Paul Doherty: The Nightingale Gallery

Athelstan dare not tell him that he had already resolved one of them.

'What shall we do?' murmured Cranston.

'Go now!' Athelstan said.

'But we are here as the guests of John of Gaunt. I know the duke. If we leave, he will send some busybody squire or serjeant-at-arms after us.'

'Now is the best time,' Athelstan replied, drawing closer, whispering into Sir John's ear, conscious that Lady Maude was totally absorbed in the pageant before her whilst Benedicta, distracted, was still staring back at the admiring gallant.

'Sir John, the Springall house is empty now. Let us strike whilst the iron is hot!'

Cranston looked as if he was going to refuse but thought again. 'Follow me,' he said.

Cranston whispered to his wife, then waddled off with Athelstan in tow, pushing through the crowd towards the royal enclosure. Knight bannerets of the king's household stopped them but Cranston muttered a few words and they let him by. Athelstan, however, had to stand outside the protective ring of steel watching Cranston bow at the foot of the steps and fall to one knee. Athelstan looked behind him. The procession was still circling the arena. John of Gaunt came down the steps, laughing. He tapped Cranston on the shoulder and raised him up, whispering in his ear. The coroner replied. Behind Gaunt, Chief Justice Fortescue glowered like some angry hawk. John of Gaunt looked up abruptly and stared like a hungry cat at Athelstan, his eyes yellow, hard and unblinking. He nodded and muttered something over his shoulder to Fortescue, then to Cranston. The coroner bowed and backed away. Athelstan looked to his left to where the Springall household sat. Surprisingly, no one seemed interested in Sir John's meeting with the regent.

Cranston himself said nothing until they had walked away from the royal enclosure.

'Brother,' he whispered, 'we have the Regent's permission to go down to the Springall house now, to examine and take anything we wish. The regent has said, even if it takes all day, we are not to appear at the royal palace or the Savoy until we have something more to tell him!'

Athelstan's heart sank. On the one hand he wished to examine those paintings and resolve the mystery. But on the other, he wished to be with Benedicta. He looked up. Fitful clouds were beginning to obscure the sun. He glanced across to where the women sat. Cranston's wife was making herself comfortable on the bench whilst the gallant who had been eyeing Benedicta had now moved closer and was talking quietly with her. He was teasing her but Benedicta did not seem to mind. She seemed absorbed in the young man's conversation. Athelstan barely listened to Cranston's muttering. He fought to control a sense of panic and reminded himself that he was a priest, a man ordained, sworn to God. Had he not taken a vow of celibacy? Although he might have a woman as a friend, he could not lust, he could not desire or covet any woman, whether she be free or not. Athelstan steeled himself. Benedicta was courteous to everyone, whether it be Hob's wife, Ranulf the rat-catcher, or now a court gallant. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt a growing rage at his condition; a sense of jealous hurt that Benedicta could find someone else so attractive and entertaining, even though he dismissed the emotion itself as both childish and dangerous.

They left Smithfield, taking a different route back into the city, past the ditch which smelt so rank and fetid that even Cranston, filled to his gills with wine, stopped to gag and cover his nose. The coroner made a mental note to include in his treatise a special chapter on the cleaning of the ditch. They hurried past Cock Lane. The mouth of the street was thronged with whores in scarlet, red or violet dresses; one of them, swaying her hips and making her breasts dance, shouted: 'Sir John! Sir John! See us now!'

Cranston turned, a broad smile on his expansive face, not caring about Athelstan standing beside him, writhing in embarrassment.

'All my girls!' he muttered. 'All my lovely girls!'

Then, urged on by Athelstan, they continued past Newgate into the Shambles and Westchepe. The city was fairly silent, quieter than usual due to the great tournament at Smithfield. The city authorities had taken care to use the day to process certain cases in the court. A number of whores caught and convicted at their second offence were being taken, their heads shaved, a white wand in their hands, down towards the Tun near Cornhill, the open gaol where they stood to be reviled by any passerby. They did not seem to mind, each patting her head and calling out that her hair would soon grow, which was more than could be said for the balding bailiffs escorting them. A liar or perjurer stood in the docks, a great whetstone round his neck, a placard proclaiming that he was a false perjurer and breaker of oaths; beside him a hapless youth who had stolen a leg of mutton and was standing there with the piece of meat, now well decaying and buzzing with flies, slung round his neck. Athelstan watched the scene around him and tried to keep his mind free of Benedicta and the petty jealousies which nagged him.

They found the Springall house deserted except for a few servants. By the looks of them, they had been playing whilst the cat was away. Most of them were well gone in their cups and offered no objection when Cranston knocked at the door and demanded entrance. The old retainer who had received them on their first visit tried to help but Cranston pushed him gently away, saying it was a holiday and besides he was here at Sir Richard's request to pursue his inquiries privately. Naturally, the fragrant smell of wine reminded Cranston of how long it had been since he had refreshed himself so he ordered a large jug and the deepest goblet to be found in the kitchen.

He followed Athelstan as the friar went from one canvas painting to the next. Cranston showed himself surprisingly knowledgeable on the subject of the paintings they examined. He claimed that some were the work of Edward Prince, an artist who lived in the north of the city. Athelstan half listened to Cranston's chatter, trying to remember where he had seen the painting of Eve in the garden enchanted by the serpent. At last he recalled it was not in the Nightingale Gallery but in the one running to the left.

Followed by Cranston, who was now staggering, Athelstan went upstairs and removed the huge canvas painting from the wall. He cursed. It was apparent that someone else had realised the painting might hold the key to Sir Thomas's mystery. The wood at the back of the painting was deeply scored with a dagger as if someone had been searching for some secret crevice or compartment. Yet there was nothing.

'It is useless, Brother!' Cranston murmured, pouring himself another cup of claret. 'It is absolutely bloody useless! There is nothing here. And the other two? The reference to Death on a pale horse in the Apocalypse, and the shoemaker? We're wasting our time.'

Athelstan made him sit on the floor with his back to the wall and, crouching down beside him, told him quietly what he had learnt: how the wood carving being made for the coronation pageant might hold a clue to the killer's identity. Cranston, despite his befuddled wits, heard him out then bellowed in righteous indignation.

'Why didn't you tell me before? It makes sense. It's possible. But why didn't you tell me?'

Athelstan found nothing more amusing than Cranston portraying virtue outraged and let the coroner ramble on until he had exhausted his litany of complaint. Athelstan heaved the painting back on the wall. After that he went from chamber to chamber, from corridor to corridor, looking for other canvases which might fit the verse from the Apocalypse. Cranston staggered behind him, holding a wine cup in one hand and the jug in the other. They found nothing. Of course, certain chambers were locked: Sir Richard's and Lady Isabella's, for instance. With Cranston bouncing along the Nightingale Gallery, the whole house seemed to sing with noise. Sir Thomas's chamber, deserted except for a bed, table, and other sticks of furniture was, surprisingly, open. Cranston stared round. There was no painting here either. The walls were bare. Athelstan went over to the window and stared down at the chess table.