The poisoned chalice

'I scrutinised the corpse most carefully,' Throgmorton intervened. 'There was no real smell of ale or wine fumes nor of any other substance.'

'And the cup he drank from?' Benjamin asked, turning his chair slightly to look down the table at Dacourt.

'A pity,' the ambassador replied. 'Smashed to pieces.'

'Why do you say it's a pity?'

'Well, it was one of a set, wondrously carved from pewter. Falconer had four; people call them liturgical cups. You know, each cup bears a picture of one of the Church's four great feasts: Advent, Christmas, Easter and Pentecost.'

'And he was drinking from the Easter one?' I asked.

'Yes,' Dacourt replied. 'But now it's smashed to pieces.'

'Falconer was a very religious man,' Waldegrave slurred. 'Always talking about God. He was affected by the writings of that new teacher in Germany. You know, the monk who has jumped over his monastery wall, Martin Luther.'

(Oh, by the way, I once met Luther and his wife Katherine. He was strange! Brilliant, but still strange. Do you know, he was constipated? Oh, yes, there was nothing wrong with old Luther that a good bowel purge wouldn't have cured.)

'Did he discuss Luther?' Benjamin asked.

'No, not really,' Waldegrave slobbered. 'He was always talking about being saved. About whether he would go to heaven or hell. And if he wasn't talking about the after life, he was talking about birds.'

'Birds? What do you mean?' I asked.

Waldegrave leaned forward and stared blearily at me. 'I mean what I say. He was always watching bloody birds. Be it a duck, a sparrow, a linnet or a thrush. Mind you,' he tapped the side of his fleshy red nose, 'there were other matters.'

The rest of the company groaned in unison at having to listen to a well-known story.

'You see,' Waldegrave squirmed on his fat bottom, 'he came for confession to me. He said he thought he knew who Raphael was. When I asked him what he meant, all he replied was, "It is a grave matter".'

There were further moans and groans at the old toper's repetition of an apparently well-worn story.

'It's time for bed,' Dacourt snapped. 'Sir Robert, you must be tired.' He smiled. 'And the Lady Francesca waits. As for you, Sir Priest,' Dacourt glared at Waldegrave, 'I think you have drunk enough!'

The chaplain just stared back, open-mouthed, and belched like a thunder clap. Dacourt took a step nearer. The priest staggered to his feet and waddled off with an air of drunken disdain.

Dacourt watched him go. 'Bloody priest!' he muttered. 'Him and his jokes.'

'Lord save us!' Millet said languidly. 'If it's not his jokes, he is constantly relating how he fought as a moss trooper on the northern march.' Millet played with a lace cuff. 'The old drunk thinks he knows about horses, and is always trying to get to Sir John's destrier. Have you seen it?' The young man beamed at Benjamin, who shook his head. 'A beautiful horse. Pure air, fierce spirit, with the light tread of a dancer.'

Benjamin looked away and examined his finger nails.

'Sir John, where's Falconer buried?'

'At St Pierre,' Throgmorton the doctor interrupted. 'We couldn't send him back to England. He had no family and the body was a bloody pulp, so we bought a plot in the cemetery of St Pierre in the village of Maubisson.'

'The same church where Abbe Gerard was priest?'

'That's right,' Dacourt boomed. 'Though Abbe Gerard is no longer with us. He went for a swim in his own carp pond and drowned.'

'Strange,' Clinton mused. He leaned forward in his chair. So far he had been quiet, staring into the darkness, though keeping a careful eye on Sir John.

'What is?' Benjamin asked.

'Well,' Sir Robert also stood up, stretching himself carefully, 'on the Monday after Easter, Falconer dies from a mysterious fall from a tower. Two days later an old priest drowns in his own fish pond.'

'Are you saying there's a connection?' Peckle spoke up.

'No.' Sir Robert just shook his head. 'I just think it's strange.'

Sir John Dacourt gathered his cloak and made to leave.

'One last question?' Benjamin pleaded. 'Falconer's possessions, where are they?'

'His moveables are kept in the vaults below the hall here. What documents he had were handed over to Peckle.'

'You kept them well?' Clinton asked. 'Of course,' Dacourt snapped back. Oh, dear, I thought, not much love lost here! 'You've seen them already, Sir Robert. Was there anything amiss?'

'No, no, certainly not!' Sir Robert smiled falsely. 'But, as you say, Sir John, the hour is late and it's time for bed.'

Clinton put his goblet down on the table, bade us good night and walked softly away. Dacourt and Millet followed. Benjamin, however, sat staring down the hall. He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him.

'Master?'

'Yes, Roger, I know, it's time to sleep. Perchance to dream.'

(Oh, by the way, I always remembered that line and later gave it to Will Shakespeare. You will find it in his play Hamlet which I helped to finance. It's about a Danish prince who finds out his mother is a murderess and spends his time lolling around, mooning about it. I am not too fond of it but go and judge for yourself. Old Will Shakespeare was forever asking about the murders I'd investigated. Strange, I never told him about the horrors of Maubisson.)

We wandered up the darkened staircase back to our chamber. I lit the candles and stared around curiously. From here, I thought, Falconer had left for his dreadful fall through the night. Benjamin went over to the open window, staring across at the darkened mass of the forest. He shivered at the 'yip, yip' of a fox carried by the cool night wind and jumped at the screech of the huge bats which flickered up and down the castle walls.

'This,' he murmured, 'is truly the valley of death.'

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at me.

'You should sleep, Roger. You are going to need your rest. We are in the company of a great assassin. Mark my words: Falconer and the Abbe Gerard were murdered, and things here are not as they appear to be.' He refused to be drawn any further.

I was young, tired, slightly drunk, and didn't give a rat's codpiece so I undressed and, within a few minutes, was lost in the sleep of the just.

Chapter 5

We rose late the next morning. Benjamin appeared to be in better humour and chattered about the history of the chateau as we broke our fast in the great hall. Afterwards, one of the servants led us down to a vaulted cellar.

'We must examine Falconer's possessions,' Benjamin explained. 'Perhaps the first key to this puzzle will be there.'

Venner was already in the cellar, standing over some coffers and trunks. He grinned in welcome.

'These are Falconer's goods,' he explained. 'But there's nothing much. We have been through them. You have just missed Sir Robert.'

'What will happen to them now?' I asked, my eyes on a cheap silver bracelet.

'Well, Falconer had no heirs so they go to the king.'

I decided to leave the silver bracelet where it was; Fat Harry would skin you alive for taking a crumb of bread from his plate. Venner wandered off and we went through the pathetic pile of possessions: a counter-pane, three dirty bolsters, hose, jerkins, battered boots, more cheap jewellery, a collection of quills and a bar of Castilian soap. As far as I was concerned, the Great Killer was welcome to them. What attracted our attention was the box of pewter cups, each of the three remaining in their small, red-baized compartment. We examined these carefully, especially the deep bowls ornately carved with the appropriate scene: a large dove for Pentecost, the Virgin Mary on the Advent cup, and a child in a manger for Christmas. (You know the sort, they were quite common in England before the Great Killer smashed the monasteries. You drank from each goblet according to the season.) Benjamin sniffed each cup, then the box. 'Nothing,' he exclaimed. 'There's nothing here.'