Free The Nightingale Gallery by Paul Doherty Page B

back. A nose sharp as a quill prodded the air like the beak of a bird. In one hand he held a silver-topped walking cane, in the other a pomander full of spiced cloves. Now and again he would hold it to his face.
    ‘You are, Sir?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Peter de Troyes, physician.’
    He looked distastefully at Cranston.
    ‘And you must be Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city? Do you need my help?’
    The arrogant physician sat on the corner of the table. Athelstan watched Cranston carefully and held his breath. From experience he knew that Sir John hated physicians and would like to hang the lot as a bunch of charlatans. Cranston smiled sweetly, ordering Buckingham to clear the buttery whilst he lumbered across to stand over the physician.
    ‘Yes, Doctor de Troyes, I am the Coroner. I like claret, a good cup of sack and, if I had my way, I would investigate the practices and potions of the physicians of this city.’ His smile faded as de Troyes stuck out his plump little chest. ‘Now, Master de Troyes, physician, you inspected Sir Thomas’s corpse?’
    ‘I did.’
    ‘And the goblet he drank from?’
    ‘Quite correct, Sir John.’
    ‘And you think it was a mixture of belladonna and arsenic?’
    ‘Yes, yes, I do. The cadaver’s skin was slightly blueish, the mouth smelt rank.’ He shrugged. ‘Death by poisoning, it was obvious.’
    Athelstan walked across to them. The physician didn’t even turn to greet him.
    ‘Would death have been quick?’ the friar asked.
    ‘Oh, yes, and rather silent. Very much like a seizure, within ten or fifteen minutes of taking the potion.’
    ‘Master physician,’ Athelstan continued, ‘please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I ask you a question.’
    De Troyes turned, his eyes glittering with malice.
    ‘Yes, Friar, what is it?’
    ‘Surely Sir Thomas would have detected the poison in the wine cup? You smelt it. Why didn’t he?’
    The fellow pursed his lips. ‘Simple enough,’ he replied pompously. ‘First, Sir Thomas had drunk deeply.’ He glanced slyly at Cranston. ‘Wine is a good mask for poison, and if there is enough in the belly and throat the victim will never suspect. Secondly, the wine cup has stood all night.’ He wetted his lips. ‘The smell could become more rank.’
    ‘And the phial found in Brampton’s coffer was the same potion?’
    ‘Yes. A deadly mixture.’
    ‘Where can it be bought?’
    The physician’s eyes slid away. ‘If you have enough money, Sir John, and know the right person, anything or anyone can be bought in this city.’ De Troyes stood up. ‘Do you have any more questions?’
    Cranston belched, Athelstan shook his head and the physician swept out of the room without a backward glance.
    They found Sir Richard’s group still waiting in the solar. Athelstan gathered his writing tray, paper and quills, putting them carefully back into the leather bag. He had written very little, but would make a thorough report later. He hurried back to where Sir John, legs apart and swaying slightly, stood leering lecherously at Lady Isabella, who stared back frostily.
    ‘I think,’ Sir Richard said quietly, ‘that Sir John needs a good night’s sleep. Perhaps tomorrow, Brother?’
    ‘Perhaps tomorrow, Sir Richard,’ Athelstan echoed, and slipping his arm through Cranston’s turned him gently and walked him out of the hall. Sir John suddenly spun round and looked back at the company, his heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Athelstan followed suit and glimpsed Sir Richard’s hand fall away from Lady Isabella’s shoulder. Something in the merchant’s face made Athelstan wonder if they were more than just close kin. Was there adultery here as well as murder?
    ‘Oh, Sir Richard!’ Cranston called.
    ‘Yes, Sir John?’
    ‘The Sons of Dives - who or what are they?’
    Athelstan saw the group suddenly tense, their faces drained of that pompous, amused look as if they regarded Cranston as the royal jester rather than the king’s