The Nightingale Gallery (16 page)

The young man looked across at Athelstan.

‘Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.’

‘Ah, yes, but you can’t very well knock on a monastery gate and say, “May I have some poison?” and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?’

Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.

‘Master Solper,’ Cranston continued conversationally, ‘I have come here offering you your life. Not much perhaps, but if you answer my questions I can arrange for a pardon to be sent down under the usual condition: that you abjure the realm. You know what that means? Straight as an arrow to the nearest port, secure a passage and go elsewhere. Anywhere - Outremer, France, Scythia, Persia - but not England, and certainly not London! You do understand?’

The young man licked his lips.

‘Yes,’ he muttered.

‘And if you do not satisfy my curiosity,’ Cranston continued, ‘I am going to knock on the door, leave, and tomorrow you will hang. So, if I want to buy a poison in London, where would I go?’

‘Nightshade House.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s owned by Simon Foreman. It’s in an alleyway.’ The young man screwed up his eyes, concentrating on getting the facts right. ‘That’s right, a street called Piper Street, Nightshade House in Piper Street. Simon Foreman would sell anything for a great price and not ask any questions. It is probable the poison in that phial came from him. He could tell you.’

‘One further question. Sir Thomas Springall - you knew of him?’

The young man nodded his head towards the door.

‘Like Fitzosbert, he liked young boys, the softer and more pliant the better, or so the whisper says. He went to houses where such people meet. Springall was also a moneylender, a usurer. He had few friends and many enemies. There was gossip about him.’ The young man drained his cup and sat cradling it, eyes fixed on the wine remaining in the jug. ‘It was only a matter of time before someone used that information.’ He shrugged. ‘But Springall had powerful friends at court and in the church. No bailiff or constable would touch him. He and all his kind meet in a tavern outside the city on the Mile End Road - it’s called the Gaveston. You can buy what you want there, as long as you pay in good gold. That’s all I know.’

Fitzosbert banged on the door.

‘Sir John, are you finished?’

‘Yes,’ Cranston called. ‘Listen!’ he said to Solper. ‘You are sure you know nothing else?’

The young fellow shook his head.

‘I have told you all I know. The pardon, you will keep your word?’

‘Of course. God keep you, Solper,’ he muttered and went towards the door just as Fitzosbert threw it open. The coroner gently pushed the keeper out before him, took out his purse and clinked a few coins into his hand.

‘I thank you again for your hospitality, Fitzosbert,’ he said. ‘Look after our friend here. Some more wine, a better cell. Letters will come down from the Guildhall tomorrow. You will act accordingly. You understand?’

Fitzosbert smiled and winked. ‘Of course, Sir John. No problem. I will carry out any order given to me by such an illustrious coroner of the city.’

Cranston pulled a face and he and the friar walked as fast as dignity would allow from that loathsome place. When the great gate of Newgate slammed behind them, Cranston leaned against it, gasping for clean air, his great body quivering like a beached whale’s.

‘Thank God!’ he spluttered. ‘Thank God to be out of there! Pray to your God and anyone else you know that you never land up in the power of Fitzosbert, in one of those Godforsaken cells!’

He looked up at the great tower soaring above him.

‘If I had my way, I would burn the entire place to the ground and hang Fitzosbert on a scaffold as high as the sky. But, come, Whitefriars and the Springall mansion await.’

CHAPTER 6

They collected their horses and made their way down Fleet Street towards the high white chalk store building of White-friars. As the press of people was so great, they walked their horses.

‘Do you think Solper was right about Springall?’ asked Athelstan.

Sir John nodded. ‘I suspected as much. Many men have such inclinations. Yet, you know the sentence for such crimes: boiled alive in a great vat over a roaring fire at Southwark. Not the usual end for a powerful London merchant! Hence the secrecy, and hence perhaps the vicious quarrel with Brampton, the rather effete manners of Master Buckingham, as well as the fact that Sir Thomas did not sleep with his wife.’ He looked slyly at the friar. ‘Such a woman, such a body! It fair makes your mouth water. Why should a real man lock himself away from such pleasures, eh?’ He stopped momentarily to watch a juggler. ‘Springall, like many a man,’ he said, pushing forward again, ‘had his public life and his private one. I suspect if the drapes were really pulled aside, we would find a stinking mess.’ He lifted his hand and gestured to the great houses on either side, soaring four storeys above them, blocking out the hot afternoon sun. ‘In any of these buildings scandal, sin, failings and weaknesses are to be found. They even say,’ he nudged Athelstan playfully, ‘that vices similar to Springall’s are found in monasteries and among friars. What do you think of that, Brother, eh?’

I would say that priests are like any other men, be they lawyer or coroner, Sir John, they have their weaknesses. And, but for the grace of God . . .’ Athelstan let his voice trail away. ‘But why are we here?’ he asked angrily, realising they were entering the area around the great Carmelite monastery.

Cranston touched him on the arm and pointed to the far corner, just past the huge gateway. An emaciated fellow with jet black hair, thin lips and large brooding eyes caught the friar’s eye. The man was dressed completely in black, his dark cloak covered with the most fantastic symbols: pentangles, stars, moons, suns, and on his head a pointed hat. He had laid out a great canvas sheet before him, bearing different phials and small bowls. Now he stood still, his very appearance drawing the people around him.

‘Watch this!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The fellow’s our guide.’

The man took out two small whistles and, pushing one into each corner of his mouth, began to play a strange, rhythmic, haunting tune. He then put down the instruments and held up powerful hands.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, knights, courtiers, members of the Guild!’ He caught Athelstan’s eye. ‘Friars, priests, citizens of London! I am Doctor Mirablis. I have studied in Byzantium and Trezibond, and travelled across the land to the great Cham of Tartary. I have seen battle fleets in the Black Sea and the great war galleons of the Caspian. I have supped with the Golden Horde of Genghis Khan. I have crossed deserts, visited fabulous cities, and in my journeys I have amassed many secrets and mysteries!’

His claims were greeted with roars of laughter. Cranston and Athelstan drew closer. An apprentice from a nearby stall took out a bullock horn, scooped some dirty water from a rain barrel and began to sprinkle the magician with it. Dr Mirabilis just ignored him and held up his hands, calming the clamour and good natured catcalls.

‘I will show you I have power over matter. Over the very birds in the air.’ He turned, pointing up to the top of the monastery wall. ‘See that pigeon there!’ Everyone’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. ‘Now, look,’ the fellow continued, and taking a piece of black charcoal, painted a rough picture of the bird on the monastery wall. He then began to stab the drawing, uttering magical incantations. The clamour grew around him, Cranston and Athelstan moved closer, their hands on their wallets as the crowd was infested with naps, foists and pickpockets as a rick of hay with mice and rats. Mirabilis continued to stab the picture, muttering low-voiced curses, looking up at the walls where the pigeon was still standing. Suddenly the bird, as if influenced by the magical incantations against the picture below, twitched and dropped down dead. The ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of reverence which greeted this would have been the envy of any priest or preacher. Cranston grinned and gripped Athelstan by the wrist.

‘Wait awhile,’ he said.

Doctor Mirabilis’s reputation now enhanced by this miracle, he began to sell his jars and philtres of crushed diamond, skin of newt collected at midnight, batwing, marjoram, fennel and hyssop.

‘Certain cures,’ he said, ‘for any agues, aches and rheums you suffer from.’

For a while business was brisk, then the crowd drifted away to watch an old man further down the lane who cavorted and danced in the most fantastical way. Cranston handed the reins of his horse to Athelstan and went over to the ‘doctor.’

‘Most Reverend Doctor Mirabilis, it is good to meet you again.’

The fellow looked up, his eyes milky blue like those of a cat. He studied Cranston then stared past him at Athelstan.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked. ‘Do you wish to buy my physic?’

‘Samuel Parrot,’ continued Cranston, ‘I would not buy green grass from you in the spring.’

The fellow’s eyes shifted to right and left.

‘Who are you?’ he whispered.

‘Surely you have not forgotten me, Mirabilis?’ Cranston murmured. ‘A certain case before the Justices in the Guildhall about physic which was supposed to cure. Instead, it made men and women sick for weeks.’

The famous Doctor Mirabilis stepped closer.

‘Of course!’ His face broke into a gap-toothed smile. ‘Sir John Cranston, coroner!’ The smile was hideously false. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Not here,’ Cranston said. ‘But Piper Alley, Nightshade House. You can lead us there?’

The physician nodded and, scooping up his philtres and potions into a leather sheet, led Cranston and Athelstan from Whitefriars down a maze of streets so narrow they continued to lead their horses.

‘How does he do it?’ Athelstan whispered.

‘Do what?’

‘The bird, the pigeon?’

Cranston laughed and gestured to where Doctor Mirabilis was now walking ahead of them.

‘If you went to his little garret, you would find baskets of trained pigeons - you know, the type which carries messages. Every so often our friend here drugs one of them with nox vomica, a slow acting poison. The pigeon is released and takes up a stance nearby. The poor bird will remain immobile because of the effects of the poison. After a while it will drop down dead, and there you have his magic!’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes, of course, it does not work. Doctor Mirabilis here is always ready to run, fleet as a deer, fast as any hare!’

The learned physician, as if he knew his name was being mentioned, turned and gave a gap-toothed grin, waving at them to follow a little faster.

Athelstan now saw why Cranston had hired Mirabilis. Southwark was bad but this area around Whitefriars was worse. Even though it was still daylight, the alleyways and runnels were dark, closed off by the houses built on either side. A silent, evil place, becoming more ominous the deeper they went. The houses around them, built hundreds of years ago, now derelict and unkempt, huddled close together, blocking out the summer sky. Underfoot the track was dirty, caking their boots and sandals with ordure and mud. Most of the doorways were empty. Now and again a shadow would slip out but, seeing Cranston’s long sword, retreat again. Mirabilis twisted and turned, Athelstan and Cranston finding it hard to keep up. Abruptly he stopped and indicated an alleyway, a long, dark passage ahead.

‘Piper Alley,’ he whispered. ‘Goodbye, Sir!’

And, before Cranston could object, Doctor Mirabilis slipped up another alleyway and disappeared out of sight.

Athelstan and Cranston walked cautiously down Piper Alley. The houses on either side were shuttered and closed. At last they came to one fitting Doctor Mirabilis’s description of Simon Foreman’s house. It had a huge, battered sign at the end of a long ash pole.

Nightshade House was separated from the street by a flagged courtyard, the general approach defended by iron railings. Even in daylight it had a sombre, suspicious air as if it wished to slink back from the adjoining houses. More like a prison than a private residence, the windows were grated and the huge door barred and bound with iron bands. There was no answer to Cranston’s knock, so he banged again. Behind them a dog howled and a door opened and shut. Looking down towards the mouth of the street, they saw shadows gathering. Again Cranston knocked. Athelstan joined him, hammering on the door with his fist. There was a sound of soft footsteps, of chains being loosened and bolts drawn back. The door was swung open by an unprepossessing man of middle stature, creamy-faced, and merry-eyed. He constantly scratched the bald dome of his head. Mirabilis looked like a magician, Foreman had the appearance of some village parson in his dark fustian jacket, hose and soft felt slippers. Like a host in some cheerful tavern, he told them to tether their horses and ushered them in, asking them to sit at the table and wait while he finished his business in his own secret chamber. They sat and glanced around. The room was surprisingly neat, tidy and well kept. A fire burned merrily in the hearth. Around the room were tables and chairs, some covered with quilted cushions, and on the walls shelves of jars which were neatly labelled. Athelstan studied the jars, dismissing them as nothing but mild cures for ague, aches and pains. They contained herbs such as hyssop, crushed sycamore leaves, moss - nothing that could not be bought at any apothecary’s throughout the length and breadth of the city. At last Foreman came back, pulling up a chair beside them like some benevolent uncle ready to listen to a story or tell a merry tale.

‘Well, sirs, who are you?’

‘Sir John Cranston, coroner, and my clerk, Brother Athelstan.’

The man smiled with his lips but his eyes became hard and watchful.

‘You wish to purchase something?’

‘Yes, red arsenic and belladonna. You do sell them?’

The transformation in Foreman was marvellous to behold. The merry mask slipped, his eyes became more vigilant. He straightened in his chair, looking nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan sensed that, if he had known who they were before he answered the door, he would never have let them inside, or else would have taken measures to hide whatever he had in the house.