by Roy Lewis
‘The photograph,’ Proud said. ‘The one they published in the newspapers. You know, the location of the place where that man Rigby got knocked off.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, not just the location, but that mugshot of the deceased. The two together … it reminded me eventually, the link … you see, I think I recognize this guy Rigby. The dead man. I’d shoved it to the back of my mind, but hey, out it popped again! Like some of the old fellers who come into my shop. Won’t be denied.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Grout asked wearily.
‘I told you. I remember seeing him before.’
‘Get to the point,’ Grout said. ‘I’ve had a frustrating day.’
‘Frustration … it’s the main underpinning of my business, I reckon. However … thing is, I remember now. That guy Rigby. I saw his mugshot in the paper, but I realize now I’d seen him before. Quite a while ago, now. When I was still at the university.’
‘That long ago? And you remember him after all that time?’ There was doubt in Grout’s tone, but he felt something warm growing in his chest. ‘Tell me.’
‘He came to the department. Took me out to lunch. Had a long chat with me. Told me he’d come to see me specially.’
‘Specially?’
‘Well, he came in, told me he was a publisher’s rep. But oddly enough he didn’t say exactly what publisher he worked for, said he was a commissioning agent or something like that and he really seemed to want to talk in detail about my work. At the same time I got the feeling he was a bit vague about everything, he gave out very little information about himself. He didn’t ring true somehow …’
Grout took a deep breath. ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Philip Proud sat in his easy chair, cocked one leg over the arm, raised his whiskey in a cheerful gesture and smiled.
‘Sure you won’t have one?’
‘This is a duty call, not a social occasion,’ Grout growled.
‘Get on, you ought to take one with me. Who’s to know, except you and me? Fact is I’m celebrating, I bought three hundred copies of Cindy and the Whipmaster just last week – three quid a time, probably back of the lorry stuff, I don’t doubt – and then the news came through that the Metropolitan Police have seized copies as obscene. Result? I’m sold out at twenty quid a time. So have a drink! We deserve it.’
‘You don’t exactly deal with high art then,’ Grout commented sourly.
‘Never said I did. Commerce is the game! Give the market what it wants!’ Proud sipped his whiskey, smoothed his straggling moustache with a satisfied finger, and gave Grout a dazzling smile. ‘Life can be good,’ he purred.
‘Until you get raided.’
‘Hey, the copies have gone! Nothing to be found here now! Cindy and her whipmaster have flown!’
Grout sighed. ‘I’m not interested in the porn industry. I came to talk to you about Rigby.’
‘So you did, so you did.’ Proud nodded, put down his glass on the coffee table beside him. ‘Funny that, I should have rumbled him at the time, straightaway I mean, but I suppose I was flattered and then nothing came of it and I just sort of forgot what had happened.’
‘Tell me exactly … what did happen?’ Grout demanded impatiently.
‘Well, it was like this … I got a phone call, he called himself Barnes, not Rigby, and he said he worked for a publishing firm. He explained he’d heard about my thesis and thought there might be a chance his company would be interested in publishing the completed work. I was flattered, of course.’
‘So he came to the university to see you?’
Proud nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right. And I didn’t sort of twig that the approach was a bit unusual. I mean, normally, you have to struggle to get yourself into print. And here was this guy talking about publishing a text on an obscure subject … but I guess I wasn’t really thinking straight at the time.’
‘And this man Barnes—’
‘It was Rigby, all right. I know that now. Like I said he came to see me, we talked about the thesis, discussed its publication, and he wanted to take the thesis away with him for closer inspection. Give it to a reader, he said, an expert in the field. Of course I told him I couldn’t do that since it was still at a draft stage, the material was raw, needed polishing before publication and I needed to check it through before it was submitted to the senate. After that …’
‘He didn’t suggest you ran a copy off for him, from your computer?’
Proud shrugged. ‘He did, but I couldn’t allow that. I mean, there’re guys out there who plagiarise your work. …’
‘Even an obscure thesis?’
Proud bridled a little. ‘Hey, obscure or not, I’d slaved over that stuff! Though it all seems so long ago now, a different world experience like, if you know what I mean… . Anyway, though he seemed disappointed, he didn’t make a song and dance about it. Instead, he said they’d like to consider it when it was finally ready but meanwhile it’d be useful if he could read through it, give it a sort of initial going-over. I could see no reason why not so I agreed, and I found him a chair in my rooms back at the university where he could settle down and read it, browse through it. In the end he didn’t take as long as I thought he might. In fact he seemed to concentrate on one particular section, rather than plough through the lot. Took him about half an hour, that’s all, and he made some notes, but I was glad to see the back of him really because I had a hot date and I wanted him out of there. And somehow I’d begun to think he wasn’t all that serious about the idea of a publication… . Anyway, he pushed off at last, after saying he’d be in touch again once he’d had time to talk things through with his managing editor. And that was it. He never did come back, though; I can’t say I was surprised. There was something odd about the whole thing, I thought at the time. Nothing I could put a finger on, of course, and in any case it didn’t loom large in my mind the way life was going just then. So I brushed the experience aside, got on with my life.’
The girl, Grout surmised. ‘How long after that did the thesis get lost?’
‘Couple of weeks, I suppose.’
‘You didn’t link the two events in your mind? The visit from this man Barnes, or Rigby as he really was, and the destruction or disappearance of the thesis?’
Proud wrinkled his nose and scowled. ‘No. Why should I? I mean, if he really wanted to publish the book he could have waited, it would be just a matter of weeks, and then I was pretty sure at the time how it all came about. I thought I knew who’d stolen the laptop and destroyed the thesis, and why … but are you now saying there was a link? That it was Rigby who broke into my flat and did the damage?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘But why should he do that?’
‘Why did he want to read the thesis in the first instance?’ Grout countered. ‘For that matter, how did the thesis even come to the attention of a man like him in the first place?’
Proud was somewhat nettled for a moment, as though Grout was denigrating the value of the work he had been undertaking for his magnum opus. ‘Hey, you know I did get a spot on television, you know. I was interviewed as one of Professor Godfrey’s students and I did mention my work then. I remember, the TV crew had come on site and talked to me … it wasn’t tied in with the prof’s show … and I remember thinking Professor Godfrey was a bit cool about it all. He even suggested I shouldn’t have discussed matters of academic importance like that on the box. Huh! Academic importance! It was all right for him to prance about on his own programme, but me getting airtime was another matter. He was clearly miffed that I’d got a bit of the limelight. Still, I shouldn’t complain, should I? I mean, he came through for me later, after the thesis was destroyed. Supported me before the Senate … got me my MA.’
Grout was silent for a little while, thinking. ‘I suppose Rigby could have seen you on the box,’ Grout murmured doubtfully. ‘But when he was reading your unfinished thesis, you say he’d concentrate
d on just one section of the work, is that so?’
‘That’s the way it was.’ Proud nodded and sipped his drink.
‘And what was the section he concentrated on?’
There was as short silence as Philip Proud concentrated. Then his brow cleared. ‘It’s difficult to recall… . Wait a moment, yeah, that’s right. It was not central to my research really. A sort of minor section, little more than a footnote overall, a byway, not important to the main thrust of the work. A bit of romantic stuff I’d put in for colour … you know, stop the academics who’d be reading the thesis from yawning too much. That’s right. The section on the Sforzas. That’s it … the conspiracy to assassinate the Duke of Milan during his visit to Padua.’
Proud got up, pleased with his recollection, poured himself another drink, caught Grout’s glance and raised an eyebrow. ‘Changed your mind?’
Grout shook his head. ‘A conspiracy to assassinate the Duke of Milan. What was that all about? Why would it interest Rigby?’
Proud settled back in his chair. ‘Who knows? But that’s what he read. It was all a long time ago, and I’ve kept no notes. But I still have some of the story in my head.’
‘Do your best to tell me,’ Grout said ironically.
‘I won’t be able to vouch for the accuracy of the dates,’ Proud warned him.
‘Facts will do. I’m not interested in dates. Just tell me what you remember about that section in your thesis. And we’ll see what might have interested a confirmed villain like Rigby.’
Proud nodded, wrinkled his brow. ‘Yeah, well, I suppose most of it is still floating around inside my head, in spite of the porn I’ve been reading recently. And in a way it was all about porn, though of a different kind. The assassination, I mean. Power, wealth, the pursuit of these can be kind of pornographic, can’t it? Right … so let me think … Lodovico Sforza, member of a powerful, rich and corrupt family in mediaeval Italy. Like the Borgias, the Sforzas have left their mark on history. A bloody mark.’
He lapsed into thought, smiling slightly. Grout waited.
‘Yeah, he was a powerful man, was our Lodovico. Powerful, virile, and maybe a bit mad. They had to be, to succeed in that bloody world. He was a patron of the arts, of course, like they all were, those mediaeval dukes in the city states, but corrupt too, and murderous. Lodovico himself, well, he became Regent of Milan while his nephew the duke was under age and then it seems the nephew died in rather mysterious circumstances, at which point Lodovico jumped into the vacant dukedom like a cuckoo into a stranger’s nest. There was a lot of chatter, of course, rumours surged around the city. Was he involved in the death of his nephew? My guess is he was. Hey, this was mediaeval Italy!’
He sipped his drink, nodded enthusiastically. ‘Anyway, there’s the nephew dead, Lodovico is Duke of Milan but he needs support and he runs around trying to get the support of France, and then, when the French king decided he’d like to have control of Milan for himself, Lodovico turned to the Holy Roman Emperor, Maximilian, but by then he’s got plenty of enemies and he is destined not to last long as Duke. He died in prison eventually, you know, after he was captured by the French, rotting away in the dark. Sic transit gloria …’
Patiently, Grout reminded him, ‘You were telling me about the plot to kill him in Padua.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I was coming around to that. There were several attempts on the life of the duke, I mean it was a natural hazard, it sort of went with the job. But one of them, the plot I’m talking about, it occurred when he was visiting Padua to attend a wedding, and incidentally to drum up support for his dukedom. He was away from his power base; it must have seemed a good opportunity for his enemies to strike at him. Yeah, the conspiracy, the plotting in Padua. … As I recall, there were five in the band of would-be assassins. Oddly enough, I can even remember their names. Trick of the memory, hey? They were called Bocanegra, Cardenas, Perez, Boldini, de Rivera. Funny that, me remembering such details about a relatively unimportant bit of the thesis. But those were the guys.’
‘They don’t sound particularly Italian.’
‘Hey, even the notorious Borgia family weren’t Italian, they came from Xativa, in Spain. But like you say, these guys weren’t all Italian. Three of them were Spanish exiles. Boldini himself, he wasn’t even a gentleman, it seems, though he was more than handy with a knife.’
Proud paused, screwed up his eyes, stroked his moustache in a preening, self-satisfied gesture. ‘Yeah, that was it … Lodovico Sforza visited Padua in the December of that year … what bloody year was it, I don’t recall, damn it… . Anyway, it was the year when his daughter was married into the Scorzi family, so it’s easily checked if you think it’s important. He had intended staying for the wedding but then moving on, except bad weather delayed him, stopped him travelling on. It gave the conspirators a few more days to plan their project.’
‘You mean the assassination.’
‘That’s it. Assassination.’ His face lit up. ‘Yeah, it’s coming back, I remember now, it was the 15th December, a festive occasion, a grand get-together in the Hall of Princes. A meeting that was to be the prelude to a bloodbath.’
‘The conspirators—’
‘Don’t rush me! I’ve got to go through this slowly. As I recall, it was the inquisitors employed by Sforza who squeezed out most of the details from the conspirator Perez, later. They paid a lot of attention to his genital area as I recall, before he told them what they wanted to know. They garrotted him shortly after, when they were convinced there was nothing more to be got out of him. As for the story he told them … it seems Perez had bribed two sentries to manage an entry for himself and the other four murderers through the north gate. They gained access to the ducal wing; they concealed themselves in the antechamber to Sforza’s private rooms.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Ah, yes, and there was Carlotta. You know, I’m surprised Hollywood never got around to making this story into a swashbuckling film. Carlotta Fantini. A lady of Padua … a lady of some repute, doubtful virtue, if you know what I mean … yeah, it seems she put it about quite a bit… .’
Grout waited as Proud seemed to lose himself in thought, probably erotic. Proud sighed.
‘Yes, good in bed, by all accounts. It seems that Sforza had made an assignation with the lady in question for entirely understandable reasons. He was a widower at that point; he’d been happily married, you know, to a lady called Beatrice, though that didn’t stop him having two regular mistresses while she was still alive. She was an understanding lady apparently; didn’t kick up any fuss about his lustful wanderings. But anyway, here he was in Padua, away from home … and suffering from longings of the flesh. Which he was intending to slake with an encounter with the delectable Carlotta. Anyway, the assignation was made …’
Proud nodded to himself, almost approvingly.
‘The Duke of Milan now, he was a man of precise habits. The meeting he had arranged with the Paduan courtesan was to be at 1.15 in the morning apparently – after he had dealt with affairs of state – and Carlotta turned up at 1.12 precisely. The guards had their instructions and allowed her to enter the anteroom. There she got a surprise, she was seized not by the lascivious duke but by the conspirators. She was threatened with a knife, while Sforza was still preparing himself in the bedroom for a night of frenzied activity. He was reputed to be a man of prodigious appetites, sexually …’
Proud sipped at his drink, waved the glass theatrically.
‘He had quite a reputation with the women. He was a dark-visaged man apparently, sometimes nicknamed Il Moro, the Moor. And a predator. His ducal arms gave him another name, the Eagle of Milan. Anyway, his loins must have been itching that evening, one imagines, and his temper fraying when she had not entered the room at 1.20, so he opened the doors to find out what had happened to her. You can imagine him bawling out, demanding where the hell she had got to, can’t you?’
Grout raised an eyebrow but made no comment.
‘Anyway, as the Eagle entered the anteroom
he was faced by the five conspirators. You know, Sergeant, you have to admire Sforza, the Duke of Milan was a man of courage and determination as well as sexual prowess. Or maybe he was just enraged at having his little tête-a-tête disturbed. Anyway, in the next few minutes he got through that room with only a couple of wounds to his arm and hand. And he accounted for at least two of the dead. Maybe the five conspirators were incompetent; maybe Sforza’s bulk intimidated them; maybe Carlotta herself impeded them in their attempt to stab the man they hated. However, with Carlotta screaming, yelling, kicking, squirming, Sforza bellowing curses, fighting like the madman he was – reputedly – he got through that throng and was quickly assisted by his personal guards who burst in upon the struggle.’
‘The conspirators were captured?’ Grout asked, interested in spite of himself by Proud’s colourful account.
‘Cut down. Perez was wounded and taken into custody. He was later racked, tortured to confession. Two others were despatched, I believe, by the hand of the Duke of Milan himself. But I can’t be quite sure about that. However, one man managed to make his escape in the confusion. He went by the name of Boldini. Seems he had the sense to retire early from the fray, get away from the botched bloodbath and make himself scarce.’
‘What happened to him?’ Grout asked.
Proud shrugged. ‘That’s where the questions start. The attempted assassination was naturally a scandal, and much talked about in Padua and throughout Italy, particularly when the confession of Perez was noised abroad. But as for Boldini … well, nothing more seems to have been written about him. The Vatican eventually published some archival papers in 1962, but they received little attention at the time. I dug them up when I was doing my research but they told me little … and really it was all a side issue to my work, so I didn’t spend too much time on it. Sort of romantic, but not essential.
‘But I do recall that among the papers was a report from a certain Robert Buckingham who at that time had attended the court in England. An Englishman who, it seems, had been in the pay of the Duke of Milan. The usual Janus-headed spy, informing on both sides, Milan and England. Nothing changes, hey? Never trust a spy. Anyway, according to Robert Buckingham’s account, Boldini managed to get out of Italy, and eventually made his way to England. Buckingham’s account was precise and confident, which would suggest he himself might have had a hand in the escape. Probably for some sort of backhander, one would imagine. Boldini and the other assassins, they would have had some kind of financial backing from the enemies of the Duke of Milan.’