Free The Nightingale Gallery by Paul Doherty Page A
Authors: Paul Doherty
hacked edge of the rope. Yes, he thought, Brampton had been tall enough to fix the rope round the beam, put the noose round his neck, and tie it securely with a knot before stepping off the table.
‘Master Buckingham,’ Athelstan said, getting down, ‘we have kept you long enough. I should be most grateful if you would present my compliments to Lady Isabella and Sir Richard and ask them to meet me in the solar below. I would like the physician present. I believe he lives nearby? The servants, too, should be questioned.’
Buckingham nodded, relieved that the close questioning of himself was over, and left Athelstan dragging a dozing Cranston to his feet. The coroner struggled and murmured. Athelstan put one of his arms around Sir John’s shoulders and carefully escorted him downstairs. Thankfully, the gallery below was deserted. He rested the coroner against the wall, slapping him gently on the face.
‘Sir John! Sir John! Please wake up!’
Cranston’s eyes flew open. ‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he slurred, ‘I won’t embarrass you.’ He stood and shook himself, trying to clear his eyes, jerking his head as if he could dislodge the fumes from his brain.
‘Come,’ Athelstan said. ‘The physician and servants still await us.’
Athelstan was partially correct. The servants were waiting in the small, lime-washed buttery next to the flagstoned kitchen, but the physician had not yet arrived. Buckingham introduced them as Cranston went over to a large butt, ladling out cups of water which he noisily drank, splashing the rest over his rosy-red face. Athelstan patiently questioned the servants, preferring to deal with them as a group so he could watch their faces and detect any sign of connivance or conspiracy. He found it difficult enough with Buckingham lounging beside him as if to ensure nothing untoward was said, whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.
‘And Brampton?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He sulked all day,’ the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. ‘He kept to his chamber. He . . .’ she stammered. ‘I think he was in his cups.’
‘Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Late at night, when everyone had retired?’
The maid blushed and looked away.
‘No one came through the yard,’ the young groom hotly stated. ‘If they had, they would have woken the dogs!’
‘Brampton – what was he like?’ Cranston barked.
The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.
‘A good man,’ he quavered.
‘So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?’
The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.
‘He was accused of searching amongst the master’s papers. A button from his jerkin,’ he stammered, ‘or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.’
‘What was Brampton looking for?’
A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.
‘Good friar,’ the clerk intervened, ‘surely you do not expect servants to know their master’s business?’
‘Brampton apparently tried to!’ Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.
‘So it would seem,’ Buckingham answered sweetly.
Athelstan gazed at the servants. ‘These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,’ he murmured.
‘And neither can I!’
Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woolen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted
‘Master Buckingham,’ Athelstan said, getting down, ‘we have kept you long enough. I should be most grateful if you would present my compliments to Lady Isabella and Sir Richard and ask them to meet me in the solar below. I would like the physician present. I believe he lives nearby? The servants, too, should be questioned.’
Buckingham nodded, relieved that the close questioning of himself was over, and left Athelstan dragging a dozing Cranston to his feet. The coroner struggled and murmured. Athelstan put one of his arms around Sir John’s shoulders and carefully escorted him downstairs. Thankfully, the gallery below was deserted. He rested the coroner against the wall, slapping him gently on the face.
‘Sir John! Sir John! Please wake up!’
Cranston’s eyes flew open. ‘Do not worry, Brother,’ he slurred, ‘I won’t embarrass you.’ He stood and shook himself, trying to clear his eyes, jerking his head as if he could dislodge the fumes from his brain.
‘Come,’ Athelstan said. ‘The physician and servants still await us.’
Athelstan was partially correct. The servants were waiting in the small, lime-washed buttery next to the flagstoned kitchen, but the physician had not yet arrived. Buckingham introduced them as Cranston went over to a large butt, ladling out cups of water which he noisily drank, splashing the rest over his rosy-red face. Athelstan patiently questioned the servants, preferring to deal with them as a group so he could watch their faces and detect any sign of connivance or conspiracy. He found it difficult enough with Buckingham lounging beside him as if to ensure nothing untoward was said, whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.
‘And Brampton?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He sulked all day,’ the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. ‘He kept to his chamber. He . . .’ she stammered. ‘I think he was in his cups.’
‘Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Late at night, when everyone had retired?’
The maid blushed and looked away.
‘No one came through the yard,’ the young groom hotly stated. ‘If they had, they would have woken the dogs!’
‘Brampton – what was he like?’ Cranston barked.
The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.
‘A good man,’ he quavered.
‘So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?’
The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.
‘He was accused of searching amongst the master’s papers. A button from his jerkin,’ he stammered, ‘or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.’
‘What was Brampton looking for?’
A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.
‘Good friar,’ the clerk intervened, ‘surely you do not expect servants to know their master’s business?’
‘Brampton apparently tried to!’ Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.
‘So it would seem,’ Buckingham answered sweetly.
Athelstan gazed at the servants. ‘These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,’ he murmured.
‘And neither can I!’
Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woolen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted