'Would arsenic act so quickly?' Clinton queried and I remembered his keen interest in such matters. 'Surely not, Master Daunbey, the dose would have to be powerful. I suspect it was mixed with something else, something which struck at Throgmorton's heart.'
My master chewed his lip and gently touched the dead man's damp cheek. 'Perhaps you are right, Sir Robert.'
'I know I am; arsenic and perhaps digitalis or deadly nightshade. But when? We all drank the same wine and who could know which piece of food Throgmorton would choose?'
Clinton had the baskets containing the food and wine unpacked. The rest of what was left was carefully examined, including the wine flask and the cups though these had been washed clean in a nearby brook: no trace of poison was found. Clinton stared at the sky, blood red in the sunset.
'We must continue,' he ordered. 'We should be off the roads before nightfall. Maubisson is only another hour.'
Poor Throgmorton's body was tossed across his horse and our sombre journey continued like something from a macabre dream. We rode along the country track, winding between dark woods, lush green fields, past hamlets betrayed only by faint spirals of smoke. Vauban's colourful riders clustered around us: Lady Clinton masked; Sir Robert Clinton and my master deep in conversation; the rest riding silently; and, at the back, led by poor Venner, Throgmorton's dreadful cadaver strapped to his horse as if Death himself was trailing us to Maubisson.
We found the chateau sleeping lazily under the warm evening sun. Vauban's men went back to their camp before the walls as we clattered across the drawbridge and Dacourt bellowed for servants. Throgmorton's body was sheeted and carried to lie beside that of Waldegrave in the small chapel, Dacourt issuing strict orders that they both be taken down to the cemetery in the village and given summary burial.
The ambassador then ordered us all into the hall where the food baskets were laid out on the table whilst Clinton instructed us to take the same positions as we had during Throgmorton's final, dreadful meal. A wine flagon was ordered and, in a sinister imitation of our picnic, the wine served. Yet we could clarify nothing.
'Was it the food?' Benjamin queried. 'Or the wine which was poisoned? If it was the food, then how did the murderer know which piece poor Throgmorton would take? We all drank the wine and no one knew which cup he would drink from.'
The discussion continued. Had it been an article of Throgmorton's clothing? Peckle and Venner were sent to check, but returned none the wiser.
'The French could have done it,' Clinton observed. 'Before Throgmorton left Fontainebleau.'
'No,' Benjamin countered. 'Throgmorton did not begin to sweat until he had stopped to eat and drink with us. One of us here is the poisoner.'
My master's words stilled all the clamour and debate. Lady Francesca leaned forward, her beautiful face lined and pallid.
'But why?' she asked. 'Why poor Throgmorton? How do we know,' she continued, 'that he was the intended victim? Perhaps his death was a mistake and the poison intended for someone else?'
Lady Francesca's shrewd remark hit home. We all became suspicious of each other. There were mumbled excuses and the meeting broke up. Benjamin and I returned to our chamber and my master lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling.
'Lady Francesca could be correct,' he began. 'Perhaps Throgmorton's death was a blunder.' He continued to stare at the rafters. 'So far,' he said, 'Vauban and his Luciferi control this game. All we do is jerk like puppets at the end of their strings. Perhaps it is time we took matters into our own hands?'
'And do what?' I asked. 'Storm the Louvre Palace, seize Vauban and torture him until he tells us all? Knowing that sadistic bastard,' I added, 'he'd probably like that!'
Benjamin smiled lazily. 'A worthy suggestion, Roger. But we should ignore Vauban, he only receives the information. We hunt the man or woman who supplies him with it, and should follow our suspicions.'
'Such as?'
'Well, Master Millet for a start. He creeps out of here at night. He goes missing during the French king's ostentatious banquet.' Benjamin swung his long legs off the bed and peered up at me. 'And by the way, that banquet gave me an idea. Anyway, Millet's our quarry. I doubt if he will leave Maubisson tonight but tomorrow, Roger, you will slip through Vauban's men, wait in the forest and follow him into Paris.'
'Oh, thank you,' I replied. 'Just what old Shallot needs! Wandering around the smelly streets of Paris with Vauban and his bloody Luciferi following me!'
'You know Paris.'
'Yes, I know bloody Paris!' I wailed. 'Because I stayed there for months, starving and freezing, before being half-hanged at Montfaucon!'
'Look,' Benjamin rose and placed a hand on my shoulder, 'I want you to go to Paris. We have to see where Millet goes and whom he meets. You know the old haunts of the Maillotins. You knew one of their leaders, Broussac. First, try and see if he or his comrades were involved in the attack here. Secondly,' his long face broke into a smile, 'I want you to hire the most expensive courtesan in Paris, someone fresh, someone unknown, someone who will catch the eye of the king.'
Now I was perplexed.
'What do we do, master? Send her into King Francis's bedchamber to ask for the ring?'
'No, no! In a week's time we celebrate the Feast of St John the Baptist, patron saint of England. I am going to persuade Dacourt and Clinton to open the coffers and arrange a lavish banquet at which King Francis will be the guest of honour. Our girl will be there.' He shrugged. 'We leave the rest to chance.'
'And if it doesn't work?'
'If it does not work, my dear Roger, we'll try something else. But Francis will come, and with him Vauban. We'll have an opportunity to watch the French and see if anything happens. For the rest…'He became brisk, undid a small coffer and pulled out a fresh roll of parchment, ink horn and quill, and sat down at the small table, pen poised. 'Let us list again,' he said, 'what we know. For eighteen months a spy at the English court has been selling secrets to the French. He or she uses the name Raphael. Two months ago, just before Lent, Clinton and the Lady Francesca came here, and Sir Robert, together with Falconer, tried to find out who Raphael is. Falconer lost one of his best spies in Paris but not before the name Raphael was handed over. Clinton, with his wife, then left for England.
'The messengers travelling to and from the English court regularly stop off at the convent where the Lady Francesca was educated. There's nothing suspicious about that. Lady Francesca was apparently devoted to them; they send her gifts and she reciprocates.' Benjamin paused, his quill scratching across the parchment as he listed his conclusions. 'Now,' he looked up at me, 'these couriers are also of interest to us. Two of them were butchered outside the convent on the road to Paris though the diplomatic bags they carried were not tampered with but handed over intact to the English embassy. All became quiet until, just after Easter, Falconer shared some wine with Dacourt. He was then seen happily walking up to the top of the tower but later found dead at the bottom. The wine was not poisoned, Falconer was not drunk, and he was alone on the tower. So how did he die?'
Benjamin stared at me but I just shook my head.
'About the same time,' my master continued, 'a respected priest, Abbe Gerard, was found floating face down in his own carp pond. Abbe Gerard was once confessor to our king and Henry gave him a copy of St Augustine's work On Chastity. That book has now disappeared but Vauban and his Luciferi would love to find it.
'Finally, we have the business of the ring. Henry has made our task more difficult by demanding its return, but so far we meet with little success in this or anything else. Raphael is still giving our secrets to his masters. You were nearly killed at Fontainebleau whilst both Waldegrave and Throgmorton have died in mysterious circumstances.' Benjamin paused and drew a deep breath. 'What else do we know? That Millet is acting suspiciously. Anything else?'