Followed by Cranston, who was now staggering, Athelstan went upstairs and removed the huge canvas painting from the wall. He cursed. It was apparent that someone else had realised the painting might hold the key to Sir Thomas’s mystery. The wood at the back of the painting was deeply scored with a dagger as if someone had been searching for some secret crevice or compartment. Yet there was nothing.

‘It is useless, Brother!’ Cranston murmured, pouring himself another cup of claret. ‘It is absolutely bloody useless! There is nothing here. And the other two? The reference to Death on a pale horse in the Apocalypse, and the shoemaker? We’re wasting our time.’

Athelstan made him sit on the floor with his back to the wall and, crouching down beside him, told him quietly what he had learnt: how the wood carving being made for the coronation pageant might hold a clue to the killer’s identity. Cranston, despite his befuddled wits, heard him out then bellowed in righteous indignation.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before? It makes sense. It’s possible. But why didn’t you tell me?’

Athelstan found nothing more amusing than Cranston portraying virtue outraged and let the coroner ramble on until he had exhausted his litany of complaint. Athelstan heaved the painting back on the wall. After that he went from chamber to chamber, from corridor to corridor, looking for other canvases which might fit the verse from the Apocalypse. Cranston staggered behind him, holding a wine cup in one hand and the jug in the other. They found nothing. Of course, certain chambers were locked: Sir Richard’s and Lady Isabella’s, for instance. With Cranston bouncing along the Nightingale Gallery, the whole house seemed to sing with noise. Sir Thomas’s chamber, deserted except for a bed, table, and other sticks of furniture was, surprisingly, open. Cranston stared round. There was no painting here either. The walls were bare. Athelstan went over to the window and stared down at the chess table.

‘You know, Sir John, if we find nothing this afternoon then I agree, we should record verdicts of suicide and murder and leave this matter alone for we are making little progress.’

He heard a loud crash behind him. Cranston had placed the wine cup and jug beside the bed, collapsed on to the mattress and was smiling beatifically at the ceiling, fast asleep. Athelstan sighed, went over, and with great difficulty arranged Sir John’s huge body more comfortably on the bed. Then he sat beside him. He had not brought his writing tray or materials but mentally he went through each of the deaths he had investigated, trying to fix a pattern, with little success. Cranston snored gently like a child, muttering now and again and smacking his lips. Athelstan grinned as he heard the words ‘Refreshment’ and ‘Some cups of sack!’ Sir John burped noisily, rolled on one side and, if Athelstan had not been there, would have fallen completely off the bed. Athelstan let the coroner sleep. Why not? After all, there was only one painting which fitted the texts and that held nothing. His thoughts strayed to Benedicta. Was she missing him? Why had she talked so easily to that nobleman? Were all women like that? Had he done wrong in inviting her in the first place?