‘At the Chief Justice’s request.’

Cranston handed over his commission. Sir Richard undid the red silk cord, unrolled the parchment and gave its contents a cursory glance. He waved expansively to the table.

‘You may as well join us. We have business to discuss. Sir Thomas’s death is a great blow.’

Athelstan thought Sir Richard looked more the eager merchant than the grieving brother but they took their seats and Sir Richard introduced his companions. At the far end of the table was Father Crispin, chancery priest and chaplain to the Springall household. He was a young man, gaunt-faced, dark-eyed, clean shaven, his hair not cut in a tonsure but hanging in ringlets down to his shoulders. His dark gown was expensive, tied at the throat with a gold clasp and silver white bows. On the other side sat Edmund Buckingham, clerk to Sir Thomas, about the same age as Father Crispin, but darker, sallow-faced, hard-eyed and thin-lipped. A born clerk or secretarius, a counter of bales and cloths, more suited to tidying accounts and storing parchment away than engaging in idle conversation. He drummed the table loudly with his fingers, showing his annoyance at what he considered an unwarranted intrusion. The two remaining members of the group, Allingham and Vechey, were typical merchants in their dark samite jerkins, gold chains and silver wire rings on fleshy fingers. Stephen Allingham was tall and lanky, with a pockmarked, dour face and greasy red hair. His front teeth stuck out, making him look like a frightened rabbit; his fingers, the nails thick with dirt, kept fluttering to his mouth as if he was trying to remember something. Theobald Vechey was short and fat; his face puffy white like kneaded dough, his eyes small black buttons, his nose slightly crooked and his mouth pursed tight with sourness.

After the introductions, Sir Richard ordered cups of sack.

Oh, God! Athelstan prayed. Not more!

Sir John, already heavy-eyed, beamed expansively. A servant brought a tray of cups. Sir John downed his in one noisy gulp and looked greedily at Athelstan’s; the friar sighed and nodded. Sir John grinned and supped that one, impervious to the astonished looks of those around him. Athelstan emptied his leather bag, smoothing the creases out of the parchment and arranging the quills and silver ink horn in his writing tray. Sir John, refreshed, clapped his hands and leaned forward, glancing towards Sir Richard at the head of the table. Cranston’s elbow slipped and he lurched dangerously. Athelstan heard the young clerk titter and glimpsed the silent mockery in Lady Isabella’s beautiful eyes.

‘Yes, quite,’ Cranston trumpeted. ‘Sir Richard, your account? Your brother has been slain.’