The Nightingale Gallery

how the big, fat coroner could doze and yet be aware of conversations going on around him.
    'What is strange?' Lady Isabella snapped, her distaste for the coroner now openly apparent.
    'Well, My Lady,' Cranston licked his lips, 'your husband has a servant, Brampton. Brampton is faithful and obedient, like the good steward in the gospel. Why should he wish to search amongst your husband's papers? What did your husband have to hide?'
    Lady Isabella just glared back.
    'Let us say he did,' Cranston continued, breathing in heavily. 'Just let us say he did and there was a quarrel – surely no cause for murder or suicide? You have said, Madam, how Brampton was a quiet, placid fellow. Not a man of hot humours or rash disposition who would commit such a dreadful act and then compound it by taking his own life.'
    'How else did it happen?' Sir Richard asked stiffly.
    'Well,' Cranston said, 'is it possible that Brampton took the wine cup as a peace offering to his master?' He ignored the sneer on Vechey's face. 'Placed it on the table and then left?'
    'And?' Lady Isabella asked.
    'Someone else went up those stairs during the banquet and put poison into the cup. Or,' Cranston rubbed his fat hands together, now warming to his subject, 'how do we know that Sir Thomas did not have a visitor after he retired? Someone who went up the stairs and along the gallery, slipped into Sir Thomas's room, perhaps engaging him in conversation and, while doing so, secretly poured the poison into the cup.' He held up a hand to still the murmur. 'I am just theorising, as the theologians say, speculating on the nature of things.'
    Then, Sir, you are a fool!'
    Cranston, Athelstan and the whole company turned round in astonishment and looked down the hall. In the doorway stood an old lady dressed completely in black like a nun. Her head was covered by a thick, lawn veil arranged in the old-fashioned wimple which framed her sour lemon face in its black lace. She walked forward, her silver-topped stick beating loudly on the hall floor.
    'You are a fool!'
    Cranston rose.
    'Perhaps I am, Madam, but who are you?'
    Sir Richard darted forward.
    'Lady Ermengilde, may I present Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.'
    The old lady glared at the coroner with eyes like two dark pools.
    'I have heard of you, Cranston, your drinking and your lechery! What are you doing in my son's house?'
    'Sir John is here at the request of Chief Justice Fortescue.' Sir Richard's voice was soft, almost pleading.
    'Another rogue!' the lady snapped.
    'I asked, Madam, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?' Sir John repeated.
    'My name is Lady Ermengilde Springall. I am the mother of Sir Richard,' she stroked Springall's arm. 'My other son now lies dead upstairs and I come down to hear you chatter on about nonsense. Brampton may have been a good steward. He was also a varlet, a commoner! He had ideas above his station. Thomas rebuked him, and like many of his kind Brampton could not take it. His heart was filled with malice. Satan whispered in his ear, and he carried out his dreadful deed.' The old woman crashed her stick to the floor and held it between her two hands, resting on it. 'At least Brampton did us all the courtesy of hanging himself and so sparing the public expense and the work of the hangman at the Elms!'
    Athelstan watched Cranston. The coroner was now in one of his most dangerous moods. He smiled but only round the lips. His eyes were hard and fixed, watching the old lady as a swordsman might an opponent waiting for the next parry.
    '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