by Paul Doherty
'Oil, yes,' the little fellow replied. 'Just hanging there from one of the beams, swaying as free as a leaf in the wind. Come, I will show you!'
He led Cranston and Athelstan downstairs past the closed chamber where the noise of his large brood sounded like the howling of demons in hell. They went back through the gatehouse, following the line of the river bank down some rough hewn stairs cut into the rock and beneath the bridge.
'Be careful!' the mannikin shouted.
Cranston and Athelstan needed no such warning. The Thames was flowing full and furious, the water greedily lapping their feet as if it would like to catch them and drag them under its swollen black surface. The bridge was built on nineteen great arches. Vechey had decided to hang himself on the last. He'd climbed on to one of the great beams which supported the arch, tied a length of rope round it and, fastening the noose around his neck, simply stepped off the great stone plinth. Part of the rope still swung there, hanging down directly over the water.
'Why should a man hang himself here?' Cranston asked.
'It's been done before,' the gateman replied. 'Hangings, drownings, they always choose the bridge. It seems to attract them!'
'Perhaps its the span which represents the gap between life and death?' Athelstan remarked.
He looked at Cranston. 'Bartholomew the Englishman wrote a famous treatise in which he remarked how strange it was that people chose bridges as their place to die.'
'Give my thanks to Bartholomew the Englishman,' Cranston replied drily, 'but it doesn't explain why a London merchant came down here in the dark, fastened a rope round a beam and hanged himself.'
'Bangtails come here,' the mannikin piped up. 'Bawds! Whores!' he explained. 'They often bring their customers down here.'
'What does Bartholomew the Englishman say about that, Friar?'
'I don't know but, when I do, you will be the first to know!'
They examined the rope again and, satisfied that they had seen everything, climbed the stone steps back on to the track high on the river bank. Cranston thanked the gatekeeper for his pains, quietly slipping some coins into his hands.
'For the children,' he murmured. 'Some pastries, some doucettes.'
'And the corpse?'
Cranston shrugged.
'Send a message to Sir Richard Springall. He has a mansion in Cheapside. Tell him you have Vechey's body. If he does not collect it, the sheriff's men who pocketed poor Vechey's valuables, will find him a pauper's grave!'
'At the crossroads,' the fellow said, eyes rounded.
'What do you mean?'
'He means, Sir John,' Athelstan interrupted, that Vechey was a suicide. Like Brampton, a stake should be driven through his heart and the cadaver buried at the crossroads. They still do that in country parts. They claim it prevents the dead man's troubled soul from walking abroad. But what does it matter? It's only the husk. I will remember poor Vechey at Mass.*
They bade farewell to the little gateman, collected their horses from the urchin and, seeing the busy crowds ahead of them, decided to walk up to Cheapside. The throng was thick, massing like a swarm of bees, the noise and clamour so intense they were unable to hear one another speak. In Cheapside, where the thoroughfare was broader and the houses did not press so close, they relaxed, Athelstan, patting Philomel's nose, stared across at a now perspiring Cranston.
'Why should Vechey kill himself?' he asked.
'Don't bloody ask me!' Cranston retorted crossly, wiping the sweat from his face. 'If it wasn't for that poor bugger, I would be getting as pissed as a bishop's fart in the Crossed Keys and you would be back in your decrepit church feeding that bloody cat or watching your bloody stars! Or trying to save the soul of some evil little sod who would slit your throat as quickly as look at you!'
Athdstan grinned.
'You need refreshment, Sir John. You have had a hard morning. The rigours of office, the exacting duties of coroner – they would break many a lesser man.'
Cranston looked evilly at the friar.
'Thank you, Brother,' he said. 'Your words of comfort soothe my heart.'
'Be at peace, my son,' Athelstan said mockingly and pointed. 'Over there is the Springall mansion. And here,' he turned and gestured to the great garish sign, 'is the tavern of the Holy Lamb of God. The body needs refreshment.' He grinned. 'And your body, great as it is, more than any other!'
Cranston solemnly tapped his bell-like stomach.
'You are correct, Brother.' He sighed. 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is very, very weak.'
And there's a lot of weakness there, thought Athelstan.
'But not now,' he added hastily, catching the gleam in Cranston's eyes. 'Sir Richard Springall awaits us. We must see him.'
Cranston's mouth set in a stubborn line.
"Sir John, we must do it now!' Athelstan insisted.
Cranston nodded, his eyes petulant like those of a child being refused a sweet. They stabled their horses at the Holy Lamb of God and threaded their way across the noisy market place. A figure garbed in black, a white devil's mask on its face, was jumping amongst the stalls, shouting imprecations at the rich and the avaricious. A beadle in his striped gown tried to arrest him but the 'devil' scampered off to the cheers of the crowd. Cranston and Athelstan watched the drama play itself out; the beadle chasing, the 'devil' dodging. The small, fat official was soon lathered in sweat. Another 'devil' appeared, dressed identically to the first, and the crowd burst into roars of laughter. The beadle had been tricked, fooled by two mummers and their game of illusion.
'Like life, is it not, Sir John?' Athelstan queried. 'Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.'
Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.
'Bugger philosophy!' he said. 'I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!'
'Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.'
Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,' Cranston grated. 'I haven't forgotten yesterday.'
The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.
'Sir John, you feel better?' Springall asked.
'Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.'
Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston's riddle.
'You have heard of Vechey's death?'
Sir Richard nodded. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.'
He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the hearth.
'Even in the height of summer,' Sir Richard observed, 'it's cool in here.'
Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant – the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.
'Come in!' Sir Richard called.
Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan's glance and smiled bravely.
'Don't worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but i
t's always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,' he added bitterly.
Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest's hand. 'Father, I am sorry,' she whispered. 'Come, join us.'
They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.
'So,' said Sir John, smacking his lips, 'a third death, Master Vechey's suicide.' He held three fingers up. 'One murder and two suicides in the same household.' He stared around. 'You do not grieve?'
Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.
Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.'
'A dour man,' Buckingham observed, 'with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.' He smiled thinly. 'At least not in the lists of love.'
"What do you mean?' Cranston asked.
'Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies' man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.' Buckingham grimaced. 'You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him behind their hands.'
'What the clerk is saying,' Sir Richard interrupted, 'is that Master Vechey was immersed in the pleasures of the flesh. He had few friends. Only my brother really listened to him. It could well, be that Sir Thomas's death turned Vechey's mind on to the path of self-destruction.' He spread his hands. 'I do not claim to be my brother's keeper, so how can I claim to be Vechey's? We are sorry for his death but how are we responsible?'
'Master Vechey left the house when?'
'About an hour after you.'
'Did he say where he was going?'
'No. He never did.'
Cranston eased himself in his chair, head back, rolling the white Rhenish wine round his tongue.
'Let me change the question. Where were you all last night?'
Sir Richard shrugged and looked around. 'We went our different ways.'
'Father Crispin?'
The priest coughed, shifting his leg to favour it.
'I went to the vicar of St Mary Le Bow to arrange Sir Thomas's funeral.'
'Sir Richard? Lady Isabella?'
'We stayed here!' the woman retorted. 'A grieving widow does not walk the streets.'
'Master Buckingham?'
'I went to the Guildhall taking messages from Sir Richard about the pageant we are planning.'
'My brother would have liked that,' Sir Richard intervened. 'He would see no reason why we should not make our contribution to the royal coronation.' His voice rose. 'Why, what is this? Do you hold us responsible for Vechey's death? Are you saying that we bundled him down to the waterside and had him hanged? For what reason?'
'The coroner is not alleging anything,' Athelstan remarked smoothly. 'But, Sir Richard, you must agree it is odd, so many deaths in one household?'
'Does this mean anything to you?' Cranston took the greasy piece of parchment out of his wallet and handed it over. Sir Richard studied it.
'Vechey's name, my brother's, and two verses from the Bible. Ah!' Sir Richard looked up and smiled. 'Two verses my brother always quoted: Apocalypse Six, Verse Eight and Genesis Three, Verse One.'
'You know the verses, Sir Richard?'
'Yes.' The merchant closed his eyes. 'The second one refers to the serpent entering Eden.'
'And the first?'
'To Death riding a pale horse.'
'Why did your brother always quote these?' Cranston asked.
'I don't know. He had a sense of humour.'
'About the Bible?'
'No, no, about these two verses. He claimed they were his key to fame and fortune. Sometimes, when deep in his cups, he would quote them.'
'Do you know what he meant?' Athelstan asked.
'No, my brother loved riddles from boyhood. He just quoted the verses, smiled, and said they would bring him great success. I don't know what he meant.'
'What other riddles did your brother pose?' Cranston asked.
'None.'
'Yes, he did,' Lady Isabella spoke up, pushing back the black veil from her face. 'You remember, the shoemaker?'
'Ah, yes,' Sir Richard smiled. 'The shoemaker.'
'Lady Isabella,' Cranston queried, 'what about the shoemaker?'
She played with the sparkling ring on her finger. 'Well, over the last few months, my husband used to make reference to a shoemaker. He claimed the shoemaker knew the truth, and the shoemaker was guilty.' She shook her head. 'I don't know what he meant. Sometimes, at table,' she smiled falsely, 'my husband was like you, Sir John. He loved a deep-bowled cup of claret. Then he used to chant: "The shoemaker knows the truth, the shoemaker knows the truth".'
Cranston watched her closely.
'These riddles your husband used, when did they begin?'
'The quotations from the Bible? About – oh, fourteen or fifteen months ago.'
'And the shoemaker riddle?'
Cranston noticed that Lady Isabella had become tense and anxious.
'Shortly after Christmas? That's right. He first made the riddle up during one of our mummer's games at Twelfth Night.'
Somehow Athelstan knew these riddles were important. The room had fallen deathly silent except for Cranston's abrupt questions, the equally abrupt answers and the snapping and crackling of the logs in the fire. What did this group fear? he wondered. What was the meaning of the riddles?
'Tell me,' Athelstan spoke up, 'did anything happen in the household to account for these riddles? Anything in Sir Thomas's life? Sir Richard, Lady Isabella… you were the closest to Sir Thomas.'
'I don't know,' Sir Richard muttered. 'My brother liked to speak in riddles, refer to shadowy things, lectures and parables. He was a man who loved secrecy for secrecy's sake and hugged such secrets to his chest like other men do gold, silver or precious stones. No, nothing special happened here.'
'Are you sure?' Cranston turned and looked at him, resting his cup on one large, plump thigh. 'Are you sure, Sir Richard? My memory fails me about specific details but was there not a death here eight months ago?'
Lady Isabella's face now paled and Sir Richard refused to look up.
'No!'
'Come, come, sir,' Cranston barked. 'There was something.'
'Yes,' Lady Isabella said softly, 'Sir Richard's memory fails him.' She looked at Sir John more guardedly, as if realising the coroner was not the fool he liked to appear. 'There was Eudo's death.'
'Ah, yes, Eudo,' Cranston repeated. 'Who was he?'
Sir Richard looked up. 'A young page boy. He fell from a window and broke his neck, out there in the courtyard. No explanation for the fall was ever given, though Sir Thomas believed he may have been involved in some stupid jape. The boy was killed outright, head smashed in, neck broken.'
Cranston drained his cup and beamed in self-congratulation, giving a sly grin at Athelstan, who glared back. He wished the coroner had told him about this!
'Yes, Eudo's death. I was ill at the time with the ague but I remember the verdict being recorded. Poor boy!' Cranston murmured. 'This house has ill fortune.' He stood and took in his audience with one heavy-lidded stare. 'I urge you all to be most careful. There is a malignancy here, an evil curse. It may yet claim other lives! Lady Isabella, Sir Richard.' He bowed and stepped out of the chamber.
Athelstan stopped at the door and looked back. The group sat quite still as if bound by some secret.
'Sir Richard?' Athelstan asked.
'Yes, Brother?'
'May I have permission to visit the garret where Brampton died?'
'Of course! But, as I have said, his corpse has been sheeted and removed to St Mary Le Bow.'
Athelstan smiled. 'Yes. But there is something I
must see.'
He asked Cranston to wait for him outside and went upstairs. On the first landing he stopped and stole a glance down the Nightingale Gallery, so engrossed he jumped when Allingham suddenly touched him on the shoulder.
'Brother Athelstan, can I help you?'
The merchant's long face was even more mournful and the friar was sure the man had been crying.
'No, no, Master Allingham, I thank you. You have heard of Vechey's death, no doubt?'
The merchant nodded sorrowfully.
'Poor man!' Athelstan muttered. 'You know of no reason why he should take his life?'
'His was a troubled soul,' Allingham replied. 'A troubled soul, vexed and tormented by his own lusts and pleasures.' He paused. 'The only puzzling thing was that he kept muttering, "There were only thirty-one, there were only thirty-one". '
'Do you know what he meant?'
'No. When we went into Sir Thomas's chamber yesterday, I heard him mutter.' Allingham screwed up his eyes. 'Vechey said, "Only thirty-one, I am sure there were only thirty-one." I remember it,' he continued, 'because Vechey was puzzled, upset.'
'Do you know to what he was referring?'
Allingham pursed his lips.
'No, I don't, Brother. But if I find out, I shall tell you. I bid you adieu.'
He proceeded down the wooden stairs and Athelstan went along the gallery and up to the garret. He pushed the door open and wished he had asked for a candle. The chamber was dark and dank. Athelstan shivered. There was a sinister atmosphere, a feeling of oppressive malevolence. Were the church fathers right, he wondered, when they claimed that the soul of a suicide was bound eternally to the place where he died? Did Brampton's soul hover here, as he would for eternity, between heaven and hell?
He stepped in and looked around. The table was now clear of its ghastly remains, the floor had been swept clear of its litter. It looked tidier, neater than it had the previous day. What had he seen here that afterwards had jolted, pricked against his memory? Something which had been out of place? He leaned against the wall desperately trying to clear his mind but the memory proved elusive. He sighed, looked round once more and went back to rejoin Sir John.
The coroner was fretting, hopping from foot to foot, standing close to the wall of the house, well away from the ctowds which now thronged the entire thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pulled Athelstan closer.