illusion.
‘Like life, is it not, Sir John?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.’
Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.
‘Bugger philosophy!’ he said. ‘I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!’
‘Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.’
‘Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,’ Cranston grated. ‘I haven’t forgotten yesterday.’
The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.
‘Sir John, you feel better?’ Springall asked.
‘Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.’
Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston’s riddle.
‘You have heard of Vechey’s death?’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.’
He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle around the hearth.
‘Even in the height of summer,’ Sir Richard observed, ‘it’s cool in here.’
Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant - the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in!’ Sir Richard called.
Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan’s glance and smiled bravely.
‘Don’t worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it’s always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,’ he added bitterly.
Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest’s hand. ‘Father, I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Come, join us.’
They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.
‘So,’ said Sir John, smacking his lips, ‘a third death, Master Vechey’s suicide.’ He held three fingers up. ‘One murder and two suicides in the same household.’ He stared around. ‘You do not grieve?’
Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.
‘Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.’
‘A dour man,’ Buckingham observed, ‘with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.’ He smiled thinly. ‘At least not in the lists of love.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies’ man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.’ Buckingham grimaced. ‘You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him
‘Like life, is it not, Sir John?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Nothing, as Heraclitus says, is what it appears to be. Or, as Plato writes, we live in a world of dreams, the realities are beyond us.’
Cranston gave one last pitying glance at the beadle.
‘Bugger philosophy!’ he said. ‘I have seen more truths at the bottom of a wine cup, and learnt more after a good tankard of sack, than any dry-skinned philosopher could teach in some dusty hall!’
‘Sir John, your grasp of philosophy never ceases to amaze me.’
‘Well, I am now going to amaze Sir Richard Springall,’ Cranston grated. ‘I haven’t forgotten yesterday.’
The same old manservant ushered them into the hall. A few minutes later Sir Richard came down, closely followed by Lady Isabella and Buckingham. The latter informed them that Father Crispin and Allingham were working elsewhere.
‘Sir John, you feel better?’ Springall asked.
‘Sir, I was not ill. Indeed, I felt better yesterday than I do now.’
Sir Richard just glared, refusing to be drawn into Cranston’s riddle.
‘You have heard of Vechey’s death?’
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘We did. But come, let us not discuss these matters here.’
He led them into a small, more comfortable room behind the great hall where a fire burnt in the canopied hearth; it was cosier and not so forbidding, with its wood-panelled walls and high-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle around the hearth.
‘Even in the height of summer,’ Sir Richard observed, ‘it’s cool in here.’
Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant - the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in!’ Sir Richard called.
Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan’s glance and smiled bravely.
‘Don’t worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it’s always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,’ he added bitterly.
Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest’s hand. ‘Father, I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Come, join us.’
They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.
‘So,’ said Sir John, smacking his lips, ‘a third death, Master Vechey’s suicide.’ He held three fingers up. ‘One murder and two suicides in the same household.’ He stared around. ‘You do not grieve?’
Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.
‘Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.’
‘A dour man,’ Buckingham observed, ‘with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.’ He smiled thinly. ‘At least not in the lists of love.’
‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies’ man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.’ Buckingham grimaced. ‘You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him
Similar Books
