The Nightingale Gallery smoba-1

by Paul Doherty

  Gaunt grinned. 'So little for so much! See my clerks. It will be done.'

  Athelstan and Cranston strode out along the now emptying corridors of the Savoy Palace, down through the heavily perfumed garden and on to the riverside.

  Athelstan rubbed his eyes wearily. 'The murderer made one mistake and so did we, Sir John. First, I suspect Father Crispin waited until the tide fell before stringing the hapless corpse up.'

  'But he told us he was gone on errands?'

  'And that's where we made our mistake, Lord Coroner. We didn't ask when he returned, not that it would have made any difference in the Springall house where Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were lost in themselves and Allingham led his own lonely existence. Moreover, I am sure the priest had ways of sneaking in and out of such a large mansion without being noticed.'

  'Do you think Crispin will hang?' asked Cranston.

  Athelstan shook his head.

  'Fortescue asked him to get the information but then, as we know, matters got out of hand. Fortescue will go abroad and gain employment in some foreign court. Father Crispin, being a priest, will probably be immured in a monastery for the rest of his life and eat the bitter bread of repentance.' He crossed himself. 'Gaunt would never dare bring either of them to trial. But I suspect, within a year, Fortescue and our evil priest will both suffer some "accident" and answer for their crimes before God's tribunal.' Suddenly he remembered Benedicta. 'Sir John!' he cried. 'Your lady wife? Benedicta?'

  Cranston turned and looked slyly at him.

  'I asked the captain,' he said, 'to have two of his men escort the Lady Maude home. Benedicta was invited to go with her, but whether she did or not…' His voice trailed off.

  Athelstan stared up at the sky, now blood red as the sun began to set. He felt the evening breeze cool his face. He hardly spared a thought for assassins steeped in murder and ambition. How crimson was his own soul? Had not he too committed a secret sin?

  'What shall we do, Brother?' Cranston interrupted.

  Athelstan looked at that fat, friendly face, the good- humoured smile, the compassion in the bleary, drink- sodden eyes.

  'You are a good man, Sir John.'

  The coroner looked away.

  'And I shall tell you what we shall do,' Athelstan continued, taking him by the elbow. 'We shall celebrate!'

  He led Sir John along the waterside into the nearest tavern where he secured the best seats near the window. Athelstan raised a hand and called the landlord over.

  'I want a jug of your best Bordeaux and two deep cups. My friend and I are going to get drunk!'

  Sir John clapped his hands like a child, crowing with excitement. They drank like parched men. They heard the chimes of midnight and saw the stars come out before reeling back into the city and the warm security of Cranston's house. The Lady Maude screeched how she had heard of good seed falling amongst briars but never of good men falling from grace amongst friars! Cranston told her to shut up, announced he was going to give up ale and become a Dominican. He was still grinning beatifically when he passed out. Lady Maude knelt near her husband's porpoiselike body and made him comfortable for the night. She talked softly, keening over him as if he was Abelard and she Heloise. Love is strange, Athelstan thought, and has so many forms!

  Late the next morning, thick-headed and a little wiser, Athelstan went back to his church. He said Mass with no congregation present and sang his matins, wondering what had happened to Benedicta. He had lacked the courage to question Lady Maude. He was just finishing a psalm when the door opened behind him. He knew Benedicta was standing there as she always did, leaning against the pillar at the back of the church. She called his name softly, once, twice, but Athelstan did not turn. He heard her footsteps and the door close behind her. The friar remembered the words of the poet: 'When a heart breaks, worlds shatter without a sound.'

  Father Prior came to visit Athelstan, appearing suddenly like a thief in the night. He was courteous enough for he had also visited Sir John Cranston to inquire how Athelstan was progressing, and the good coroner had escorted him across London Bridge to Southwark to see. Of course, Athelstan had had some warning: Cranston sending ahead Walt, son of Lionel the hangman, to advise him of the prior's intended arrival. Athelstan hastily rounded up some of his parishioners, a not too difficult task as they constantly loitered around the steps of the church, each involved in his or her own nefarious activities.

  Cecily the courtesan brushed and scrubbed the porch, while Watkin did his best to clean some of the dirt from the nave and refilled the holy water stoups which the children always drank from. Athelstan had just preached a sermon on how men and women were all God's flowers, some being roses, others bluebells. He'd hoped to convince his parishioners that God loved their differences and that a garden full of roses might be very pleasant but also very boring. The sermon was difficult to give as Benedicta persisted in kneeling in front of him, staring up with those beautiful eyes. She would have resembled the holy Agatha had it not been for the laughter lines round her mouth.

  At last Father Prior arrived with his clerks, secretarius, sacristan and other officials. Cranston was stone sober, sitting on his horse like a Solomon come to judgement. Athelstan's parishioners thronged round; Orme, one of the many sons of Watkin, thought Father Prior was the Pope but Cecily the courtesan loudly proclaimed he was the bishop. Athelstan shooed them away and brought his guests into the church whilst Crim and Dyke guarded the horses. Father Prior's retainers amused themselves by looking round. It didn't take them long and Athelstan saw the snotty-nosed sacristan laughing at his pathetic attempts to turn this church into a house of God. But who cared for his opinion? thought Athelstan. Perhaps someone should remind him that it all began in a manger, and the stable in Bethlehem had no fine paintings. Father Prior, however, was kind; he sat opposite Athelstan on the other of the church's two benches and gently questioned him on his doings over the last few months. Cranston sat beside him, staring up at the ceiling. Father Prior heard the friar out before taking him by the hand.

  'Brother Athelstan,' he said, 'if you wish, you may come back to the Mother House. Your work and your penance are over.' He turned to the coroner. 'What do you think, Sir John?'

  Granston smiled and shrugged. 'He's a better priest,' he quipped, than he is a coroner's clerk! I think it best he should return.'

  His eyes refused to meet Athelstan's.

  The prior nodded, rose, and patted Athelstan on the shoulder.

  'I have to go somewhere else,' he said. 'Sir John has kindly agreed to escort me. It's only a short distance. We shall return within the hour and receive your answer then.'

  He walked out of the church, his black and white robe billowing behind him. Cranston did not spare Athelstan a second glance as he waddled out. A moment later Athelstan heard him roaring to Cecily the courtesan that he didn't care how pretty her arse was, she was to get out of his saddle! Father Prior's retainers, eager to leave, needed no second invitation. Athelstan heard their horses clatter off and told Watkin to guard the church door and leave him alone.

  'Are you leaving us, Father?' the man asked anxiously.

  Athelstan couldn't answer. He shut the door, barred it, and went to sit on the sanctuary steps. What should he do? On the one hand, he was glad Father Prior had come to take him back, but on the other what would happen to his parishioners? Watkin's bevy of children? The youngest, Edmund, seemed a clever boy. If schooled properly, he might become a clerk. And Cecily the courtesan? What would happen if he no longer gave her pennies for cleaning the church? And Benedicta? He shut his eyes and tried to expunge her face from his mind. He prayed for a sign. The good Lord would surely guide him. He opened his eyes, got up and noticed the candle, the one Benedicta always lit in front of the Madonna. Athelstan went across and stared down at it. Only then did he notice the rose, a small white one, placed at the foot of the statue. He had his answer.

  Athelstan was waiting for Father Prior when he and his party came up the lane and st
opped outside the church. Athelstan took his superior's horse by the bridle and looked up into the prior's kindly face. He ignored Cranston's glare.

  'Do I have your answer, Brother Athelstan?'

  'Yes, Father Prior,' he replied. 'I would like to stay here until I am as good a coroner's clerk as I am a priest!'

  'You are sure, Brother?'

  'Yes, Father, I am sure.'

  The prior smiled.

  'So be it,' he murmured. He sketched the sign of the cross in the air above Athelstan's head, bade him adieu and urged his horse forward. Athelstan waited till the sound of the horses faded before staring at Cranston, who was surreptitiously wiping his eyes on the cuff of his jerkin.

  'God's bones, Athelstan!' he bellowed. 'I have never been so sober for so long in my life! Now I am so hot, even my eyes are sweating.'

  He looked at Athelstan mischievously. 'Perhaps a little refreshment?'

  'God save us all!' Athelstan muttered, and walked back up the steps of his church, leaving Cranston bellowing after him.

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