The priest refused to answer.

‘But such subterfuge!’ Lady Isabella cried.

‘Oh, Crispin planned well. One of Brampton’s buttons was placed near your husband’s manuscripts to start the tragedy. However, in case something went wrong and the poison was traced . . .’

‘What better person than you to implicate, Lady Isabella?’ Cranston observed. ‘After all, you were playing the two-backed beast with your husband’s brother!’

Lady Isabella looked away whilst Crispin placed his head in his hands. Dame Ermengilde turned to Cranston, her eyes full of malice.

‘You are not such a fool, Master Coroner. But haven’t you forgotten a few things? If my son had touched the poisoned chess pieces, his hands would have been stained. And how do you explain Allingham’s death?’

Athelstan looked down at the priest. Father Crispin raised his head and stared unblinkingly back.

‘Remember, our murderer also bestowed the rites of the Church. He made sure that the hands of both Sir Thomas Springall and Master Allingham were washed before he anointed them with holy oils.’

‘That’s right,’ Sir Richard whispered. ‘And the anointing took place immediately!’

‘So there was no stain,’ Athelstan continued conversationally, ‘as in all his murders, no real evidence. You are a killer, Father. An assassin. And we know why. You remember the young page boy who fell from the window? Sir Thomas lusted after him, in fact he found you wrote a love poem to him. We have seen it. I suspect you tried to seduce the boy. God knows what happened. Tell us, Father, did he jump because he was frightened or did you push him?’

The priest glared back at him but made no answer.

‘I think Sir Thomas knew the truth but dared not accuse you openly. After all, he was guilty of the same sin of sodomy as you. Of course, being a chaplain, you were privy to the secrets of others. So what Sir Thomas did was take his revenge through the carving, the panel he was going to use in the coronation pageant and later hang in the chapel.’ Athelstan glanced at Sir Richard. ‘Do you remember the carving? What was it of?’

‘A shoemaker being dragged away by devils.’

‘Did you ever look at the shoemaker’s feet?’

‘No.’

Cranston banged the heel of his boot on the floor.

‘Poor Father Crispin, always hobbling around, using his injury as a banner. But when he so chooses, he puts on his boots with their raised heel - and, behold, he can walk like any of us. That’s true, isn’t it, Priest? You were out riding the day Allingham died?’

Father Crispin dismissed Cranston’s accusation with a flicker of his eyes.