nodded. 'Lady Isabella Springall.' He stopped his horse and looked across at the friar. 'The description fits her, Brother. She also had the motive.'

'Which is?'