Paul Doherty - The Nightingale Gallery

'There's no point in joining the festivities. It is best if we have no dealings with Sir Richard and other members of his household.'

The coroner, gazing longingly at the jugs of claret, was about to protest.

'Sir John,' Athelstan reminded him, 'we have important business to attend to.'

Cranston sighed, nodded, and turned to the steward, asking him to take them to one of the duke's private chambers. The man looked askance but Cranston insisted.

'Yes, you will, sir,' he repeated. 'You will take us to one of the duke's private chambers here in the palace. Then you will tell your master and Chief Justice Fortescue that we have important matters to relate, matters affecting the crown. You will ask that Sir Richard and his household also join us as soon as the festivities are over.'

Cranston made the man repeat the message as he reluctantly took them out of the main hall and up the wide, spacious stairs to one of the duke's private chambers. Athelstan gazed around and nodded. Yes, this would do. A small fire had been lit in the hearth. The room, possibly used as a chancery by the duke, was dominated by a long table with chairs down either side and a high-backed, throne-like seat at the top. The steward left Cranston and Athelstan, who stood examining the exquisite hangings on the wall and a small cupboard full of manuscripts bound with the costliest leather and vellum. A servant brought them some wine and sugared pastries which Cranston immediately attacked. Another servant entered, a young page who announced in a high, shrill voice that the duke had received Sir John's message and would be with him as soon as dignity and circumstances would allow.

An hour candle placed on the table under the window had burnt a complete ring before Cranston heard footsteps outside. He and Athelstan rose as Gaunt swept into the room. Beside the duke was the young king, a silver chaplet around his head. Uncle and nephew were dressed identically in purple gowns edged with gold. The young king looked serene though Gaunt seemed angry and troubled, as if he resented Cranston's message. He slumped into the chair at the end of the table and ordered a servant to bring in a similar one for his nephew. Chief Justice Fortescue slid in like a spider, scuttling across to sit next to the Duke. He was followed by Sir Richard Springall and his household. The merchant was flushed with drink; he grinned at Cranston and Athelstan as if they were lifelong friends; Dame Ermengilde, her nose in the air, chose to ignore them. Father Crispin and Buckingham smiled wanly whilst Lady Isabella looked decidedly agitated.

'Are we all assembled?' Gaunt asked sardonically.

Chief Justice Fortescue glanced around and nodded. 'Yes, Your Grace, we are all here.'

Athelstan noticed that a burly serjeant-at-arms had just stepped into the room.

'I want this chamber guarded closely!' the regent ordered. 'No one is to leave or enter without my permission. Do you understand?'

The man nodded. Outside Athelstan could hear him shouting orders, the sound of running feet and the clash of arms. He gazed at the assembled company. Sir Richard Springall had sobered up surprisingly quickly. Lady Isabella was looking across at him, nervously twisting her fingers. Dame Ermengilde, even though she was in the presence of royalty, sat staring at the wall opposite her. The rest of them kept their eyes fastened on the duke, waiting to see what lay behind his summons.

Gaunt leaned forward, the jewels on his tanned hands flashing in the candlelight.

'Sir John, coroner of the city, I am pleased to see you. And even though you were not present at the banquet, it is obvious that you have drunk well. I hope your day was a fruitful one?'

Cranston caught the touch of menace in the duke's words and glanced at Athelstan.

The friar acknowledged the regent and the young king. 'My Lord of Gaunt, Your Grace, we were given a commission to investigate the true causes and purposes behind Sir Thomas Springall's death, and in consequence the truth behind other deaths equally unfortunate.' He rose to his feet. 'Your Grace, I ask your indulgence but I would like us to perform a small mummer's play, a useful introduction to what we are about to declare.'

Gaunt gazed at the friar crossly. 'What is it, Brother?' he asked.

'A game, Uncle!' The young king suddenly spoke up, childish glee replacing the mask of royalty on his face. He clapped his hands.

'Your Grace,' Gaunt smiled thinly at his nephew, 'perhaps you should not be here?'

'Perhaps I should!' the young boy piped back. 'I want to be. It is my right!'

Athelstan was surprised at the precociousness of the child and, despite his tender years, the sway he held over his formidable uncle.

Gaunt sighed. 'Brother, we are in your hands. Though I warn you,' he gestured threateningly, 'don't waste my time or engage us in meddlesome, wasteful tricks. I am here for the truth!'

Athelstan pointed to the chamber door.

'My Lord of Gaunt, let us pretend that behind that door lies someone you dearly love.'

Gaunt glared back at him.

'The door is locked and you are about to rouse them. What would you do?'

'A simple question! I would try the door, I would knock, I would hammer, I would shout!'

'Thank you, Your Grace. Lady Ermengilde, you heard Father Crispin come up to rouse Sir Thomas that fateful morning. What happened?'

The old dame had caught the drift of Athelstan's words, her face losing some of its haughty composure. She narrowed her eyes.

'I heard him come up. He tried the handle of the door of my son's bed chamber. Then he walked away. He went to find Sir Richard.'

'Now why was that, Father?' Athelstan asked. 'You went up to waken your master – he had asked to be roused early, remember? You went up as anyone would do, you tried the door, but then you went to get his brother. Why did you not try to rouse Sir Thomas Springall yourself? You tried the door but there was no sound from within. Anyone else would have pounded on the door, shouting Sir Thomas's name. You failed to do so. You immediately walked away to rouse Sir Richard. Why?'

'Because I thought that was the best thing to do.'

'It was not the logical thing to do,' Athelstan replied quickly. 'The logical thing was to pound on the door and shout Sir Thomas's name. You did not. It was as if you knew something was wrong.'

The priest swallowed quickly but gazed coolly around the room.

'What are you implying, Brother?'

'At the moment I am implying nothing. Let us proceed a little further. Sir Richard comes upstairs with other members of the household. The door is forced. And inside?'

'Why,' the priest replied, 'my master, Sir Thomas Springall, lying on the bed, poisoned.'

'And what happened then? Precisely?'

'I went across to look at Sir Thomas.'

'No, he did not!' Sir Richard thrust himself forward. '/ did that. You came into the room with me but 1 did that!'

'So what did you do, Father?' Athelstan continued.

'I just stood there.'

'No, you did something else.'

'Oh, yes. I picked up the wine cup and smelt it. I took it over to the window to look at the contents because its odour was strange.'

'And when you went to the window, you passed the chess board. Then what?'

'I pronounced the cup was poisoned. The rest you know.'

'And how were you dressed?'

'I told you. I had been outside, visiting the stables.'

'You were wearing gloves? A cloak?'

'Yes, I was.'

'I will tell you this, priest,' Athelstan replied, 'you wore the gloves for a purpose. You see, you knew that Sir Thomas was already dead before you went into that chamber. You had arranged it that way. The wine cup was not poisoned. You took it to the window and poured in the potion which you had concealed in your glove. As you passed the chess board you took a piece from it, the bishop, the reason being that it was heavily coated with a certain poison.'