‘You know the verses, Sir Richard?’

‘Yes.’ The merchant closed his eyes. ‘The second one refers to the serpent entering Eden.’

‘And the first?’

‘To Death riding a pale horse.’

‘Why did your brother always quote these?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know. He had a sense of humour.’

‘About the Bible?’

‘No, no, about these two verses. He claimed they were his key to fame and fortune. Sometimes, when deep in his cups, he would quote them.’

‘Do you know what he meant?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, my brother loved riddles from boyhood. He just quoted the verses, smiled, and said they would bring him great success. I don’t know what he meant.’

‘What other riddles did your brother pose?’ Cranston asked.

‘None.’

‘Yes, he did,’ Lady Isabella spoke up, pushing back the black veil from her face. ‘You remember, the shoemaker?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Sir Richard smiled. ‘The shoemaker.’

‘Lady Isabella,’ Cranston queried, ‘what about the shoemaker?’

She played with the sparkling ring on her finger. ‘Well, over the last few months, my husband used to make reference to a shoemaker. He claimed the shoemaker knew the truth, and the shoemaker was guilty.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what he meant. Sometimes, at table,’ she smiled falsely, ‘my husband was like you, Sir John. He loved a deep-bowled cup of claret. Then he used to chant: “The shoemaker knows the truth, the shoemaker knows the truth”.’

Cranston watched her closely.

‘These riddles your husband used, when did they begin?’

‘The quotations from the Bible? About - oh, fourteen or fifteen months ago.’

‘And the shoemaker riddle?’

Cranston noticed that Lady Isabella had become tense and anxious.

‘Shortly after Christmas? That’s right. He first made the riddle up during one of our mummer’s games at Twelfth Night.’

Somehow Athelstan knew these riddles were important. The room had fallen deathly silent except for Cranston’s abrupt questions, the equally abrupt answers and the snapping and crackling of the logs in the fire. What did this group fear? he wondered. What was the meaning of the riddles?

‘Tell me,’ Athelstan spoke up, ‘did anything happen in the household to account for these riddles? Anything in Sir Thomas’s life? Sir Richard, Lady Isabella . . . you were the closest to Sir Thomas.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sir Richard muttered. ‘My brother liked to speak in riddles, refer to shadowy things, lectures and parables. He was a man who loved secrecy for secrecy’s sake and hugged such secrets to his chest like other men do gold, silver or precious stones. No, nothing special happened here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cranston turned and looked at him, resting his cup on one large, plump thigh. ‘Are you sure, Sir Richard? My memory fails me about specific details but was there not a death here eight months ago?’

Lady Isabella’s face now paled and Sir Richard refused to look up.

‘No!’

‘Come, come, sir,’ Cranston barked. ‘There was something.’