The Nightingale Gallery

offering Christ to God in the presence of three old women, a beggar and a blind man with his dog. They all squatted on the paving-stone before the rood screen. Athelstan waited near the baptismal font. When the Mass was finished he followed the priest into the vestry. Father Matthew was a genial fellow and cheerfully granted Athelstan's request, giving him vestments and vessels so he could celebrate his own Mass in one of the small chantry chapels built off the main aisle.
    After Mass and the chanting of the Divine Office, Athelstan thanked the priest but refused his kind offer of a meal and wandered back into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was now coming to life. The cookshops were open, the awnings of the stalls pulled down, and already the apprentices were darting in and out, seeking custom for their masters. The friar walked back up to the Poultry and knocked on the coroner's door. Cranston greeted him, standing like vice reformed, sober, dour, full of his own authority as if he wished to erase the memory of the night before.
    'Come in, Brother!' He looked out of the corner of his eye as he beckoned Athelstan into the parlour. 'I am grateful for what you did last night when I was inconvenienced.'
    Athelstan hid his smile as Cranston waved him to a stool, sitting opposite in a great high-backed chair. In the kitchen Maude was singing softly as she baked bread, its sweet, fresh scent filling the house.
    Strange, Athelstan thought, that a man like Sir John, steeped in violent bloody death, should live in such homely surroundings.
    Cranston stretched and crossed his legs.
    'Well, Brother, shall we record a clear case of suicide?'
    'I would like to agree with your verdict,' Athelstan replied, 'but something eludes me. Something I cannot place, something small, like looking at a tapestry with a loose thread.'
    'God's teeth!' Cranston roared as he rose and went to fetch the boots standing in the corner. He pulled them on and looked sourly across at the friar.
    'I know you, Brother, and your nose for mischief. If you feel there is something wrong, there is. Let's be careful, however. Springall belonged to the court faction in the city, and if we put a foot wrong, well…' His voice trailed off.
    'What do you mean?' Athelstan asked sharply.
    'What I say,' Cranston caustically retorted. 'I stay out of the muddy pools of politics. That gives me the right to insult fools like Fortescue. But if I offend the court, its opponents think I am a friend. If I am partial to them, I am an enemy.' He buttoned up his doublet. 'God knows when order will be restored. The king is young, a mere boy. Gaunt is so ambitious. You know, through his wife he has a claim to the throne of Castille; through his grandmother to the throne of France. And between him and the throne of England – one small boy!' Cranston closed the parlour door so his wife could not hear. 'There may be violence. For myself I do not care, but I do not want armed retainers terrifying my household by arresting me in the dead of night.' He sighed, and picking up his cloak, swung it about him. 'However, I trust your judgement, Athelstan. Something's wrong, though God knows what!'
    Athelstan looked away. He had spoken largely without thinking. He thought back to the visit to the Springall house yesterday. Yes, there was something wrong. Oh, everything was neat and orderly. Springall had been murdered and his murderer had committed suicide so everything was neat and tidied away. But it was all too clear, too precise, and death wasn't like that. It was violent, cumbersome, messy. It came trailing its blood-spattered tail everywhere.
    'You know…'he began.
    'What's the matter, Brother?'
    'Oh, I'm just thinking about yesterday in the Springall mansion. A strange coven. The deaths were so orderly.' He looked up at Cranston. 'You felt that, Sir John, didn't you? Everything precise, signed, sealed, filed away, as if we were watching a well-arranged masque. What do you say?'
    Cranston moved back to his chair and sat down.
    'The same,' he replied. 'I know I drank too much, I always do. But I agree, I sensed something in that house: an evil, an aura, a dankness, despite the wealth. Something which clutched at my soul. Someone is hiding something. Of course,' he smiled,*you know they are the Sons of Dives? They must be. Some sort of coven or a secret society, and I believe they are all party to it. Did you see their faces when I asked the question?' Cranston threw back his great