The merchant never looked up but nodded and muttered something to himself.

‘What are you saying?’ Cranston leaned over the table. ‘Master Allingham, you spoke. What did you say?’

The merchant rubbed his hands together as if trying to wash them.

‘There’s something evil in this house,’ the merchant said slowly. ‘Satan is here. He stands in the corners, in quiet places, and watches us. I believe the coroner is right.’ He looked up, his lugubrious face pale, and Athelstan saw it was tear-stained. ‘Vechey was murdered! I think he knew something.’

‘Tush, man!’ cried Sir Richard. ‘Master Stephen, you worry too much. You have spent too many hours on your knees in church.’

‘What?’ Athelstan asked, putting his quill down. ‘What did Vechey know?’

The lanky merchant leaned forward, his face screwed up, eyes pinpricks of hatred.

‘I don’t know,’ he hissed. ‘And, if I did, I would not tell you, Friar. What can you do?’

‘On your allegiance,’ Cranston bawled, ‘I ask you, do you know anything about the deaths which have occurred in this household?’

‘No!’ Allingham grated. ‘They are a mystery. But Sir Thomas liked riddles and his own private jokes. There must be something in this house which would explain it all.’

‘What are you talking about, man?’ asked Sir Richard.

But the merchant rubbed the side of his face uneasily. ‘I have spoken enough,’ he mumbled, and fell silent.

‘In which case,’ Cranston began, ‘let us make a brief summary of what we do know. Correct me if I am wrong but Sir Thomas Springall was an alderman and a goldsmith. On the night he died he held a great banquet, a feast for his household, and invited Chief Justice Fortescue. He drank deeply, yes?’

Lady Isabella nodded, her beautiful eyes fixed on Cranston’s face. Sir Richard, however, watched Athelstan’s quill skim over the piece of vellum.

‘The banquet ends,’ Cranston continued. ‘Sir Thomas retires. You, Sir Richard, wish him good night whilst Lady Isabella sends down a maidservant to ask if he wishes for anything.’

Both of them acknowledged this.

‘You, Dame Ermengilde, heard Brampton take a cup of wine up to Sir Thomas’s room during the feast?’

‘I did not just hear!’ she retorted. ‘I opened my door and saw him. Then he went down.’

‘And how was he dressed?’

‘In a jerkin and doublet.’

‘And his feet?’

‘He had on the usual soft pair of boots which he always wore.’

‘Why do you remember this?’

‘Brampton was a quiet man,’ Dame Ermengilde replied, a touch of softness in her voice. ‘A good steward. He moved slowly, quietly, like a dutiful servant.’

‘And how did he seem?’

‘As normal. A little white-faced. He knew I opened the door but he never looked at me. He went down the stairs. No! He went along the other gallery up to the second floor and his own room.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘No, I did not.’