The Nightingale Gallery by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

Sir Richard continued, ‘bade us good night here in the hall and went up to his chamber.’
    ‘Lady Isabella,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘you have your own separate room?
    ‘Yes.’ The lady glared back frostily. ‘My husband preferred it that way.’
    ‘Of course.’ Cranston beamed. ‘Sir Richard?’
    ‘I went to say goodnight to my brother. He was dressed for bed, the drapes pulled back. I saw the wine cup on the table beside his bed. He wished me a fair night’s sleep. As I walked away, I heard him lock and bolt the door behind me.’
    Athelstan put down his quill. ‘Why did he do that?’
    Sir Richard shook his head. ‘I don’t know, he always did. He liked his privacy.’
    ‘Then what?’
    ‘Next morning,’ Father Crispin began, leaning forward, ‘I went to wake . . .’
    ‘No!’ Lady Isabella interrupted. ‘I sent my maid, Alicia. She tapped on my husband’s door a few minutes after he had retired and asked if there was anything he wanted.’ She smoothed the table in front of her with long, white elegant fingers. ‘My husband called out that all was well.’
    Athelstan looked sideways at Cranston. The coroner’s heavy-lidded eyes were closing. Athelstan kicked him fiercely under the table.
    ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Cranston pulled himself up, burping gently like a child. ‘Father Crispin, you were saying?’
    ‘At Prime - yes, about then - the bells of St Mary Le Bow were ringing. It was a fair morning, and Sir Thomas had asked to be roused early. I went up to his chamber and knocked. There was no reply. So I went for Sir Richard. He also tried to waken Sir Thomas.’ The young priest’s voice trailed off.
    ‘Then what?’
    ‘The door was forced,’ Sir Richard replied. ‘My brother was sprawled on the bed. We thought at first he had had some seizure and sent for the family physician, Peter de Troyes. He examined my brother and saw his mouth was stained, the lips black. So he sniffed the cup and pronounced it drugged, possibly with a mixture of belladonna and red arsenic. Enough to kill the entire household!’
    ‘Who put the cup there?’ Athelstan asked, nudging Cranston awake.
    ‘My husband liked a goblet of the best Bordeaux in his chamber at night before retiring. Brampton always took it up to him.’
    ‘Ah, yes, Brampton brought a cup of claret!’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘He must have been a fine servant, a good fellow!’
    ‘Sir John,’ Lady Isabella shrieked in fury, ‘he poisoned my husband!’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘He took the cup up.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘He always did!’
    ‘So why did Brampton hang himself?’
    ‘Out of remorse, I suppose. God and his saints,’ she cried, ‘how do I know?’
    ‘Sir John . . .’ Father Crispin raised his hand in a placatory gesture at Sir Richard’s intended outburst in her defence. The merchant looked choleric, so red-faced Athelstan thought he might have a seizure. ‘Lady Isabella is distraug§ht,’ continued the priest. ‘Brampton took the cup up, we are sure of that.’
    ‘Was he present at the banquet last night?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘No.’ Sir Richard shook his head. ‘He and my brother had a fierce quarrel earlier in the day.’
    ‘About what?’
    Sir Richard looked nervously down the table at Vechey and Allingham.
    ‘Sir Thomas was furious: he accused Brampton of searching amongst his documents and memoranda. There are caskets in my brother’s room. He found the lid of one forced and, beside it, a silver button from Brampton’s jerkin. Brampton, of course, denied the charge and the quarrel continued most of the day.’
    ‘So Brampton sulked in his room, did not attend the banquet and retired for the night - but not before he had taken a goblet of wine along to his master’s chamber?’
    So it would seem.
    ‘Cranston had now gently nodded off to sleep, his head tilting sideways, his soft snores indicative of a good day’s drinking. Athelstan ignored the company’s amused glances,