The Nightingale Gallery

listening to the fat and the rich of the land confessing their secret sins, and secretly mocking us every time we reach a stone wall and can go no further? Do you?'
    Athelstan turned his horse. 'I suggest, Sir John, we both go back to our respective homes and reflect on what has happened. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after we may continue our investigations?'
    'You will go home when I say!' Sir John shouted.
    'I will go when I wish!' Athelstan retorted.
    And, without waiting for any reply, he urged Philomel down Cheapside, leaving the fuming coroner behind.

CHAPTER 7
    By the time he reached St Erconwald's, Athelstan regretted his hasty words. Sir John was correct. He had pronounced on Lady Isabella and Sir Richard's guilt or innocence without any reference to the coroner. There might have been further questions Cranston would have liked to put. He wished he had taken Sir John aside, made his peace and offered some refreshment, some claret in one of the Cheap- side taverns. After all there were other strands to the case, loose ends which needed to be tied up. Who was the red- haired whore who had lured Vechey to his death? Had it been Lady Isabella? But many whores wore red wigs.
    After he had stabled Philomel, Athelstan remembered the verses from Scripture and studied the great leather- bound Bible that he kept chained in his house's one and only cupboard. Genesis 3, Verse 1: 'The serpent was the most subtle of all wild beasts in that garden God had made.' Athelstan translated as he read aloud: 'Did God really say you were not to eat any of this tree in the garden?' And the other text, the Book of the Apocalypse 6, Verse 8: 'I heard the voice,' Athelstan murmured, 'of the fourth animal shout "Come!" and immediately another horse appeared, deathly pale, and its rider was called Death and all Hell followed at its heels.'
    What could they possibly mean? Somehow Athelstan knew these texts were the key to the mystery. And Sir John? Athelstan wondered whether he should eat a hasty evening meal and go back across the city and make his peace. But he felt tired, he'd had enough, such matters would wait.
    He went out and unlocked the church and checked that all was well. He took a pitcher of water for Philomel and a dish of creamy milk for Bonaventure. He'd bought the latter just after he had crossed London Bridge. Still feeling perturbed, he went back into his house, lay on his pallet bed and stared up at the flaking ceiling. He tried to compose himself, first with a psalm, 'Exsurge Domine, Exsurge et vindica causam meant – Rise, oh Lord, rise and judge my cause.'
    Athelstan let his mind drift, back to Cranston and the startled, frightened face of Lady Isabella. Athelstan shook his head free of such images. He wondered what the evening sky would be like and if Father Prior would send him a copy of the writings of Richard of Wallingford. Once Abbot of St Albans, Richard had invented the most wondrous instrument for measuring and fixing the stars. Athelstan had talked to another friar who had seen Wallingford's ingenious clock, the wheels within it fixed as if by magic, which not only measured the hours but indicated the states and signs, the phases of the moon, the position of the sun, the planets and the heavens. Athelstan licked his lips. He would give a fortune for one of those. Everything he owned just to have it in his hands for a few hours. Perhaps Father Prior would help? He'd already asked for a copy of the calendars of the Carmelite, Nicholas of Lyn.
    The ceiling reminded him about the church, the roof had been mended but really it was little more than a pig sty. He heard voices outside his door, rose in just his robe, peered out of the window and groaned quietly. Of course, he had forgotten, the meeting with his parishioners! They were to assemble in the nave and discuss the pageant for Corpus Christi.
    Athelstan's premonitions about the occasion proved correct. The meeting was not a happy one. Foremost among his parishioners were Watkin the dung-collector and his wife, a woman built like a battering ram, hard-faced, with iron grey hair hanging down to her shoulders. Cecily the courtesan made constant barbed remarks, hinting she knew more about Watkin than his wife did. Ranulf the ratcatcher, Simon the tiler, and a host of others thronged the nave, sitting facing each other on the church's two and only benches with Athelstan sitting between them on the sanctuary chair.
    The occasion was marred by bickering.