The Nightingale Gallery

where he died? Did Brampton's soul hover here, as he would for eternity, between heaven and hell?
    He stepped in and looked around. The table was now clear of its ghastly remains, the floor had been swept clear of its litter. It looked tidier, neater than it had the previous day. What had he seen here that afterwards had jolted, pricked against his memory? Something which had been out of place? He leaned against the wall desperately trying to clear his mind but the memory proved elusive. He sighed, looked round once more and went back to rejoin Sir John.
    The coroner was fretting, hopping from foot to foot, standing close to the wall of the house, well away from the ctowds which now thronged the entire thoroughfare of Cheapside. He pulled Athelstan closer.
    'They are lying, aren't they, Brother? There's something wrong, but what?'
    'I don't know, Sir John, but there may be many logical explanations. Something may be wrong but they may not realise it. Something may be wrong but only one or two may know the truth. Or, finally, something may be wrong but known to someone outside the household.'
    'Such as who?'
    Athelstan looked round and lowered his voice. 'My Lord of Gaunt or even Chief Justice Fortescue. After all, he did lie; the Chief Justice said he left the house about curfew but Sir Richard claims it was much later.'
    Sir John rubbed the side of his face.
    'Yes, Chief Justice Fortescue. We don't even have a good reason for his being there. Why should he be visiting a London merchant?' The coroner grinned evilly, biting his lower lip with his strong, white teeth. 'I look forward to putting that very question to our Lord Chief Justice, but now for refreshment. Oh!' Cranston grinned and tapped his wallet. 'I've taken the small phial of poison Brampton's supposed to have used.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'I've an idea, but not now. What I need now is a drink!'

CHAPTER 4
    Athelstan cringed. He had hoped Sir John's appetite had been curbed but he seemed both insatiable and unable to learn from previous experience. The friar followed him dolefully across the street as Sir John scampered direct as an arrow for the Holy Lamb of God. Cranston took to its dry, dark warmth as a duck to water. He waddled amongst the customers, using his not inconsiderable bulk to force a way through pedlars, tinkers, labourers and farmers fresh from the countryside, spending the profits of their produce on large stoups of ale.
    Sir John commandeered a table in the corner, greeting the ale wife as if she was a long lost sister. The lady looked like a female incarnation of Satan. She had a hooked, perpetually dripping nose, skin as rough as a sack and bleary, bloodshot eyes. She munched continuously on her gums and her fingers were dirty and greasy down to the knuckles. Her cloak of Lincoln green covered a red kirtle which hung a few inches above tallow-smeared shoes. Athelstan looked at her and prayed to God to forgive him for all he felt was disgust. She, with her wide hips, dirty grey hair and face as wrinkled as a pig's ear, looked as blowsy as any harridan from hell. Athelstan sat looking at her in wonderment, constantly marvelling at the difference in women, contrasting this hag to the beauty of Lady Isabella. He grimly reminded himself that his vow of celibacy had certain consolations.
    Cranston, however, acted as if she was an old friend, flattered and fussed her. She winked wickedly back at him, slyly insinuating that she would satisfy all his wants.
    'Enough of that, you wicked wench!' Cranston teased. 'Food and ale first, then other comforts perhaps.' He dropped one eyelid. 'Later.'
    The ale wife went away cackling and came back to serve both of them huge tankards slopping over with ale and a shared platter of meat mixed with onions and leeks swimming in a sea of grease. Cranston stuffed his mouth. He downed one tankard and, when the friar nodded, helped himself to the second.
    'You are not eating, Brother?'
    Athelstan toyed with the food on the platter in front of him.
    'I don't feel hungry. I am wondering what we do next.'
    Cranston, his mouth full of food, stared up at the blackened ceiling, coveting the leg of ham hooked there to be cured in the smoke.
    'There's nothing much to do,' he replied. 'We have our suspicions but no proof. Oh, there's something wrong, we all know there is. Two suicides, one murder… but no proof whatsoever, no evidence. We should file our record, send copies to the sheriff, go back and tell Chief