The Nightingale Gallery

jabbed one stubby finger at Athelstan's last few words.
    'We will begin there. We have not fully scrutinised Springall's death. That is the key. If we solve that, the rest will unravel like a piece of cloth.'
    'Easier said than done, Sir John, and you have only had one cup of refreshment!'
    'Enough for the day is the evil thereof, friar. You should know that.'
    Athelstan picked up his quill again. 'We have three riddles. First, Genesis, Chapter Three, Verse One; secondly, the Book of the Apocalypse Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And, thirdly, the shoemaker.'
    'The shoemaker means nothing to me,' Cranston replied. 'But the verses… apparently Sir Thomas liked to tease his colleagues, and they would be curious. Vechey probably carried the verses around trying to solve the riddle. Oh,' the coroner grinned, 'my apologies for not telling you about Eudo the page boy but, according to my memory, there was nothing suspicious, just a fall from a window.'
    The friar made a face. 'If Chief Justice Fortescue asked for a report, we could pose many questions and few solutions, Sir John.'
    'That is why,' the coroner barked, getting up, 'we are off to Newgate to see Solper.' He grinned at Athelstan. 'Every morning the Guildhall send me a list of those indicted to hang. Young Solper was on this list, not before time. A rat from the sewer, but one of my best informants. Let us see if he wants to live!'
    He strode away, leaving Athelstan scrambling – to clear his writing tray, repack the leather bag and follow him out to the yard. Cranston had already ordered their horses to be brought out into Cheapside. They rode through the market place. The noise, clamour and dusty heat prevented any conversation. Cranston looked around him.
    Yes, he would mention this in his treatise, he thought. There should be beadles placed at every corner, each covering his own section of the market place, and others mingling with the crowd. This would cut down on the number of naps, foists and pickpockets who plagued these places like the locusts of Egypt. His mind drifted and he let his horse find its path through the crowds. Athelstan pulled his hood over his head as he felt the heat of the sun on the back of his neck. He wondered what Sir John Cranston wanted at Newgate.
    They moved out of Cheapside up towards the old city wall which housed the infamous gaol, past the small church of Nicholas Le Quern near Blow-Bladder Street and into the great open space before the prison. This was really no more than two huge towers linked by a high curtain wall. The area in front of Newgate, Athelstan thought, must be the nearest thing to hell on earth. There was a market down the centre, the stalls facing out, but the air and ground were polluted with the blood, dirt and ordure which ran down from the shambles where the animals were slaughtered and the gore allowed to find its own channel. Sometimes the blood oozed into great black puddles over which huge swarms of flies hovered. Athelstan was glad that Cranston had decided to ride.
    The market place itself was full of people, jostling and fighting their way to the stalls, their tempers not helped by the heat, dust and flies. In front of the prison gate every type of disreputable under heaven was now thronging; pickpockets, knaves, apple squires, as well as the relatives of debtors and other people trying to gain access to their loved ones. Cranston and Athelstan stabled their horses in a dingy tavern and walked back, forcing their way through to the great prison door. Outside, standing on a beer barrel, a member of the ward watch rang a hand bell which tolled like a death knell through the noisy clamour of the place.
    'You prisoners,' the fellow was shouting, 'that are within for wickedness and sin, know now that after many mercies you are appointed to die just before noon tomorrow!'
    On and on he went, shouting the usual rubbish about God's mercy and justice over all. Cranston and Athelstan pushed by him and hammered at the great gate. A grille was opened, revealing an evil, narrow-faced, yellow-featured man with eyes of watery blue and a mouth as thin as a vice.
    'What do you want?' the fellow snapped, his lips curled back to reveal blackened stumps of teeth. Cranston pushed his face to the grille.
    'I am Sir John Cranston, king's coroner in the city. Now open up!'
    The grille slammed shut and they heard the noise of footsteps. A small postern door in the great gate opened. A guard stepped out with a club, forcing