The Nightingale Gallery

at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.
    'You know the house, Sir John?'
    Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'
    Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.
    'What is it, Monk?'
    'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.'
    Cranston beamed. 'I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?'
    'Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.'
    The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.
    'Nothing much,' he muttered, reading them quickly. 'They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.' He looked sharply at Athelstan. 'I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?'
    The friar shrugged.
    'You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.*
    Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.
    'Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!'

CHAPTER 2
    The house was a fine building, very similar to that of Lord Fortescue, though today great black banners of costliest lawn hung from the upstairs windows and the broad shield of the goldsmith above the main door was hidden under black damask. An old manservant, dressed like death itself, answered the door; his face was soaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.
    'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,' the friar quietly announced.
    The fellow nodded and led them down a dark passageway into the great banqueting hall, also hung in black. As they crossed the black and white chess-board floor, Athelstan felt he was entering the valley of shadows. Black cloths hid the tapestries and paintings on the walls. The air seemed thick and heavy, not due to the heat and the closeness of the day but to something else which prickled the hair at the back of his neck and made him shiver. Cranston, however, lumbered along, his bleary eyes fixed on a group sitting round the table on the dais at the end of the hall. In the centre a great silver salt cellar winked like a beacon light in the glow of the glittering candles. The small oriel window above the table let in some brightness but Athelstan could not make out the figures clearly. They seemed concealed in the shadows, talking quietly. All conversation ceased as they stared at Cranston's huge form stumbling towards them.
    'Can I help you?'
    Cranston stopped abruptly, almost colliding with Athelstan as they turned to look at the speaker. A young woman who had been sitting in the window embrasure inside the hall got up and came forward.
    'You are?' Athelstan asked.
    'Sir Thomas Springall's wife,' the woman replied coolly, stepping into the light.
    Sweet God, Athelstan thought, she was beautiful. Her face a vision of loveliness with dark-ringed eyes and the face of an angel like those painted on windows in the abbey church. Her slender body was exquisitely formed, her skin of burnished gold. She had dark, blood-red hair and lips as crimson and as lush as a spring rose.
    'Sir Thomas's widow?' Cranston asked tactfully.
    'Yes.' The voice grew harsh. 'And you, sirs, what are you doing here?'
    Cranston glanced up at the group still sitting silently round the table on the dais, and drunkenly doffed his hat.
    'Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. And this,' he waved behind him, 'is my faithful Mephistopheles, Brother Athelstan.'
    The woman looked puzzled.
    'My clerk,' Cranston slurred.
    'Madam,' Athelstan interrupted, 'God rest your husband's soul, but he is dead. Sir John and I have orders to examine the body to determine the true cause of death. We are sorry to intrude on your grief.'
    The woman stepped closer and Athelstan noticed how pale her face was, her eyes red-rimmed with crying. He noticed that the cuffs on the sleeves of her black lace dress were wet with tears.
    The woman waved them up to the dais and the group sitting there rose. They were all dressed in black and seemed to hide behind a broad-chested man, sleek and fat, with a