The Nightingale Gallery

identical poison from the apothecary, Simon Foreman!'
    'Yes,' Cranston said, 'and that's your third mistake. I did ask Lady Isabella about that but you were not in the room. Remember, we asked you to withdraw? Lady Isabella, Sir Richard, is that correct?'
    Both nodded their heads.
    'And did you ever tell the priest about my question?'
    Again, both shook their heads wordlessly.
    'You couldn't have overhead!' Dame Ermengilde snapped. 'Because I stood near the door of the hall. I tried to listen but I couldn't hear anything.'
    'The only way you could know,' Athelstan murmured, "was because you dressed in clothes secretly borrowed from Lady Isabella's wardrobe. Your head was hidden by a red wig as well as a hood. You went to Nightshade House and bought the poison.' Athelstan sipped from his wine cup. 'You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?'
    The priest refused to answer.
    'But such subterfuge!' Lady Isabella cried.
    'Oh, Crispin planned well. One of Brampton's buttons was placed near your husband's manuscripts to start the tragedy. However, in case something went wrong and the poison was traced…'
    'What better person than you to implicate, Lady Isabella?' Cranston observed. 'After all, you were playing the two-backed beast with your husband's brother!'
    Lady Isabella looked away whilst Crispin placed his head in his hands. Dame Ermengilde turned to Cranston, her eyes full of malice.
    'You are not such a fool, Master Coroner. But haven't you forgotten a few things? If my son had touched the poisoned chess pieces, his hands would have been stained. And how do you explain Allingham's death?'
    Athelstan looked down at the priest. Father Crispin raised his head and stared unblinkingly back.
    'Remember, our murderer also bestowed the rites of the Church. He made sure that the hands of both Sir Thomas Springall and Master Allingham were washed before he anointed them with holy oils.'
    'That's right,' Sir Richard whispered. 'And the anointing took place immediately!'
    'So there was no stain,' Athelstan continued conversationally, 'as in all his murders, no real evidence. You are a killer, Father. An assassin. And we know why. You remember the young page boy who fell from the window? Sir Thomas lusted after him, in fact he found you wrote a love poem to him. We have seen it. I suspect you tried to seduce the boy. God knows what happened. Tell us, Father, did he jump because he was frightened or did you push him?'
    The priest glared back at him but made no answer.
    'I think Sir Thomas knew the truth but dared not accuse you openly. After all, he was guilty of the same sin of sodomy as you. Of course, being a chaplain, you were privy to the secrets of others. So what Sir Thomas did was take his revenge through the carving, the panel he was going to use in the coronation pageant and later hang in the chapel.' Athelstan glanced at Sir Richard. 'Do you remember the carving? What was it of?'
    'A shoemaker being dragged away by devils.'
    'Did you ever look at the shoemaker's feet?'
    'No.'
    Cranston banged the heel of his boot on the floor.
    'Poor Father Crispin, always hobbling around, using his injury as a banner. But when he so chooses, he puts on his boots with their raised heel – and, behold, he can walk like any of us. That's true, isn't it, Priest? You were out riding the day Allingham died?'
    Father Crispin dismissed Cranston's accusation with a flicker of his eyes.
    'Sir John is correct,' Athelstan took up the story. 'A priest can go anywhere, be it in his master's chamber to poison a chess piece, around the house at the dead of night to comfort poor Brampton, to say prayers at St Mary Le Bow… whereas in fact on the night Vechey died Father Crispin disguised himself as the red-haired whore and went hunting his prey amongst the riverside stews.' Athelstan paused and looked quickly at Fortescue. 'I told Sir John that there was more than one murderer. In a sense I was correct. You are two people, Father, the hobbling priest and the cunning assassin.'
    Athelstan noticed how the Chief Justice's face had become so pale it looked as if he was going to vomit.
    'Of course, Crispin,' Athelstan continued,*you had your accomplice. Someone you had met at your master's table. Someone who could tell you where we went so you could have assassins lying in waiting. You remember the gospel, Father, and the man who claimed his name was Legion, so many devils possessed him? He would recognise you, Priest. You murdered for revenge, for profit, but