Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

'I'd discount the last one,' Benjamin said. 'You've seen his style, Roger. He would have arrested Borelli on some trumped-up charge and then interrogated him. So that leaves the Albrizzis and the Cardinal. Which?' He got to his feet. 'Let's search the place.' 'What are we looking for, Master?'

'Any artist worth his salt always makes charcoal drawings and sketches before he commits the final work to canvas. Let's search for those. Perhaps we may even find the letter of commission.'

We searched those rooms from top to bottom. Even Maria scurried around like a little squirrel, chattering all the time. But there was no letter. The old door-keeper came up to enquire what was going on, but trotted off happy after Benjamin had tossed him another coin. At last we stopped, sweating and panting in the middle of the room, and surveyed the chaos we had caused.

'Nothing!' Benjamin exclaimed. 'Whoever commissioned that painting must have insisted that all the sketches be destroyed.' He beat his hand against his thigh. 'And the original is in England.'

'I've found something!' Maria was standing in the half-open doorway of the bedchamber. 'This is Florence, where every artist has his notebook.' She handed me the rough-bound book. 'Half-way through,' she murmured.

We squatted on the floor and, in the light of the candle, carefully studied the charcoal sketch that, I believed, lay at the heart of the mystery. There was King Henry kneeling before his father's tomb, hands joined, the most sanctimonious expression on his fat, smooth face. There were the drapes, the statue of St George, the vases of flowers and the strange squiggles in the margin.

'Does it mean anything to you, Roger?' Benjamin whispered.

I studied the drawing, searching for some clue. I was sure that Borelli, apparently a gifted artist, had been brutally murdered simply because he might know too much.

Benjamin tapped the drawing. 'It's not the painting, but at least it jogs my memory. Come! Let's return to the villa. The Albrizzis will be waiting for us, and so will the murderer!' I gazed open-mouthed. 'Master, do you know who it is?'

'Yes and no, my dear Roger. Have you ever heard of les luttes de la nuit, the battles of the night? They are wild duels, fashionable now in Paris. Three or four hotbloods, sometimes more, gather in a darkened, empty room. The doors are closed and the duel begins. Well, this case is rather like that. We have hunted murderers before, Roger, but this time it's slightly different.' 'You mean there's more than one killer involved?' 'Yes – the assassin and those who pull the strings.' 'Tell me,' Maria whispered. 'Please tell me.'

Benjamin looked at her and smiled. 'I can't. But, when we return to the Villa Albrizzi, we must let the killer realize that we know a little more than he does.' His smile widened. 'Or she!'

We left the house and walked back through the streets. Benjamin hired two link boys to carry a lantern before us until we reached the taverna where our horses were stabled. The city gates were closed, but a grumbling guard let us out through a postern door. We followed the road out into the countryside. It was a beautiful night – the sky was cloud-free and the stars seemed to hang like diamonds above us. A soft, warm breeze wafting down from the hills brought with it the fragrant scents of pine and vine.

Maria was a nuisance, pestering Benjamin to tell her what he knew. But eventually she gave up and, regaining her good humour, rode ahead of us on her little donkey. I leaned over and asked my master the name of the killer. Benjamin whispered a reply. I looked startled.

(Excuse me, there goes my little chaplain again, squirming his little bum, throwing his quill down on the table – he wants to know immediately! A good hard rap across his knuckles brings him back into line. If I have told him once I have told him a thousand times whilst dictating these memoirs, I will not hurry! I will not reveal what is yet to come. He was the same when I took him to see Will Shakespeare's Richard III year or so ago. Sure enough, between the acts he keeps asking questions – 'What happens next, Master? What happens next?' – disturbing the philosophical conversation I was having with a young beauty who was escorting me for the day. He's a bloody nuisance! Mind you, I got my revenge. At the end of the play, when everyone else was pelting poor Burbage, being the villain of the piece, with rotten fruit, I threw everything I had at my chaplain!)

My master hinted at the reasons for his conclusions, but then broke off – Maria, intrigued by our whispering, had reined back her mount to join us.

The Villa Albrizzi was bathed in light and music as we entered. As I said, it was a carnival day and the family was celebrating. They were all seated once more in that beautiful garden, dining on lamb cooked in oil and garnished with herbs. They were well gone in their cups. Alessandro was there, nursing his pin-prick of a wound and glaring at me sulkily. However, I was pleased to see the hero worship in the ladies' eyes, which increased as Maria described my duel in the tavern. On Benjamin's strict instructions she made no reference to the cardinal, to Borelli or to the Master of the Eight. I, of course, forgot my aching head and sore arm and acted the hero. Lord Roderigo was most gracious. 'Come, join us!'

I, sober as a judge, for the wine I had drunk in the taverna had long ceased to have its effect, moodily played the role of Hector returned from the wars. I apologized for my dirty garments. Whilst Benjamin and Maria washed their hands and faces in bowls of rose water, I went to the stables to check on our horses before going back to my own chamber to change. As I stripped I quietly cursed all princes, for since this escapade had begun I had destroyed more good clothes than I had in the whole of the previous year. I was naked as the day I was born when a knock sounded on the door. 'Come in!' I shouted.

Remembering that an assassin was abroad, I scurried across to my saddlebag and threw a towel round the most precious part of my anatomy. When I turned, the Lady Bianca was standing there, eyes glistening, wetting her lips as if she was some heifer and I some prize bullock at Smithfield.

'Oh!' she said in mock pity. 'Master Shallot, you are bruised and cut.'

She came up, swaying slightly from the cups of wine she had downed, pressing her taffeta close against me, her plump pretty face raised, staring up at me with eyes fluttering and lips half-open.

'Shall I dress your wound?' she asked throatily. Then she laughed. 'When you returned, we could smell you before we saw you! But, Master Shallot, you are a man.' Her hand went down and grasped my genitals. 'Oh, yes!'

(Excuse me, my little chaplain's shoulders have gone rigid and he is not writing properly. Oh, I know what he is thinking, the filthy-minded turd! Here goes old Shallot again, bouncing around with anyone in petticoats! Now that didn't happen. 'Ah!' he sighs in disappointment.)

Lady Bianca was becoming excited and so was I, though I was petrified. Two duels in one day was testing fortune. I did not want any enraged Roderigo thirsting for my blood. In the event my virtue was saved by another knock on the door. Lady Bianca stepped backwards. I wrapped the towel round me as Beatrice flounced in. 'Mother, can I help?'

If I had not been so terrified I would have burst out laughing. Bianca assumed all the airs of an outraged duchess. 'Master Shallot has been wounded, he may need our help.' Beatrice looked at the bulge beneath the towel. 'Yes,' she said drily, ‘I can see that. But the Lord Roderigo awaits.'

She opened the door and her mother stalked out. Beatrice closed it behind her and grinned at me.

'Perhaps tomorrow, Master Shallot? In the evening. The servants will go to the carnival. Perhaps I can help you with your wound?'