'Don't say it!' Agrippa called mockingly. 'Don't accuse me, Roger! I was barely here an hour. You can ask my rogues downstairs. They were stamping around in the garden cursing and muttering because I had promised suitable refreshment at the nearest ale-house.'
'With all due respect, my good Doctor Agrippa,' I mocked back, 'your rogues would use their mother's knucklebones as dice!'
Agrippa sighed and tapped his broad-brimmed hat against his side. 'Whatever you think, I swear I did not kill Throckle! I had no hand in his death nor do I know why he should commit suicide.'
'I don't think it was murder.' Benjamin spoke up. 'I have very little evidence, but' - he stared around the room -'everything is tidy.' He pointed to the writing desk in the far corner, covered with pieces of parchment. Above this were shelves full of calfskin-bound books.
'None of that is disturbed,' he continued. 'But certain papers and parchments were burnt. Look at the grate. Do you notice how tidy it is? As if Throckle burnt what he had to, before carefully preparing for his own death.'
Agrippa walked across to the writing desk. I heard a tinder spark and a candle flared into life.
'You are right!' he cried, picking up a scroll. 'This is the last will and testament of one Sir Edward Throckle, physician, signed and sealed two days ago. Throckle committed suicide,' Agrippa declared triumphantly, coming back and thrusting the scroll at Benjamin. 'But why?' His smile broadened. 'Ah well. That's the mystery!'
Chapter 2
Benjamin snatched the scroll and unrolled it, reading carefully.
'I, Edward Throckle,' he began, 'being of sound mind...' He read it through quickly, lips moving, and looked up in astonishment.
'It says nothing; it's as if Throckle was drawing up a will and intended to live for another three-score years and ten! No hint of any worry, anxiety or malady. In fact, he leaves this house and all his goods to the king.' Benjamin threw the scroll down on the table. 'Come on,' he urged. 'Let's see what other papers we have missed!'
In the end there was very little - manuscripts, bills of sale, letters from friends; the rest were possessions gathered in a lifetime of royal service. Benjamin sighed and declared it was all a mystery. He covered the cadaver with a sheet from the bed whilst Agrippa went outside to send one of his men for a local justice. Once the local notable had arrived we continued our journey, but I felt the old familiar tingle of fear in the pit of my stomach. Something was rotten here. Demons were gathering in the darkness, preparing to rise and attack us. Benjamin was also uneasy. Later that afternoon we stopped at an ale-house just before the Mile End Road. Once we were ensconced in a garden bower
behind the tavern, well out of earshot of Wolsey's retainers and the other customers, Benjamin leaned over and grasped Agrippa's wrist.
'Concedo,
my good doctor,' he murmured, 'that Master Throckle's death is a mystery, but now tell us, why are we going to London?'
Agrippa cradled his wine cup. He sat opposite us, like some benevolent cherub. Despite the warm afternoon sun he still wore his black broad-brimmed hat and that voluminous cloak was wrapped around him as if it was a winter's day. Yet his smooth face was unmarred by dust, grime or even a drop of sweat.
'My good doctor,' I snarled. 'We await with bated breath.'
Agrippa placed his wine cup down on the ground.
'Very well. First, I had no hand in Throckle's death nor do I know why he committed suicide. I suspect the coroner will rule that he had a fit of melancholy and took his own life. I delivered Cardinal Wolsey's letter. I left Throckle in hale spirits. I could see nothing in that invitation which would tip a man's mind into a murderous madness to kill himself.'
'And the business in London?' Benjamin asked.
'Ah, now that is murder!' Agrippa beckoned us closer. 'Ten days ago the powerful Albrizzi family, merchant princes of Florence, arrived at the English court. They are here to act as envoys for that very powerful city state, which buys so much English wool with the finest minted gold. They bore letters and greetings from Giulio de Medici, Cardinal and ruler of Florence, to the king and to Giulio's "sweet brother in Christ". Thomas Wolsey. Now the Albrizzis are a powerful family. They are as follows, or' - Agrippa added sourly -
'were
as follows: Francesco, head of the family, a man in his late fifties; his wife Bianca - now a widow as I will explain; Francesco's brother, slightly younger, Roderigo; Francesco's first and only son, Alessandro, a young man in his early thirties; Francesco's daughter, Beatrice; and her husband Enrico, the scion of a powerful family of which he is the only survivor. Enrico's real surname is Catalina, but he has taken the Albrizzi family name. They have with them also their physician, secretarius and chaplain, a papal notary called Gregorio Preneste, and a bodyguard, a mercenary called Giovanni.' Agrippa shrugged. 'There are other members of the household. Nobody really noteworthy, except Maria.' Agrippa grinned. 'A dwarf of a woman who is the family jester or entertainer. A curious creature,' he added softly. 'I have met her sort before; a perfect woman in every way except that she is only just over a yard in height.' Agrippa picked up his goblet and sipped carefully. 'Well,' he continued, 'this delightful group were lodged in apartments at Eltham Palace. Their visit was to be cordial. The Albrizzis enjoy a warm relationship with the English monarchy dating back to the present king's father's reign. Their reason for coming to England was to seal trade treaties as well as to explore Henry and Wolsey's position if the ruler of Florence, his Eminence Giulio de Medici, threw his cardinal's hat into the ring as the next pope.'
'We have a pope,' Benjamin spoke up. 'The Dutchman Adrian of Utrecht, a zealous reformer of Holy Mother Church. Adrian has threatened to scour all the blemishes from Rome and is busily banishing the prostitutes, warlocks, wizards and courtesans from the city. I even understand he has threatened to defrock bishops found guilty of corruption, as well as forcibly remove any cardinal whose fingers are tainted by corruption.'
'Yes, yes,' Agrippa murmured, narrowing his eyes. 'Pope Adrian is intent on cleansing the temple and driving out the money-changers and those who prey on God's people.' Agrippa glanced up; his eyes had that strange, colourless look. 'However, Rome is a sewer, a veritable Augean stables. Adrian is a sickly man. Those whom the Roman cardinals do not like tend to die rather sudden and mysterious deaths.'
(Never was a word so truthfully spoken! Now, as you may know, I am a member of the old faith; priests come to my house to celebrate Mass and I still say my rosary before a statue of the Virgin. The Church of Rome has purged itself, cleaned out the corruption, but in my youth Rome was the anus of the world. Read the history books yourselves. I wager even the devil himself was frightened of the precious pair Rodrigo Borgia, or Pope Alexander VI as he took the title, and his beloved nephew Cesare on whom Machiavelli based his book
The Prince.
They no more believed in God than a fox does in flying. They had one principle only. No, I lie, they had two: 'the Borgias come first and nobody second' and 'do unto your enemy before he doeth it unto you'. However, more of that precious pair later!)
On that warm, sunny day in an English garden, with the roses turning their faces to the sun and filling the air with their cloying perfume, such corruption seemed an age away. Nevertheless, Agrippa's silence and his sombre looks sent a shiver up my spine. Agrippa had his finger on the pulse of power; what he was doing, in fact, was prophesying the murder of a pope.
'And how did Henry treat the Albrizzis?' Benjamin asked, breaking the silence.
'Oh, like long-lost brothers. There was the usual exchange of gifts. They gave Henry a picture of him as a youth, praying before the tomb of his father. Henry declared himself most satisfied - he looked as handsome as an angel. I suppose he was before he turned life into one long drinking bout and never-ending banquet. They also gave him a beautiful diamond on a gold chain, some gold figurines and a Book of Hours. Henry responded with similar costly gifts -English swords and pure wool carpets. The trade negotiations were most harmonious, and why shouldn't they be? Florence is a healthy market for English wool.' Agrippa paused and sipped at his goblet. 'Everything was going well until murder intervened. Francesco Albrizzi went shopping in Cheapside with his daughter and son-in-law. All three parted to visit different stalls. A bang was heard - someone had fired a musket from an alleyway. Francesco was shot in the temple and died immediately.' Agrippa rolled the cup between his black-gloved hands. 'You can imagine the uproar? Sheriffs, law officers, commissioners and justices went through London's mean alleyways like a hot knife through the softest cheese.' Agrippa shook his head. 'But they found no trace of any assassin or of the arquebus that was used.'
'And the reason for the murder?' Benjamin asked.
'God only knows! One thing is certain: very few footpads or professional assassins use arquebuses or handguns of any sort. And, if they did there would be whispers and the miscreant responsible for slaying such a powerful man would soon be betrayed to gain the substantial reward.'
'And the king?' I asked.
'He is horrified, furious with the city. He said he will suspend its liberties if the assassin proves to be a Londoner.'
'I can't understand this,' I interrupted. 'Arquebuses are powerful pieces. You just can't carry one through London, stand in an alleyway, prepare to fire it, take aim and kill the leader of a Florentine embassy then disappear without anyone seeing you.'
Agrippa pulled a face. 'Well, that's what happened. Cheapside was thronged, but no one saw the assassin or the gun. They heard the bang and Albrizzi, who had been standing looking around, gave a cry and fell like a bird to the ground.'
'Where were his companions?' Benjamin asked.
'His daughter and son-in-law were nearby. She was admiring some English cloth. Enrico had gone into a goldsmith's shop to purchase some costly gift for his young wife. As soon as the fracas was heard, both son-in-law and daughter hurried to the spot. They had to fight their way through.' Agrippa smiled blankly. 'And, before you ask, neither of them was carrying a gun. Moreover, why should either or both of them plot the murder of a man they loved and revered? What is more,' Agrippa added, 'anyone who has fired an arquebus knows it leaves stains on hands and jerkin. Enrico was dressed in a beautiful white jerkin and he was immaculate.'
'Was the arquebus ball English or Italian?'
'Well, the body was taken back to Eltham, where it was placed in one of the king's private chapels. Royal embalmers dressed the corpse and removed the ball from Francesco's skull. It was of the common sort. The king's master gunsmith and the armourers at the Tower believe both arquebus and ball were English.'
'Where were the rest of the family?' I asked.
'Ah, well there's a story and a half.' Agrippa placed his empty wine goblet down on the table. 'Apart from Enrico and his wife, they were all at Eltham. It's very difficult to establish the truth of any of their stories but...' Agrippa's voice trailed off.
'Why was he killed?' Benjamin repeated his original question.
'God only knows!' Agrippa said again. 'There were tensions in the family, particularly between the dead man and his brother. Francesco was a supporter of the Medici but Roderigo, well, you'll find out for yourselves. In short, he believes Florence should revert to a republic governed by an oligarchy in which, of course, the Albrizzis would play a leading role.' Agrippa blew his cheeks out. 'There were other tensions, I suppose. Alessandro wanted more independence. And of course they all have enemies in Florence who might have paid some assassin to carry out the crime in London, well away from the Albrizzi stronghold.' Agrippa got to his feet,
'What do the Albrizzis say about the murder?' I asked.
Agrippa tapped the side of his face. 'Now, that's strange! They say nothing. They mourn Francesco's death and his corpse now lies buried in St Stephen's Chapel. However, the Albrizzis are a wealthy, sophisticated family. They will not level allegations against their host country and, remember, to Florentines secret assassination is a well-established political device. They'll bide their time and collect what information they can. If they find the murderer, they'll declare a blood feud, not resting until they have hunted him down.' Agrippa brought the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. 'The king and Cardinal Wolsey want the killer caught. They have posted rewards and used all the force of law to discover what they can, which is, precisely, nothing at all.' Agrippa gestured at us. That's why you are going to Eltham and, if the king wishes it, accompanying the Albrizzis back to Florence. Your task will be to discover the identity of the murderer.'
I closed my eyes and groaned. Here we go again, I thought. Old Shallot sent on his travels just to satisfy the whim of the cunning cardinal and of the great beast, that fat bastard King Henry VIII.
'What happens if the murderer stays in England?' Benjamin asked.
Agrippa shook his head and smiled faintly. 'Now, now, Benjamin. Cardinal Wolsey and the king both believe that, whatever the Albrizzis say, the assassin was a member of Francesco's own family. If he or she did not kill the man, they certainly paid gold for it to be done.'
'But you think the latter is highly improbable?' Benjamin queried.
'Yes, yes.' Agrippa squinted up at the sun. 'Hiring an assassin to do your dirty work can be very dangerous; once the assassin is unmasked, so is the person who hired him. Secondly, if you hire an assassin to kill a powerful man, you have no guarantee that he won't take your gold before earning some more by telling his potential victim. And finally—'
'And finally,' Benjamin concluded for him, 'the Albrizzis may be powerful in Florence, but they are not knowledgeable enough about English affairs or London life to know where to hire such an assassin.'