The Nightingale Gallery by Paul Doherty

pushed away the writing tray and tried to assert himself. ‘I cannot understand this,’ he said. ‘Brampton argues with Sir Thomas, who has accused him of rifling amongst his private papers?’
    ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard nodded, watching him guardedly.
    ‘Brampton storms out but later takes up a cup of wine. A kind gesture?’
    ‘Not if it was poisoned!’ Allingham squeaked. ‘The cup was poisoned, laced with a deadly potion.’ Athelstan felt caught, trapped in a mire. The listeners around the table were gently mocking him, dismissing Cranston as a drunk and himself as an ignorant friar.
    ‘Who was present,’ he asked, ‘when Sir Thomas’s body was found?’
    ‘I was,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘And course Father Crispin. Master Buckingham also came up.’
    ‘As did I,’ Allingham grated.
    ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Sir Richard added.
    ‘So you sent for the physician?’
    ‘Yes, as I have said.’
    ‘And then what?’
    ‘I dressed the body,’ Father Crispin offered. ‘I washed him, did what I could, and gave Sir Thomas the last rites, anointing his hands, face and feet. You may recall, Brother, there are some theologians, Dominicans,’ the priest smiled thinly, ‘who maintain the soul does not leave the body until hours after death. I prayed God would have mercy on Sir Thomas’s soul.’
    ‘Did Sir Thomas need mercy?’
    ‘He was a good man,’ Father Crispin replied sharply. ‘He founded chantries, gave money to the poor, distributed food, looked after widows and orphans.’
    I am sure the good Lord will have mercy on him,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Now for Brampton. You made a search for him?’
    ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard replied briskly. ‘We suspected he was involved so we searched his chamber. We found a small stoppered phial in a chest beneath some robes. A servant took it round to Peter de Troyes, who pronounced it held the same mixture found in my brother’s wine cup. We then searched for Brampton.’
    ‘I found the corpse,’ Vechey interrupted. ‘I noticed that the door leading to the garret was half open, so I went up.’ He swallowed. ‘Brampton was hanging there.’ The fellow shivered. ‘It was dreadful. The garret was empty and cold. There was a horrible smell. Brampton’s body was hanging there like a broken doll, a child’s toy, his neck askew, his face blackened, tongue lolling out!’
    He gulped at his wine.
    ‘I cut him down and loosened the rope but he was dead, the corpse clammy and cold.’ He looked pleadingly at Sir Richard. ‘The body’s still there. It must be removed!’
    ‘Tell me,’ Athelstan said, ‘do you all live here?’
    ‘Yes,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘Master Allingham is a bachelor. Master Vechey is a widower,’ he smiled, ‘though still with an eye for the ladies. This mansion is great, four storeys high, built in a square round a courtyard. Sir Thomas saw no reason why his business partners should not share the same house. Tenements, property, their value has increased, and with royal taxes . . .’ His voice trailed off.
    Athelstan nodded understandingly, trying to mask his frustration. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. A merchant had been killed, his assassin had hung himself. At the same time Athelstan detected something. These people were pompous, arrogant, sure of themselves. They walked the streets like cocks, confident of their wealth, their power, their friends at court or in the Exchequer.
    ‘Sir Thomas treated Brampton well?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Was he a good lord?’
    ‘A more courteous gentleman you could not hope to meet,’ Allingham answered. ‘Sir Thomas gave generously in alms to the poor of the parish of St Bartholomew’s, to the Guild, and,’ he ended contemptuously, ‘to friars like you!’
    ‘So why should he quarrel so violently with Brampton? Had he done it before?’
    Allingham stopped, wrong-footed
    ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘No, he had not. There were just disagreements.’
    ‘Lady Isabella,’ Athelstan