Athelstan smelt the fragrance of the pine logs burning in the hearth, mixing with sandalwood, resin, and something more fragrant - the heavy perfume of Lady Isabella. He looked sharply at her. She had now donned full mourning weeds. A black lacy wimple framed her beautiful white face while her splendid body was clothed from neck to toe in a pure black silk gown, the only concession to any alleviating colour being the white lace cuffs and collar and the small jewelled cross which swung from a gold chain round her neck. Buckingham was paler, quieter. Athelstan noticed how daintily he moved. There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in!’ Sir Richard called.

Father Crispin entered, his thin face creased with pain at his ungainly hobbling. He caught Athelstan’s glance and smiled bravely.

‘Don’t worry, Brother. I have had a clubbed foot since birth. You may have noticed, a riding boot greatly eases my infirmity. Sometimes I forget my lameness, but it’s always there. Like some malicious enemy ready to hurt me,’ he added bitterly.

Lady Isabella went forward and grasped the young priest’s hand. ‘Father, I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Come, join us.’

They sat down. A servant brought a tray of wine cups filled to the brim with white Rhenish wine, as well as a platter of sweet pastries. Cranston lost his sour look and satisfied himself by glancing sardonically at Athelstan as he sipped daintily from the wine cup.

‘So,’ said Sir John, smacking his lips, ‘a third death, Master Vechey’s suicide.’ He held three fingers up. ‘One murder and two suicides in the same household.’ He stared around. ‘You do not grieve?’

Sir Richard put down his wine cup on the small table beside him.

‘Sir John, you mock us. We grieve for my brother. His funeral is being held tomorrow. We grieve for Brampton, whose body has been sheeted and taken to St Mary Le Bow. Our grief is not a bottomless pit and Master Vechey was a colleague but no friend.’

‘A dour man,’ Buckingham observed, ‘with bounding ambition but not the talent to match.’ He smiled thinly. ‘At least not in the lists of love.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.

‘Vechey was a widower. His wife died years ago. He saw himself as a ladies’ man, when in his cups, a troubadour from Provence.’ Buckingham grimaced. ‘You met him yourself. He was small, fat and ugly. The ladies mocked him, laughing at him behind their hands.’