The Nightingale Gallery

sipped daintily from the wine cup.
    'So,' said Sir John, smacking his lips, 'a third death, Master Vechey's suicide.' He held three fingers up. 'One murder and two suicides in the same household.' He stared around. 'You do not grieve?'
    Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.
    Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.'
    'A dour man,' Buckingham observed, 'with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.' He smiled thinly. 'At least not in the lists of love.'
    "What do you mean?' Cranston asked.
    'Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies' man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.' Buckingham grimaced. 'You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him behind their hands.'
    'What the clerk is saying,' Sir Richard interrupted, 'is that Master Vechey was immersed in the pleasures of the flesh. He had few friends. Only my brother really listened to him. It could well, be that Sir Thomas's death turned Vechey's mind on to the path of self-destruction.' He spread his hands. 'I do not claim to be my brother's keeper, so how can I claim to be Vechey's? We are sorry for his death but how are we responsible?'
    'Master Vechey left the house when?'
    'About an hour after you.'
    'Did he say where he was going?'
    'No. He never did.'
    Cranston eased himself in his chair, head back, rolling the white Rhenish wine round his tongue.
    'Let me change the question. Where were you all last night?'
    Sir Richard shrugged and looked around. 'We went our different ways.'
    'Father Crispin?'
    The priest coughed, shifting his leg to favour it.
    'I went to the vicar of St Mary Le Bow to arrange Sir Thomas's funeral.'
    'Sir Richard? Lady Isabella?'
    'We stayed here!' the woman retorted. 'A grieving widow does not walk the streets.'
    'Master Buckingham?'
    'I went to the Guildhall taking messages from Sir Richard about the pageant we are planning.'
    'My brother would have liked that,' Sir Richard intervened. 'He would see no reason why we should not make our contribution to the royal coronation.' His voice rose. 'Why, what is this? Do you hold us responsible for Vechey's death? Are you saying that we bundled him down to the waterside and had him hanged? For what reason?'
    'The coroner is not alleging anything,' Athelstan remarked smoothly. 'But, Sir Richard, you must agree it is odd, so many deaths in one household?'
    'Does this mean anything to you?' Cranston took the greasy piece of parchment out of his wallet and handed it over. Sir Richard studied it.
    'Vechey's name, my brother's, and two verses from the Bible. Ah!' Sir Richard looked up and smiled. 'Two verses my brother always quoted: Apocalypse Six, Verse Eight and Genesis Three, Verse One.'
    'You know the verses, Sir Richard?'
    'Yes.' The merchant closed his eyes. 'The second one refers to the serpent entering Eden.'
    'And the first?'
    'To Death riding a pale horse.'
    'Why did your brother always quote these?' Cranston asked.
    'I don't know. He had a sense of humour.'
    'About the Bible?'
    'No, no, about these two verses. He claimed they were his key to fame and fortune. Sometimes, when deep in his cups, he would quote them.'
    'Do you know what he meant?' Athelstan asked.
    'No, my brother loved riddles from boyhood. He just quoted the verses, smiled, and said they would bring him great success. I don't know what he meant.'
    'What other riddles did your brother pose?' Cranston asked.
    'None.'
    'Yes, he did,' Lady Isabella spoke up, pushing back the black veil from her face. 'You remember, the shoemaker?'
    'Ah, yes,' Sir Richard smiled. 'The shoemaker.'
    'Lady Isabella,' Cranston queried, 'what about the shoemaker?'
    She played with the sparkling ring on her finger. 'Well, over the last few months, my husband used to make reference to a shoemaker. He claimed the shoemaker knew the truth, and the shoemaker was guilty.' She shook her head. 'I don't know what he meant. Sometimes, at table,' she smiled falsely, 'my husband was like you, Sir John. He loved a deep-bowled cup of claret. Then he used to chant: "The shoemaker knows the truth, the shoemaker knows the truth".'
    Cranston watched her closely.
    'These riddles your husband used, when did they begin?'
    'The quotations from the Bible?