The Nightingale Gallery

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 odour of rotting death. Athelstan went across to the table and pulled back the filthy sheet.