Paul Doherty - The Nightingale Gallery

Father Crispin's face was marble white. He shook his head wordlessly.

'This is what happened,' Athelstan continued. 'On the afternoon of the banquet, you engaged Sir Thomas in a game of chess. You played with all your skill and finesse and managed to trap Sir Thomas. The game broke off just before the meal. You knew how Sir Thomas hated to be beaten, you admitted that yourself. He would be absorbed in the moves so that when the game recommenced he could try to escape from the trap posed by your pieces. Now, I put this to you, sir. Just before the banquet, as people were coming down, you went up to Sir Thomas's room, unnoticed by anyone else and, choosing a chess piece, coated it thickly with poison. Some time later Brampton took up the wine cup.

'After the feast was over, Sir Thomas retired to his chamber, locking the door behind him. Then he did what you intended him to do, what any good chess player would have done. He went across to the chess board, trying to work out the best method to escape the trap you had placed him in. He picked up the bishop, the piece under threat, moving it around the board, attempting to find a way out. Like anyone who is deeply puzzled, he would raise his fingers to his lips. Little did he know that every time he did so, he was poisoning himself. It would not have taken long. The poisons you had bought from the apothecary were potent. Sir Thomas may have felt strange from the first symptoms; he left the chess board and went to his bed where he later died.

'The next morning you came up to his chamber, gloved, because you knew you would have to touch the poison yourself. But you needed witnesses, you wanted to make it very clear that the blame lay with Brampton. Sir Richard entered the room with you, as did other members of the household. Like any people breaking into a room and finding someone unexpectedly dead, they gathered round the corpse. Meanwhile you had removed the chess piece, poisoned the wine cup and placed it back on the table.

'The cup now seemed the bringer of death and the blame was placed on Brampton.'

The priest regained his wits.

'That's impossible!' he said. 'How could I know that Sir Thomas would touch the chess board after he had retired for that night?'

'Oh, but you did,' Cranston broke in. 'You did, you admitted as much yourself. You said that Sir Thomas could not leave the chess board alone. And the only people that touched the cup were Brampton, Sir Thomas and yourself. Only after that was the poison detected in it.'

'And I suppose that I am responsible for Brampton's murder?'

'Yes.' Cranston took up the tale. 'My good secretarius here, my faithful clerk, has established that Brampton probably went back to his room after the banquet had begun. He felt hurt by Sir Thomas's accusation that he had been meddling with his private papers. Now, of course, Brampton had not. You had. However, we will return to that. You probably drugged Brampton.'

'Drugged!' the priest snapped. 'Brampton wasn't drugged! That's nonsense!'

He looked around the room, appealing for support, but Athelstan noticed how the others were beginning to distance themselves from the priest. Chief Justice Fortescue looked steadily at the table top. Gaunt had a smile on his twisted lips. The young king seemed totally absorbed. Cranston shook his head.

'It's no use lying, murderer,' he snapped. 'You know Brampton had drunk deeply that day. A servant told us as much. And you, Lady Isabella, didn't you say your husband had broached his best cask of Bordeaux and that you sent a cup to Brampton as a peace offering?'

'Yes, I did,' she murmured. 'No! I sent the cup up – ' she pointed at the priest '-but you poured it, Father Crispin. Yes, it was your idea. It was drugged!' she exclaimed.

That night,' Athelstan interrupted, 'after the rest of the household retired, Father Crispin went up to Brampton's room. You are a strong young man, Crispin. Brampton was small and light; he lived on the second storey of the house, very near the stairs to the garret. You took him off his bed and carried him up, half sat him on the table, fastened the waiting noose round his neck and left him to hang, God save his soul! But poor Brampton knew for a while that he was choking to death. He grabbed the rope but it was useless. His breath was choked off and his unshriven soul fled into the darkness.'

Athelstan went and stood over the priest. 'You are steeped in mortal sin,' he murmured. 'Your soul is red, scarlet and wounded. You killed that man but you made a mistake! Why should Brampton walk up to the garret with his boots off. And, if he had worn them, he would have kicked them off in his death throes.' Athelstan bent down, his face only inches from Crispin's. 'But let us say he did go up without his boots. The garret was dirty, there was broken glass on the floor, yet the soles of Brampton's feet, even after his corpse had been cut down, were clean and unscarred. Why? Because his feet never touched the ground.'

'Vechey was murdered too, wasn't he?' Lady Isabella stammered.

'Yes,' Athelstan replied. 'And do you know why? When the door to your husband's chamber was forced, Vechey came in. At one point he must have looked at the chess board after Crispin had removed the poisoned piece to clean it.'

'Of course,' Dame Ermengilde trumpeted. 'That's why Vechey kept talking about there being only thirty-one. He noticed the missing piece. Vechey always coveted the Syrians!'

'And then the piece was returned,' Athelstan answered, 'which only perplexed him further. Nevertheless, Vechey's sharp eyes cost him his life and he, too, was marked down for murder lest he voice his doubts.'

'God knows how you managed that murder!' Cranston bawled. 'The red-haired whore may have been a lure in your pay. It may, cunning priest, even have been you in disguise. I wonder, a thorough search being made, if we wouldn't find a red wig and dress in your possession. But, there again, you made a mistake. Vechey was probably drugged or knocked on the head. You hung him up under an arch of London Bridge, but the water level would have made such a death impossible. You hoped no one would notice that.'

'Wait!' Crispin cried. 'You allege / had the poison, but you know a lady very similar to our Lady Isabella in dress and appearance bought the identical poison from the apothecary, Simon Foreman!'

'Yes,' Cranston said, 'and that's your third mistake. I did ask Lady Isabella about that but you were not in the room. Remember, we asked you to withdraw? Lady Isabella, Sir Richard, is that correct?'

Both nodded their heads.

'And did you ever tell the priest about my question?'

Again, both shook their heads wordlessly.

'You couldn't have overhead!' Dame Ermengilde snapped. 'Because I stood near the door of the hall. I tried to listen but I couldn't hear anything.'

'The only way you could know,' Athelstan murmured, "was because you dressed in clothes secretly borrowed from Lady Isabella's wardrobe. Your head was hidden by a red wig as well as a hood. You went to Nightshade House and bought the poison.' Athelstan sipped from his wine cup. 'You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?'

The priest refused to answer.

'But such subterfuge!' Lady Isabella cried.

'Oh, Crispin planned well. One of Brampton's buttons was placed near your husband's manuscripts to start the tragedy. However, in case something went wrong and the poison was traced…'

'What better person than you to implicate, Lady Isabella?' Cranston observed. 'After all, you were playing the two-backed beast with your husband's brother!'

Lady Isabella looked away whilst Crispin placed his head in his hands. Dame Ermengilde turned to Cranston, her eyes full of malice.

'You are not such a fool, Master Coroner. But haven't you forgotten a few things? If my son had touched the poisoned chess pieces, his hands would have been stained. And how do you explain Allingham's death?'