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?

He picked up the wine cup and sipped from it and then sat on the bed next to Sir John, staring down at the great wooden bed posters. He dozed and was about to fall asleep when suddenly he woke with a start. The carvings! Especially the one on the right . . . He got off the bed and went around. Whoever had constructed the bed post had created a vivid scene. The serpent carved there seemed to writhe, its tongue darting, whilst its intended victim, Eve, stood like the personification of innocence with one hand covering her groin, the other raised to hold back her long flowing hair. In between them was the drooping branch of an apple tree. Even in wood the fruit seemed full and lush. Athelstan stood for a moment in disbelief, then he moved over to the other bed post: there, in the centre, the artist had etched a life-like horse. The dark brown of the wood made the creature seem real, one leg raised, head arched, and on its back a frightening, ghostly figure with a hood. Peeping out from beneath it was the skeletal face of Death itself. Athelstan gasped with excitement and went round to rouse the coroner.

‘Sir John! Wake up!’

The coroner moved, snored and smacked his lips.

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan slapped him gently on the face. The coroner’s eyes opened.

‘My dear Maude . . .’

‘I am not Maude!’ Athelstan replied sharply. ‘Sir John, I have discovered something.’

‘A cup of sack?’

Athelstan refilled the goblet and held it to the coroner’s lips. ‘For God’s sake, Sir John, wake up!’

The coroner sat up, shaking the sleep from his eyes, and stared blearily round.

‘For God’s sake, Friar, what has happened now?’