The Nightingale Gallery (9 page)

‘The weight of office!’ she shrilled. ‘It’s the weight of office which makes him drink.’

And, grabbing Sir John roughly by the hand, she unceremoniously pushed him upstairs.

Athelstan stood in the hallway looking carefully around for this was the first time he had been to Cranston’s house and met his wife. The room beyond the hall was cosy and comfortable with clean rushes on the floor and a large, high-backed chair before the fire. Athelstan caught a fragrant aroma from the kitchen, the supper Sir John had missed. The friar realised how hungry he was.

Cranston’s wife Maude rejoined him, still behaving as if Athelstan had brought her husband home from a heroic field of battle rather than half drunk, his doublet stained with vomit.

‘Brother,’ she said, taking the friar by the hand, her bright blue eyes full of life, ‘this is the first time I have met you. Please, you must stay.’

Athelstan needed no second bidding and sank gratefully into a chair, accepting the meat pastry, mince tart and cup of cold wine that Lady Maude pushed before him. After that, she showed him up into a chamber at the top of the house. Athelstan said his prayers, the
Dies Requiem
for Springall, Brampton, his own brother and others, made the sign of the cross on himself and thanked God for a wholesome day.

He slept like a babe and woke just after dawn. He felt guilty at not returning to his own church but hoped that his few parishioners would understand. Had Simon the tiler fixed the roof? he wondered. Would Bonaventure be fed? And surely Wat the dung-collector would make sure the door was locked and Godric safe? And Benedicta the widow who attended every morning Mass, whose husband had been killed in the king’s wars beyond the seas . . .? Athelstan sat on his bed and crossed himself. Sometimes he would catch Benedicta looking at him, her lovely face pale as ivory, her dark eyes smiling.

‘No sin!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘No sin!’ Christ himself had his woman friends. He gazed at the floor. For the first time ever he realised how he missed the woman when he did not see her. Every morning at Mass he sought her smiling eyes as if she alone understood his loneliness and felt for him. Athelstan shook himself, dressed, and went along to the kitchen to beg from a startled maid a bowl of hot water, a clean napkin and some salt with which to scrub his teeth. After his ablutions, finding the house still quiet, he left and went back down Cheapside to the church of St Mary Le Bow. The bells were clanging in the high tower which soared up to a steel blue sky. Athelstan saw the night watchman douse the light, the beacon which was lit every evening to guide travellers through the streets of London.

Inside the dawn Mass was just ending, the priest offering Christ to God in the presence of three old women, a beggar and a blind man with his dog. They all squatted on the paving-stone before the rood screen. Athelstan waited near the baptismal font. When the Mass was finished he followed the priest into the vestry. Father Matthew was a genial fellow and cheerfully granted Athelstan’s request, giving him vestments and vessels so he could celebrate his own Mass in one of the small chantry chapels built off the main aisle.

After Mass and the chanting of the Divine Office, Athelstan thanked the priest but refused his kind offer of a meal and wandered back into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was now coming to life. The cookshops were open, the awnings of the stalls pulled down, and already the apprentices were darting in and out, seeking custom for their masters. The friar walked back up to the Poultry and knocked on the coroner’s door. Cranston greeted him, standing like vice reformed, sober, dour, full of his own authority as if he wished to erase the memory of the night before.

‘Come in, Brother!’ He looked out of the corner of his eye as he beckoned Athelstan into the parlour. ‘I am grateful for what you did last night when I was inconvenienced.’

Athelstan hid his smile as Cranston waved him to a stool, sitting opposite in a great high-backed chair. In the kitchen Maude was singing softly as she baked bread, its sweet, fresh scent filling the house.

Strange, Athelstan thought, that a man like Sir John, steeped in violent bloody death, should live in such homely surroundings.

Cranston stretched and crossed his legs.

‘Well, Brother, shall we record a clear case of suicide?’

‘I would like to agree with your verdict,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but something eludes me. Something I cannot place, something small, like looking at a tapestry with a loose thread.’

‘God’s teeth!’ Cranston roared as he rose and went to fetch the boots standing in the corner. He pulled them on and looked sourly across at the friar.

‘I know you, Brother, and your nose for mischief. If you feel there is something wrong, there is. Let’s be careful, however. Springall belonged to the court faction in the city, and if we put a foot wrong, well . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘What I say,’ Cranston caustically retorted. ‘I stay out of the muddy pools of politics. That gives me the right to insult fools like Fortescue. But if I offend the court, its opponents think I am a friend. If I am partial to them, I am an enemy.’ He buttoned up his doublet. ‘God knows when order will be restored. The king is young, a mere boy. Gaunt is so ambitious. You know, through his wife he has a claim to the throne of Castille; through his grandmother to the throne of France. And between him and the throne of England - one small boy!’ Cranston closed the parlour door so his wife could not hear. ‘There may be violence. For myself I do not care, but I do not want armed retainers terrifying my household by arresting me in the dead of night.’ He sighed, and picking up his cloak, swung it about him. ‘However, I trust your judgement, Athelstan. Something’s wrong, though God knows what!’

Athelstan looked away. He had spoken largely without thinking. He thought back to the visit to the Springall house yesterday. Yes, there was something wrong. Oh, everything was neat and orderly. Springall had been murdered and his murderer had committed suicide so everything was neat and tidied away. But it was all too clear, too precise, and death wasn’t like that. It was violent, cumbersome, messy. It came trailing its blood-spattered tail everywhere.

‘You know . . .’ he began.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘Oh, I’m just thinking about yesterday in the Springall mansion. A strange coven. The deaths were so orderly.’ He looked up at Cranston. ‘You felt that, Sir John, didn’t you? Everything precise, signed, sealed, filed away, as if we were watching a well-arranged masque. What do you say?’

Cranston moved back to his chair and sat down.

‘The same,’ he replied, ‘I know I drank too much, I always do. But I agree, I sensed something in that house: an evil, an aura, a dankness, despite the wealth. Something which clutched at my soul. Someone is hiding something. Of course,’ he smiled, ‘you know
they
are the Sons of Dives? They must be. Some sort of coven or a secret society, and I believe they are all party to it. Did you see their faces when I asked the question?’ Cranston threw back his great head and bellowed with laughter. ‘Oh, yes, and that Dame Ermengilde - I have heard of her. A nasty piece of work, vicious and venomous as a viper! Well,’ he smacked his knee, ‘we shall see.’ He went off into the kitchen. Athelstan heard Lady Maude squeal with pleasure. The coroner came back, grinned at Athelstan, belched loudly, and without further ado they went back into the street.

They were halfway up Cheapside when a small voice called out: ‘Sir John! Sir John!’

They stopped. A little boy ran up, face dirty, clothes dishevelled, his breath coming in short gasps so he could hardly speak. Sir John stood back and Athelstan smiled. Cranston always seemed to have a fear of small boys. Perhaps a memory from childhood when a fat Cranston must have been mercilessly teased by others. Athelstan knelt before the child, taking his thin, bony hand.

‘What is it, lad?’ he asked gently. ‘What do you wish?’

‘I bring a message from the Sheriff,’ the boy gasped. ‘Master Vechey . . .’ The child closed his eyes to remember. ‘Master Vechey has been found hanged under London Bridge. The Sheriff says it’s by his own hand. The body has been cut down and lies in the gatehouse there. The Sheriff sends his com—’

‘Compliments,’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Yes.’ The boy opened his eyes. ‘Compliments, and wishes Sir John to go there immediately and examine the corpse.’

Cranston, standing behind Athelstan, whistled softly.

‘So, we were right, Brother,’ he said, tossing a coin to the boy who scampered away. ‘There is evil afoot. One murder can be explained, one suicide can be accounted for, but another suicide?’ His fat face beamed. ‘Ah, no, Sir Richard may be pompous, Lady Isabella frosty, Dame Ermengilde may strike her cane on the floor in temper, but Vechey’s death cannot be dismissed. There is evil here, and you and I, Athelstan, will stay like good dogs following the trail until we sight our quarry. Come! The living may not want to talk to us but the dead await!’

And, without even a reference to refreshment, Cranston waddled off down Cheapside with Athelstan striding behind him. They pushed their way through the morning crowd: monks, friars, hucksters and pedlars, ignoring the shouts and screams of the city as they turned into Fish Hill Street which led down on to London Bridge. They stopped at the Three Tuns tavern to ensure their horses had been well stabled. Cranston paid the bill. Philomel, happy to see his master again, nuzzled and nudged him. The road down to the bridge was packed so they decided to leave their horses rather than ride.

At the entrance, just near the gatehouse door, Cranston stopped and knocked hard at an iron-studded door. At first there was no reply so, picking up a loose brick, Cranston hammered again. At last the door was opened. A small, hairy-faced little creature appeared, a veritable mannikin who glared up at Sir John.

‘What do you want?’ he roared. ‘Bugger off! The gatehouse is closed on the king’s orders until the arrival of the coroner.’

‘I
am
the coroner!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’

‘Robert Burdon,’ the mannikin retorted. He rearranged his cloak and stuck his thumb into the broad leather belt at his waist like a wrestler waiting for his opponent to attack. Sir John ignored him and pushed forward into the dank entrance of the chamber.

‘We have come to view Master Vechey’s body.’

The mannikin ran in front of Cranston, jumping up and down.

‘My name is Robert Burdon!’ he shrieked. ‘I am constable of this gate tower. I hold my office direct from the king!’

‘I don’t give a fig,’ Cranston replied, ‘if you hold it direct from the Holy Father! Where’s Vechey’s corpse?’

He looked into the small chamber near the stairs where the mannikin probably ate, lived and slept. A small baby crawled out on its hands and knees, its face covered in grime. The mannikin picked it up, shoved it back in the chamber and slammed the door behind him.

‘The corpse is upstairs,’ he said pompously. ‘What do you expect? I can’t keep it down here with my wife and children. The cadaver’s ripe.’ He indicated with his thumb. ‘It’s on the roof. Up you come!’ And, nimble as a monkey, he bounded up the stairs ahead of Cranston and Athelstan. He pushed open the door at the top and led them out on to the roof, a broad expanse bounded by a high crenellated wall. The wind from the river whipped their faces. Cranston and Athelstan covered their face and nose at the terrible stench which blew across.

‘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.