The Nightingale Gallery

his survey would be of use, but privately thought of it as his escape. No one else knew. No one except Maude, of course.
    Cranston put down the pen, a wave of self-pity suffusing his huge body. He looked out of the window and heard the cries from Cheapside, the clatter of carts, the rattle against the cobbles of iron-shod horses going towards Smithfield and the horse market. He drank too much, Cranston knew that. He must give it up. He must reform his life. Virtuously, he patted his great stomach. But not today. Perhaps tomorrow. He wondered what Athelstan was doing. He speculated whether he should speak to the friar, open his heart, tell him his secrets, get rid of the sea of misery he felt bathing his body, drowning his mind.
    Maude came in and Cranston looked at her, hang-dog, for even in bed his tourney of love was failing. He watched his wife carefully out of the corner of his eye as she busied herself, stacking blankets, opening chests, replacing candles in their holders. He studied her comely figure, her small, full breasts, clear face, bright eyes, ready smile, the slight sway when she walked. Cranston got up. Perhaps there was something wrong but it was not that serious. He moved over and embraced his wife, pulling her close to him.
    'Oh, Sir John!' she whispered, nestling against him.
    'Bolt the door!' he murmured thickly. 'Bolt the door. I wish to show you something!'
    She turned, her eyes round.
    'I suspect I have seen it before.'
    Nevertheless, the door was locked, the window casement shut, and Cranston proved to his own satisfaction, as well as his wife's, that perhaps age had not yet drained the juices of his body. As they lay on the great four poster bed, their bodies entwined, Maude almost lost in Cranston's great fat folds, Sir John stared up at the ceiling, brushing his wife's hair with his cheek, listening to her chattering about this and that.
    'What was that?' He pushed her away sharply.
    'Sir John, what is the matter?'
    "What did you just say?'
    Maude shrugged. 'I was talking about Agnes, the wife of David the waterman. You often hire him to take us across the river. Well, she says that the boatmen and wharfers are drawing up a petition which they would like you to look at. They wish some of the arches of the bridge to be widened, the starlings to be replaced. The water level is so high, it is dangerous and boats are dashed against the pier or the arches. Sir John, men have drowned. Children as well!'
    Cranston sat up in bed, his fat body quivering with pleasure.
    That's what was wrong! Now I know what I saw on the bridge!' He turned and embraced his surprised wife, kissing her passionately on the forehead and cheeks.
    'Maude, whatever would I do without you? You and your chatter. Of course! I wonder if Athelstan thought of that?'
    Despite his huge bulk, Cranston leapt out of bed.
    'Come, Maude! Come, wife, quickly! Fresh hose, a clean shirt, a cup of claret, a meat pie and a manchet loaf! I must be off! Come on!'
    Lady Maude moved just as quickly, glaring at her husband. One minute he was embracing her, kissing her passionately, and now he was leaping around the bedroom like a young gallant, getting ready to get out. Nevertheless, she scurried around, putting on her dress and smock whilst muttering how, if other people had left her alone, she would have things ready anyway.
    Sir John ignored her, dressing hastily; he now knew that Vechey had been murdered. Had to have been. The level of the river water would prove that. He would drag that bloody friar from his stars and they would go back to the Springall mansion and this time demand answers to their questions.

CHAPTER 5
    As soon as Athelstan skirted the church, he saw the coroner standing beside Philomel. The old destrier was saddled and ready to depart. Cranston grinned.
    'Good morning, Brother!' he bellowed, loud enough for half the parish to hear. 'Your horse is ready. Your saddlebags are packed.' He held them up. 'Quills, pens, writing tray, parchment, and I have ensured the inkhorn is well sealed, so if it spills don't blame me.'
    Athelstan, still feeling depressed after his visit to Hob's wife, ignored the coroner and pushed by him into his small, two-roomed house. Cranston followed like an unwelcome draught, sweeping in, filling the room with his broad girth.
    'Really, Brother!' he boomed, as he looked around. 'You should live in a little more comfort. Do you have any wine?'
    Athelstan gestured towards an earthenware jug and watched