Sir Richard, in hose and open cambric shirt, wiped dust from his hands, apologising that he had been out with the craftsmen who were putting the finishing touches to their pageant for the young king’s coronation. Cranston just nodded, accepting his explanation as something irrelevant.

The priest also came hobbling in, his long hair swinging like a veil round his emaciated face. He threw a look of deep distaste at the coroner but called out civilly: ‘You are well, Sir John?’

‘I am well, Sir Priest,’ answered Cranston. ‘And much better for seeing you all here.’

The young priest must have caught the new note of authority in his voice. He stood still a moment and stared at Sir John through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled as if savouring some secret joke and slumped at the end of the table so he could stretch his leg. Dame Ermengilde swept in, unctuously escorted by Buckingham. Dressed completely in black, she moved down the hall like some silent spider and stood over the coroner.

‘I will not be summoned,’ she snapped, ‘here in my own house!’

‘Madam,’ Cranston didn’t even bother to look up, ‘you will sit down and listen to what I say. You will obey me or I will take you to the Marshalsea Prison, and there you can sit and listen to what I say.’ He looked up at Sir Richard and Lady Isabella. ‘I mean no offence. I appreciate that yesterday the funeral ceremonies were carried out but Masses were also sung for the souls of two other men, Brampton and Vechey, and I have news of them. They did not commit suicide. They were murdered!’

Cranston’s words hung in the air like a noose. Dame Ermengilde tightened her thin little lips and sat down without further ado. Sir Richard looked nervously at Lady Isabella. Ermengilde, seated beside Athelstan, also looked frightened, trying hard to hide it behind her mask of arrogance. Further down the table the priest tapped the table gently, singing some hymn softly under his breath. Buckingham sat, hands together, staring down at the table top, his face registering surprise and shock at Sir John’s words. Allingham was the last to join them. The tall, lanky merchant was nervous and ill at ease, his hand constantly fluttering to his mouth or patting his greasy hair. He mumbled some apology and sat next to the priest. He seemed unable to meet the coroner’s eyes, not daring even to look in his direction.

‘Sir John,’ the merchant mumbled, ‘you said Brampton and Vechey had been murdered? But how? Why? Brampton may have been a quiet man but I cannot imagine him allowing anyone to hustle him upstairs in a house full of people, tie a noose round his neck and hang him. The same is true of Vechey.’ He looked down the table at Allingham. ‘Stephen, you would accept that, wouldn’t you?’