The Nightingale Gallery by Paul Doherty

‘They often bring their customers down here.’
    ‘What does Bartholomew the Englishman say about that, Friar?’
    ‘I don’t know but, when I do, you will be the first to know!’
    They examined the rope again and, satisfied that they had seen everything, climbed the stone steps back on to the track high on the river bank. Cranston thanked the gatekeeper for his pains, quietly slipping some coins into his hands.
    ‘For the children,’ he murmured. ‘Some pastries, some doucettes.’
    ‘And the corpse?’
    Cranston shrugged.
    ‘Send a message to Sir Richard Springall. He has a mansion in Cheapside. Tell him you have Vechey’s body. If he does not collect it, the sheriffs men who pocketed poor Vechey’s valuables, will find him a pauper’s grave!’
    ‘At the crossroads,’ the fellow said, eyes rounded.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘He means, Sir John,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘that Vechey was a suicide. Like Brampton, a stake should be driven through his heart and the cadaver buried at the crossroads. They still do that in country parts. They claim it prevents the dead man’s troubled soul from walking abroad. But what does it matter? It’s only the husk. I will remember poor Vechey at Mass.’
    They bade farewell to the little gateman, collected their horses from the urchin and, seeing the busy crowds ahead of them, decided to walk up to Cheapside. The throng was thick, massing like a swarm of bees, the noise and clamour so intense they were unable to hear one another speak. In Cheapside, where the thoroughfare was broader and the houses did not press so close, they relaxed. Athelstan, patting Philomel’s nose, stared across at a now perspiring Cranston.
    ‘Why should Vechey kill himself?’ he asked.
    ‘Don’t bloody ask me!’ Cranston retorted crossly, wiping the sweat from his face. ‘If it wasn’t for that poor bugger, I would be getting as pissed as a bishop’s fart in the Crossed Keys and you would be back in your decrepit church feeding that bloody cat or watching your bloody stars! Or trying to save the soul of some evil little sod who would slit your throat as quickly as look at you!’
    Athelstan grinned.
    ‘You need refreshment, Sir John. You have had a hard morning. The rigours of office, the exacting duties of coroner- they would break many a lesser man.’
    Cranston looked evilly at the friar.
    ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said. ‘Your words of comfort soothe my heart.’
    ‘Be at peace, my son,’ Athelstan said mockingly and pointed. ‘Over there is the Springall mansion. And here,’ he turned and gestured to the great garish sign, ‘is the tavern of the Holy Lamb of God. The body needs refreshment.’
    He grinned. ‘And your body, great as it is, more than any other!’
    Cranston solemnly tapped his bell-like stomach.
    ‘You are correct, Brother.’ He sighed. ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is very, very weak.’
    And there’s a lot of weakness there, thought Athelstan
    ‘But not now,’ he added hastily, catching the gleam in Cranston’s eyes. ‘Sir Richard Springall awaits us. We must see him.’
    Cranston’s mouth set in a stubborn line.
    ‘Sir John, we must do it now!’ Athelstan insisted.
    Cranston nodded, his eyes petulant like those of a child being refused a sweet. They stabled their horses at the Holy Lamb of God and threaded their way across the noisy market place. A figure garbed in black, a white devil’s mask on its face, was jumping amongst the stalls, shouting imprecations at the rich and the avaricious. A beadle in his striped gown tried to arrest him but the ‘devil’ scampered off to the cheers of the crowd. Cranston and Athelstan watched the drama play itself out; the beadle chasing, the ‘devil’ dodging. The small, fat official was soon lathered in sweat. Another ‘devil’ appeared, dressed identically to the first, and the crowd burst into roars of laughter. The beadle had been tricked, fooled by two mummers and their game of