The Nightingale Gallery smoba-1

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan went to close the door behind his parishioners. When he returned he thought Benedicta was crying, her shoulders were shaking so. But when she looked up, he realised she was laughing, the tears streaming down her face.

  'You find our parish meetings amusing, Benedicta?'

  'Yes.' He noticed how low and cultured her voice was. 'Yes, Father, I do. I mean – ' She spread her hands and giggled again.

  Athelstan just glared at her but still she could not control her mirth. Her shoulders shook with laughter, her alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. Athelstan could not prevent his smile.

  'I mean,' she said, 'Cecily the courtesan's ambition to act the role of the Virgin Mary! And the face of Watkin's wife!' She laughed so infectiously that Athelstan joined in and, for the first time since he had arrived at St Erconwald's, the nave of his church rang with laughter. At last Benedicta composed herself.

  'Not seemly,' she observed, her eyes dancing with merriment, 'for a widow and her parish priest to be laughing so loudly in church at the expense of his parishioners! But I must say, never in my short life have I witnessed anything so funny. You must regard us as a cross to bear.'

  'No,' Athelstan replied and sat down beside her. 'No cross.'

  'Then what is it, Father? Why are you so sad?'

  Athelstan stared across at the blue, red and gold painting now being formed on the wall. What is my cross? he thought. A large burden, a veritable mortal sin of the flesh, with balding head, shrewd brown eyes, and a face as red as a bloody rag. Sir John Cranston, lord of the great, fat stomach, master of the sturdy legs and an arse so huge that Athelstan secretly called it 'Horsecrusher'. But how could he explain Cranston to Benedicta?

  'No crosses, Benedicta. Nothing, perhaps, except loneliness.'

  He suddenly realised how close he was to her. She stared calmly back, her jet black hair escaping from underneath the wimple. Her face was so smooth. He was fascinated by her generous mouth and her eyes, beautiful and dark as the night. He coughed abruptly and got up.

  'You stayed back, Benedicta! Do you wish to talk to me?'

  'No.' She, too, rose as if sensing the sudden chill between them. 'But you should know that Hob has died. I visited his house before I came here and saw his widow.'

  'God save him!' whispered Athelstan. 'God save us all, Benedicta! God save us all!' The next day Athelstan refused to think about Sir John and the terrible murders in the Springall household. Instead, he busied himself about his parish duties. The new poor box was replaced and padlocked near the baptismal font. He tried to settle matters between Cecily and Watkin the dung- collector's wife and achieved some accord: Cecily would be the Madonna provided Watkin's wife could be the Virgin's cousin, Saint Elizabeth. Watkin would have pride of place as St George while Ranulf the rat-catcher eagerly agreed to put on a costume and act the role of the dragon.

  There were other more serious matters. Hob the grave- digger was buried late in the afternoon and Athelstan organised a collection, giving what he could to the poor widow and promising her more as soon as circumstances allowed. He slept well that night, getting up early to climb the wet, mildewed stairs to the top of the church tower where he saw the stars clear in the skies, studying their alignment before they faded with the dawn.

  Later in the morning he was down in the church preparing the corpse of Meg of Four Lanes for burial. Meg of the flowing, black hair, white face and nose hooked like an eagle's beak. In life she had been no beauty, in death she looked ugly, her greasy locks falling in wisps to her dirty shoulders. Her face was mere bone over which the skin had been stretched tight and transparent like a piece of cloth. Her pale sea green eyes were now dull and sunken deep in their sockets.

  Her mouth sagged open and her body, dirty white like the underbelly of a landed fish, was covered in marks and bruises. The corpse had been brought in just after the morning mass by members of the parish. Athelstan had borrowed a gown from an old lady who lived in one of the tenements behind the church and dressed Meg's corpse with as much dignity as circumstances would allow. The parish constable, a mournful little man, had informed him that Meg had been murdered.

  'A tragic end,' he wailed, 'to a sad life!'

  Athelstan had questioned him further. Apparently some villain, hot with his own juices, had bought Meg's body and used her carnally before plunging a knife between her ribs. Just after dawn that day her corpse, cold and hard, had been found in a rat-infested spinney. No one would come forward to claim the body and Athelstan knew the parish watch would bury it like the decaying corpse of a dog. However, the morning Mass had been well attended and the members of the parish had decided otherwise. Tab the tinker, who had come in to be shriven, had agreed to fashion a coffin of sorts out of thin planks of wood. He had built this out on the steps of the church and placed it on trestles before the rood screen. Athelstan blessed Meg, sprinkling the open coffin with holy water and praying that the sweet Christ would have mercy on her soul. Then with Tab's help he nailed down the lid, reciting the prayers for the dead, and entered her name amongst other deceased of the parish to be remembered at the weekly Requiem Mass.

  After that Athelstan gave Tab and his two apprentices some pennies to take the coffin from the church and out to the old cemetery. Athelstan walked behind, chanting verses from the psalms. Meg's coffin was lowered into a shallow grave packed in the dry, hard ground. Athelstan, distracted, vowed to remember to place a cross there and as soon as possible sing a Mass for her soul and that of poor Hob. He walked back to the church feeling guilty. He had spent time watching the stars whilst people like Meg of Four Lanes died horrible deaths, their bodies afterwards lowered into obscure graves. Athelstan felt angry and went to kneel before the statue of the Virgin, praying for Meg and the evil bastard who had sent her soul unshriven out into the darkness. He got up and was about to return to his house to wash the dirt from Meg's grave from his hands when Cranston swaggered in, throwing the door open as if he was announcing the Second Coming.

  'It's murder, Athelstan!' he bawled. 'Bloody murder! Foul homicide!'

  Athelstan knew Cranston loved to startle him, delighting in dramatic exits and entrances, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Cranston stood there, legs apart, hands on hips. The friar sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared into his fat, cheery face.

  'What are you talking about, Sir John?' he said crossly.

  The grinning tub of lard just stood there, smiling.

  'The Springalls!' he bawled at last. 'It's happened again. This time poor Allingham's been found dead in his chamber, with not a mark on his body. Chief Justice Fortescue is hopping like a cat. By the way, where's yours?'

  'Bonaventure probably left when he heard you coming!' Athelstan muttered. 'Why, what's wrong with the Chief Justice? What's he got to do with Bonaventure?'

  'Fortescue is hopping like a cat on hot bricks, demanding something should be done, but he has no more idea than 1 what can be done. Anyway, we're off, Athelstan, back to the Springall house!'

  'Sir John! I am busy with matters here. Two deaths, two burials.'

  The coroner walked towards him, a wicked grin on his satyr-like face.

  'Now, now, Athelstan. You know better than that.'

  Of course, the friar did. He knew he had no choice in the matter but cursed and muttered as he filled his saddle bags, harnessed Philomel and joined Cranston who sat slouched on his horse on the track outside the church. They stopped for Athelstan to leave messages with Tab the tinker, now drinking away the profits of Meg's funeral at the nearest tavern, and began the slow journey down to London Bridge and across to Cheapside. Cranston was full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan tried to apologise for his part in the quarrel at their last parting but the coroner just waved his words aside.

  'Not your fault, Brother!' he boomed. 'Not yours! The humours, the heat of the day. We all quarrel. It happens in the best of families.'

  So, with Ath
elstan praying and cursing, and Cranston farting and swaying in his saddle, they cleared London Bridge and pressed on to Fish Street Hill. Of course, when the wine ran out, Cranston's mood darkened. He announced that he didn't give a rat's fart for mumbling monks.

  'Orders were orders!' he roared, looking darkly at the friar, before going on to regale both him and the horses with an account of the meal his poor wife was preparing for the coming Sunday.

  'A veritable banquet!' Cranston announced. 'Boar's head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts, junkets of apple- flavoured cream…'

  Athelstan listened with half an ear. Allingham was dead. He remembered the merchant, long, lanky, and lugubrious of countenance. How unsettled and agitated he had been when they last had visited the Springall house. He glared darkly at Cranston and hoped the coroner was not too deeply in his cups.

  On their arrival at the house in Cheapside Athelstan was astonished to find how calm and collected Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were. The friar suddenly realised that Cranston's claim that Allingham was murdered was really a piece of pure guesswork on his part. Sir Richard greeted them courteously, Lady Isabella beside him. She was dressed in dark blue velvet, a high white lace wimple on her head. She recounted how they had gone up to Master All- ingham's chamber and, finding the door locked, had ordered the workmen from the yard below to force the chamber.

  'Allingham was found dead on the bed due to a stroke or apoplexy,' Sir Richard commented. 'We do not know which. We sent for Father Crispin.' He pointed to where the priest sat on a chair just within the hall door. 'He examined Allingham, held a piece of glass to his lips, but there was no sign of the breath of life. So he did what he has become accustomed to doing – gave the last rites. You wish to see the corpse?'

  Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston, who just shrugged.

  'So you think that Allingham's death was by natural causes?'

  'Oh, of course! What else? There's no mark of violence. No sign of poison,' Sir Richard answered.

  Athelstan remembered Foreman's words – how the lady who had visited his shop had bought a poison which could not be traced or smelt yet would stop the heart. He believed Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were speaking the truth, at least literally: in their eyes, and perhaps even those of a skilled physician, Allingham's death was from natural causes, but Athelstan thought differently. He agreed with Sir John, Allingham had been murdered.

  The young clerk, Buckingham, now dressed more festively, the funerals being over, took them up to the first floor, then up more stairs to the second storey of the house. The middle chamber on that floor was Allingham's: the door had been forced off its leather hinges and a workman was busy replacing it. He pushed it open for them and they went inside.

  The chamber was' small but pleasant, with a window overlooking the garden. On the bed, a small four poster with the bolsters piled high, Allingham lay as if asleep. Athelstan looked round the room. There was a short, coloured tapestry on the wall depicting Simeon greeting the baby Jesus, two or three chests, a table, one high-backed chair, some stools and a cupboard with a heavy oak frontal pushed open. He caught the fragrant smell of herbs sprinkled inside to keep the robes fresh. Athelstan went across and stared down at Allingham's body. He said a short prayer. Cranston sat on the bed just staring at the corpse as if the man was alive and the coroner wished to draw him into friendly conversation.

  Athelstan knew that Cranston, despite all his bluster and drunken ways, was quite capable of making a careful, perceptive study of the dead man. Athelstan leaned over to perform his own examination. The dead merchant's skin was like the cold scales of a fish. Rigor mortis had set in, but not totally. He pushed the mouth open and inhaled. A slight spicy smell but nothing unusual, and no discoloration of the skin, nails or face. He picked up the fingers. Again no smell except for chrism where the priest had anointed the dead man. Athelstan felt slightly ridiculous, he and Sir John sitting on the bed, Buckingham and Sir Richard looking down at them. Behind them, at the door, Lady Isabella peered on tip-toe over their shoulders, as if watching some masque or mummer's play. And then, behind her, the dull dragging footsteps of Father Crispin as he, too, came up to join them.

  'Tell me,' Athelstan said, 'who found the corpse?'

  'I did,' Sir Richard replied. 'We had all risen early this morning. Father Crispin here took one of the horses, a young one, out through Aldgate to gallop in the fields. He came back, stabled the horse and came in to break fast with us. We then noticed Allingham had not come down although he was generally an early riser. We sent up a manservant. He tried to rouse Stephen but, unable to, came down to tell us. Father Crispin had unfortunately just knocked over a wine cup and was cleaning up the mess with a napkin. When the servant summoned me, I went up; Father Crispin, Master Buckingham and Lady Isabella followed me. Allingham could not be roused so we then sent for the workmen in the yard. They brought up a timber and forced the door.'

  Athelstan went over to the door and looked carefully at it. Both the bolt and the lock were now broken beyond repair where the makeshift battering ram had forced a way in.

  'Inside, Stephen Allingham was lying on the bed, as you see him now. Father Crispin examined him and said there was no sign of life.'

  'What else happened?'

  'Nothing. We arranged the body which was lying half sprawled, legs on the floor, the rest on the bed.'

  'Nothing suspicious?'

  'No.'

  'Except one thing,' Father Crispin spoke up, ignoring Sir Richard's warning glance. 'I could not understand why, if Allingham had been taken by a seizure, he had not tried to open the door, turn the key and call for help. I thought the lock might have stuck.' He shrugged. 'I went back and examined it. The handle of the door was jammed. I tried to free it, using the cloth I had brought up from the hall to gain a better purchase. I did not succeed, perhaps because of the way it had been forced. The lock itself seemed good, though wrenched away by the forced entry. The key was lying on the floor.

  'And how had Master Allingham been in recent days?'

  'Morose!' Sir Richard snapped back. 'He kept to himself. On one occasion my mother, Lady Ermengilde, found him muttering to himself, something about the same number Vechey mentioned – thirty-one. And about shoemakers!'

  'Yes, that's right,' Lady Isabella said. 'At table he would just glower at his food and refuse to talk. He said he must be more careful about what he ate and drank. He spent a great deal of time in the yard below with the carpenters and masons who were making the pageant cart for the coronation procession. He spent hours talking to them, especially the master carpenter, Andrew Bulkeley.'

  'What was so important?' Cranston asked.

  Lady Isabella shrugged her pretty shoulders, a movement which made even Athelstan's breath catch in his throat.

  'I don't know,' she murmured. 'He used to go down there and stand and look at the frieze Bulkeley was carving; the one that will surmount the cart and later be hung in the chantry chapel at the other end of this house. Perhaps you should speak to him?'

  Cranston looked across at Athelstan and nodded.

  'Oh, one further question, Lady Isabella, and I ask it here in the presence of your household. Your husband's wealth – he made a will?'

  'Yes, it's already with the Court of Probate in Chancery at Westminster Hall. Why do you ask?'

  Athelstan noticed how her cheeks had become flushed and Sir Richard moved restlessly.

  'Who were your husband's heirs?'

  'Sir Richard and myself.'

  'You are to receive all his wealth?'

  'Yes, all.'

  'And, Sir Richard,' Cranston continued, 'you have now been through all the memoranda, documents, household books and accounts in your brother's possession. Have you found anything suspicious? Loans made perhaps to powerful men who refused to pay?'

  Sir Richard smiled.

  'Nothing of the sort. Oh, the powerful lords owed my brother, and now me, monies but none of them would dare renege. Remember, they can
only do it once. After that who else will loan them monies?'

  Cranston patted his thigh and grinned.

  'The world of finance, Sir Richard, escapes me – and of course Brother Athelstan here, with his vow of poverty. Come, Brother!' He rose and Athelstan followed him out.

  'Where are you going?' Sir Richard hurried to catch up with them.

  'Why, to see Master Bulkeley, of course! I would like to know what Master Allingham found so interesting in the yard.'

  Sir Richard led them down through a flagstoned kitchen and scullery, out into the great yard around which the house was built. The place was a hive of activity. Dogs charged about like lunatics, scattering the chickens and geese which pecked for food in the hard-packed soil. Grooms, farriers and ostlers were taking horses in and out of the stables, checking legs, hooves and coats for any injuries or blemishes. A few small boys, the children of servants, played hide and seek behind the carts, baskets and bales of straw. Servants hurried in and out of kitchens with pitchers of water while others sat in the shade whiling their time away with dice and other games of hazard. Outside the kitchen door scullions were bringing out steaming chunks of bloody red meat to throw into huge casks of pickle and salt to preserve them. At the other end of the yard, carpenters were busy around a huge, gaily decorated cart, the four sides now being covered with elaborate cloths and carvings. Sir Richard took Cranston and Athelstan over.

  'Oh, by the way, Sir Richard. The Syrians, the beautiful chess set, what happened to them?' asked Cranston.

  Sir Richard stood still, staring up at the blue sky, turning his face to feel the sun.

  'Too precious to be left out on display. Master Buckingham has polished them and put them away, locked in a casket. They are safe. Why do you ask?'

  Cranston shrugged. 'I wondered, that's all.'

  The noise around the carts was terrible: the banging and the sawing and the moving of wood. The air was thick with sawdust and the sweet smell of freshly cut wood. The pageant prepared by Springall, which was only a small part of the vast coronation procession, looked even more magnificent at close quarters. The cart was huge, about nine feet high. The merchant explained there would be a tableau which would give honour to the king as well as reflect the glory of the Goldsmith's Guild, with huge screens on which the carpenters and masons had carved elaborate scenes.