The Nightingale Gallery

borrowed a gown from an old lady who lived in one of the tenements behind the church and dressed Meg's corpse with as much dignity as circumstances would allow. The parish constable, a mournful little man, had informed him that Meg had been murdered.
    'A tragic end,' he wailed, 'to a sad life!'
    Athelstan had questioned him further. Apparently some villain, hot with his own juices, had bought Meg's body and used her carnally before plunging a knife between her ribs. Just after dawn that day her corpse, cold and hard, had been found in a rat-infested spinney. No one would come forward to claim the body and Athelstan knew the parish watch would bury it like the decaying corpse of a dog. However, the morning Mass had been well attended and the members of the parish had decided otherwise. Tab the tinker, who had come in to be shriven, had agreed to fashion a coffin of sorts out of thin planks of wood. He had built this out on the steps of the church and placed it on trestles before the rood screen. Athelstan blessed Meg, sprinkling the open coffin with holy water and praying that the sweet Christ would have mercy on her soul. Then with Tab's help he nailed down the lid, reciting the prayers for the dead, and entered her name amongst other deceased of the parish to be remembered at the weekly Requiem Mass.
    After that Athelstan gave Tab and his two apprentices some pennies to take the coffin from the church and out to the old cemetery. Athelstan walked behind, chanting verses from the psalms. Meg's coffin was lowered into a shallow grave packed in the dry, hard ground. Athelstan, distracted, vowed to remember to place a cross there and as soon as possible sing a Mass for her soul and that of poor Hob. He walked back to the church feeling guilty. He had spent time watching the stars whilst people like Meg of Four Lanes died horrible deaths, their bodies afterwards lowered into obscure graves. Athelstan felt angry and went to kneel before the statue of the Virgin, praying for Meg and the evil bastard who had sent her soul unshriven out into the darkness. He got up and was about to return to his house to wash the dirt from Meg's grave from his hands when Cranston swaggered in, throwing the door open as if he was announcing the Second Coming.
    'It's murder, Athelstan!' he bawled. 'Bloody murder! Foul homicide!'
    Athelstan knew Cranston loved to startle him, delighting in dramatic exits and entrances, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Cranston stood there, legs apart, hands on hips. The friar sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared into his fat, cheery face.
    'What are you talking about, Sir John?' he said crossly.
    The grinning tub of lard just stood there, smiling.
    'The Springalls!' he bawled at last. 'It's happened again. This time poor Allingham's been found dead in his chamber, with not a mark on his body. Chief Justice Fortescue is hopping like a cat. By the way, where's yours?'
    'Bonaventure probably left when he heard you coming!' Athelstan muttered. 'Why, what's wrong with the Chief Justice? What's he got to do with Bonaventure?'
    'Fortescue is hopping like a cat on hot bricks, demanding something should be done, but he has no more idea than 1 what can be done. Anyway, we're off, Athelstan, back to the Springall house!'
    'Sir John! I am busy with matters here. Two deaths, two burials.'
    The coroner walked towards him, a wicked grin on his satyr-like face.
    'Now, now, Athelstan. You know better than that.'
    Of course, the friar did. He knew he had no choice in the matter but cursed and muttered as he filled his saddle bags, harnessed Philomel and joined Cranston who sat slouched on his horse on the track outside the church. They stopped for Athelstan to leave messages with Tab the tinker, now drinking away the profits of Meg's funeral at the nearest tavern, and began the slow journey down to London Bridge and across to Cheapside. Cranston was full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan tried to apologise for his part in the quarrel at their last parting but the coroner just waved his words aside.
    'Not your fault, Brother!' he boomed. 'Not yours! The humours, the heat of the day. We all quarrel. It happens in the best of families.'
    So, with Athelstan praying and cursing, and Cranston farting and swaying in his saddle, they cleared London Bridge and pressed on to Fish Street Hill. Of course, when the wine ran out, Cranston's mood darkened.