by Paul Doherty
‘I mean, now, sir!’ Cranston bellowed, not caring if his voice carried through the house, out into the enclosed courtyard where craftsmen were working. ‘I want to see everybody!’ He swept into the great hall. ‘Here!’
He then marched up the hall, climbed on to the dais and sat down at the head of the table there, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to join him. The friar shrugged and got out his writing tray, parchment, ink horn and quills. Buckingham must have realised something was wrong for he was quickly joined in the hall, first by Sir Richard and then by Lady Isabella. The latter’s looks were not impaired by grief today. Her eyes were not so red, her cheeks blooming like roses. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, the white veil hiding her beautiful chestnut hair.
Sir Richard, in hose and open cambric shirt, wiped dust from his hands, apologising that he had been out with the craftsmen who were putting the finishing touches to their pageant for the young king’s coronation. Cranston just nodded, accepting his explanation as something irrelevant.
The priest also came hobbling in, his long hair swinging like a veil round his emaciated face. He threw a look of deep distaste at the coroner but called out civilly: ‘You are well, Sir John?’
‘I am well, Sir Priest,’ answered Cranston. ‘And much better for seeing you all here.’
The young priest must have caught the new note of authority in his voice. He stood still a moment and stared at Sir John through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled as if savouring some secret joke and slumped at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg. Dame Ermengilde swept in, unctuously escorted by Buckingham. Dressed completely in black, she moved down the hall like some silent spider and stood over the coroner.
‘I will not be summoned,’ she snapped, ‘here in my own house!’
‘Madam,’ Cranston didn’t even bother to look up, ‘you will sit down and listen to what I say. You will obey me or I will take you to the Marshalsea Prison, and there you can sit and listen to what I say.’ He looked up at Sir Richard and Lady Isabella. ‘I mean no offence. I appreciate that yesterday the funeral ceremonies were carried out but Masses were also sung for the souls of two other men, Brampton and Vechey, and I have news of them. They did not commit suicide. They were murdered!’
Cranston’s words hung in the air like a noose. Dame Ermengilde tightened her thin little lips and sat down without further ado. Sir Richard looked nervously at Lady Isabella. Ermengilde, seated beside Athelstan, also looked frightened, trying hard to hide it behind her mask of arrogance. Further down the table the priest tapped the table gently, singing some hymn softly under his breath. Buckingham sat, hands together, staring down at the table top, his face registering surprise and shock at Sir John’s words. Allingham was the last to join them. The tall, lanky merchant was nervous and ill at ease, his hand constantly fluttering to his mouth or patting his greasy hair. He mumbled some apology and sat next to the priest. He seemed unable to meet the coroner’s eyes, not daring even to look in his direction.
‘Sir John,’ the merchant mumbled, ‘you said Brampton and Vechey had been murdered? But how? Why? Brampton may have been a quiet man but I cannot imagine him allowing anyone to hustle him upstairs in a house full of people, tie a noose round his neck and hang him. The same is true of Vechey.’ He looked down the table at Allingham. ‘Stephen, you would accept that, wouldn’t you?’
The merchant never looked up but nodded and muttered something to himself.
‘What are you saying?’ Cranston leaned over the table. ‘Master Allingham, you spoke. What did you say?’
The merchant rubbed his hands together as if trying to wash them.
‘There’s something evil in this house,’ the merchant said slowly. ‘Satan is here. He stands in the corners, in quiet places, and watches us. I believe the coroner is right.’ He looked up, his lugubrious face pale, and Athelstan saw it was tear-stained. ‘Vechey was murdered! I think he knew something.’
‘Tush, man!’ cried Sir Richard. ‘Master Stephen, you worry too much. You have spent too many hours on your knees in church.’
‘What?’ Athelstan asked, putting his quill down. ‘What did Vechey know?’
The lanky merchant leaned forward, his face screwed up, eyes pinpricks of hatred.
‘I don’t know,’ he hissed. ‘And, if I did, I would not tell you, Friar. What can you do?’
‘On your allegiance,’ Cranston bawled, ‘I ask you, do you know anything about the deaths which have occurred in this household?’
‘No!’ Allingham grated. ‘They are a mystery. But Sir Thomas liked riddles and his own private jokes. There must be something in this house which would explain it all.’
‘What are you talking about, man?’ asked Sir Richard.
But the merchant rubbed the side of his face uneasily. ‘I have spoken enough,’ he mumbled, and fell silent.
‘In which case,’ Cranston began, ‘let us make a brief summary of what we do know. Correct me if I am wrong but Sir Thomas Springall was an alderman and a goldsmith. On the night he died he held a great banquet, a feast for his household, and invited Chief Justice Fortescue. He drank deeply, yes?’
Lady Isabella nodded, her beautiful eyes fixed on Cranston’s face. Sir Richard, however, watched Athelstan’s quill skim over the piece of vellum.
‘The banquet ends,’ Cranston continued. ‘Sir Thomas retires. You, Sir Richard, wish him good night whilst Lady Isabella sends down a maidservant to ask if he wishes for anything.’
Both of them acknowledged this.
‘You, Dame Ermengilde, heard Brampton take a cup of wine up to Sir Thomas’s room during the feast?’
‘I did not just hear!’ she retorted. ‘I opened my door and saw him. Then he went down.’
‘And how was he dressed?’
‘In a jerkin and doublet.’
‘And his feet?’
‘He had on the usual soft pair of boots which he always wore.’
‘Why do you remember this?’
‘Brampton was a quiet man,’ Dame Ermengilde replied, a touch of softness in her voice. ‘A good steward. He moved slowly, quietly, like a dutiful servant.’
‘And how did he seem?’
‘As normal. A little white-faced. He knew I opened the door but he never looked at me. He went down the stairs. No! He went along the other gallery up to the second floor and his own room.’
‘Did you ever see him again?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘And you say that only Sir Thomas, then Sir Richard and Lady Isabella’s maidservant, went along the Nightingale Gallery?’
‘Yes, I am certain of that.’
‘And you are sure that Sir Thomas was not disturbed during the night?’
‘Yes, I told you, man!’ she snapped. ‘I am a light sleeper. I heard no one.’
‘And you, Father Crispin?’ Cranston leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of the young clerk’s face. ‘You went up the next morning. Dame Ermengilde heard you go along the Nightingale. When you failed to rouse Sir Thomas you went for Sir Richard whose chamber is on the adjoining passageway. Sir Richard came back with you. You were unable to arouse Sir Thomas so you asked the servants to break down the door?’
‘Yes.’ The priest nodded, his eyes bright. ‘That is exactly what I did.’
‘When the room was broken into, all of you here were present? You went in. Sir Thomas was sprawled on his bed, a cup of poison on the table beside him. Nobody said anything . . .’
‘Except Vechey!’ Allingham broke in. ‘He said, “There were only thirty-one!”'
‘Do you know what he meant by that?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, I wish to God I did!’
‘The physician was sent for,’ Cranston continued.
‘Master de Troyes. He came. He examined Sir Thomas’s corpse, pronounced him to have been poisoned, and claimed the potion was placed in a half-drunk cup of wine beside Sir Thomas’s bed. Now Brampton was last seen late in the evening taking a wine cup up to Sir Thomas’s
chamber and was not seen alive again. The next morning, after Sir Thomas had been discovered dead, Brampton’s corpse was found swinging from a beam up in the garret. Master Vechey was here when Brother Athelstan and I came to the house for the first time. He went out late on the same evening, God knows where, and was found hanging from a beam under London Bridge. Now we have evidence which we will keep privy for the time being which will prove that neither Brampton nor Vechey committed suicide. Though, Lady Isabella, we are no further forward in resolving the mystery of your husband’s death.’
‘It could still have been Brampton!’
It was Buckingham who spoke. Cranston looked at him.
‘What makes you say that?’
The clerk shrugged. ‘I accept you have your own reasons for claiming Brampton did not commit suicide but that does not mean he is innocent of Sir Thomas’s death.’
Cranston grinned.
‘A good point, Master clerk. You would make a good lawyer. I shall remember that.’ There was a sudden commotion at the door. A servant scurried in, leaned over Sir Richard’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. The merchant looked up.
‘Sir John, there is a messenger, a cursitor from the sheriffs office, who wishes to speak to you.’
‘I will see him, Sir Richard, by your leave. Tell him to come in.’
The cursitor, a pompous young man, swaggered in. ‘Sir John, a message from the under sheriff.’ He looked around him. ‘It concerns Master Vechey.’
‘Yes!’ Cranston said. ‘You may speak here.’
‘He was seen in a tavern down near the riverside. The landlord of the Golden Keys said a man who fitted Vechey’s description was there drinking late at night. He left with a young, red-haired whore whom he had never seen before.’
‘Is that all?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, Sir John.’
Cranston dismissed the cursitor. Athelstan felt the mood of the company in the hall lift.
‘See!’ Dame Ermengilde cried exultantly. ‘Vechey was seen with one of his whores. Master Buckingham must be right. Brampton may still have killed my son, and Vechey’s death be totally unconnected with this.’
Athelstan could see Cranston was not pleased by the news.
‘Nevertheless,’ he snapped, ‘I have other questions. Lady Isabella and Sir Richard, I must ask you to stay. The others, I would prefer to leave.’
Dame Ermengilde was about to protest. Her son stretched across the table and touched her gently on the wrist, his eyes pleading with her. She rose, threw one withering look at Cranston and followed the others out. Sir John watched them go.
‘Lady Isabella,’ he said softly, ‘have you ever been to Nightshade House in Piper Alley near Whitefriars?’
‘Never!’
‘And you have no knowledge of an apothecary called Simon Foreman?’
‘I have heard of him but never met him.’
Athelstan saw the fear in Lady Isabella’s eyes. Her face lost its golden hue, becoming pale and haggard.
‘Sir Richard?’
‘No!’ As he leaned forward, he clapped his hand to his side, where his sword should have been. ‘You come into this house!’ he hissed. ‘You insult both me and Lady Isabella, hinting we go amongst rogues and vagabonds. Don’t be clever, Cranston! My brother was murdered by poison. I resent the inference in your questions that one of us visited that apothecary and secured the poison to carry the murder out.’
‘Yet this afternoon,’ Cranston said conversationally, ‘both Brother Athelstan and myself went to that apothecary’s shop. He claims he sold poison to a woman fitting your description, Lady Isabella. She was dressed in a black cloak lined with white fur, had chestnut hair, was of your height and colouring.’
‘I have never been to Whitefriars! I have never visited an apothecary’s shop!’
‘You do have a black cloak lined with white fur?’
‘Yes, like hundreds of women in the city!’
‘Have you ever met Foreman?’
‘I don’t know. I could have done. My husband had many strange friends. Anyway, why should I kill him?’ Lady Isabella cried, half rising from the chair. ‘He was a good man. He gave me everything a woman could desire.’
‘Lady Isabella,’ Cranston said smoothly, ‘it is well known that your husband had strange tastes and foibles. Did you love him?’
‘That, sir, is enough!’ Sir Richard grabbed Cranston by the wrist but the coroner shook him off.
‘That will do!’ Cranston was annoyed now by the arrogance of these people, thinking they could push him around whenever they wished. ‘I am an officer of the king, and the crown is involved. These charges may involve treason, conspiracy as well as murder!’
Sir Richard sat down again, breathing heavily. Lady Isabella linked her arm through his. She looked at him and shook her head.
‘My Lady,’ Athelstan said softly, ‘it is best if you tell the truth. You must! Your husband lies murdered. Two others have been brutally executed. The murderer may well strike again. Sir John and I go around London playing Blind Man’s Buff in this deadly game. Your husband, Lady Isabella, had secrets - that is why he was murdered. Brampton was supposed to have been the culprit but, due to chance and circumstances, we have ascertained he was innocent, and he, too, was murdered, though it was made to look like suicide. Vechey saw or heard something so he, also, was silenced. Now, Lady Isabella, on your oath to the new king, have you ever visited the apothecary called Simon Foreman?’
‘No!’
Athelstan stared back.
‘Did you love your husband?’
‘No! He was a gentle, kind man but he did not know me, not in the carnal sense. He had his own tastes . . .’ her voice trailed away.
‘A liking for young men?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He was a sodomite!’ Cranston barked. ‘He liked young men! He lusted after them!’ Athelstan stared at him and shook his head. Lady Isabella put her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. ‘My Lady,’ Athelstan pressed her, ‘your husband?’
‘He left me alone. I made no inquiry into what he thought or did.’
‘You, Sir Richard, do you love the Lady Isabella?’
The crestfallen merchant pulled himself together. ‘Yes. Yes, I do!’
‘Are you lovers?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘So you both had a motive?’
‘For what?’
Sir Richard had lost his usual ebullience. He slouched back in the chair, his face drawn as if he realised the mortal danger they were now in.
‘For murder, sir.’
The merchant shook his head. ‘I may have lusted after my brother’s wife,’ he muttered, ‘but not his life!’
‘In King’s Bench,’ Cranston barked, ‘it would not appear like that. It would appear, Sir Richard, that you lusted after your brother’s wife as well as his riches; that while he was alive you committed adultery with her and, with each other, you plotted together to carry out his murder and lay the blame on Brampton.’
‘In which case,’ Sir Richard replied meekly, ‘I must also be responsible for the deaths of Vechey and Brampton. But I have witnesses. I stayed at the banquet with my brother the entire evening. I said good night to him, and the rest of the time I was with the Lady Isabella. We shared the same bed,’ he confessed.
‘And the night Vechey died?’ Cranston asked abruptly.
‘The same. We have servants here. Workmen in the yard. They will vouch that I stayed here, doing accounts, going out to look at the carvings which were being made for the pageant for the king’s coronation.’
Lady Isabella drew herself up, resting her elbows on the arms of her chair.
‘If we had murdered Sir Thomas,’ she asked, ‘how could we enter his chamber, force poison down his throat or into his wine cup, and leave the room, locking and bolting the door from inside? That, sir, is impossible.’ Her eyes turned towards Athelstan, pleading with him. ‘I beg you, sir, to believe us. If we were in bed together, how could we
go down, seize Brampton, take him up to that garret and hang him? No, I did not go to Whitefriars. I did not visit Simon Foreman. I did not buy poisons. I am innocent, not of sin but of my husband’s death and that of others. I swear before God I had nothing to do with them.’
‘You sent wine up to Brampton?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, as a peace offering.’
‘And was Brampton in his room?’
‘No, I found out later that he was busy taking the cup of claret to my husband’s chamber.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘The servant left the wine in Brampton’s chamber and came down. That is all, I swear!’
Despite the tears, Athelstan still wondered if her adultery made her an assassin or perhaps an accomplice to murder. The friar felt the frustration grow within him. How had Sir Thomas been murdered? And how had Brampton been hanged? And Vechey? Athelstan dallied with the thought of tying each of the people in this house down to their exact movements during the night Sir Thomas died, as well as the following one when Vechey disappeared, but realised the futility of it. Moreover, there was no real proof linking the murderers with anyone in the house. Perhaps they had been carried out on the orders of someone else? But who? And how? Why?
Athelstan stood, walking up and down just beneath the dais, his fingers to his lips. Cranston watched him carefully. The clever friar would sift one fact from another. The coroner was quite prepared to let Athelstan use the advantage they had now gained.
‘Lady Isabella, Sir Richard,’ he began, ‘I have no real proof to convict you. Nevertheless, we have enough evidence under the law to swear out warrants for your arrest and ask for your committal to Newgate, Marshalsea, even the Tower.’ He held up his hand. ‘However, we wish for your cooperation. We want the truth. The Sons of Dives . . . you belong to them, don’t you, Sir Richard?’
The merchant nodded.
‘Everyone in this household is a member, are they not?’
‘Yes,’ Sir Richard replied meekly. ‘Yes, we are. The church condemns usury and the loaning of money at high interest. The Guilds also condemn it. However, in every guild, in every livery company in the city, groups of merchants get together in some society. They give themselves strange names. Ours is known as the Sons of Dives. We lend money secretly to whoever needs it but charge interest much higher than the Lombards or Venetians. The money is delivered quickly. Payment is over a number of years. We choose our customers carefully: only those who can underwrite the loan, give pledges that they are good for the money they have borrowed. A petty mystery, our guild is full of such covens.’