The Nightingale Gallery (7 page)

‘Lady Ermengilde, you seem well appraised of what happened. I crave your indulgence. Can you explain more?’

‘My chamber is close to that of my son,’ she snapped. ‘The staircase beyond,’ she indicated with a nod of her head, ‘leads up to two galleries, one running to the right. At the end was Sir Thomas’s chamber and, next to his, mine.’

‘Any other?’

Lady Ermengilde’s eyes slid towards her daughter-in-law.

‘That of the Lady Isabella. There is a gallery to the left, identical to the one I’ve described except for one thing.’ She raised one bony finger. ‘My chamber, as well as those of Sir Thomas and Lady Isabella, stands on the Nightingale Gallery.’

‘The Nightingale Gallery?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What is that?’

Dame Ermengilde smiled and walked nearer, her face looking more than ever like a sour apple. Athelstan noticed she was not dressed in black but in the dark brown habit of a nun, though her scorn for the luxuries of this world must have been shallow for the rings on her fingers held jewels the size of birds’ eggs. A worldly lady, Athelstan thought, for all her prim face, sour lips and arrogant eyes.

‘It’s well known,’ she continued, her voice tinged with patronising arrogance. ‘This house was built on a square, and on the opposite corner of the square are stairs to the second storey.’ She waved her hand to the far doorway which stood slightly ajar. Through it Athelstan could glimpse steep stairs. ‘They will take you up to Sir Thomas’s chamber,’ she added. ‘At the top are two corridors. The gallery to the right is the Nightingale Gallery because it “sings” when anyone walks through it.’ She must have seen the disbelief in Cranston’s bleary eyes. ‘This house is very old,’ she continued, looking up at the great blackened beams. ‘It was built in the reign of King John.’ She smirked. ‘A time very like our own. A strong ruler was needed. Anyway, one of John’s mercenary captains used this house as a base from which to control London. He trusted no one, not even his own men.’ Her eyes drifted to Lady Isabella who was standing behind Athelstan. ‘Anyway, he had the floor of that gallery taken up and replaced with special boards of yew. No one can approach any of the three chambers on that gallery without making it creak, or “sing”. Hence its name.’

‘And the importance of this?’ Cranston asked.

‘The importance, my dear coroner,’ she purred in reply, ‘is that I was in my chamber all evening. I am old and banquets bore me. Oh, I heard the talk and the laughter from the hall below. It disturbed my sleep. Fortunately I need very little.’ She glared at Cranston. ‘You will find out for yourself, Sir John, age makes you sleep lightly.’

‘Just in case Death taps you on the shoulder!’ he answered crossly.

‘Quite,’ she jibed back. ‘But Death has a tendency, as you well know, Sir John, to take the heaviest first!’

‘My Lady,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘the events of yesterday . . . You heard no one go up to Sir Thomas’s chamber?’

‘Before the banquet people were scurrying backwards and forwards,’ she retorted. ‘During the meal I heard the Nightingale sing once, I was surprised. I opened the door and saw Brampton, carrying a wine cup in his hand. I heard him open the door to my son’s chamber and then go back downstairs again. I heard no other noise before Sir Thomas’s footsteps when he came up to his chamber. Sir Richard followed him and bade him goodnight, then Lady Isabella’s maid made her inquiry. After that the house was silent till this morning. Father Crispin came up, I heard him knock on the door, then he went for Sir Richard and brought him back.’

Cranston nodded. ‘I thank you, Lady Ermengilde. You have solved one piece of the puzzle, Brampton did take the cup up. Now,’ he looked at Sir Richard, ‘disturbing and painful though it may be, I must insist that I view the bodies of both men.’ He bowed to Lady Isabella. ‘Your husband first, My Lady. You have no objection?’

Sir Richard shook his head and led them out across the hall and up the broad sweeping staircase. As Cranston passed Lady Ermengilde, he belched rather noisily.

At the top of the stairs the passageway, or gallery, to the left was unremarkable. The walls were white-washed and coated with fresh lime, the woodwork painted black. There were canvas paintings nailed there in between the three chambers which were now covered in black gauze veils; the doors of each chamber were huge, heavy set, and reinforced with iron strips. The gallery running to their right, however, was different. The doors and walls were similar but the floor was not made of broad planks but thin bands of light-coloured wood. As soon as Sir Richard stepped on them Athelstan realised the gallery was aptly named. Each footstep, wherever they stood, caused a deep, slightly melodious twang, similar to the noise of a dozen bowstrings being pulled back simultaneously. Immediately to their left was Lady Isabella’s room, the central chamber was Lady Ermengilde’s, and the last Sir Thomas’s, now in utter disarray. The floor outside was gouged. The door, smashed off its leather hinges, stood crookedly against the lintel. Sir Richard dismissed the servant on guard and, with the help of Buckingham, pushed it gently to one side.

Athelstan looked around. The company from the hall had followed them up, making the Nightingale Gallery sing and echo with its strange melody.

‘Where is Father Crispin?’ he asked. ‘Dame Ermengilde?’

‘Down in the hall,’ Allingham muttered. ‘The priest has had a deformed foot since birth. At times he finds the stairs painful. Dame Ermengilde is old. They send their excuses!’

Athelstan nodded and followed Cranston into the death chamber. The room was a perfect square, the ceiling a set design, the black timber beams contrasting sharply with the white plaster. The walls were whitewashed, and costly, coloured arras hung from each, depicting a number of themes from the Old and New Testaments. No carpets but the rushes on the floor were clean, dry, and sprinkled with fresh herbs. There was a small cupboard, a huge chest and two small coffers at the base of the great four poster bed. Next to it stood a small table, a wine cup still on it, and over near the window, on a beautiful marble table top, was ranged the most exquisite chess set Athelstan had ever seen. Sir Richard caught his glance just as Father Crispin hobbled into the room.

‘The Syrians,’ Sir Richard explained.

Athelstan, a keen chess player, went over and looked down at them. The Syrians were resplendent in their beauty. Each figure, about nine inches high, was a work of great craftsmanship, fashioned out of gold and filigree silver. Athelstan whistled under his breath, shaking his head in admiration.

‘Beautiful!’ he muttered. ‘The most exquisite pieces I have ever seen!’

Sir Richard, who had followed him over, nodded.

‘A hundred years ago, a Springall, one of our ancestors, went on a crusade in the Holy Land with King Edward I. He won a name for himself as a great warrior. In Outremer there was a secret sect of assassins led by a mysterious figure called The Old Man of the Mountains.’ He straightened and looked across to where Sir John was now swaying drunkenly in the middle of the room, the rest of the group watching him attentively, only half listening to Sir Richard’s account. He smirked. ‘Anyway, the members of this sect were fed on hashish and sent out to assassinate anyone their leader marked down for destruction. They had castles and secret places high in the mountains. Our ancestor found one of these, laid siege, captured and destroyed it. He seized a great deal of plunder and, as a reward for his bravery, the English king allowed him to keep this magnificent chess set. My brother,’ he added softly, ‘was a keen player.’

‘He was in the middle of that game last night,’ Father Crispin interrupted, coming up behind them. ‘Sir Thomas was so angry with Brampton, I persuaded him that a game would soothe his humour.’

Athelstan smiled.

‘Did you win, Father Crispin?’

‘We never finished the game,’ Father Crispin murmured. ‘We broke off for the banquet. I was threatening his bishop.’ The priest looked up, his eyes smiling. ‘So easy to trap a churchman, eh, Brother?’

‘Did Sir Thomas think that?’

‘No, he was furious,’ Lady Isabella interrupted. ‘During the banquet he kept plotting how to break out of the impasse.’

Athelstan just nodded and went over to where Cranston was staring at the ruined door.

‘Both locked and bolted?’ the coroner murmured.

‘Yes,’ answered Buckingham.

Cranston bent down, crouching to look at it, nodded and rose.

‘And the corpse?’

Lady Isabella gulped at his harshness. Sir Richard led them over, pulling back the heavy bed curtains. The huge four poster bed had been stripped as a pallet for Springall’s corpse which lay rigid and silent under a leather sheet. Cranston pulled back the cloth. Now Athelstan had seen many a corpse, male and female, with the most horrible injuries, yet he thought there was something nightmarish in seeing a man in his bed, dressed in his nightshirt, eyes half open, mouth gaping like a landed fish. When alive Sir Thomas must have been a fine-looking man with his tawny hair, sharp soldier’s face and military appearance. In death he looked grotesque.

Cranston sniffed the man’s mouth and gently pushed back the lolling head. Athelstan watched fascinated, noting the slight purplish tinge in the corpse’s face and sunken cheeks. Someone had attempted to close the dead merchant’s eyes and, unable to, had placed a coin over each of his eyelids. One of these had now slipped off and Sir Thomas glared sightlessly at the ceiling. Cranston turned, waving Athelstan closer to examine the body. He always did this. The friar suspected Cranston took enjoyment in making him pore over each corpse, the more revolting the better. Athelstan pulled back the nightshirt and examined the rest of the body, impervious to the groans and gasps behind him. He looked over his shoulder; Lady Isabella had walked back towards the door, Sir Richard’s arm around her waist. Buckingham just stood with eyes half closed. Both merchants looked squeamish, as if they were about to be sick. Outside the Nightingale Gallery sang and Lady Ermengilde, her hands grasping a black stick, her face covered in a fine sheen of sweat, pushed into the room and glared at Cranston.

‘Is this necessary?’ she asked. ‘Is it really necessary?’

‘Yes, Madam, it is!’ he barked in reply. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you finished?’

The friar examined the corpse from neck to crotch. No mark of violence, no cut. Then the hands. They had been washed and scrubbed clean, the nails manicured. The body was now ready for the embalmer’s, before being sheeted and coffined and the funeral ceremony carried out.

‘Poison,’ Athelstan confirmed. ‘No mark of any other violence. No sign of an attack.’

Athelstan picked up the cup and sniffed it. The smell was rich, dark, dank and dangerous. It cloyed in his mouth and nostrils. He put it down quickly and bent over the corpse, sniffing at the dead man’s mouth from which issued the same acrid, richly corrupting smell.

‘Belladonna and arsenic?’ Athelstan remarked.

Buckingham nodded.

‘A deadly combination,’ the friar observed. ‘The only consolation is that Sir Thomas must have died within minutes of putting the cup down. Sir John, you have seen enough?’

Cranston nodded, straightened, and went to sit in a chair over near the chess table. Sir Richard came back into the room.

‘You have found nothing new, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘I speak for Sir John. Sir Thomas’s body may be released for burial whenever you wish.’ He looked round the chamber. ‘There are no other entrances here?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘Sir Thomas chose this chamber because of its security.’ He pointed to the chests. ‘They hold gold, indentures and parchments.’

‘And have you been through these?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you found anything which may explain Brampton’s strange conduct in trying to rifle his master’s records?’

Sir Richard shook his head.

‘Nothing. Some loans to rather powerful nobles and bishops who should have known better, but nothing else.’

Athelstan took one look round the bed chamber, noting the exquisite beauty of the carved four poster bed, with its writhing snakes and other symbols. A luxurious chamber but not opulent. He tapped gently on the floor with his sandalled foot. It sounded thick and heavy. No trap doors.

‘Did Sir Thomas have a . . .’

‘A secret place?’ Sir Richard completed his sentence. ‘I doubt it. Moreover, Master Buckingham and I have been through the accounts. Everything is in order. My brother was a tidy man.’

‘Sir Richard, we are finished here. I would like to view Brampton’s corpse.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ the merchant smirked and nodded towards where Cranston sat, a contented smile on his face, fast asleep, ‘your companion, good Sir John, appears good for nothing! Perhaps tomorrow?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But first I must see where Brampton killed himself.’

‘I will take care of it, Sir Richard,’ Buckingham murmured.

Sir Richard nodded and the clerk left the room, returning within seconds with a candle in its metal hood. He led Athelstan out of the bed chamber, back along the passageway and up to the second floor. Behind them the Nightingale sang as if mocking Athelstan’s departure. At the bottom of the second gallery was a narrow, winding, wooden staircase.

‘It leads to the garrets,’ Buckingham said, sensing the friar’s thoughts.

They went up. Buckingham pushed open a rickety wooden door and Athelstan followed him in. The garret was built just under the eaves of the roof. The wooden ceiling sloped high at one end and low at the other. Just inside the door stood an old table, a stool beside it. Buckingham held the candle up and Athelstan studied the stout beam directly above the table. A piece of rope hung from it, scarred and frayed. It swung eerily in the breeze which came through a gap in the roof tiles. On the table beneath, covered by a dirty sheet, lay Brampton’s corpse. Athelstan took the candle off Buckingham and looked around. Nothing but rubbish: broken pitchers, shattered glass, a coffer with the lid broken, and a mound of old clothes. The garret smelt dank and dusty and of something else - corruption, decay, the order of rotting death. Athelstan went across to the table and pulled back the filthy sheet. Brampton lay there, a small man dressed in a simple linen shirt, open at the neck, and wearing dark green hose on his scrawny legs. He would have appeared asleep if it had not been for the curious lie of his head. The neck was twisted slightly askew to one side. The heavy-lidded eyes were half open, his lips parted in death, and a dark blue-purplish ring circled the scraggy neck. Athelstan peered closer. There were no signs of violence on the yellow, seamed face. The small goatee beard was still damp with spittle; the gash on the throat quite deep, with a large bruise behind the ear where the noose had been tied. He scrutinized the man’s hands, long and thin, manicured like a woman’s. Carefully he examined the nails, noticing the strands of rope caught there. Behind him Buckingham muttered darkly, as if resenting his scrutiny. There was a crashing on the stairs and Cranston burst in, the ill effects of the wine readily apparent. He slumped on the stool, mopping his sweaty face with the hem of his cloak.