He held up the jar. Foreman sighed, rose, and wandered back into the chamber. Cranston took out his dagger and laid it on the floor beside him. A short while later the apothecary returned, looked at the dagger and smiled thinly.

'There is no need for that, Sir John. I will give you the information. Anything to have you gone!'

He sat down on the chair, a roll of parchment in his hands. He unrolled it slowly, muttering to himself.

'One person,' he said, looking up, 'bought both poisons in that jar about a week ago, as well as a rare odourless potion which can stop the heart but not be traced.'

'What did he look like?'

The apothecary smiled.

'Unlike any man! She was a lady, richly dressed. She wore a mask to conceal her face. You know the type ladies from the court wear when they go some place with a gallant who is usually not their husband? She came and paid me generously.'

'What kind of woman was she?'

'The woman kind,' the fellow replied sardonically, now realising he had very little information to give this snooping coroner.

'Describe her!'

Foreman rolled up the parchment and sat back in his chair.

'She was tall. As I said she wore a mask, and a rich black cloak with white lambswool trimmings. Her hood was well pulled forward but I glimpsed her hair, a reddish chestnut colour, like some beautiful leaf in autumn. Stately, she was.' He looked at Cranston and shrugged. 'Another lady, I thought, looking for poison to make her love life that little bit easier.' Foreman tapped the roll of parchment against his thigh. 'That, sirs, is all I can and will tell you.'

Once they had left the shop and collected their horses, Athelstan and Cranston rode as fast as they could up Piper Alley back into the main thoroughfare. Once or twice they lost their way but Cranston still kept his dagger unsheathed and soon they had reached Whitefriars and were back into Fleet Street.

'You know who the woman was, Cranston, don't you?'

The coroner nodded. 'Lady Isabella Springall.' He stopped his horse and looked across at the friar. 'The description fits her, Brother. She also had the motive.'

'Which is?'

'A surmise but I think correct: Lady Isabella is an adultress. She did not love her husband but instead her husband's brother. But now is not the time to speculate. Let's ask the lady herself.'

When they arrived at SpringaH's mansion in Cheapside, Cranston acted with the full majesty and force of the law. He told a surprised Buckingham, who greeted them in the hallway, that he wanted to see Sir Richard and Lady Isabella and other members of the household in the hall immediately. The young clerk pouted his lips as if he was going to object.

'I mean, now, sir!' Cranston bellowed, not caring if his voice carried through the house, out into the enclosed courtyard where craftsmen were working. 'I want to see everybody!' He swept into the great hall. 'Here!'

He then marched up the hall, climbed on to the dais and sat down at the head of the table there, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to join him. The friar shrugged and got out his writing tray, parchment, ink horn and quills. Buckingham must have realised something was wrong for he was quickly joined in the hall, first by Sir Richard and then by Lady Isabella. The latter's looks were not impaired by grief today. Her eyes were not so red, her cheeks blooming like roses. She was dressed in a dark blue gown, the white veil hiding her beautiful chestnut hair.

Sir Richard, in hose and open cambric shirt, wiped dust from his hands, apologising that he had been out with the craftsmen who were putting the finishing touches to their pageant for the young king's coronation. Cranston just nodded, accepting his explanation as something irrelevant.

The priest also came hobbling in, his long hair swinging like a veil round his emaciated face. He threw a look of deep distaste at the coroner but called out civilly: 'You are well, Sir John?'

'I am well, Sir Priest,' answered Cranston. 'And much better for seeing you all here.'

The young priest must have caught the new note of authority in his voice. He stood still a moment and stared at Sir John through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled as if savouring some secret joke and slumped at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg. Dame Ermengilde swept in, unctuously escorted by Buckingham. Dressed completely in black, she moved down the hall like some silent spider and stood over the coroner.

'I will not be summoned,' she snapped, 'here in my own house!'

'Madam,' Cranston didn't even bother to look up, 'you will sit down and listen to what I say. You will obey me or I will take you to the Marshalsea Prison, and there you can sit and listen to what I say.' He looked up at Sir Richard and Lady Isabella. 'I mean no offence. I appreciate that yesterday the funeral ceremonies were carried out but Masses were also sung for the souls of two other men, Brampton and Vechey, and I have news of them. They did not commit suicide. They were murdered!'

Cranston's words hung in the air like a noose. Dame Ermengilde tightened her thin little lips and sat down without further ado. Sir Richard looked nervously at Lady Isabella. Ermengilde, seated beside Athelstan, also looked frightened, trying hard to hide it behind her mask of arrogance. Further down the table the priest tapped the table gently, singing some hymn softly under his breath. Buckingham sat, hands together, staring down at the table top, his face registering surprise and shock at Sir John's words. Allingham was the last to join them. The tall, lanky merchant was nervous and ill at ease, his hand constantly fluttering to his mouth or patting his greasy hair. He mumbled some apology and sat next to the priest. He seemed unable to meet the coroner's eyes, not daring even to look in his direction.

'Sir John,' the merchant mumbled, 'you said Brampton and Vechey had been murdered? But how? Why? Brampton may have been a quiet man but I cannot imagine him allowing anyone to hustle him upstairs in a house full of people, tie a noose round his neck and hang him. The same is true of Vechey.' He looked down the table at Allingham. 'Stephen, you would accept that, wouldn't you?'

The merchant never looked up but nodded and muttered something to himself.

'What are you saying?' Cranston leaned over the table. 'Master Allingham, you spoke. What did you say?'

The merchant rubbed his hands together as if trying to wash them.

'There's something evil in this house,' the merchant said slowly. 'Satan is here. He stands in the corners, in quiet places, and watches us. I believe the coroner is right.' He looked up, his lugubrious face pale, and Athelstan saw it was tear-stained. 'Vechey was murdered! I think he knew something.'

'Tush, man!' cried Sir Richard. 'Master Stephen, you worry too much. You have spent too many hours on your knees in church.'

'What?' Athelstan asked, putting his quill down. 'What did Vechey know?'

The lanky merchant leaned forward, his face screwed up, eyes pinpricks of hatred.

'I don't know,' he hissed. 'And, if I did, I would not tell you, Friar. What can you do?'

'On your allegiance,' Cranston bawled, 'I ask you, do you know anything about the deaths which have occurred in this household?'

'No!' Allingham grated. 'They are a mystery. But Sir Thomas liked riddles and his own private jokes. There must be something in this house which would explain it all.'

'What are you talking about, man?' asked Sir Richard.

But the merchant rubbed the side of his face uneasily. 'I have spoken enough,' he mumbled, and fell silent.

'In which case,' Cranston began, 'let us make a brief summary of what we do know. Correct me if I am wrong but Sir Thomas Springall was an alderman and a goldsmith. On the night he died he held a great banquet, a feast for his household, and invited Chief Justice Fortescue. He drank deeply, yes?'