The Nightingale Gallery (17 page)

‘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 belladonna and red arsenic are deadly poisons.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘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?’

‘A surmise but I think correct: Lady Isabella is an adultress. She did not love her husband but instead her husband’s brother. But now is not the time to speculate. Let’s ask the lady herself.’

When they arrived at Springall’s mansion in Cheapside, Cranston acted with the full majesty and force of the law. He told a surprised Buckingham, who greeted them in the hallway, that he wanted to see Sir Richard and Lady Isabella and other members of the household in the hall immediately. The young clerk pouted his lips as if he was going to object.

‘I mean, now, sir!’ Cranston bellowed, not caring if his voice carried through the house, out into the enclosed courtyard where craftsmen were working. ‘I want to see everybody!’ He swept into the great hall. ‘Here!’

He then marched up the hall, climbed on to the dais and sat down at the head of the table there, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to join him. The friar shrugged and got out his writing tray, parchment, ink horn and quills. Buckingham must have realised something was wrong for he was quickly joined in the hall, first by Sir Richard and then by Lady Isabella. The latter’s looks were not impaired by grief today. Her eyes were not so red, her cheeks blooming like roses. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, the white veil hiding her beautiful chestnut hair.

Sir Richard, in hose and open cambric shirt, wiped dust from his hands, apologising that he had been out with the craftsmen who were putting the finishing touches to their pageant for the young king’s coronation. Cranston just nodded, accepting his explanation as something irrelevant.

The priest also came hobbling in, his long hair swinging like a veil round his emaciated face. He threw a look of deep distaste at the coroner but called out civilly: ‘You are well, Sir John?’

‘I am well, Sir Priest,’ answered Cranston. ‘And much better for seeing you all here.’

The young priest must have caught the new note of authority in his voice. He stood still a moment and stared at Sir John through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled as if savouring some secret joke and slumped at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg. Dame Ermengilde swept in, unctuously escorted by Buckingham. Dressed completely in black, she moved down the hall like some silent spider and stood over the coroner.

‘I will not be summoned,’ she snapped, ‘here in my own house!’

‘Madam,’ Cranston didn’t even bother to look up, ‘you will sit down and listen to what I say. You will obey me or I will take you to the Marshalsea Prison, and
there
you can sit and listen to what I say.’ He looked up at Sir Richard and Lady Isabella. ‘I mean no offence. I appreciate that yesterday the funeral ceremonies were carried out but Masses were also sung for the souls of two other men, Brampton and Vechey, and I have news of them. They did not commit suicide. They were murdered!’

Cranston’s words hung in the air like a noose. Dame Ermengilde tightened her thin little lips and sat down without further ado. Sir Richard looked nervously at Lady Isabella. Ermengilde, seated beside Athelstan, also looked frightened, trying hard to hide it behind her mask of arrogance. Further down the table the priest tapped the table gently, singing some hymn softly under his breath. Buckingham sat, hands together, staring down at the table top, his face registering surprise and shock at Sir John’s words. Allingham was the last to join them. The tall, lanky merchant was nervous and ill at ease, his hand constantly fluttering to his mouth or patting his greasy hair. He mumbled some apology and sat next to the priest. He seemed unable to meet the coroner’s eyes, not daring even to look in his direction.

‘Sir John,’ the merchant mumbled, ‘you said Brampton and Vechey had been murdered? But how? Why? Brampton may have been a quiet man but I cannot imagine him allowing anyone to hustle him upstairs in a house full of people, tie a noose round his neck and hang him. The same is true of Vechey.’ He looked down the table at Allingham. ‘Stephen, you would accept that, wouldn’t you?’

The merchant never looked up but nodded and muttered something to himself.

‘What are you saying?’ Cranston leaned over the table. ‘Master Allingham, you spoke. What did you say?’

The merchant rubbed his hands together as if trying to wash them.

‘There’s something evil in this house,’ the merchant said slowly. ‘Satan is here. He stands in the corners, in quiet places, and watches us. I believe the coroner is right.’ He looked up, his lugubrious face pale, and Athelstan saw it was tear-stained. ‘Vechey was murdered! I think he knew something.’

‘Tush, man!’ cried Sir Richard. ‘Master Stephen, you worry too much. You have spent too many hours on your knees in church.’

‘What?’ Athelstan asked, putting his quill down. ‘What did Vechey know?’

The lanky merchant leaned forward, his face screwed up, eyes pinpricks of hatred.

‘I don’t know,’ he hissed. ‘And, if I did, I would not tell you, Friar. What can you do?’

‘On your allegiance,’ Cranston bawled, ‘I ask you, do you know anything about the deaths which have occurred in this household?’

‘No!’ Allingham grated. ‘They are a mystery. But Sir Thomas liked riddles and his own private jokes. There must be something in this house which would explain it all.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’ asked Sir Richard.

But the merchant rubbed the side of his face uneasily. ‘I have spoken enough,’ he mumbled, and fell silent.

‘In which case,’ Cranston began, ‘let us make a brief summary of what we do know. Correct me if I am wrong but Sir Thomas Springall was an alderman and a goldsmith. On the night he died he held a great banquet, a feast for his household, and invited Chief Justice Fortescue. He drank deeply, yes?’

Lady Isabella nodded, her beautiful eyes fixed on Cranston’s face. Sir Richard, however, watched Athelstan’s quill skim over the piece of vellum.

‘The banquet ends,’ Cranston continued. ‘Sir Thomas retires. You, Sir Richard, wish him good night whilst Lady Isabella sends down a maidservant to ask if he wishes for anything.’

Both of them acknowledged this.

‘You, Dame Ermengilde, heard Brampton take a cup of wine up to Sir Thomas’s room during the feast?’

‘I did not just hear!’ she retorted. ‘I opened my door and saw him. Then he went down.’

‘And how was he dressed?’

‘In a jerkin and doublet.’

‘And his feet?’

‘He had on the usual soft pair of boots which he always wore.’

‘Why do you remember this?’

‘Brampton was a quiet man,’ Dame Ermengilde replied, a touch of softness in her voice. ‘A good steward. He moved slowly, quietly, like a dutiful servant.’

‘And how did he seem?’

‘As normal. A little white-faced. He knew I opened the door but he never looked at me. He went down the stairs. No! He went along the other gallery up to the second floor and his own room.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘And you say that only Sir Thomas, then Sir Richard and Lady Isabella’s maidservant, went along the Nightingale Gallery?’

‘Yes, I am certain of that.’

‘And you are sure that Sir Thomas was not disturbed during the night?’

‘Yes, I told you, man!’ she snapped. ‘I am a light sleeper. I heard no one.’

‘And you, Father Crispin?’ Cranston leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of the young clerk’s face. ‘You went up the next morning. Dame Ermengilde heard you go along the Nightingale. When you failed to rouse Sir Thomas you went for Sir Richard whose chamber is on the adjoining passageway. Sir Richard came back with you. You were unable to arouse Sir Thomas so you asked the servants to break down the door?’

‘Yes.’ The priest nodded, his eyes bright. ‘That is exactly what I did.’

‘When the room was broken into, all of you here were present? You went in. Sir Thomas was sprawled on his bed, a cup of poison on the table beside him. Nobody said anything . . .’

‘Except Vechey!’ Allingham broke in. ‘He said, “There were only thirty-one!”'

‘Do you know what he meant by that?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, I wish to God I did!’

‘The physician was sent for,’ Cranston continued.

‘Master de Troyes. He came. He examined Sir Thomas’s corpse, pronounced him to have been poisoned, and claimed the potion was placed in a half-drunk cup of wine beside Sir Thomas’s bed. Now Brampton was last seen late in the evening taking a wine cup up to Sir Thomas’s chamber and was not seen alive again. The next morning, after Sir Thomas had been discovered dead, Brampton’s corpse was found swinging from a beam up in the garret. Master Vechey was here when Brother Athelstan and I came to the house for the first time. He went out late on the same evening, God knows where, and was found hanging from a beam under London Bridge. Now we have evidence which we will keep privy for the time being which will prove that neither Brampton nor Vechey committed suicide. Though, Lady Isabella, we are no further forward in resolving the mystery of your husband’s death.’

‘It could still have been Brampton!’

It was Buckingham who spoke. Cranston looked at him.

‘What makes you say that?’

The clerk shrugged. ‘I accept you have your own reasons for claiming Brampton did not commit suicide but that does not mean he is innocent of Sir Thomas’s death.’

Cranston grinned.

‘A good point, Master clerk. You would make a good lawyer. I shall remember that.’ There was a sudden commotion at the door. A servant scurried in, leaned over Sir Richard’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. The merchant looked up.

‘Sir John, there is a messenger, a cursitor from the sheriffs office, who wishes to speak to you.’

‘I will see him, Sir Richard, by your leave. Tell him to come in.’

The cursitor, a pompous young man, swaggered in. ‘Sir John, a message from the under sheriff.’ He looked around him. ‘It concerns Master Vechey.’

‘Yes!’ Cranston said. ‘You may speak here.’