'You are, Sir?' Athelstan asked.

'Peter de Troyes, physician.'

He looked distastefully at Cranston.

'And you must be Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city? Do you need my help?'

The arrogant physician sat on the corner of the table. Athelstan watched Cranston carefully and held his breath. From experience he knew that Sir John hated physicians and would like to hang the lot as a bunch of charlatans. Cranston smiled sweetly, ordering Buckingham to clear the buttery whilst he lumbered across to stand over the physician.

'Yes, Doctor de Troyes, I am the Coroner. I like claret, a good cup of sack and, if I had my way, I would investigate the practices and potions of the physicians of this city.' His smile faded as de Troyes stuck out his plump little chest. 'Now, Master de Troyes, physician, you inspected Sir Thomas's corpse?'

'I did.'

'And the goblet he drank from?'

'Quite correct, Sir John.'

'And you think it was a mixture of belladonna and arsenic?'

'Yes, yes, I do. The cadaver's skin was slightly blueish, the mouth smelt rank.' He shrugged. 'Death by poisoning, it was obvious.'

Athelstan walked across to them. The physician didn't even turn to greet him.

'Would death have been quick?' the friar asked.

'Oh, yes, and rather silent. Very much like a seizure, within ten or fifteen minutes of taking the potion.'

'Master physician,' Athelstan continued, 'please do me the courtesy of looking at me when I ask you a question.'

De Troyes turned, his eyes glittering with malice.

'Yes, Friar, what is it?'

'Surely Sir Thomas would have detected the poison in the wine cup? You smelt it. Why didn't he?'

The fellow pursed his lips. 'Simple enough,' he replied pompously. 'First, Sir Thomas had drunk deeply.' He glanced slyly at Cranston. 'Wine is a good mask for poison, and if there is enough in the belly and throat the victim will never suspect. Secondly, the wine cup has stood all night.' He wetted his lips. 'The smell could become more rank.'

'And the phial found in Brampton's coffer was the same potion?'

'Yes. A deadly mixture.'

'Where can it be bought?'

The physician's eyes slid away. 'If you have enough money, Sir John, and know the right person, anything or anyone can be bought in this city.' De Troyes stood up. 'Do you have any more questions?'

Cranston belched, Athelstan shook his head and the physician swept out of the room without a backward glance.

They found Sir Richard's group still waiting in the solar. Athelstan gathered his writing tray, paper and quills, putting them carefully back into the leather bag. He had written very little, but would make a thorough report later. He hurried back to where Sir John, legs apart and swaying slightly, stood leering lecherously at Lady Isabella, who stared back frostily.

'I think,' Sir Richard said quietly, that Sir John needs a good night's sleep. Perhaps tomorrow, Brother?'

'Perhaps tomorrow, Sir Richard,' Athelstan echoed, and slipping his arm through Cranston's turned him gently and walked him out of the hall. Sir John suddenly spun round and looked back at the company, his heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Athelstan followed suit and glimpsed Sir Richard's hand fall away from Lady Isabella's shoulder. Something in the merchant's face made Athelstan wonder if they were more than just close kin. Was there adultery here as well as murder?

'Oh, Sir Richard!' Cranston called.

'Yes, Sir John?'

'The Sons of Dives – who or what are they?'

Athelstan saw the group suddenly tense, their faces drained of that pompous, amused look as if they regarded Cranston as the royal jester rather than the king's coroner.

'I asked a question, Sir Richard,' Cranston slurred. 'The Sons of Dives? Who are they?'

'I don't know what you are talking about, Sir John. The ill effects of the wine?'

'The wine does not affect me as much as you think, Sir Richard,' Cranston snapped back. 'I will ask the question again.' He bowed towards Lady Isabella. 'Good night.'

And, spinning on his heel, Cranston lurched with as much dignity as he could muster through the door, Athelstan following behind.

Once clear of the house, Cranston waddled as sure as a duck to water towards the welcoming, half-open door of an ale-house across Cheapside. Athelstan stopped and looked up at the starlit sky.

'Oh, good God!' he groaned. 'Surely not more refreshment, Sir John?'

Nevertheless, he hurried after; the water had apparently revived the good coroner and Athelstan wanted to clear his own mind and define the problems nagging at him. The alehouse was almost deserted. Sir John seized a table near the wine butts.

'Two cups of sack!' he roared. 'And some-?' He glared at Athelstan.

'Watered wine,' the friar added meekly.

The sack disappeared down Sir John's cavernous throat. More was ordered, and the coroner clapped his podgy hands.

'An excellent evening's work!' he boomed. He nodded in the direction of the Springall mansion. 'A coven of high- stepping hypocrites.' He turned to Athelstan, bleary-eyed. 'What do you think, Monk?'

'Friar!' Athelstan corrected him despairingly.

'Who gives a sod?' Cranston snapped. 'First, I wonder why our good Lord Fortescue was there? I think he left a little later than he claims.' Cranston belched. 'Secondly, Brampton. They say he was rifling through his master's papers, and they have evidence of it, so it is easy to imagine the quarrel between him and Sir Thomas. Springall would feel betrayed, Brampton furious that he had been caught as well as fearful of dismissal.' Cranston drummed his stubby fingers on the wine-stained table top. 'But if Brampton was innocent,' he slurred, Vhy was he made to appear guilty? There's no answer to that.'

'And if he was guilty,' Athelstan added, 'what was he looking for? What great secret did Sir Thomas Springall possess?'

Athelstan gazed across the tap room, watching two drunken gamblers shove and push each other over a game of dice.

'Even so,' he murmured,*why should Brampton kill his master and take his own life? Revenge followed by remorse?'

A loud snore greeted his question. Cranston had now fallen back against the wall, his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his fat, good-natured face.

'Was Sir Thomas murdered because of the secret?' Athelstan muttered. 'Or was his wife an adulteress, playing the two-backed beast with her husband's brother?'

Some men kill for gold, he thought, others for lust. And Dame Ermengilde? Did she play a part in this charade, trying to advance the interests of her favourite son, Sir Richard? And the other two, Vechey and Allingham? Strange creatures, battening like fleas on the skill and acumen of Sir Thomas. And, of course, young Buckingham. Athelstan shuddered. He had met men like Buckingham, with their fluttering eye-lashes and graceful, dainty gestures; men who preferred to be women but hid their natures under the cloak of darkness lest they be discovered and boiled alive at Smithfield. Finally, the good priest Crispin. Was his leg as malformed as he pretended? When he first met the priest in the solar Athelstan had noticed how ungainly he walked, but when later he had joined them in Springall's chamber, Atheistan had observed how the priest had changed into Spanish riding boots, the heel of one slightly raised to lessen his deformity. In these he moved quietly and quickly.

Sir John suddenly groaned and sat up.

'Oh, God, Athelstan,' he moaned, 'I feel sick!'

The coroner rose and staggered to the door.

Outside the alehouse Sir John paused to vomit, afterwards loudly protesting he was all right. Athelstan linked his arm through that of the coroner and they carefully made their way down Cheapside. It was raining and had become messy underfoot. They were stopped by the Watch, a collection of arrogant servants and retainers from the households of some of the great aldermen. They would have arrested them both, delighted to pick on a friar. Athelstan, however, informed them his companion was no less a personage than Sir John Cranston, who was now ill, so they stepped aside, doing their best to hide their smirks. As Athelstan turned off Cheapside into Poultry, he could still hear their loud guffaws of laughter.