Paul Doherty: The Nightingale Gallery

Athelstan looked down at the priest. Father Crispin raised his head and stared unblinkingly back.

'Remember, our murderer also bestowed the rites of the Church. He made sure that the hands of both Sir Thomas Springall and Master Allingham were washed before he anointed them with holy oils.'

'That's right,' Sir Richard whispered. 'And the anointing took place immediately!'

'So there was no stain,' Athelstan continued conversationally, 'as in all his murders, no real evidence. You are a killer, Father. An assassin. And we know why. You remember the young page boy who fell from the window? Sir Thomas lusted after him, in fact he found you wrote a love poem to him. We have seen it. I suspect you tried to seduce the boy. God knows what happened. Tell us, Father, did he jump because he was frightened or did you push him?'

The priest glared back at him but made no answer.

'I think Sir Thomas knew the truth but dared not accuse you openly. After all, he was guilty of the same sin of sodomy as you. Of course, being a chaplain, you were privy to the secrets of others. So what Sir Thomas did was take his revenge through the carving, the panel he was going to use in the coronation pageant and later hang in the chapel.' Athelstan glanced at Sir Richard. 'Do you remember the carving? What was it of?'

'A shoemaker being dragged away by devils.'

'Did you ever look at the shoemaker's feet?'

'No.'

Cranston banged the heel of his boot on the floor.

'Poor Father Crispin, always hobbling around, using his injury as a banner. But when he so chooses, he puts on his boots with their raised heel – and, behold, he can walk like any of us. That's true, isn't it, Priest? You were out riding the day Allingham died?'

Father Crispin dismissed Cranston's accusation with a flicker of his eyes.

'Sir John is correct,' Athelstan took up the story. 'A priest can go anywhere, be it in his master's chamber to poison a chess piece, around the house at the dead of night to comfort poor Brampton, to say prayers at St Mary Le Bow… whereas in fact on the night Vechey died Father Crispin disguised himself as the red-haired whore and went hunting his prey amongst the riverside stews.' Athelstan paused and looked quickly at Fortescue. 'I told Sir John that there was more than one murderer. In a sense I was correct. You are two people, Father, the hobbling priest and the cunning assassin.'

Athelstan noticed how the Chief Justice's face had become so pale it looked as if he was going to vomit.

'Of course, Crispin,' Athelstan continued,*you had your accomplice. Someone you had met at your master's table. Someone who could tell you where we went so you could have assassins lying in waiting. You remember the gospel, Father, and the man who claimed his name was Legion, so many devils possessed him? He would recognise you, Priest. You murdered for revenge, for profit, but also for the sheer malicious delight of plot and counter-plot.'

'What has that got to do with the carving in the Springall yard?' Gaunt sharply interrupted.

Athelstan looked at Sir Richard.

'You should have examined that carving,' he remarked. 'Especially the shoemaker. He is very like our Father Crispin. He has a clubbed foot.'

Athelstan ignored Lady Isabella's gasp. Instead he looked up at young King Richard, who seemed fascinated by the priest, whilst Gaunt was now staring at Fortescue out of the corner of his eye.

'And Father, who is the patron saint of shoemakers?'

Athelstan admired the priest's composure, not a muscle twitched in that gaunt, haunted face.

'Come, Father, you know. Crispin Crispianus! We celebrate his feast in October. Sir Thomas was mocking you. The insult would be carried throughout the length and breadth of London and afterwards it would ridicule you every time you entered the small chapel in Sir Thomas's house. Perhaps one day a more astute person might notice it. Allingham certainly did, didn't he, Father? He began to wonder, as well as to remember Vechey's absorption with the number thirty-one!'

Cranston belched and rose to his feet unbidden, as if he had forgotten he was in the presence of royalty.

'My clerk,' he announced grandly, 'is correct. So you, Father, the master poisoner, struck again. You bought your poisons from Foreman, mixing them deliberately so the wine cup smelt rank and offensive, to ensure Brampton got the blame. But Allingham was different. He took a poison which was more difficult to trace. After his mid-day meal Allingham went back to his chamber and fell asleep. What he did not know was that the handle of his door had been smeared with poison. The same trick you had played on Sir Thomas, but you were sure it would work again.'

Cranston stopped to refill his cup, rather shakily so the wine spilled over on the table. But the coroner, in full flow and bent on refreshment, didn't give a fig.

'Brother Athelstan,' he announced expansively, 'will summarise my conclusions.'

Athelstan hid his smile. Cranston was amusing but the hard-faced priest, the wolf in sheep's clothing, was not.

'You see, first, Allingham had a nervous gesture. Do you remember? His hands were constantly at his lips, fluttering up and down like a butterfly. During his final sleep, Father Crispin here probably locked him in his chamber. Allingham wakes, and finds there is no key. Nervous and agitated, he tries the door; all the time his death-bearing fingers are going to his mouth. He feels ill, goes back to the bed where he collapses and dies. The door is forced, the priest makes sure he is there, the key is dropped on the ground. Naturally, people would think it fell due to the door's being forced. Of course, Crispin here acts the perplexed innocent. He poses the question, if Allingham had a seizure, why did he not try and open the door? Strangely enough, while trying the lock our murderer holds a napkin which he had been using to mop up some wine he had spilt. He examines the handle, using the napkin to gain a better grip. Of course, what he is really doing is cleaning the poison off.' Athelstan dug beneath his robe and brought out the soiled cloth he had begged from the laundress. 'This is the cloth.'

'It can't be!' Fortescue suddenly shouted.

'Shut up!' the priest yelled at him, his eyes and face full of hatred. 'Shut up, you idiot!'

"Why can't it be?' Cranston asked softly. 'Isn't it strange that you should remember what happened to an innocent napkin?'

Athelstan held his breath. Would a confession come?

'I only did what he asked,' Crispin whispered.

'Who?' Cranston asked softly.

'Fortescue, of course!'

The Chief Justice looked up, his face white with terror.

'I asked the priest to get the secrets Sir Thomas held. I did not plan murder.'

'Perhaps not,' Athelstan replied. 'But your accomplice, Father Crispin did. On your orders, Chief Justice Fortescue, he tried to find out Sir Thomas SpringalPs secrets. Sir Thomas, a canny man, knew his private accounts had been scrutinised and the blame was put on Brampton. However, Sir Thomas and Brampton may have reached an accord and questions been asked, so Father Crispin plotted Springall's death. Brampton would be blamed after his supposed suicide and the way left clear for you to search for Sir Thomas's secret.'

John of Gaunt suddenly stood up. 'Sir Coroner, do your duty!' he ordered.

Cranston waddled round the table. 'Father Crispin, I arrest you in the name of the king for the dreadful crimes of treason, homicide and sedition!'

The priest gazed stonily back and continued to do so when the burly serjeant-at-arms, summoned by Gaunt, tied his thumbs together behind his back.

'Wait!*

Athelstan walked over to Fortescue. He noticed how Buckingham was quivering with fright, his face drenched in sweat. The effete young secretarius would never forget this day.