‘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.’

He proceeded down the wooden stairs and Athelstan went along the gallery and up to the garret. He pushed the door open and wished he had asked for a candle. The chamber was dark and dank. Athelstan shivered. There was a sinister atmosphere, a feeling of oppressive malevolence. Were the church fathers right, he wondered, when they claimed that the soul of a suicide was bound eternally to the place where he died? Did Brampton’s soul hover here, as he would for eternity, between heaven and hell?