The Nightingale Gallery (21 page)

Sir John shivered and looked around the tavern. He felt uneasy for the first time ever, a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of personal danger. Had they been followed? He looked quickly across at Athelstan. The friar was right. Whoever had committed these murders planned them well. If Lady Isabella was not the woman who went to the apothecary’s shop, then who was? And the harlot who had lured Vechey to his doom? And the secret poisoner of Sir Thomas and Master Allingham? Cranston suddenly blinked.

‘You keep saying “they”,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘There must be more than one. Either that or it’s someone very clever. I did think that someone outside that house was using assassins, professional killers, but that would be too dangerous. You see, the more people you hire to carry out a plot, the greater the danger of betrayal; either through a mistake, or a bribe, or simply by one of your minions being caught red-handed.’

‘And you have no suspects?’

‘No. It could be Sir Richard, it could be Lady Isabella, Buckingham, Father Crispin, even Dame Ermengilde. Who knows? One of the murdered men may have been an assassin.’

Sir John drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table.

‘You know, Athelstan, if it wasn’t for you and your bloody logic, I’d put the entire mystery down to witchcraft. People moving about in the dead of night, poisons being administered in a locked room. How on earth can we resolve it?’

‘As I said, Sir John, logic and a little evidence, some speculation, and perhaps some help from Mistress Fortune. In the end we will grasp the truth. I don’t particularly mourn the four who died. What bothers me, what’s making me sour and evil-tempered, is that the murderers are here, laughing at us, watching us fumble. They shall pay for that enjoyment. We can all murder, Sir John.’ He rose, dusting the crumbs from his habit. ‘Cain is in each of us. We lose our temper, feel cornered and frightened, it can be the work of an instant. But to savour murder - that’s not the prompting of Cain, that’s Satan!’

Cranston, his mouth full of hot food, simply mumbled his reply. Athelstan felt the thick ale seep into his stomach, making him relaxed, even sleepy.

‘Come on, Sir John. Chief Justice Fortescue awaits us and, as you know, justice waits for no man!’

Sir John glared, stuffed the rest of the food in his mouth and drained his tankard in one final gulp.

They hurried out into Fleet Street, Sir John wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, hitching his sword belt, shouting that he would revisit the tavern at his earliest convenience. They were halfway down Fleet Street when suddenly the Coroner’s mood changed. He stopped abruptly and gazed round, staring back at the throng they had pushed through.

‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’

The coroner chewed his lip. ‘We are being followed, Brother Athelstan, and I don’t like that.’

He looked round and went over to a tinker’s stall. Athelstan saw money change hands and Cranston came back with a thick broomstick.

‘Here, Athelstan!’

The friar looked in surprise at the long, smoothly planed ash pole.

‘I have no need of a staff, Sir John.’

Cranston grinned, his hands falling to the dagger and great broad sword he carried.

‘You may have, Athelstan. Remember what your psalmist says: “The devil goes around like a lion seeking whom he would devour.” I believe a lion or a devil, or both, are trailing us now!’

CHAPTER 8

As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The gatekeeper, recognising Cranston, let them in without a word. They hurried through the tranquil, fragrant-smelling garden, past the Inner and Middle Temples, and down Temple Stairs where they hired a wherry to take them to Westminster. Cranston, despite his bulk, jumped into the boat, pulling a surprised Athelstan along with him. He tripped on his staff and nearly pitched head first into the water. The boatman cursed, telling them to sit down and keep still, and then, puffing and sweating, he pulled his craft out midstream through the flocks of swans who arched their wings in protest as if they owned the river.

They followed the Thames as it curved down past the Savoy Palace, Durham and York House, past the high-pooped ships scarred from long voyages which were crowding in for repairs. At Charing Cross the boatman began to pull in as the deep bend in the river became more pronounced. They passed Scotland Yard; Westminster Abbey came into sight; the tower of St Margaret’s and the roofs, turrets and gables, shop-dwellings, houses and taverns, which made up the small city of Westminster.

The boatman pulled in, allowing Athelstan and Cranston to disembark at the Garden Stairs and go through the courts, corridors and passageways which linked the different buildings of Westminster Palace. The place was thronged; gaolers with their prisoners, attorneys, lawyers and clients, as well as vendors of paper, ink and food. The ne’er-do-wells and the many sightseers mixed with the army of law clerks carrying rolls of parchment up from the cellar known as Hell where, Sir John explained, the legal records were kept. The smell was terrible, despite the fresh breezes wafting in from the river. Some of the lawyers and justices, resplendent in their silken robes, held nosegays to their faces to fend off the odour.

Cranston led Athelstan into the Great Hall, pointing out the painted walls though some of the frescoes were beginning to flake. The famous ceiling, where the wooden angels flew face down through the dusty air above the crowd, was so high it could scarcely be seen in the gloom. Cranston stopped a beadle in his blue cloak, the shield of office on his breast and long staff tapping the paving stones proclaiming his sense of importance. Yes, the fellow assured them, with a nod of his head to the far end of the hall, the Court of King’s Bench was now in session and Chief Justice Fortescue attendant upon it.

The beady, little eyes softened as Cranston displayed his warrant, a silver coin lying on top of it. However, the court had finished its morning session. Perhaps Chief Justice Fortescue was in his chamber?

The beadle led them through the gloomy rooms off the main hall where the Court of Common Pleas, Court of Chancery and Court of Requests sat, and down a warren of lime-washed corridors until he stopped in front of a door and rapped noisily with his wand.

‘Come in!’ Chief Justice Fortescue, his scarlet, fur-trimmed robe tossed over a chair, was sitting behind a table. The angry look on the judge’s sallow face showed that either his attendance in court that morning or Cranston’s arrival had put him in an ill humour.

‘Ah!’ Fortescue dropped the manuscript he was reading on to the table. ‘Our zealous city coroner and his clerk. Please sit down.’ He gestured to a well-cushioned window seat.

Cranston glared back at him and waddled over. Athelstan sat next to the coroner and wondered what was to come. The Chief Justice threw them both another ill-favoured glance.

‘What progress has been made?’

In short, clipped tones Cranston told him exactly what had happened, and their suspicions. How the four deaths were linked. How Brampton and Vechey had probably not committed suicide but been murdered and that Allingham’s supposed death from natural causes was probably the murderer striking again.

‘You have no idea who it is?’

‘No, My Lord.’

‘Or why?’

‘No, My Lord.’

‘You found no great mystery that Sir Thomas Springall was hiding? Nothing which could endanger either the crown or the safety of the realm?’

‘Nothing,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Why should there be?’

Fortescue dropped his glance, fiddling with the great amethyst ring on one of his fingers.

‘Sir John, you hold your office from the crown. You could be removed.’

Cranston’s face sagged and Athelstan felt a tremor run through the great, corpulent body. He spoke up.

‘My Lord Chief Justice?’

Fortescue looked surprised, as if he had expected Athelstan to keep his mouth shut for the entire interview.

‘Yes, Brother? You have something to add, perhaps? Something Sir John does not know.’

‘No, I have nothing to add,’ replied Athelstan. ‘Except that Sir John and I have been most zealous in this matter. We could ask further questions - such as, My Lord what you yourself were doing at the banquet on the night Sir Thomas died? You said to us that you left early in the evening, but according to other witnesses you left just an hour before midnight. It would help us, My Lord,’ he said, ignoring the look of deep annoyance on the Chief Justice’s face. ‘If everyone spoke the truth we might avoid future dangers.’

‘Is that why you carry the staff, Brother?’ The Chief Justice retorted, totally ignoring Athelstan’s jibe. ‘You fear something, don’t you? What?’

‘I fear nothing, My Lord, except perhaps that those who do not wish us to find the truth may intervene in a way we least expect. And that, of course, would help no one.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I mean, My Lord,’ continued Athelstan, warming to his task, ‘Sir John is a well-known and well-beloved coroner in the city. If he was attacked in public, people would be scandalised. The king’s chief peace officer in the capital prevented from walking the streets! And if he was removed from office, questions would be asked. People would look very carefully at what matters Sir John was involved in when he was removed. There would be questions. There are aldermen who sit in the Commons, in St Stephen’s Chapel, just a stone’s throw away, only too willing to use any ammunition against the regent.’ He spread his hands. ‘Now, My Lord, I ask you to think again before you threaten Sir John. Remember, this task was given to us by you. If you wish, we can let the matter drop and others, perhaps more fortunate, can dig amongst the scandals, the lies and the deceit and possibly search out the truth.’

Fortescue took a deep breath to control the fury raging within him. How dare this friar, this bare-arsed Dominican in his dusty black robe and shoddy leather sandals, sit and lecture him, Chief Justice of the realm! Yet Fortescue was no man’s fool. He knew Athelstan spoke the truth. He smiled falsely.

‘True, Brother,’ he replied, ‘but there seems no answer to this conundrum in sight and the regent is most pressing. Indeed, he has invited both of you to a special tournament to be held at Smithfield the day after next and, following that, later in the evening, a banquet in the Savoy Palace. I may as well be blunt: Sir Richard Springall and all his household have also been invited. The duke does not care whether you wish to attend or not - he orders it. He wishes to inspect at close quarters all the actors in this drama. I take it you will attend?’

‘Of course, My Lord,’ Sir John spoke up. ‘It’s our duty.’ He grinned slyly at his assistant. ‘And both Brother Athelstan and myself would like some sort of respite, a short rest from tramping the streets on your work.’

On that parting note, Cranston belched noisily and left Chief Justice Fortescue, Athelstan behind him. They made their way back to the river steps.

During their journey up river Cranston sat morosely in the bows of the boat, staring into the water. Only when they reached Temple Stairs and disembarked did he put one podgy arm round Athelstan’s shoulders and press his face closer to that of the friar. His breath smelt as rich as a wine press.

‘Athelstan,’ he slurred, ‘I thank you for what you said there, in the presence of that mean-faced bastard! I’ll not forget.’

Athelstan stepped back in mock annoyance.

‘Sir John, remember the old adage? “The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.” Moreover, I always think that working with you will lessen my spell in Purgatory when I die.’

Sir John turned and belched as loudly as he could.

‘That, Brother,’ he retorted, ‘is the only answer I can and will make!’

They continued through the Temple Gates into the alleyway which would lead them into Fleet Street and a new cook shop. They were chatting about the tournament and John of Gaunt’s invitation when Cranston stopped as he heard a sound behind them: a slithering across the cobbles.

‘Athelstan,’ he whispered, ‘keep on walking.’ His hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘But grip your staff and be ready!’

They walked a few steps further. Athelstan heard a sound close behind him and spun round as Cranston followed suit. Two men stood there, one tall and masked, the other a small, weasel-eyed individual dressed in a dirty leather jerkin, hose and boots which had seen better days. He wore a flat, battered cap on his head, pushed to one side to give him a jaunty air. Athelstan swallowed hard and felt a surge of panic. Both men were armed, each carrying a naked sword and dirk. What frightened him most was their absolute silence, the way they stared, unmoving, not issuing threats.

‘Why do you follow us?’ Cranston said, pushing Athelstan behind him.

‘We do not follow, sir,’ the weasel-eyed man replied. ‘My companion and I merely walk the same path as you do.’

‘I think you do follow us,’ Cranston replied, ‘and have been for some time. You followed us down to the river and waited until we returned. You have been expecting us.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’ The man took one step closer, sword and dagger now half raised. ‘But you insult us, sir, and you must apologise.’

‘I do not apologise to you, nor to the murderous bastard next to you! I am Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’ He drew his sword and scrabbled behind his back to pull out the dirk. ‘You, sirs, are footpads which is a felony. You are attacking a king’s officer and that is treason. This is Brother Athelstan, a member of the Dominican order, a priest of the church. Any attack on him would bring down excommunication on you. And that, sirs, is the least you can expect! I will count to three,’ the coroner continued as if enjoying himself, ‘and then, if you are not out of this alleyway and back whence you came, you will answer to me! One. . . two . . .’

That was as far as he got. The men rushed at them, swords and daggers raised. The coroner met both attackers, catching their weapons in a whirling arc of steel as he nimbly spun his own in self-defence. In those few seconds Athelstan realised the depth of his own arrogance. He had always considered Sir John a portly, self-indulgent toper, but at this moment the coroner seemed more at ease, sword and dagger in his hands, fighting for his life, than he had at any time since they had met. He moved with a grace and speed which surprised both Athelstan and his opponents. Sir John was a competent swordsman, moving only when he needed to, keeping both dagger and sword locked in constant play. Athelstan could only stand and watch, open-mouthed. The coroner was smiling, his eyes half closed, sweat running down his face. The friar could have sworn that Sir John was singing a hymn or a song under his breath. There seemed little danger. Whoever had sent these assassins had completely underestimated the fat knight. Sir John fenced on, parrying sideways, backwards and forwards, playing with his opponents. Cautiously, Athelstan joined the fray - not as expertly as Sir John, but the long ash pole came into play, creating as much confusion as it did harm. Athelstan now stood shoulder to shoulder with Cranston. Their two assailants drew back.