The Nightingale Gallery

shout!'
    'Thank you, Your Grace. Lady Ermengilde, you heard Father Crispin come up to rouse Sir Thomas that fateful morning. What happened?'
    The old dame had caught the drift of Athelstan's words, her face losing some of its haughty composure. She narrowed her eyes.
    'I heard him come up. He tried the handle of the door of my son's bed chamber. Then he walked away. He went to find Sir Richard.'
    'Now why was that, Father?' Athelstan asked. 'You went up to waken your master – he had asked to be roused early, remember? You went up as anyone would do, you tried the door, but then you went to get his brother. Why did you not try to rouse Sir Thomas Springall yourself? You tried the door but there was no sound from within. Anyone else would have pounded on the door, shouting Sir Thomas's name. You failed to do so. You immediately walked away to rouse Sir Richard. Why?'
    'Because I thought that was the best thing to do.'
    'It was not the logical thing to do,' Athelstan replied quickly. 'The logical thing was to pound on the door and shout Sir Thomas's name. You did not. It was as if you knew something was wrong.'
    The priest swallowed quickly but gazed coolly around the room.
    'What are you implying, Brother?'
    'At the moment I am implying nothing. Let us proceed a little further. Sir Richard comes upstairs with other members of the household. The door is forced. And inside?'
    'Why,' the priest replied, 'my master, Sir Thomas Springall, lying on the bed, poisoned.'
    'And what happened then? Precisely?'
    'I went across to look at Sir Thomas.'
    'No, he did not!' Sir Richard thrust himself forward. '/ did that. You came into the room with me but 1 did that!'
    'So what did you do, Father?' Athelstan continued.
    'I just stood there.'
    'No, you did something else.'
    'Oh, yes. I picked up the wine cup and smelt it. I took it over to the window to look at the contents because its odour was strange.'
    'And when you went to the window, you passed the chess board. Then what?'
    'I pronounced the cup was poisoned. The rest you know.'
    'And how were you dressed?'
    'I told you. I had been outside, visiting the stables.'
    'You were wearing gloves? A cloak?'
    'Yes, I was.'
    'I will tell you this, priest,' Athelstan replied, 'you wore the gloves for a purpose. You see, you knew that Sir Thomas was already dead before you went into that chamber. You had arranged it that way. The wine cup was not poisoned. You took it to the window and poured in the potion which you had concealed in your glove. As you passed the chess board you took a piece from it, the bishop, the reason being that it was heavily coated with a certain poison.'
    Father Crispin's face was marble white. He shook his head wordlessly.
    'This is what happened,' Athelstan continued. 'On the afternoon of the banquet, you engaged Sir Thomas in a game of chess. You played with all your skill and finesse and managed to trap Sir Thomas. The game broke off just before the meal. You knew how Sir Thomas hated to be beaten, you admitted that yourself. He would be absorbed in the moves so that when the game recommenced he could try to escape from the trap posed by your pieces. Now, I put this to you, sir. Just before the banquet, as people were coming down, you went up to Sir Thomas's room, unnoticed by anyone else and, choosing a chess piece, coated it thickly with poison. Some time later Brampton took up the wine cup.
    'After the feast was over, Sir Thomas retired to his chamber, locking the door behind him. Then he did what you intended him to do, what any good chess player would have done. He went across to the chess board, trying to work out the best method to escape the trap you had placed him in. He picked up the bishop, the piece under threat, moving it around the board, attempting to find a way out. Like anyone who is deeply puzzled, he would raise his fingers to his lips. Little did he know that every time he did so, he was poisoning himself. It would not have taken long. The poisons you had bought from the apothecary were potent. Sir Thomas may have felt strange from the first symptoms; he left the chess board and went to his bed where he later died.
    'The next morning you came up to his chamber, gloved, because you knew you would have to touch the poison yourself. But you needed witnesses, you wanted to make it very clear that the blame lay with Brampton. Sir Richard entered the room with you, as did other members of the household. Like any people breaking into a room and