The Nightingale Gallery

when Vechey disappeared, but realised the futility of it. Moreover, there was no real proof linking the murderers with anyone in the house. Perhaps they had been carried out on the orders of someone else? But who? And how? Why?
    Athelstan stood, walking up and down just beneath the dais, his fingers to his lips. Cranston watched him carefully. The clever friar would sift one fact from another. The coroner was quite prepared to let Athelstan use the advantage they had now gained.
    'Lady Isabella, Sir Richard,' he began, 'I have no real proof to convict you. Nevertheless, we have enough evidence under the law to swear out warrants for your arrest and ask for your committal to Newgate, Marshalsea, or even the Tower.' He held up his hand. 'However, we wish for your cooperation. We want the truth. The Sons of Dives… you belong to them, don't you, Sir Richard?'
    The merchant nodded.
    'Everyone in this household is a member, are they not?'
    'Yes,' Sir Richard replied meekly. 'Yes, we are. The church condemns usury and the loaning of money at high interest. The Guilds also condemn it. However, in every guild, in every livery company in the city, groups of merchants get together in some society. They give themselves strange names. Ours is known as the Sons of Dives. We lend money secretly to whoever needs it but charge interest much higher than the Lombards or Venetians. The money is delivered quickly. Payment is over a number of years. We choose our customers carefully: only those who can underwrite the loan, give pledges that they are good for the money they have borrowed. A petty mystery, our guild is full of such covens.'
    'And the riddles? The shoemaker?'
    Both Sir Richard and Lady Isabella shook their heads.
    'We don't know!' they murmured in unison.
    'And the scriptural quotations from Genesis and the Book of the Apocalypse, you have no clue to their meaning?'
    Again a chorus of denials. Athelstan returned to the table, rolled up the piece of parchment and put away his quills and inkhorn.
    'Sir John, for the moment leave matters be. Sir Richard and Lady Isabella now know that perhaps we are not as stupid or as feckless as sometimes we may appear. You may rest assured, Sir Richard, that in the end we will discover the truth and the murderer, whoever he or she may be, will hang at the Elms for all London to see!'
    Cranston pursed his lips and nodded as if Athelstan had said all there was to say. They bade both the merchant and his paramour adieu.
    As they left the Springall mansion and waited in Cheap- side for an ostler to bring their horses round from the stables, Athelstan sensed Cranston was furious with him but the coroner waited until they had mounted and moved away from the house before stopping and giving full vent to his fury.
    'Brother Athelstan,' he said testily, 'I would remind you that / am the king's coroner and those two,' he gestured in the direction of the Springall house, 'Sir Richard and that expensive paramour of his, are guilty of murder!'
    'Sir John,' Athelstan began, 'I apologise.'
    'You apologise!' Cranston mimicked. He leaned forward and grasped the horn of Athelstan's saddle. 'You apologise! If you had kept your mouth shut, Friar, we might perhaps have gained the truth. But, oh no! We established that Lady Isabella went to the apothecary's. We established that she and Sir Richard are lovers, adulterers, fornicators, and in only a matter of time we could have had a confession that they were guilty of Sir Thomas's death as well as the others!'
    'I don't accept that, Sir John. There is no real proof of murder. Oh, they are guilty of adultery.' Athelstan felt his own anger rise. 'If that was the case, Sir John, we would hang half of Cheapside for adultery and still not discover who the real murderer is.'
    'Now, look.' Sir John leaned closer, his face choleric. 'In future, Brother, I would be grateful if you would observe the courtesies and, before making any pronouncements, consult with me. As I said, / am the coroner!'
    'Let me remind you, Sir John,' Athelstan retorted, leaning back in his saddle, 'that I am a clerk, a priest, and not your messenger boy, your little lap dog! In these matters I will say what I believe is best and if you find it so difficult to work with me, then write to my father prior. This is one burden I would be relieved of!' The friar's voice rose so loud that passersby stopped and looked curiously at him. 'Do you think I look forward to this, Sir John? Going around