The Nightingale Gallery

back as if innocent of any devious stratagem. Athelstan again made him repeat all they knew, though this time excluding Sir Thomas Springall's murder. Then he walked over to the window and stared down at the chess board. Absentmindedly he began to count the squares, and his heart quickened.
    'There is a pattern, Sir John,' he said softly. 'Yes!' He turned, his lean face bright with excitement. 'There is a pattern!'
    'You know who the murderer is, don't you? Come on, you bloody friar!' Cranston roared. 'Tell me! I haven't sat here on this bed like a boy in a schoolroom reciting lists of facts for nothing!'
    'Tush, Sir John, patience,' Athelstan replied. 'Let me work it into a pattern. Let me get the proper sequence of events, then I shall tell you what I know and the problem will be resolved. But for now you stay here, examine the indenture, reflect on what you have said. I won't be long!'
    Before a bemused Cranston could reply, Athelstan had slipped out of the room, walking gingerly across the noisy Nightingale Gallery, down the stairs and out into Cheap- side. Just in case he met any of the Springall household he went down Friday Street, turning into Bread Street and back up St Mary Le Bow. The church was open. Athelstan went into the nave and sat at the base of a pillar, legs crossed, whilst he stared up at the high altar behind the rood screen. He looked round the cool, beautiful church, at the frescoes on the wall, lectern, and pulpit of exquisitely carved oak. From the stalls in the sanctuary he heard the master assembling the choir, rehearsing the hymns and canticles for the feast of Corpus Christi. Athelstan leaned back, letting his head rest against the coldness of the pillar whilst he stared into the darkness, trying to rearrange what he knew, to make the pattern complete and trap the murderer. This was one occasion when the sons of Cain, the killers, would not turn round and claim with mocking innocence, 'Are we our brother's keepers? We are not responsible because we are innocent,' while the blood of five human beings stained their hands and darkened their souls.
    The choir began the beautiful hymn 'Pange Lingua'. Athelstan let his mind and soul be calmed, moved by the rhythmical chanting. At one point the youngest boys, the choir's sopranos, took up the refrain, pure and lucid, filling the entire church with angelic sound.
    'Respice. Respice Domine. Look back, oh Lord, look back on us! '
    Athelstan muttered the words under his breath. 'Look back, oh Lord,' he prayed. 'Give me wisdom and light. Let me plumb the darkness, root out the wickedness. Let those things that were done in the dark of night be revealed for your justice and that of the king in the full light of day.'
    Athelstan meditated for an hour. He saw the irony that here he was in a church, the house of God and gate to heaven, thinking about murder. But gradually the pattern was resolved. The culprits were identified, their motives revealed, and he reluctantly admired their deviousness, the sheer wickedness of their plan. He built his own traps, hedging them about, and, when he was ready, returned to the Springall house.
    He found Cranston still resting on Sir Thomas's bed, a cup of claret in his hand, softly singing a lullaby. Athelstan could have sworn he was acting as if there was someone else there. As if he was singing to someone he loved. The friar noticed the coroner's eyes were brimming with tears. He looked away, pretending to stare out of the window as he began to summarise his conclusions. Behind him, Cranston regained control of himself. He listened to the friar describe the motive and the identity of the murderers. At first, the coroner rejected everything his assistant said.
    'Too ingenious!' he cried. 'Too clever! Too diabolic!'
    Athelstan turned.
    'Diabolic, yes. But these murders were crafted in the human soul and decided upon by the human mind even if carried out for malicious, devilish purposes. I think I speak the truth, Sir John.'
    Cranston stared moodily down at the floorboards, scuffing his boots over the polished surface. Suddenly the Nightingale Gallery outside creaked and sang. Cranston's hand went towards his dagger and Athelstan rapidly approached the door. It was only the old servant, deeper in his cups than Cranston. He staggered and leaned on the door post.
    'You have been here a long time, masters. Are you staying? Waiting for Sir Richard?'
    'No,' Cranston replied, 'I have told you already. We are here on the