The poisoned chalice srs-2 Read online

  'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.'

  'So?'

  'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'

  Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?'

  'Yes.'

  'So who did the French hang?'

  'God knows!' I snarled, and turned away.

  Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.'

  'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'

  Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.'

  'She seems to like you.'

  Benjamin shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste, Roger.' He smiled, finished his wine, and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.

  Just before we entered Paris we left the main road, and, following winding country tracks, approached the Convent of St Felice, its white stone buildings basking in the sunshine amongst soft green fields and small dark copses. A beautiful place, one of those convents which reeked of wealth, security, and its own strange kind of serenity. Everything was clean, precise and in its place. Even the convent yard, just within the great arched gateway, was neatly strewn with white stone pebbles, whilst around the walls small strips of garden full of flowers gave off their own fragrant perfume.

  We were left in the guesthouse, drinking chilled white wine, whilst the sisters welcomed Lady Francesca and Sir Robert Clinton in a flurry of joy at seeing their old pupil and protege. Lady Francesca was treated as a favoured daughter but Sir Robert was idolised, treated with a deference which I found quite surprising. You'd have thought he was some fat cardinal from Rome. The nuns fussed around the Clintons like a group of mother hens. I found it difficult to follow their chatter (you know old

  Shallot, nosy as hell and always looking for mischief), but they seemed most concerned about Lady Francesca's health. Anyway, they left us alone.

  Lady Clinton went to see old friends whilst Mother Superior, a formidable old bird in her gold-edged habit, took Sir Robert away, her arm linked through his, for quiet chatter in her own private apartment. We stayed for about an hour, then with the sisters' greetings ringing in our ears rejoined our escort outside the walls and continued our journey.

  We entered Paris by the Porte St Denis. It was strange to be back there and my memories were not pleasant: starving in the depths of winter, being beaten up, arrested for some misunderstanding and half-hanged at Montfaucon. The scaffold there was the first thing I clapped my eyes on when we entered the stinking streets of Paris. The city fathers had decided to improve the site since I last encountered it. A few corpses swayed in the breeze at the end of a rope but they had built a wall so when the bodies decayed and fell, their sight, if not their stink, was hidden from passersby. We followed the narrow, crooked streets, most of them unpaved and packed with a motley crew of citizens, monks, scholars and a legion of beggars. Stagnant pools of filth made us cover our mouths and noses whilst we kept bobbing our heads to avoid the painted signs which hung outside every house. All the time we were assailed by the noise of a hundred bells and the screams of hawkers and traders who sold everything from a piece of iron to hot chestnuts. We crossed one of the five big bridges built over the Seine and passed under the brooding mass of Notre Dame.

  Near the Place des Greves, or rather the square close to it, a great crowd had gathered to witness an execution. One of the most horrible sights I had ever seen. A huge vat full of oil was bubbling over a monstrous bonfire and, bound hand and foot inside, stood a criminal being boiled to death. The screams, the smoke and the stench were, perhaps, a prophecy of the horrors which awaited us. Lady Clinton turned pale and would have fainted in the saddle if Benjamin had not caught her, whilst Sir Robert shouted abuse at the outriders, telling them to move on. We left Paris by the Porte D'Orleans and found ourselves back amongst the tilled meadows and windmills which ring the city. The suburbs dwindled and, after an hour's travelling, we turned a bend in the road and there, on the brow of a hill, outlined against a forest, stood the Chateau de Maubisson, a pleasant sight. It was ringed by a curtain wall protected by a moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge.

  We clattered over this into the outer bailey where chickens pecked and pigs rooted for food. The place was busy and alive with noise from the stables, forges and outhouses built against the wall. We rode under another arch, guarded by serjeants-at-arms wearing the royal arms of England; great iron gates were flung open and we passed through these into the inner bailey, stopping before the great four-towered keep which soared up to the skies. Someone had quite recently built a wing on either side of this huge donjon but at each corner of the central building was a tower. Clinton said they were named after four ladies: Yolande, Mary, Isabel and Jeanne.

  'From which did Falconer fall?' Benjamin asked. Clinton pointed to the one on the right nearside. We all stared up at the great tower which soared six storeys above us.

  'So, the castle belongs to the English embassy?' Benjamin asked.

  'Yes,' Clinton replied. 'Beyond this tower there is a garden laid out in the French style – some herb banks, a small rabbit warren, and a few hundred bushes of boxwood.' He waved his hand airily. 'Beyond the walls are some vineyards but the weather blights them. Some marshland, then of course the forest.'

  He was about to continue when officials of the embassy came down the steps to greet us. There was the usual confusion of grooms taking horses, porters carrying chests, and a sea of faces as haphazard introductions were made. A servant took Benjamin and me off into the main hall, past the great chamber where meals were served, and up a spiral staircase to the third floor above the solar. The chamber given to us was spacious and clean, the walls freshly painted, the wooden floors covered with thick but clean-looking carpets. Two pallet beds had been erected, fresh torch sconces placed in the walls, some stools, a chair, a table and an aumbry, a heavy cupboard for our clothes, provided. Some thick, tallow candles, and jugs and bowls completed the furnishings. The windows were shuttered but one, glazed with horn, afforded a pleasant view of the boxwood garden and a glimpse of the forest-edge.

  We spent that afternoon taking our bearings. The chateau was like many of its kind, stained by war here and there when the English (or the Goddamns, as the French call us) had tried to conquer Northern France, nothing remarkable. We met the officials of the embassy at dinner that same evening.

  Now, the hall of the chateau was a simple affair, a great hearthed fire in the centre with some shields and antlers on the wall for decoration. There was a small gallery at one end which musicians would use and, at the other, against a wooden panelled wall, the dais and high table. Once supper was over and the retainers had withdrawn, the wine jug was passed round and introductions were made. Sir John Dacourt, the ambassador, was squat and florid, with frizzed white hair, light blue eyes, and the most luxuriant curling moustache I have ever clapped eyes on. He was dressed simply in the old-fashioned way with a cote-hardie which fell beneath his knees. He was a soldier of the old school who believed the only good Frenchman was a dead one.

  ‘I don't trust the damn' Frogs!' he boomed. 'Turn your back and the bastards will have you!'

  Walter Peckle, the chief clerk, was a young man grown old before his time, with a complexion sallow and unhealthy, sunken cheeks, and eyes which never stopped blinking. His fingers were stained with blue-green ink and he constantly kept scratching what was left of his wispy, greasy, grey hair. Thomas Throgmorton, the physician, was thin as a pikestaff. Of indeterminate age, he had moist grey eyes se
t in a pale, thin face. His close-cropped hair was hidden under a black velvet skull cap. Michael Millet, Sir John Dacourt's secretarius, was strikingly good-looking. A young man with thick, blond hair which rose in waves from his forehead, and blue liquid eyes. Many a woman would have paid a fortune to have had his eyelashes, thick, long and curling. He was a proper fop: his roses and cream complexion was clean-shaven and a silver pearl dangled from a small gold chain in his right ear lobe. He sat like a woman and talked like one, sending coy glances at all of us. Waldegrave, the chaplain, was small, fat and balding, with the coarsened features and bright red nose of an inveterate drinker. By the time the meal was finished we were all in our cups but Waldegrave had staggered to the meal as drunk as any bishop. He sat next to me and I wrinkled my nose at the sweaty odour emanating from the long, black, food-stained gown he wore.

  At first our after-dinner conversation was on general matters but when Lady Francesca withdrew, throwing Benjamin a smile which cut me to the heart, Clinton soon brought matters to order.

  'Falconer's death,' he announced as soon as Lady Francesca's high-heeled step faded from the hall, 'was it an accident, suicide or murder?' His words cast a pool of silence. The warmth and cheer evaporated like mist before the sun. We all became aware how dark it was, the torches flickering and the shadows dancing against the bleak, white walls. At the centre of the table, Dacourt looked around.

  'If it was suicide,' he trumpeted, 'it's a damn' strange way to go. If it was an accident, then it can't be explained. Check the tower yourself, Sir Robert, you know it well. The wall is crenellated but there are iron bars between the gaps. Falconer would have had to be standing on the very rim to slip and fall to his death. Why should a man do that?'

  'Which leaves murder,' my master intervened smoothly.

  'Impossible!' Throgmorton, the physician, spoke up.

  Benjamin leaned forward and looked down the table at him.

  'How, sir! Why do you say that?'

  'Oh, our physician knows everything,' Millet quipped tartly. 'He's fond of snooping, especially through the half-open doors of any woman's bedchamber.'

  The remark provoked faint laughter and Throgmorton flushed with embarrassment. (Well, as I say, never trust a doctor. It's surprising how many of them love to see a pretty wench stripped down to her shift.) Benjamin, however, refused to be diverted.

  'Master Physician, I asked you a question.'

  Throgmorton glared once more at Millet, composed himself and ticked the points off on his fingers. 'First, Falconer had the chamber you have now.'

  Oh, thank you very much, I thought.

  'I have a chamber on the floor above. I saw Falconer go up to the top of the tower. He seemed cheerful enough, with a cup of wine in his hand. I bade him good evening and he smiled back. No one else went up the stairs after him and certainly no one went before.'

  'Are there other witnesses?' Benjamin asked.

  'Do you doubt my word?' Throgmorton bellowed.

  'Tush, Tom!' Millet spoke up, slouching against the table and admiring the cheap, tawdry rings on his fingers. 'I, too, heard Falconer go up.' Millet smiled dazzlingly at Benjamin. 'My humble abode is a garret at the top of this benighted tower.'

  Benjamin grinned. 'And you would confirm what the good physician has said?'

  'Of course!'

  'There's one other matter,' Dacourt boomed, refilling his goblet. 'The top of the tower is covered with a fine coat of sand and gravel. Millet and I were the first to check that tower, after Falconer's body was discovered by a guard. It bore only the mark of Falconer's boots.'

  'And the body?' Benjamin asked.

  Throgmorton slurped from his goblet. 'The head was smashed open and the face badly bruised. The neck was so twisted you could lay the chin on either shoulder. Of course, there was bruising throughout his whole body.'

  'And the wine he drank?'

  'Good claret,' Dacourt boomed. 'Old Falconer liked his tipple. On Easter Monday, as the season of Lent finished and we need no longer abstain from wine, we opened a new bottle. Millet and I were present. We each had a cup before we left.'

  'It's a custom here,' Millet added. 'During Lent, we all, as good sons of the Church, abstain from wine. On Easter Monday, we broach the best Bordeaux.'

  'So there was nothing strange?' Benjamin asked.

  Dacourt looked at me under lowered brows as if recognising my existence for the first time. 'No. Falconer was quiet and secretive but seemed in very good humour, laughing and talking rather garrulously. I did wonder if he had been in his cups before we opened the wine but he assured me he had not.'

  '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 n
o 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.