‘The cup now seemed the bringer of death and the blame was placed on Brampton.’

The priest regained his wits.

‘That’s impossible!’ he said. ‘How could I know that Sir Thomas would touch the chess board after he had retired for that night?’

‘Oh, but you did,’ Cranston broke in. ‘You did, you admitted as much yourself. You said that Sir Thomas could not leave the chess board alone. And the only people that touched the cup were Brampton, Sir Thomas and yourself. Only after that was the poison detected in it.’

‘And I suppose that I am responsible for Brampton’s murder?’

‘Yes.’ Cranston took up the tale. ‘My good secretarius here, my faithful clerk, has established that Brampton probably went back to his room after the banquet had begun. He felt hurt by Sir Thomas’s accusation that he had been meddling with his private papers. Now, of course, Brampton had not. You had. However, we will return to that. You probably drugged Brampton.’

‘Drugged!’ the priest snapped. ‘Brampton wasn’t drugged! That’s nonsense!’

He looked around the room, appealing for support, but Athelstan noticed how the others were beginning to distance themselves from the priest. Chief Justice Fortescue looked steadily at the table top. Gaunt had a smile on his twisted lips. The young king seemed totally absorbed. Cranston shook his head.

‘It’s no use lying, murderer,’ he snapped. ‘You know Brampton had drunk deeply that day. A servant told us as much. And you, Lady Isabella, didn’t you say your husband had broached his best cask of Bordeaux and that you sent a cup to Brampton as a peace offering?’

‘Yes, I did,’ she murmured. ‘No! I sent the cup up—’ she pointed at the priest ‘—but you poured it, Father Crispin. Yes, it was your idea. It was drugged!’ she exclaimed.

‘That night,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘after the rest of the household retired, Father Crispin went up to Brampton’s room. You are a strong young man, Crispin. Brampton was small and light; he lived on the second storey of the house, very near the stairs to the garret. You took him off his bed and carried him up, half sat him on the table, fastened the waiting noose round his neck and left him to hang, God save his soul! But poor Brampton knew for a while that he was choking to death. He grabbed the rope but it was useless. His breath was choked off and his unshriven soul fled into the darkness.’