Paul Doherty: The poisoned chalice

'I found the book,' Benjamin repeated. 'And I have seen what is written in it. Your first wife's surname was Harpale and, if you play with the letters of her name, as Falconer tried to, you can form the word Raphael.' Benjamin smiled coldly. 'I'm sure,' he continued, 'a scrutiny of papers and letters addressed to your wife would establish that you used such an anagram as a term of endearment towards her.' He coughed and drank some wine. 'Isn't that so, Roger?'

'Yes, yes,' I confirmed, though I still watched Clinton, especially his hands. 'Once Falconer had established that the spy used the term Raphael, you decided to silence the Abbe Gerard. You knew about his book. I suspect he had shown it to you with the name Harpale written in the back. Who knows? He may even have remembered that you called your first wife Raphael.'

Lady Francesca now began to cry quietly, her whole body shaking with sobs.

'Of course,' I continued remorselessly, 'others had to be silenced. Drunken Waldegrave, who might have learnt more from Falconer than you thought. His was an easy death to arrange. You went across to see him one night when he was in a drunken stupor and smeared his robes with pig's blood. The sottish priest did not resist. Perhaps he was incapacitated by something more powerful, like a sleeping potion. Once his robes were stained with blood, you took him across to Vulcan's stable, opened the door, threw him in and bolted the stable shut. The war horse, fiery by nature and trained to kill, was alarmed by this sudden intrusion and the smell of blood, and pounded poor Waldegrave to death.'

'And Throgmorton?' Dacourt suddenly spoke up.

'In a while,' I continued. I stared where Millet was still crouching on the floor like some toper unable to move. 'I think, Sir John, you should remove Sir Robert's dagger and help Master Millet to his feet. Perhaps some wine might ease his discomfort?'

Dacourt obeyed with alacrity. Clinton gave up his dagger unresistingly. He just stared down the hall, lost in his own thoughts, as the old soldier helped a still-weeping Millet to an empty chair.

'Throgmorton,' I declared, 'was a busybody. A good doctor but he liked to spy on young girls and any woman who caught his fancy, including the Lady Francesca.'

Clinton's wife looked up sharply. Her face was ravaged by fear and tears; her skin had turned white and puffy like dough, her eyes red-rimmed. I glanced at Benjamin, for we had agreed not to reveal certain matters to all the company. 'At Fontainebleau,' I continued, 'Throgmorton saw something strange in Lady Francesca's chamber and, like the busybody he was, intended to declare it to all and sundry. On our journey back to Maubisson, Sir Robert asked Throgmorton to look at his horse's leg whilst Venner and he served the wine and food.'

'But we all drank that wine!' Peckle exclaimed.

'Of course we did,' Benjamin replied. 'Don't you remember, Sir Robert courteously filled each goblet and handed it out? Now,' Benjamin picked up his own goblet by the rim, 'Sir Robert handled each cup like this. If you look at his right hand, you will notice the heavy rings there. I suspect one of these has a miniature clasp which can be pulled back by the thumb, revealing a cavity where poison can be secreted. That is how he poisoned Throgmorton's cup. A few grains of some deadly poison and Throgmorton is dead within hours.'

Benjamin rose and went down the table. He pulled out his dagger and gently pricked the back of Sir Robert's neck.

'Sir Robert, your right hand, please?'

Helped by Dacourt, Benjamin grasped Clinton's unresisting hand, forcing it down on the table, palm up. The silver rings on the three fingers glinted in the candlelight. Benjamin touched the ring on the middle finger, telling Dacourt to push the candle closer.

'You see, Sir John, a small clasp! If you pull it back -there!'

Clinton struggled to drag his hand away but Dacourt held his wrist tightly and pulled the ring off. He passed it around for examination. It was a subtle design of hollow metal which, when the clasp was pulled back by the thumb of the same hand, would release a small sprinkle of deadly powder. Clinton would have released the poison just before he passed the cup down to Throgmorton.

'Of course!' Dacourt exclaimed. 'That's why he asked Throgmorton to see to the horse. Clinton wanted to make sure we all had our wine before the doctor was served!'

Clinton, ashen-faced, stared around.

'This is nonsense!' he mumbled. 'Complete nonsense!'

But his voice faltered and he sat slumped like a beaten man. Lady Francesca sobbed, then Clinton's demeanour suddenly changed. He glanced sideways and grinned as if he had remembered some secret joke.

'What about Venner?' Millet croaked. He flung his hand out towards Clinton. 'That bastard accused me of his death!'

'Oh, that was the clumsiest of Sir Robert's murders,' I remarked. 'You see, before we left for the Tour de Nesle, I came down to this hall and declared that I knew the names of both Sir John Dacourt's wife and Millet's dead sister. Clinton began to suspect that we had also found out about his first wife's surname, perhaps even about Raphael himself, so he launched a two-pronged attack: a secret message was sent to Vauban so that bastard could invite us to our deaths at the Tower, whilst Clinton carefully arranged for Millet to emerge as the guilty party. That wasn't difficult. Millet's nocturnal journeys to Paris, his pursuit of young dandies at the French court, the coincidence that both he and his sister had names of archangels…' I made a face. 'The rest was easy. Certain items were placed in Millet's coffer; Venner was given a poisoned drink; and Sir Robert's and Lady Francesca's wine was poisoned. But Venner would not drink from that. He had been poisoned earlier and his corpse left in Clinton's chamber.'

'How do you know?' Dacourt abruptly asked. 'That

Venner didn't drink the wine?'

'Because the poor fellow only ever drank watered wine. But Sir Robert didn't care about that. He hoped we would be torn to death at the Tour de Nesle, and Millet would get the blame, whilst he would continue to pose as the noble English envoy who had narrowly escaped death.'

Agrippa, who had hardly moved throughout the entire scene, suddenly leaned forward and tapped the pommel of his short dagger on the table.

'Now,' he said to the hushed group, 'we come to the question of why.' He rose to his feet. 'However, gentlemen, that is not for every ear. Sir John, Master Peckle, Master Millet, you must withdraw.'

'I will not!' Dacourt bristled back.

'Sir John, if you do not,' Agrippa replied quietly, 'you will never leave this chateau alive. I do not ask you to go. I beg you to, for your own safety!'

The old soldier sighed deeply, shrugged, and walked quietly down the hall, Peckle and Millet following. Agrippa made sure the door was closed behind them.

'Now, Sir Robert,' he announced, 'we shall tell you why you are a spy, a traitor and a murderer, as well as what made you smile a few minutes ago. Master Daunbey?'

Benjamin moved to sit beside Clinton like some priest ready to hear confession.

'I shall tell you a story, Sir Robert,' he began. 'About a young courtier, a soldier and a scholar, a friend of the king. Now this courtier loved his royal master and faithfully served him. He was sent on this errand and that and, when he returned, he and his beautiful wife were often together at the court of the king. What this diplomat did not know was that his royal master had an eye for a pretty face, no real feeling of friendship, and a raging lust which had to be slaked. The king seduced his friend's wife, treated her like a trollop, some courtesan from the city, and the courtier found out. All the loyalty, all the friendship, curdled and died. In the rottenness which was left, a black hatred and a deep desire for revenge were born.'