‘Yes,’ Lady Isabella said softly, ‘Sir Richard’s memory fails him.’ She looked at Sir John more guardedly, as if realising the coroner was not the fool he liked to appear. ‘There was Eudo’s death.’

‘Ah, yes, Eudo,’ Cranston repeated. ‘Who was he?’

Sir Richard looked up. ‘A young page boy. He fell from a window and broke his neck, out there in the courtyard. No explanation for the fall was ever given, though Sir Thomas believed he may have been involved in some stupid jape. The boy was killed outright, head smashed in, neck broken.’

Cranston drained his cup and beamed in self-congratulation, giving a sly grin at Athelstan, who glared back. He wished the coroner had told him about this!

‘Yes, Eudo’s death. I was ill at the time with the ague but I remember the verdict being recorded. Poor boy!’ Cranston murmured. ‘This house has ill fortune.’ He stood and took in his audience with one heavy-lidded stare. ‘I urge you all to be most careful. There is a malignancy here, an evil curse. It may yet claim other lives! Lady Isabella, Sir Richard.’ He bowed and stepped out of the chamber.

Athelstan stopped at the door and looked back. The group sat quite still as if bound by some secret.

‘Sir Richard?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘May I have permission to visit the garret where Brampton died?’

‘Of course! But, as I have said, his corpse has been sheeted and removed to St Mary Le Bow.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Yes. But there is something I must see.’

He asked Cranston to wait for him outside and went upstairs. On the first landing he stopped and stole a glance down the Nightingale Gallery, so engrossed he jumped when Allingham suddenly touched him on the shoulder.

‘Brother Athelstan, can I help you?’

The merchant’s long face was even more mournful and the friar was sure the man had been crying.

‘No, no, Master Allingham, I thank you. You have heard of Vechey’s death, no doubt?’

The merchant nodded sorrowfully.

‘Poor man!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘You know of no reason why he should take his life?’

‘His was a troubled soul,’ Allingham replied. ‘A troubled soul, vexed and tormented by his own lusts and pleasures.’ He paused. ‘The only puzzling thing was that he kept muttering, “There were only thirty-one, there were only thirty-one”.’

‘Do you know what he meant?’

‘No. When we went into Sir Thomas’s chamber yesterday, I heard him mutter.’ Allingham screwed up his eyes. ‘Vechey said, “Only thirty-one, I am sure there were only thirty-one.” I remember it,’ he continued, ‘because Vechey was puzzled, upset.’

‘Do you know to what he was referring?’

Allingham pursed his lips.

‘No, I don’t, Brother. But if I find out, I shall tell you. I bid you adieu.’