The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 6

I smiled to hide my own fears. I'll be honest, they weren't caused just by the Luciferi and some maniac loose in the chateau but by the Great Killer at Hampton Court and his desire to get that bloody ring back. I wanted to broach the matter with my master but he was lost in his own thoughts so I kept my fears hidden as we rode along the lee of the hill.

We wound our way past open fields into shady woods until we entered the neck of a small valley. Nestling at the bottom, on the banks of a sluggish stream, stood Maubisson village: a collection of wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs, two or three of stone and slate, each with its own fenced garden. On the far side of the village was a small water mill, probably used for grinding corn. In the centre of the village green stood a black-spired church, nothing more than a tower and nave hastily thrown together, the type you can see in any village in England or France. It was ringed by its own walls, a cemetery to one side, the priest's house to the other. Even from where we looked you could glimpse the glint of the huge carp pond where Abbe Gerard had drowned.

We rode slowly down the beaten track. Women in thick, serge dresses and wooden clogs gathered at the doors of their houses and watched us pass whilst half-naked children ran behind us, screaming in their patois for a sou or something to eat. A few old men dozed on benches. Around them scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the dust, jostling with thin-flanked pigs for something to eat. We reached the church and rode through the lych gate. Benjamin thanked the groom and told him to return to the chateau. We tied our horses to a small rail and knocked on the priest's house door.

A young, thin-faced man with brown hair, a sharp needle nose and watery eyes answered. His skin was rather yellow as if he had bile problems or a stone in his kidneys. He was friendly enough, thankfully a Norman born, so Benjamin could converse easily with him whilst I could follow the general gist of their conversation.

'I am the Cure Ricard,' he murmured. 'You are…?'

(I was sure he was going to say 'Goddamn'.)

'English, from the Chateau of Maubisson.'

'Come in. Come in.'

The cure ushered us in. He lived as poorly as his peasant parishioners. The room was simple. There were a few sticks of furniture and the floor was beaten earth, rather cold despite the summer. A fire burnt in the hearth. Next to it squatted a young girl about fifteen or sixteen years old. Her hair was thick and coarse, her face raw and peeling from work in the sun. She hardly looked up as we entered but continued to stir the huge, black pot which hung above the flames, now and again throwing in a scattering of herbs and the occasional piece of raw, fatty meat.

'My housekeeper,' Ricard shamefully announced. (Aye, I thought, and I wager she does more than just work in the kitchen, but who am I to judge the poor man's morals? Look at my chaplain! From what I gather he spends more time in the hay loft with young Mabel from the village than he does in his church. Ah, see, he squirms! He thinks I am old and senile. I tell you this, not even the bloody sparrows land on my lawns without my permission.) Anyway, back to the poor priest. At least he did an honest day's work. He told us to sit down and served us vinegar-tasting wine. When he wasn't looking I poured mine on to the floor.

'Monsieur le Cure,' Benjamin began, 'you came here after the Abbe Gerard died?'

'No, Monsieur, I served with him. But the bishop has yet to make up his mind about a successor.'

'So you were here the night he died?'

'Yes and no. On that Wednesday after Easter I was absent from the church. The abbe had allowed me to visit friends. He stayed and cooked his own dinner.' The cure spread his hands. 'Some scraps of beef, he opened a small jar of wine. The abbe liked his claret and he had been fasting during Lent.'

He must have seen the look in my eyes.

'No more than two cups, certainly not enough to make him drunk. Just before dusk one of the villagers, walking through the church grounds, saw the abbe in the garden looking down at the carp pond. I returned after dark.' He looked sideways at the girl stirring the pot. 'Simone and I returned. Abbe Gerard was not to be seen. I went down to the garden. It was a beautiful evening. I thought he might still have been there.' The cure's eyes filled with tears. 'He was floating face down in the carp pond!'

'And there was no mark or sign of violence?'

'No, Monsieur.'

'And the cup and jar of wine?'

'They were found with him in the pond.'

'Ask him where the wine came from,' I demanded.

Benjamin translated my question. The cure shrugged.

'God knows. The abbe may have bought it. But don't forget, Monsieur, it was Easter. Our parishioners, even the people of Maubisson, send us gifts. Fruit, flowers, wine and sweetmeats.'

'Why would the abbe stare at the carp pond?'

The cure laughed abruptly. 'Monsieur, everyone stands by the edge of the water and stares at the fish, that's why we have such ponds. It's a bit like asking why someone looks at the sky or watches the sunset.'

Benjamin smiled. 'A fair point, Monsieur. Can we see this carp pond?'

Ricard led us out into the garden. Really, it was a small orchard, with some apple and pear trees and untended grass. Here and there was the occasional flower bed; the lilies and other wild flowers struggling to thrive amongst the brambles and weeds. In the middle of the garden was a large, deep carp pond. It must have been about two yards deep and three yards across. It was man-made, I glimpsed the grey bricks around the edge, and probably fed by underground streams.

'Tell us again,' Benjamin asked. 'What happened?'

'Well, the abbe was in the water, floating face down.' Ricard wiped his constantly dripping nose. ‘I and Simone pulled him out. He must have been dead for hours.'

'Do you think he drowned?'

'He could have had a seizure. Yet the abbe enjoyed good health. He had no fits nor did he suffer from the falling sickness.'

Benjamin sat down on a small bench near the pool and watched the silver, darting carp who swam in dashes of light amongst the water grass and luxuriant lily pads. He half-closed his eyes and listened to plopping sounds in the water for the place swarmed with frogs, and the buzz of the bees as they hunted for honey amongst the flowers.

'Did Abbe Gerard have any enemies?' I asked abruptly.

Ricard shook his head. 'Monsieur, I don't understand.'

'My companion asked,' Benjamin repeated, 'did the Abbe Gerard have any enemies?'

'No, he was a compassionate man, even to me with all my failings.'

'Did he ever talk about his friendship with King Henry of England? You know our king, when he visited Maubisson, often called on Abbe Gerard and used him as a confessor?'

'Others at the chateau do,' Ricard observed.

I winked at Benjamin. Abbe Gerard, I thought, would be the natural recipient of all sorts of secrets. In an enclosed community such as Maubisson who would want to confess to a drunken idiot like Waldegrave? Apart from Falconer, I thought, and he died.

'The Abbe Gerard,' Benjamin remarked, speaking my thoughts aloud, 'must have known the secrets of many hearts.' He stared up at Ricard. 'But we were talking about our noble King Henry.'

'The abbe often boasted,' Ricard answered, 'about his friendship with King Henry of England. He often described him as a truly Christian Prince.'

(It just goes to show you that Henry could fool anyone, and invariably did. At least two of his wives and three of his principal ministers paid the price, not to mention a legion of others whose only reward for speaking their minds was a short journey to the executioner's block on Tower Hill.)

'And King Henry's gift to him?' Benjamin pointedly asked.

'Oh, the abbe was very proud of the gift. A copy of St Augustine's On Chastity, I believe. He showed it to me once. I am not a scholar but I saw it was personally annotated by your king. Abbe Gerard usually kept it well hidden.'

'And you never saw it?'

'As I have said, only once.'

'Where is it now?'

'I don't know. You see the abbe had very few possessions. I searched for that but never found it.'

Benjamin stared at the carp pond.

'Monsieur le Cure, since the abbe's death, has anything strange happened here?'

'No. Of course, there was mourning and grief at the abbe's sudden death and his funeral caused disruption in the normal tedium of our lives.' The cure's voice quickened. 'Ah, yes, one incident. The day after the funeral I was out visiting all day. Simone had gone back to her family. On my return I found the doors had been forced. Someone had carefully searched the house from top to bottom but nothing was missing. I did wonder if they were searching for the book. In itself it is valuable, being recently translated from the original Greek and annotated by a king.'

'Did the abbe ever say what would happen to the book after his death?'

'Yes, he joked and said he would take it to heaven with him. How it deserved to go to Paradise.'

'Ask him where the abbe is buried,' I said, an idea half-forming in my mind.

'In our cemetery,' Ricard replied. 'Under the old yew tree. The parishioners bought him a head stone. You can see it there. It's marked simply with his name and the cross of Lorraine.'

'May we see inside the church?' Benjamin asked.

Ricard agreed and was searching for the key on the ring of his belt when we heard the sound of horses and men shouting. We followed the cure back to the kitchen. Simone was standing by the front door which she held ajar, her hand to her mouth. Ricard pushed her aside, stared out then stepped back, his face pale. Benjamin eased by him and I reluctantly followed. The path down to the lych gate was packed with armed men, soldiers in conical steel helmets and tough, leather jerkins. Some wore breastplates, greaves and other pieces of armour, all carried swords and daggers, with shields slung round their necks. They also carried arbalests, huge wicked-looking cross bows, the type used by Genoese; at our appearance they fanned out into a semicircle. Beyond the lych gate I could see their horses milling about, raising small clouds of yellow dust.

'What is the matter?' Benjamin demanded.

'A Goddamn!' one of them replied in a thick, Scottish accent. I peered closer and my stomach curdled. These did not look French and, despite the royal livery of France some of them sported, they were not regular troops. Most were red-haired with thick beards and moustaches. They had the cruel faces of born killers. I stared around. Some carried standards, chevrons, gules and badges. I glimpsed one displaying the Red Lion rampart of Scotland as well as the fleur de lys of France.

'Le Garde Ecossais!’ Benjamin voiced my thoughts.

I took a step back. These soldiers were the most cruel and professional in the French army, Scottish exiles who served the French crown because of their hatred for England.

(Did you know that whenever the English went to war with France, our soldiers immediately hanged any of these Scottish mercenaries they captured? Indeed, Henry V used to burn them alive. And if any of them captured an Englishman, God help him! I have heard stories of such men taking days to die. These mercenaries were particularly concerned about the skill and accuracy of English archers. The first thing they'd do if they captured one would be to hack off the two forefingers of each hand, the very ones our archers used to pull a long bow. Consequently, our lads, whenever they wished to express their contempt for the French, would show them two fingers. I thought you might find this little aside interesting. My chaplain does. It's a gesture I often use with him when I'm too drunk to argue.)

On that sun-drenched day at Maubisson I kept my fingers well hidden, smiled politely and quietly prayed that these wolves in human flesh were seeking other quarry apart from us. Suddenly the groups divided and a most extraordinary sight sauntered down the path. He was their leader, a soldier, but dressed like a popinjay in multi-coloured hose, a billowing tabard of blue and silver jagged at the edge, a lace-ruffed collar, lambskin gloves and high-heeled Spanish riding boots festooned with bells which tinkled at every step he took. He wore a sort of bonnet on his jet black hair, apparently dyed, and four great eagle feathers were clasped to this. A jewelled necklace round his throat glittered in the sun as did the pearl earrings which hung from fleshy lobes on chains of pure silver. His face was equally extraordinary, pale and soft, smooth like a young girl's, with pursed, prim lips and above them a slightly crooked nose. The eyes were deep-set and shadowed. Is this a woman? I thought, catching a strong whiff of perfume. You see, the fellow didn't walk, he had this strange mincing walk, hips slightly swaying. He was unarmed except for a dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle pushed through an ornately embroidered belt. I stared at that face and something stirred in my memory. Had I seen him before? Yet, surely I would remember such an apparition?

The fellow stopped, one leg pushed slightly forward in a pose which, in other circumstances, I would have found laughable. He peeled one glove off and beckoned like a woman. Ricard stumbled forward.

'Not you!' The voice was soft, well modulated, the command of English perfect.

I had heard that voice before in an alleyway in London. The apparition waved soft, white fingers.

'Go away, you dirty little priest, and close the door behind you!'

Ricard vanished and I wished I could follow him. The apparition smiled lazily at us and beckoned once again.

'Stay where you are!' Benjamin hissed, grabbing my arm.

He didn't have to tell me a second time. I was rooted in terror to the spot. I don't like soldiers and I particularly hate those who dress like women and smile a lot.

Again the apparition smiled. 'Preparez-vous!’

The command was tossed languidly over his shoulder and immediately loaded crossbows were brought up and aimed at our chests.

'On second thoughts,' I murmured to Benjamin, 'let's do what he asks.'

Benjamin grasped my wrist again. 'I will take one step,' my master called out, 'if you take one.'

The apparition shrugged. 'D'accord,' he murmured, making a languorous movement with his hand. The crossbows were lowered, he moved forward, so did we. The apparition tapped Benjamin on the chest. 'You are Benjamin Daunbey.' His eyes did not leave Benjamin's. 'And your companion is the creature Shallot.' His eyes flicked coldly over me. 'Creature, we meet again.'

His words confirmed my worst fears. This fellow was one of the Luciferi who had threatened me in London, carried out the dreadful murders of the Ralembergs and put the blame on me. (Now the chaplain thinks I should have sprung at him. If I had loved Agnes so much, surely my passionate nature would have broken all bounds? He does not know old Shallot. Do unto your enemy before he does it unto you, but always make sure his back's turned!)

'My name is 'Sieur Raoul Vauban. I am a clerk in the service of His Most Christian Majesty, King Francis I. We were passing through the village and we heard that the cure had visitors.'

Bloody liar, I thought.

'What are you doing here?' He stared at Benjamin.

'We are the accredited envoys of His Majesty the King of England, and of His Eminence, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. We are staying at the Chateau de Maubisson and have brought to the village our royal master's deep condolences on the sudden and tragic death of the Abbe Gerard.'

'No!' Vauban rasped. 'You are spies!'

'Then, Monsieur, we have a lot in common.' Benjamin held open his cloak so the Frenchman could see his sword. 'What is more,' he continued conversationally, 'you must be a member of the Luciferi. Perhaps their principal archangel. Where do you carry that damned candle you always leave at your crimes?'

Well, that shut the bastard up, and, for a few seconds, that infuriating smile disappeared. My master just stood, cool as you like, his arms folded. I could see he had taken an intense dislike to Monsieur Vauban.

'You are not passing through the village,' Benjamin continued. 'You followed us here. You have also been watching the chateau. Like me, you know the Abbe Gerard was murdered, and you are looking for that book, a gift from our royal master which, by rights, should now be returned to its proper owner.'

Vauban, offended by Benjamin's bluntness, stepped back, his hand falling to his dagger. Once again those bloody crossbows came up and I heard the click of bolts being placed. I edged behind my master, ready to give him support and wondering if Ricard had locked the door behind him. Then, suddenly, Vauban threw back his head and laughed like a girl.

'Monsieur Benjamin! Monsieur Benjamin!' He went up and clapped my master on the shoulder. 'Why do we quarrel? We are both agents of our royal masters. We have better things to do than kill each other.' He grinned impishly at me. 'We get others to do that for us.'

Well, I could have killed the bastard on the spot but I wasn't armed. He was, and had sixty stout friends to support him. So I smiled pleasantly. Vauban stepped back, hands extended, his expression mock-apologetic.

'Look, we mean no offence. We will escort you back to the chateau.'

'We don't want that.'

'No, we don't,' I added.

'I insist,' Vauban purred. 'There are rebels, the Maillotins, about.'

Benjamin shook his head. The crossbows came up again.

'Of course, we agree,' I laughed. 'Good,' Vauban replied. 'Let's go.' We walked down the side of the church and collected our horses.

'I don't like the perverted bastard!' Benjamin hissed.

'Neither do I, master, but keep smiling just in case he changes his mind.'

We mounted and rode back through the lazy summer sunshine, the Scottish troopers massing behind whilst Vauban pushed forward between us. God knows, I thought of Agnes and could have killed him. The bastard chattered pleasantly for a while before suddenly producing a small viol from a bag hanging on his saddle horn. I couldn't believe it. He strummed for a few seconds then broke into a sweet-sounding madrigal known to both my master and myself. (We often sang in St Mary's, Ipswich, my bass a good foil to Benjamin's tenor. Even today there's nothing I like better than to sit in church on Sunday morning and lustily bawl out the hymns.) But on that dusty track outside Maubisson I found the singing macabre. This killer dressed like a popinjay, sweetly singing a madrigal to men he knew were his sworn enemies. He stopped and looked at us.

'I have a good voice, Messieurs?'

'God only knows,' I added sarcastically.

Vauban's eyes narrowed.

'You know this song? You will join me?'

Well, I don't know who was the more insane, he for singing or Benjamin and myself for joining in. Where possible I changed the words, using every filthy, French word I knew. (And believe me there are quite a few!) But Vauban didn't mind. We rode along like three troubadours from some romantic tale. We finished just before we arrived at the main gate of the chateau.

'I enjoyed that,' Vauban said, leaning forward on his horse. 'Perhaps we can do it again? Our voices modulate well.'

'I would love to,' I replied. 'Perhaps one day you can be our guest again in London.' (In the Tower dungeons, I thought, stretched out on the cruellest rack I can find!)

Vauban positively beamed with pleasure, waved us goodbye like an affectionate friend, then he and his horsemen disappeared in a haze of dust.

Once we were arrived in the inner bailey Benjamin gave full vent to his feelings. He tossed his horse's reins to a groom and went storming off looking for Dacourt. I trailed behind, still shaking from a mixture of fear and anger. Benjamin found the ambassador in a small writing office near the great hall.

'We must meet, Sir John. All of us, now!'

'Why? Why?' Dacourt was flustered.

'Because I want the truth!' Benjamin roared back.

The ambassador dithered so Benjamin stormed out, grasped a frightened servant and made him take us to where Clinton was sitting with the Lady Francesca in a small bower built against the chateau wall. Lady Francesca smiled and simpered but, when she glimpsed me, her face became as hard as stone. She rose and flounced off in a swish of skirts and a whiff of fragrant perfume. I stood and listened to those sharp, high-heeled shoes clipping along the flagstones. I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I was sure she had been holding a small phial with the letters 'sul' written on it. I glanced at my master but he was too angry to notice, standing tapping the toe of his boot, waiting for Sir Robert to finish reading a letter.

At last Clinton carefully folded the document.

'Master Daunbey, what is the matter?'

My master leaned forward and in curt, clear tones told him exactly what was the matter.

'What do you want to do?' Sir Robert asked.

'I wish to hold a meeting,' Benjamin rasped. 'Of all the ambassador's staff. I need to get certain matters clear and precise. The French are just laughing at us as we stumble around in a fog.'

Clinton agreed and we all met in the great hall just before dusk. The servants setting the tables ready for supper were summarily dismissed. We all gathered on chairs in a semicircle round the hearth. Dacourt, angry that Benjamin had gone to Sir Robert, slurped noisily from a wine cup, then threw the dregs to hiss in the flames of the fire.

'Master Daunbey,' he grated, 'we are busy men and you have convened this meeting. Why?'

'I am here,' Benjamin answered, 'as the official envoy of Cardinal Wolsey as well as His Majesty the King. We have certain secret tasks to perform.'

I saw Dacourt fidget nervously at his words.

'But our main task is to discover the identity of the traitor Raphael and bring to justice the murderers of Falconer and Waldegrave. I suspect,' Benjamin added, 'they are one and the same person.' He extended a hand. 'Let us summarise. How long has this traitor been in existence?'

'About eighteen months,' Clinton replied. 'But we only learnt he was called Raphael about eight weeks ago, during my visit here before Lent.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'You may remember, Benjamin, I worked with Falconer and obtained that name? Even though it cost us the life of a very good agent.'

'Yes, yes,' Benjamin said. 'Now, I believe Falconer was murdered on Easter Monday?'

A chorus of assent greeted his words.

'He drank some wine from the same bottle you did, Sir John, but he was not in his cups?'

Again there was agreement.

'He was seen going to the top of the tower. The Mary Tower, I believe? And was found dead at the base of it the next morning?'

'Yes,' Peckle stammered. 'We all know this, Master Daunbey.'

'We also know,' Benjamin continued, breathing deeply to contain his anger, 'that on the Wednesday after Falconer was killed, Abbe Gerard from the nearby village also died in mysterious circumstances. Tell me,' he continued, 'did anyone from Maubisson send Abbe Gerard gifts for Easter?'

The group sat silent.

'Well,' Benjamin asked. 'Did anyone?'

Dacourt shuffled his feet. ‘I did. I sent him some wine, the best of last year's grapes from Bordeaux, a silver dish of sweet comfits and some marchpane.'

'When was this?'

'On the Saturday before Easter.'

'And what happened to these gifts?'

'Good Lord!' Dacourt bellowed. 'I don't know. The Abbe Gerard was a compassionate, charitable man but one who liked his claret. I suspect he gave the comfits and marchpane to children in the village, sold the silver dish for alms and drank the wine himself. It was only a small, stoppered jar.' Dacourt's voice trailed off. 'Are you saying the wine…? But Throgmorton went down to examine the priest's corpse.'

'Oh, we didn't know that,' I interrupted.

'Well, no,' the physician replied. 'Why should you? I went down to examine the poor priest. There was no sign of poison. The man probably swooned, fell in the water and drowned.'

'Master Benjamin,' Peckle rose to his feet, 'Sir John, we are busy men. Do you have further questions?'

'No,' Benjamin replied crossly.

My master was still very angry and I was intrigued for he was the most gentle of men and very rarely testy or sharp, even with fools. (I have just given my chaplain a good rap across the knuckles; that will teach him to make remarks like, 'And Master Daunbey had good knowledge of fools, having you as a servant.') Anyway, the meeting broke up, though Clinton and his manservant Venner remained seated until the rest had left the hall.

'Tell me,' Clinton asked softly, 'this Vauban – did he know why you were in France?'

'He said we were spies but even a child could deduce that. He also knew we were interested in the Abbe Gerard but, again, that would not require deep perception. Why do you ask, Sir Robert?'

'He never mentioned Raphael?'

'No, he didn't.'

Clinton said, 'So, the Luciferi have still not learnt the true purpose of your mission. You see,' he leaned back in his chair, 'here in the chateau, Dacourt and the rest of his staff know you wish to catch a spy but, so far, little information has been passed to the Luciferi. Which means…'

'Which means exactly what?' I interrupted tartly.

'That the spy here must have special means of conveying such information to his master and has so far failed to use it. If you could discover that, then perhaps we can find out who Raphael is.'

'Nevertheless,' Benjamin answered, 'Vauban did know we were here. I think he was watching the chateau for days and followed us down to the village.'

'Which brings us to my real point,' Clinton answered. 'Master Venner?'

The servant looked towards the door to make sure there was no one standing there.

'Last night,' Venner asked, 'when Waldegrave's corpse was found, did you notice Millet? He was fully dressed as if he had been out of the chateau.'

'It could have been a lovers' tryst,' I observed.

'Perhaps,' Venner sneered. 'But Millet's tastes are obvious. He dresses like a woman, the type of tryst he keeps is best hidden under the cloak of darkness.'

'I have raised this matter with Dacourt,' Clinton interrupted. 'He did not even know Millet was absent. I have asked him to keep the matter secret. Perhaps Millet needs to be followed.'

Benjamin rubbed his face with his hands. 'Yes,' he observed drily. 'Millet's conduct and dress last night were suspicious. He could be the spy or his messenger.' He smiled at Clinton. 'And what you say makes sense, Sir Robert. Vauban still does not know the true nature of our mission here.' My master slapped the side of the chair. 'Of course,' he breathed, 'we have been here only a few days. We think Millet was returning. Maybe we were wrong. Perhaps he was on the point of leaving but the fracas caused by Waldegrave's death prevented him.'

Clinton rose to his feet. 'We leave that to you, Master Daunbey. If you wish, Venner could follow him.'

'No, no,' Benjamin replied. 'Leave Master Millet to us.'

I watched Clinton and his manservant leave and once again the business of Agnes's death nagged at my memory. (Do you know, years ago I asked a wise man who lived in a cave outside Alexandria why this happens? Why something should trouble you, yet you are unable to place it or resolve the matter until months later? He answered that we never know what a certain piece of puzzle is until we see the rest and put the piece in place.)

Benjamin and I stayed in the hall whilst the servants returned and finished laying the tables for supper. My master just sat staring into the flames of the fire.

'What is the matter?' I asked. 'Why did Vauban make you so angry?'

'I am puzzled, Roger,' he replied. 'Why were Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and Waldegrave murdered? What is the connection between them? Is their killer Raphael or someone else? How does Raphael convey his secrets to the Luciferi?'

'There is one common theme,' I replied.

'Which is?'

I ticked the points off on my fingers. 'First, the secrets of the King's Council are not revealed until they have reached Maubisson. Now we know the letters are opened by Dacourt and deciphered by Peckle, but Millet is Dacourt's secretary and will be privy to such information. The same could be true of Throgmorton. After all, physicians can wander where they wish and prise secrets from others. Secondly, Falconer was murdered here at Maubisson after broaching a flagon of wine with Dacourt. Thirdly, the Abbe Gerard apparently drowned after drinking claret which was undoubtedly sent to him by Dacourt, though taken down to the village probably by his secretary, Master Millet. Fourthly, Waldegrave was killed by Dacourt's horse, Vulcan.'

'And finally,' Benjamin interrupted, 'Master Millet has a tendency to slip out of the chateau at night to meet God knows whom.' My master sat rocking himself gently in the chair. 'The common denominators in all these factors, as a mathematician would say, are Dacourt and

Millet but, first, we don't know for certain if the wine sent to the Abbe Gerard was in fact the same he was drinking the night he died. Secondly, we don't know if Millet took it. Thirdly, the night Falconer died, Dacourt tasted the same wine he drank.'

'We have only his word for that.'

'Yes, but Throgmorton examined the wine later. He said it was free of any infusion. He also said neither Falconer nor the Abbe Gerard showed any signs of being poisoned.'

I watched my theories slowly crumble.

'And, of course,' I added wearily, 'though Dacourt's horse killed Waldegrave, anyone could have dragged the drunken priest into the stable.'

Benjamin grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'I did not say your reasoning was wrong, Roger, only that it was faulty.'

We stayed in the hall and dined with the rest of the company. The conversation was desultory, passing from one banal matter to another. Benjamin did establish that all memoranda, letters and documents sent from Westminster were handled by Dacourt, Peckle and Millet, whilst our mysterious young secretary did take the ambassador's presents down to the Abbe Gerard.

We retired to bed a little more hopeful that some glimmer of light had been shown but, just before I fell asleep, I realised Benjamin hadn't answered my question about disliking Vauban, so I asked him again.

'Go to sleep, Roger,' Benjamin drowsily replied. 'I'll tell you in God's good time, as I will about the secret instructions dear Uncle gave me at Hampton Court.'