The Nightingale Gallery

'I will take care of it, Sir Richard,' Buckingham murmured.

Sir Richard nodded and the clerk left the room, returning within seconds with a candle in its metal hood. He led Athelstan out of the bed chamber, back along the passageway and up to the second floor. Behind them the Nightingale sang as if mocking Athelstan's departure. At the bottom of the second gallery was a narrow, winding, wooden staircase.

'It leads to the garrets,' Buckingham said, sensing the friar's thoughts.

They went up. Buckingham pushed open a rickety wooden door and Athelstan followed him in. The garret was built just under the eaves of the roof. The wooden ceiling sloped high at one end and low at the other. Just inside the door stood an old table, a stool beside it. Buckingham held the candle up and Athelstan studied the stout beam directly above the table. A piece of rope hung from it, scarred and frayed. It swung eerily in the breeze which came through a gap in the roof tiles. On the table beneath, covered by a dirty sheet, lay Brampton's corpse. Athelstan took the candle off Buckingham and looked around. Nothing but rubbish: broken pitchers, shattered glass, a coffer with the lid broken, and a mound of old clothes. The garret smelt dank and dusty and of something else – corruption, decay, the odour of rotting death. Athelstan went across to the table and pulled back the filthy sheet. Brampton lay there, a small man dressed in a simple linen shirt, open at the neck, and wearing dark green hose on his scrawny legs. He would have appeared asleep if it had not been for the curious lie of his head. The neck was twisted slightly askew to one side. The heavy-lidded eyes were half open, his lips parted in death, and a dark blue-purplish ring circled the scraggy neck. Athelstan peered closer. There were no signs of violence on the yellow, seamed face. The small goatee beard was still damp with spittle; the gash on the throat quite deep, with a large bruise behind the ear where the noose had been tied. He scrutinised the man's hands, long and thin, manicured like a woman's. Carefully he examined the nails, noticing the strands of rope caught there. Behind him Buckingham muttered darkly, as if resenting his scrutiny. There was a crashing on the stairs and Cranston burst in, the ill effects of the wine readily apparent. He slumped on the stool, mopping his sweaty face with the hem of his cloak.

'Well, Monk!' he called out. 'What have we?'

'Brampton,' Athelstan replied, 'bears all the marks of a hanged man, though some attempts have been made to redress the ill effects of such a death. The mouth is half open, the tongue swollen and bitten, the neck bears the sign of a noose. There is a bruise behind his left ear and Brampton apparently grasped the rope in his death agonies.' He turned to Buckingham. 'So Brampton came up here, intending to hang himself. There is rope kept here?'

Buckingham pointed to the far corner.

'A great deal,' he replied. 'We often use it to tie up bales.'

'I see, I see. Brampton therefore takes this rope, climbs on the table, ties one length round the rafter beam, forms a noose and puts it round his neck, tying the knot securely behind his left ear. He steps quietly off the table and his life flickers out like a candle flame.'

Buckingham narrowed his eyes and shivered.

'Yes,' he muttered. 'It must have been like that.'

'Now,' Athelstan continued conversationally, ignoring Cranston's glares, 'Vechey finds the corpse. He searches for a knife amongst the rubbish,' Athelstan tapped it with the toe of his sandal where it lay on the floor, 'cuts Brampton down, but finds he is dead.'

'Yes,' Buckingham replied, 'something like that. Then he came down and notified us all.'

Athelstan picked the dagger up from the floor. He had glimpsed it when he had first entered the room and could see why it had been discarded. The handle was chipped and broken, there were dents along one side, but the cutting edge was still very sharp. Athelstan climbed on to the stool, then on to the table. He looked at the 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 co

'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 woollen 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 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.