Athelstan was partially correct. The servants were waiting in the small, lime-washed buttery next to the flagstoned kitchen, but the physician had not yet arrived. Buckingham introduced them as Cranston went over to a large butt, ladling out cups of water which he noisily drank, splashing the rest over his rosy-red face. Athelstan patiently questioned the servants, preferring to deal with them as a group so he could watch their faces and detect any sign of connivance or conspiracy. He found it difficult enough with Buckingham lounging beside him as if to ensure nothing untoward was said, whilst Cranston swayed on his feet, burping and belching like a drunken trumpeter. Athelstan discovered nothing new. The banquet had been a convivial affair. Chief Justice Fortescue had left as the meal ended, whilst Sir Thomas had been in good spirits.

‘And Brampton?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He sulked all day,’ the young scullery maid squeaked, tightly clutching the arm of a burly groom. ‘He kept to his chamber. He . . .’ she stammered. ‘I think he was in his cups.’

‘Did any of you hear someone moving round the house?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Late at night, when everyone had retired?’

The maid blushed and looked away.

‘No one came through the yard,’ the young groom hotly stated. ‘If they had, they would have woken the dogs!’

‘Brampton – what was he like?’ Cranston barked.

The old servant who had answered the door lifted his shoulders despairingly.

‘A good man,’ he quavered.

‘So why should Sir Thomas be angry with him?’

The old man wiped his red-rimmed eyes.

‘He was accused of searching amongst the master’s papers. A button from his jerkin,’ he stammered, ‘or so I understand, was found near one of the coffers which had been tampered with.’

‘What was Brampton looking for?’

A deathly silence greeted his question. The servants shuffled their feet and looked pleadingly at Buckingham.

‘Good friar,’ the clerk intervened, ‘surely you do not expect servants to know their master’s business?’

‘Brampton apparently tried to!’ Cranston snapped, going back to the butt for another cup of water.

‘So it would seem,’ Buckingham answered sweetly.

Athelstan gazed at the servants. ‘These can tell us nothing more, Sir John,’ he murmured.

‘And neither can I!’

Athelstan spun round. A plump, balding pigeon of a man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark woolen cloak which half concealed a rich taffeta jerkin slashed with crimson velvet. Athelstan glimpsed the green padded hose and the silver buckles on the dainty leather riding boots. The little fellow exuded self-importance. He held his smooth, oil-rubbed face slightly tilted back. A nose sharp as a quill prodded the air like the beak of a bird. In one hand he held a silver-topped walking cane, in the other a pomander full of spiced cloves. Now and again he would hold it to his face.

‘You are, Sir?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Peter de Troyes, physician.’

He looked distastefully at Cranston.