The Nightingale Gallery

made one mistake. He underestimated the sheer malice of his opponents.'
    'What makes you say that?'
    Athelstan bit his lip, cradling the black-jack in his hands, enjoying its coolness.
    'They relish what they are doing. They plot, they devise stratagems, they cause as much confusion as they can. They not only pursue a certain quarry, the mysteries and riddles of Sir Thomas, I think they enjoy the killing. They have insufferable arrogance. Satan has set up camp in their souls. In a word, Sir John, they enjoy what they do as much as you do a goblet of claret or a game of hazard or teasing me. To them murder is now part of their lives, a piece in the fabric of their souls. They will continue to murder for profit, to protect themselves but also because they want to. All the more to see us floundering around in the dark. The more we flounder, the more enjoyment we give them.'
    Sir John shivered and looked around the tavern. He felt uneasy for the first time ever, a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of personal danger. Had they been followed? He looked quickly across at Athelstan. The friar was right. Whoever had committed these murders planned them well. If Lady Isabella was not the woman who went to the apothecary's shop, then who was? And the harlot who had lured Vechey to his doom? And the secret poisoner of Sir Thomas and Master Allingham? Cranston suddenly blinked.
    'You keep saying "they",' he said. 'Why?'
    'There must be more than one. Either that or it's someone very clever. I did think that someone outside that house was using assassins, professional killers, but that would be too dangerous. You see, the more people you hire to carry out a plot, the greater the danger of betrayal; either through a mistake, or a bribe, or simply by one of your minions being caught red-handed.'
    'And you have no suspects?'
    'No. It could be Sir Richard, it could be Lady Isabella, Buckingham, Father Crispin, even Dame Ermengilde. Who knows? One of the murdered men may have been an assassin.'
    Sir John drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table.
    'You know, Athelstan, if it wasn't for you and your bloody logic, I'd put the entire mystery down to witchcraft. People moving about in the dead of night, poisons being administered in a locked room. How on earth can we resolve it?'
    'As I said, Sir John, logic and a little evidence, some speculation, and perhaps some help from Mistress Fortune. In the end we will grasp the truth. I don't particularly mourn the four who died. What bothers me, what's making me sour and evil-tempered, is that the murderers are here, laughing at us, watching us fumble. They shall pay for that enjoyment. We can all murder, Sir John.' He rose, dusting the crumbs from his habit. 'Cain is in each of us. We lose our temper, feel cornered and frightened, it can be the work of an instant. But to savour murder – that's not the prompting of Cain, that's Satan!'
    Cranston, his mouth full of hot food, simply mumbled his reply. Athelstan felt the thick ale seep into his stomach, making him relaxed, even sleepy.
    'Come on, Sir John. Chief Justice Fortescue awaits us and, as you know, justice waits for no man!'
    Sir John glared, stuffed the rest of the food in his mouth and drained his tankard in one final gulp.
    They hurried out into Fleet Street, Sir John wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, hitching his sword belt, shouting that he would revisit the tavern at his earliest convenience. They were halfway down Fleet Street when suddenly the Coroner's mood changed. He stopped abruptly and gazed round, staring back at the throng they had pushed through.
    'What's wrong, Sir John?'
    The coroner chewed his lip. 'We are being followed, Brother Athelstan, and I don't like that.'
    He looked round and went over to a tinker's stall. Athelstan saw money change hands and Cranston came back with a thick broomstick.
    'Here, Athelstan!'
    The friar looked in surprise at the long, smoothly planed ash pole.
    'I have no need of a staff, Sir John.'
    Cranston grinned, his hands falling to the dagger and great broad sword he carried.
    'You may have, Athelstan. Remember what your psalmist says: "The devil goes around like a lion seeking whom he would devour." I believe a lion or a devil, or both, are trailing us now!'

CHAPTER 8
    As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The