The Nightingale Gallery

He announced that he didn't give a rat's fart for mumbling monks.
    'Orders were orders!' he roared, looking darkly at the friar, before going on to regale both him and the horses with an account of the meal his poor wife was preparing for the coming Sunday.
    'A veritable banquet!' Cranston announced. 'Boar's head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts, junkets of apple- flavoured cream…'
    Athelstan listened with half an ear. Allingham was dead. He remembered the merchant, long, lanky, and lugubrious of countenance. How unsettled and agitated he had been when they last had visited the Springall house. He glared darkly at Cranston and hoped the coroner was not too deeply in his cups.
    On their arrival at the house in Cheapside Athelstan was astonished to find how calm and collected Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were. The friar suddenly realised that Cranston's claim that Allingham was murdered was really a piece of pure guesswork on his part. Sir Richard greeted them courteously, Lady Isabella beside him. She was dressed in dark blue velvet, a high white lace wimple on her head. She recounted how they had gone up to Master All- ingham's chamber and, finding the door locked, had ordered the workmen from the yard below to force the chamber.
    'Allingham was found dead on the bed due to a stroke or apoplexy,' Sir Richard commented. 'We do not know which. We sent for Father Crispin.' He pointed to where the priest sat on a chair just within the hall door. 'He examined Allingham, held a piece of glass to his lips, but there was no sign of the breath of life. So he did what he has become accustomed to doing – gave the last rites. You wish to see the corpse?'
    Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston, who just shrugged.
    'So you think that Allingham's death was by natural causes?'
    'Oh, of course! What else? There's no mark of violence. No sign of poison,' Sir Richard answered.
    Athelstan remembered Foreman's words – how the lady who had visited his shop had bought a poison which could not be traced or smelt yet would stop the heart. He believed Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were speaking the truth, at least literally: in their eyes, and perhaps even those of a skilled physician, Allingham's death was from natural causes, but Athelstan thought differently. He agreed with Sir John, Allingham had been murdered.
    The young clerk, Buckingham, now dressed more festively, the funerals being over, took them up to the first floor, then up more stairs to the second storey of the house. The middle chamber on that floor was Allingham's: the door had been forced off its leather hinges and a workman was busy replacing it. He pushed it open for them and they went inside.
    The chamber was' small but pleasant, with a window overlooking the garden. On the bed, a small four poster with the bolsters piled high, Allingham lay as if asleep. Athelstan looked round the room. There was a short, coloured tapestry on the wall depicting Simeon greeting the baby Jesus, two or three chests, a table, one high-backed chair, some stools and a cupboard with a heavy oak frontal pushed open. He caught the fragrant smell of herbs sprinkled inside to keep the robes fresh. Athelstan went across and stared down at Allingham's body. He said a short prayer. Cranston sat on the bed just staring at the corpse as if the man was alive and the coroner wished to draw him into friendly conversation.
    Athelstan knew that Cranston, despite all his bluster and drunken ways, was quite capable of making a careful, perceptive study of the dead man. Athelstan leaned over to perform his own examination. The dead merchant's skin was like the cold scales of a fish. Rigor mortis had set in, but not totally. He pushed the mouth open and inhaled. A slight spicy smell but nothing unusual, and no discoloration of the skin, nails or face. He picked up the fingers. Again no smell except for chrism where the priest had anointed the dead man. Athelstan felt slightly ridiculous, he and Sir John sitting on the bed, Buckingham and Sir Richard looking down at them. Behind them, at the door, Lady Isabella peered on tip-toe over their shoulders, as if watching some masque or mummer's play. And then, behind her, the dull dragging footsteps of Father Crispin as he, too, came up to join them.
    'Tell me,' Athelstan said, 'who found the corpse?'
    'I did,' Sir Richard replied. 'We had all risen early this morning. Father Crispin here took one of the horses, a young one, out through Aldgate to gallop in the