The Nightingale Gallery

go?'
    The young man looked across at Athelstan.
    'Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.'
    'Ah, yes, but you can't very well knock on a monastery gate and say, "May I have some poison?" and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?'
    Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.
    'Master Solper,' Cranston continued conversationally, 'I have come here offering you your life. Not much perhaps, but if you answer my questions I can arrange for a pardon to be sent down under the usual condition: that you abjure the realm. You know what that means? Straight as an arrow to the nearest port, secure a passage and go elsewhere. Anywhere – Outremer, France, Scythia, Persia – but not England, and certainly not London! You do understand?'
    The young man licked his lips.
    'Yes,' he muttered.
    'And if you do not satisfy my curiosity,' Cranston continued, 'I am going to knock on the door, leave, and tomorrow you will hang. So, if I want to buy a poison in London, where would I go?'
    'Nightshade House.'
    'Where's that?'
    'It's owned by Simon Foreman. It's in an alleyway.' The young man screwed up his eyes, concentrating on getting the facts right. 'That's right, a street called Piper Street, Nightshade House in Piper Street. Simon Foreman would sell anything for a great price and not ask any questions. It is probable the poison in that phial came from him. He could tell you.'
    'One further question. Sir Thomas Springall – you knew of him?*
    The young man nodded his head towards the door.
    'Like Fitzosbert, he liked young boys, the softer and more pliant the better, or so the whisper says. He went to houses where such people meet. Springall was also a moneylender, a usurer. He had few friends and many enemies. There was gossip about him.' The young man drained his cup and sat cradling it, eyes fixed on the wine remaining in the jug. 'It was only a matter of time before someone used that information.' He shrugged. 'But Springall had powerful friends at court and in the church. No bailiff or constable would touch him. He and all his kind meet in a tavern outside the city on the Mile End Road – it's called the Gaveston. You can buy what you want there, as long as you pay in good gold. That's all I know.'
    Fitzosbert banged on the door.
    'Sir John, are you finished?'
    'Yes,' Cranston called. 'Listen!' he said to Solper. 'You are sure you know nothing else?'
    The young fellow shook his head.
    'I have told you all I know. The pardon, you will keep your word?'
    'Of course. God keep you, Solper,' he muttered and went towards the door just as Fitzosbert threw it open. The coroner gently pushed the keeper out before him, took out his purse and clinked a few coins into his hand.
    'I thank you again for your hospitality, Fitzosbert,' he said. 'Look after our friend here. Some more wine, a better cell. Letters will come down from the Guildhall tomorrow. You will act accordingly. You understand?'
    Fitzosbert smiled and winked. 'Of course, Sir John. No problem. I will carry out any order given to me by such an illustrious coroner of the city.'
    Cranston pulled a face and he and the friar walked as fast as dignity would allow from that loathsome place. When the great gate of Newgate slammed behind them, Cranston leaned against it, gasping for clean air, his great body quivering like a beached whale's.
    'Thank God!' he spluttered. 'Thank God to be out of there! Pray to your God and anyone else you know that you never land up in the power of Fitzosbert, in one of those Godforsaken cells!'
    He looked up at the great tower soaring above him.
    'If I had my way, I would burn the entire place to the ground and hang Fitzosbert on a scaffold as high as the sky. But, come, Whitefriars and the Springall mansion await.'

CHAPTER 6
    They collected their horses and made their way down Fleet Street towards the high white chalk store building of White- friars. As the press of people was so great, they walked their horses.
    'Do you think Solper was right about Springall?' asked Athelstan.
    Sir John nodded. 'I suspected as much. Many men have such inclinations. Yet, you know the sentence for such crimes: boiled alive in a