The Nightingale Gallery

said she wore a mask, and a rich black cloak with white lambswool trimmings. Her hood was well pulled forward but I glimpsed her hair, a reddish chestnut colour, like some beautiful leaf in autumn. Stately, she was.' He looked at Cranston and shrugged. 'Another lady, I thought, looking for poison to make her love life that little bit easier.' Foreman tapped the roll of parchment against his thigh. 'That, sirs, is all I can and will tell you.'
    Once they had left the shop and collected their horses, Athelstan and Cranston rode as fast as they could up Piper Alley back into the main thoroughfare. Once or twice they lost their way but Cranston still kept his dagger unsheathed and soon they had reached Whitefriars and were back into Fleet Street.
    'You know who the woman was, Cranston, don't you?'
    The coroner nodded. 'Lady Isabella Springall.' He stopped his horse and looked across at the friar. 'The description fits her, Brother. She also had the motive.'
    'Which is?'
    'A surmise but I think correct: Lady Isabella is an adultress. She did not love her husband but instead her husband's brother. But now is not the time to speculate. Let's ask the lady herself.'
    When they arrived at SpringaH's mansion in Cheapside, Cranston acted with the full majesty and force of the law. He told a surprised Buckingham, who greeted them in the hallway, that he wanted to see Sir Richard and Lady Isabella and other members of the household in the hall immediately. The young clerk pouted his lips as if he was going to object.
    'I mean, now, sir!' Cranston bellowed, not caring if his voice carried through the house, out into the enclosed courtyard where craftsmen were working. 'I want to see everybody!' He swept into the great hall. 'Here!'
    He then marched up the hall, climbed on to the dais and sat down at the head of the table there, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to join him. The friar shrugged and got out his writing tray, parchment, ink horn and quills. Buckingham must have realised something was wrong for he was quickly joined in the hall, first by Sir Richard and then by Lady Isabella. The latter's looks were not impaired by grief today. Her eyes were not so red, her cheeks blooming like roses. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, the white veil hiding her beautiful chestnut hair.
    Sir Richard, in hose and open cambric shirt, wiped dust from his hands, apologising that he had been out with the craftsmen who were putting the finishing touches to their pageant for the young king's coronation. Cranston just nodded, accepting his explanation as something irrelevant.
    The priest also came hobbling in, his long hair swinging like a veil round his emaciated face. He threw a look of deep distaste at the coroner but called out civilly: 'You are well, Sir John?'
    'I am well, Sir Priest,' answered Cranston. 'And much better for seeing you all here.'
    The young priest must have caught the new note of authority in his voice. He stood still a moment and stared at Sir John through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled as if savouring some secret joke and slumped at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg. Dame Ermengilde swept in, unctuously escorted by Buckingham. Dressed completely in black, she moved down the hall like some silent spider and stood over the coroner.
    'I will not be summoned,' she snapped, 'here in my own house!'
    'Madam,' Cranston didn't even bother to look up, 'you will sit down and listen to what I say. You will obey me or I will take you to the Marshalsea Prison, and there you can sit and listen to what I say.' He looked up at Sir Richard and Lady Isabella. 'I mean no offence. I appreciate that yesterday the funeral ceremonies were carried out but Masses were also sung for the souls of two other men, Brampton and Vechey, and I have news of them. They did not commit suicide. They were murdered!'
    Cranston's words hung in the air like a noose. Dame Ermengilde tightened her thin little lips and sat down without further ado. Sir Richard looked nervously at Lady Isabella. Ermengilde, seated beside Athelstan, also looked frightened, trying hard to hide it behind her mask of arrogance. Further down the table the priest tapped the table gently, singing some hymn softly under his breath. Buckingham sat, hands together, staring down at the table top, his face registering surprise and shock at Sir John's words. Allingham was the last to join them. The tall, lanky merchant was nervous and ill at ease, his hand constantly fluttering