The choir began the beautiful hymn ‘Pange Lingua’. Athelstan let his mind and soul be calmed, moved by the rhythmical chanting. At one point the youngest boys, the choir’s sopranos, took up the refrain, pure and lucid, filling the entire church with angelic sound.

‘Respice. Respice Domine. Look back, oh Lord, look back on us!

Athelstan muttered the words under his breath. ‘Look back, oh Lord,’ he prayed. ‘Give me wisdom and light. Let me plumb the darkness, root out the wickedness. Let those things that were done in the dark of night be revealed for your justice and that of the king in the full light of day.’

Athelstan meditated for an hour. He saw the irony that here he was in a church, the house of God and gate to heaven, thinking about murder. But gradually the pattern was resolved. The culprits were identified, their motives revealed, and he reluctantly admired their deviousness, the sheer wickedness of their plan. He built his own traps, hedging them about, and, when he was ready, returned to the Springall house.

He found Cranston still resting on Sir Thomas’s bed, a cup of claret in his hand, softly singing a lullaby. Athelstan could have sworn he was acting as if there was someone else there. As if he was singing to someone he loved. The friar noticed the coroner’s eyes were brimming with tears. He looked away, pretending to stare out of the window as he began to summarise his conclusions. Behind him, Cranston regained control of himself. He listened to the friar describe the motive and the identity of the murderers. At first, the coroner rejected everything his assistant said.

‘Too ingenious!’ he cried. ‘Too clever! Too diabolic!’

Athelstan turned.

Diabolic, yes. But these murders were crafted in the human soul and decided upon by the human mind even if carried out for malicious, devilish purposes. I think I speak the truth, Sir John.

Cranston stared moodily down at the floorboards, scuffing his boots over the polished surface. Suddenly the Nightingale Gallery outside creaked and sang. Cranston’s hand went towards his dagger and Athelstan rapidly approached the door. It was only the old servant, deeper in his cups than Cranston. He staggered and leaned on the door post.

‘You have been here a long time, masters. Are you staying? Waiting for Sir Richard?’

‘No,’ Cranston replied, ‘I have told you already. We are here on the regent’s orders!’ He lifted the wine cup and drained it. ‘But I do thank you for your hospitality, sir. I shall remember it.’

‘Oh,’ Athelstan added, ‘is it possible that I could speak to one of the laundresses?’

The servant looked surprised. He blinked but agreed, and some time later ushered a scared girl into the room. She became even more frightened as Athelstan outlined his request and asked her to bring the napkin as soon as possible. When she did Athelstan poured the dregs of the wine over it, cleaned a dusty part of the room and put it beneath his cloak. The maid servant quickly left. Sir John looked bemused.