Paul Doherty: The poisoned chalice

As matters turned out we returned to Maubisson only by the skin of our teeth. We had lost our weapons and our horses, whilst one of Benjamin's boots and both of mine were now in the proud possession of Vauban's bloody cats. We posed as beggars, and that wasn't hard, slipping through the Porte St Denis just before curfew, begging a ride with a carter and reaching Maubisson late the following morning. An alert sentry sent for Dacourt. He came down, huffing and puffing, but Benjamin was strangely silent, refusing to talk to him about our unkempt appearance. Dacourt muttered something about Venner but Benjamin brusquely interrupted.

'Sir John,' he rasped, 'I wish to see Doctor Agrippa – now!'

Something in my master's tone made" the old soldier obey with alacrity and we had barely reached our chamber when Agrippa joined us. He was dressed in black the same as ever, but his jovial smile was belied by his hard, enigmatic eyes. Benjamin cut his florid salutations short.

'Doctor Agrippa, you bear warrants from the king and my uncle. Don't lie,' Benjamin warned. 'I know my uncle and I know you. You bear blank warrants which give you the power of life and death, as well as authority over all the king's subjects. So, I want the chateau sealed, every gate and door locked, archers placed on the parapets. No one is to come in or leave without your permission. Have the messengers returned?'

Agrippa nodded, his eyes narrowed.

'They must stay here, but send some trusted man to Calais with secret messages. Tell the commander of the garrison there to have troops of horsemen ready and mustered near the Pale.'

'And I have something to tell you,' Agrippa replied.

'Not now, Doctor, please, I beg you. If you do what I ask, we shall trap Raphael.'

Agrippa shrugged and waddled off.

Benjamin waited till the sound of his footsteps faded. 'Come on, Roger, we need to see those messengers. Go and find them. Tell them to come here and bring whatever reply or package they were given at the convent.'

I found both men sunning themselves in a small paddock near the stables. They seemed unwilling to break their rest but, when I clinked my purse, they promptly rose, disappeared and returned carrying a small canvas bag sealed at the top. I took the pair of them back to my master, who locked the chamber door behind them and almost snatched the bag from the surprised messenger's hand.

'What's the hurry, master?' the man grumbled. Benjamin nodded at me. I produced two pieces of silver and handed them over. 'You were given this at the convent?' 'Yes, for the Lady Clinton.'

'But,' Benjamin interrupted brusquely, 'on the king's orders you did not tell anyone about it?'

'No, master, we kept it hidden. No one knows where we went or what we brought back.'

Benjamin smiled. 'Good! Then let's keep it like that. Do you understand? Good. You may go.'

As soon as they were gone, Benjamin opened the bag and took out a small package. He ripped open the thick yellow parchment and we both stared in disbelief at the small red and gold quilted cushion which lay there. My master picked it up, weighing it carefully in his hands.

'Your knife, Roger.'

He took it, slashed the cushion open, crowing with delight at the small phial he found hidden there.

'What is it, master?'

Benjamin held it up against the light. 'Oh, I think I know,' he murmured. 'But for the time being, Roger, let's leave it.' He hid the phial under his mattress. 'First things first, Roger. Let's cleanse ourselves of the stink of Vauban's leopards and that bloody maze.'

Servants were summoned with buckets of hot water and we carefully washed ourselves, Benjamin pouring coarse wine over the cuts and abrasions on my hands, arms and legs until I felt as if I had been stuck all over with little pins. We then ate and slept for maybe an hour. I was deep in a beautiful dream about the Lady Francesca when my master shook me awake. Doctor Agrippa, smiling benevolently, sat at the foot of the bed. Benjamin had apparently told him what had happened at the Tour de Nesle. The good doctor congratulated us on our escape before divulging the news he'd tried to give us earlier.

'Venner is dead.'

'Venner!' my master exclaimed. 'When?'

'Yesterday evening.'

'How?'

'By poison. Apparently Sir Robert and the Lady Francesca always partake of a glass of white wine before retiring. Venner poured it; the jug had been left in their chamber and someone had infused enough white arsenic to slay the entire chateau. Venner must have tasted the wine. He did not come down for the evening meal. Servants found him dead as a nail.' Agrippa made a face. 'Millet's been arrested for the crime.'

'Why Millet?' I asked.

'A phial of white arsenic has been found in his room.' 'It could have been placed there.'

'I thought that but other items were discovered in the secret compartment of one of his coffers; a ciphered message to the French court, a small, white, wax candle, the symbol of the Luciferi, and more gold than Millet would earn in ten lifetimes.'

'Where is he now?' my master asked.

'In the dungeons.'

'And what did the ciphered message say?'

'That he did not trust you, me or Sir Robert Clinton, and that we were on the verge of discovering his true identity.'

'And I suppose that's why,' I cried, 'he poisoned Clinton's wine?'

'Apparently, but Millet did not reckon on Venner taking a sip.'

We were interrupted by a loud knocking on the door and Sir John Dacourt waddled in.

'Everything is as you ordered it!' he bellowed angrily, glaring at Agrippa, this nondescript courtier who had usurped his powers.

Benjamin smiled falsely at him. 'Sir John, I thank you. But keep a close watch on Millet. Tonight I will produce the evidence to prove he is both traitor and assassin. He may try to take his own life. See that he is offered nothing but water and bread, and that's to be tasted before given to him.' He paused. 'Give Sir Robert Clinton and Lady Francesca our deep regrets on Master Venner's death but tell them to be most careful. Keep a close eye on the others for I will prove that Millet has an accomplice.'

Dacourt's face went as white as chalk. He mumbled a few words and left more quietly than he had entered. Agrippa looked curiously at Benjamin.

'So, the mask of Raphael covers two faces?'

'Yes, it does. But, Doctor, if you could leave us now?'

Agrippa smiled, winked at me and left the room.

My master spent the rest of the day poring over papers on his desk, muttering to himself, asking me abrupt questions about this or that, like a lawyer drawing up a bill of indictment, marshalling his arguments, ready to quote chapter and verse. In the late afternoon we slept for a while until a servant knocked, saying the evening meal was ready. We found the rest of the embassy staff tense with excitement and expectation, and, at Benjamin's and the Doctor's insistence, Raphael or Millet were not discussed.

The meal soon ended, Benjamin asked for the table to be cleared and the hall doors guarded. A crestfallen Dacourt agreed and we sat like the court of Star Chamber in that dark, candle-lit hall, seated round the table like a panel of judges. Benjamin, who had eaten and drunk sparingly during the meal, took Dacourt's chair in the centre of the table and brought out a small roll of parchment. He took a deep breath.

'We are here,' he began, 'to determine the identity of the blood-stained traitor Raphael, who has been responsible for the deaths of Giles Falconer, the Abbe Gerard, Richard Waldegrave, Thomas Throgmorton and Ambrose Venner.'

Benjamin paused and I stared round at the assembled company. Lady Francesca was wearing a dark blue dress of samite tied high at the neck, her thick, white veil of gauze, falling down to her shoulders, kept in place by a fine gold chain around her hair. She was haggard and pallid with dark shadows under her eyes. Beside her Sir Robert was dressed like a parson in a black jacket with only a trace of a white lace collar peeping above it. I remembered his face as it was then, cold, impassive and inscrutable. Sir John Dacourt looked a beaten man, humiliated by the knowledge that his secretarius was a probable traitor. Peckle was tired and very nervous, his bony fingers moving continually, covered in blue-green ink stains. Agrippa sat silently watching us like some dark shadow, beside him my master, his long face as hard and white as marble – one of the few times I had seen him seethe in anger. He looked as cruel and as cold as any hanging judge at Westminster.