The Nightingale Gallery

whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.
    'And Brampton?' Athelstan asked.
    'He sulked all day,' the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. 'He kept to his chamber. He…' she stammered. 'I think he was in his cups.'
    'Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?' Athelstan queried. 'Late at night, when everyone had retired?'
    The maid blushed and looked away.
    'No one came through the yard,' the young groom hotly stated. 'If they had, they would have woken the dogs!'
    'Brampton – what was he like?' Cranston barked.
    The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.
    'A good man,' he quavered.
    'So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?'
    The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.
    'He was accused of searching amongst the master's papers. A button from his jerkin,' he stammered, 'or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.'
    'What was Brampton looking for?'
    A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.
    'Good friar,' the clerk intervened, 'surely you do not expect servants to know their master's business?'
    'Brampton apparently tried to!' Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.
    'So it would seem,' Buckingham answered sweetly.
    Athelstan gazed at the servants. 'These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,' he murmured.
    'And neither can I!'
    Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woollen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted back. A nose sharp as a quill prodded the air like the beak of a bird. In one hand he held a silver-topped walking cane, in the other a pomander full of spiced cloves. Now and again he would hold it to his face.
    'You are, Sir?' Athelstan asked.
    'Peter de Troyes, physician.'
    He looked distastefully at Cranston.
    'And you must be Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city? Do you need my help?'
    The arrogant physician sat on the corner of the table. Athelstan watched Cranston carefully and held his breath. From experience he knew that Sir John hated physicians and would like to hang the lot as a bunch of charlatans. Cranston smiled sweetly, ordering Buckingham to clear the buttery whilst he lumbered across to stand over the physician.
    'Yes, Doctor de Troyes, I am the Coroner. I like claret, a good cup of sack and, if I had my way, I would investigate the practices and potions of the physicians of this city.' His smile faded as de Troyes stuck out his plump little chest. 'Now, Master de Troyes, physician, you inspected Sir Thomas's corpse?'
    'I did.'
    'And the goblet he drank from?'
    'Quite correct, Sir John.'
    'And you think it was a mixture of belladonna and arsenic?'
    'Yes, yes, I do. The cadaver's skin was slightly blueish, the mouth smelt rank.' He shrugged. 'Death by poisoning, it was obvious.'
    Athelstan walked across to them. The physician didn't even turn to greet him.
    'Would death have been quick?' the friar asked.
    'Oh, yes, and rather silent. Very much like a seizure, within ten or fifteen minutes of taking the potion.'
    'Master physician,' Athelstan continued, 'please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I ask you a question.'
    De Troyes turned, his eyes glittering with malice.
    'Yes, Friar, what is it?'
    'Surely Sir Thomas would have detected the poison in the wine cup? You smelt it. Why didn't he?'
    The fellow pursed his lips. 'Simple enough,' he replied pompously. 'First, Sir Thomas had drunk deeply.' He glanced slyly at Cranston. 'Wine is a good mask for poison, and if there is enough in the belly and throat the victim will never suspect. Secondly, the wine cup has stood all night.' He wetted his lips. 'The smell could become more rank.'
    'And the phial found in Brampton's coffer was the same potion?'
    'Yes. A deadly mixture.'
    'Where can it be bought?'
    The physician's eyes slid away. 'If you have enough money, Sir John, and know the right person, anything or anyone can be bought in