by Paul Doherty
'Why should Giulio de Medici, if our reasoning is correct, give a gift to Lord Francesco to pass on to our noble Henry and why should Francesco claim it was from him?'
'The same could apply to the painting. How do we know that the picture was a gift from the Lord Francesco? What if that also was given by the cardinal?'
'But this is stupid!' Maria edged closer. 'Lord Francesco was a very wealthy man. He was also an envoy. He would never lie about the source of a gift from so powerful a man as the ruler of Florence.'
'Let us say, for the sake of argument,' said Benjamin, 'that both the emerald and the painting were given to Lord Francesco by the cardinal with the express instruction that they be handed over the English king as gifts from the Albrizzis.' 'But why?' I exclaimed.
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Let's put it another way, Roger. You have a precious chalice made out of pure gold, encrusted with diamonds and full of the richest wine – but it contains a poison. Might you not give it to someone else to hand to your intended victim?'
'But how can a diamond and a painting be a poisoned chalice?' I asked.
'I don't know, Roger, but only after Lord Francesco had handed those gifts over did the murders amongst the Albrizzis begin. Somebody saw that painting and emerald as a sign. So, what is their real significance? And whom did they provoke into murder?' I stared at little Maria. 'Can you help?' She shook her head mournfully.
'Maria, please!' I insisted. 'Did the rest of Lord Francesco's family know about these gifts?'
'No, I don't think so,' she replied. 'The emerald was kept in a small locked casket and the painting was concealed in a canvas wrapping. We went to Eltham and your king, the one Roger calls the "fat bastard",' – she grinned impishly – 'was sitting in his throne room, Cardinal Wolsey beside him. Lord Francesco made a pretty speech, your king replied and the gifts were presented.'
'Did you notice anything untoward?' I asked. 'Did anyone cry out or exclaim?'
'At the painting, no. But I do remember the ladies Bianca and Beatrice were jealous at such a jewel being handed over. I think they were angry, particularly Lady Bianca, that such a precious stone had been hidden over the years. After all, the only time they saw it was when it was being given away.'
'And that,' I interrupted, 'brings everything back to the Albrizzis. The Lord knows, Master, there's enough seething passion in that family for murder on every side. Bianca has an adulterous relationship with the dead man's brother and Beatrice is hot for anything with a codpiece. Roderigo is ambitious. Alessandro, well,' – I shrugged – 'Alessandro's just a bastard!'
Benjamin grinned and drummed on the table top with his knuckles. 'It's good to see you back in good health, Roger. Let's start with that artist.' He held up a hand, ‘I know it's late and you are tired and sore, but no one will suspect if we go back there now. Come on, come on, drink up!'
I couldn't object. I comforted myself with the thought that the sooner this matter was resolved, the sooner I would be back chasing the wenches around Ipswich. Oh, if I'd only known!
Chapter 11
Off we trotted into the night. Maria grasped my finger, hopping and skipping like a young girl going to dance round the maypole. It was the eve of a carnival and the crowds still milled about, but, thankfully, Florence's streets at night are safe. Maria led the way, taking us through back routes along alleyways where the only surprise was the occasional snarling cat or the incomprehensible whine of a beggar. At one window I paused and stared in. A young girl was playing a viol, softly, lightly, her sweet voice chanting words I couldn't understand. Nevertheless, the strain of the music caught my imagination and I quietly cursed powerful princes and corrupt cardinals who dragged me from such joys into the filthy mire of their sinister games.
At last we arrived outside Borelli's house. The great door was closed and locked. Benjamin banged with the pommel of his dagger until a rheumy-eyed dribbling-mouthed old man pushed it open. Maria chattered to him, then looked up at us.
'He does not know if Master Borelli is in, though his friend might be there.'
Benjamin pulled a coin from his purse and waved it in front of the old man's face. 'Maria, ask him to describe Master Borelli.'
The old man, his eyes more lively at the sight of the coin, gabbled his reply. Maria looked at us mournfully and shook her head. 'Master Daunbey, something's wrong. According to Grandad here, Borelli has auburn hair.' 'Well, who was it we met?' I asked.
Benjamin pulled another coin from his purse. He pushed it into the old man's dirty hand and squeezed past him through the open door. Maria and I followed behind. The old man didn't protest but danced from one foot to the other, staring in amazement at the coins he had so easily earned. The door to Borelli's room was locked. Benjamin prised it open with his dagger and in we went. The chamber was in darkness. Peering through the gloom I saw that the canvas on which the artist had been working had been tossed to the ground.
For a while we stumbled about, cursing. Then Maria found some candles, which I lit. But I still walked carefully, fear pricking the nape of my neck and my stomach churning, for that chamber had the horrid stink of death. Then I saw the hand jutting out between some wooden slats piled in the corner of the room. 'Master!' I shouted as I pulled the slats away.
Behind them, sprawled against the damp, flaking wall, was the man we had met earlier. His throat was one bright red gash from ear to ear; his tawdry doublet was thickly encrusted with dried blood. His face shone liverish-white in the dancing candlelight.
'So we have found one artist," Benjamin whispered. 'Now, let's discover where the other one could be?'
He wasn't far away. In a small adjoining chamber, a tiny garret which served as a bedroom, the auburn-haired painter lay, sprawled half off the bed, head flung back, wide-open eyes staring. His throat, too, had been slashed. Benjamin and I hastily withdrew. My master sat down on a stool.
'Borelli,' he mused, 'paints for the king of England a portrait commissioned either by the Lord Francesco Albrizzi or by the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici. The painting is handed over in England. We are sent to Florence to invite the artist back to the English court. But the gentleman behind the wooden slats kills the artist and takes his place, play-acting for us. Now he, too, is dead. So it was important to someone that we should neither speak to the real Borelli nor, perhaps more importantly, invite him back to England.'
'So we must ask ourselves, Master, who knew we were coming here? That royal bastard in London did and your dear uncle, though Florence is too far away for even them to interfere. The Albrizzis also knew, my Lord Cardinal Giulio de Medici did and so did that lump of shit the Master of the Eight!'
'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 t
he 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?'
I just nodded. She smiled once more and slammed the door behind her. Poor Beatrice! Poor Bianca! Poor Albrizzis! Years later my master confessed that he made a dreadful mistake that night and I am forced to agree. I returned, fully dressed, to the table. Benjamin was seated there, regaling them with fictitious stories about our visit to Florence. Oh, it was a sweet night, well after midnight, the witching hour which brews murder. Benjamin now waited for me to join him as he proceeded to compare Florence with London.
'And how did you find the Lord Cardinal?' Enrico interrupted. 'He was most gracious.' 'And Borelli?' Lord Roderigo asked.
'He has promised that he will consider our offer,' Benjamin lied, it seems likely that he will accompany us back to England.'
I dug my face into the deep-bowled wine goblet, embarrassed and rather flattered by the way Bianca and Beatrice were staring at me.
'And so you will return to England,' Alessandro drawled, 'with my father's murderer still unmasked?' 'Did I say that?' Benjamin said. I gazed quickly around the table. The lies Benjamin had told up to then had provoked not so much as a flicker of astonishment or puzzlement, but his comment now came like an icy wind across that warm, perfume-filled garden. Beatrice was staring at him, leaning across the table. She touched his wrist. 'What is it you say?'
Benjamin said deliberately, ‘I think I know who the assassin is.'
'Tell us now!' Giovanni hissed, flailing his hand out and knocking a wine cup across the table. 'Tell us now!'
'I cannot,' Benjamin said. 'We have not yet collected all the evidence.' He picked up his wine cup. 'But I have said enough. No one at this table need fear us.'
Oh, Lord, the folly of youth! What we thought was such a subtle ploy! But, in fairness, who can fathom the mind of a killer? Follow the sinister byways of his heart? Perceive clearly the blackness of his soul? Benjamin had used such a device before to flush out
a murderer. But this was different. We were playing chess with human lives and the killer was moving faster than us. God knows, I still blame myself. Yet perhaps the bloody and horrific climax of that Florentine business was fated and may have happened anyway.
The meal became a desultory affair. Benjamin and I withdrew. I was half-dead with fatigue and the wine was making itself felt. We bolted the door and, despite the warm evening, made the window secure. We checked our bedding. I slept like a baby until late the following morning. Benjamin and I spent the rest of that day in our room, even sending away Maria, trying to review all that had happened and to sift the truth from the dross. We had no proof, no tangible evidence, just a logical-seeming solution to the riddle that confronted us.
Late in the afternoon the servants in the villa were dismissed to attend the carnival in the city. Only the old cook and her husband remained. The villa became silent. We heard Enrico leave, shouting in the courtyard that he was going to the city and would not return until the following day. We heard other noises, but the house settled down. Different people went into the refectory to help themselves to the cold meat and fruits that the servants had laid out before leaving. Benjamin went down and returned with Maria.
'The Albrizzis,' he said, 'use a local apothecary, an old peasant woman in the village. She may be able to help us.'
Maria was fairly dancing with excitement, clapping her hands, her eyes glistening.
'We'll be gone, we'll be gone soon! I know we will!' she cried. 'I'll be out of this brood of vipers and back to England! Can I stay with you? I have money lodged with the bankers.' I looked at Benjamin, who smiled and nodded.
‘In my manor, Maria, there is room for one as lively as you. But come, this matter must be finished!' He looked warningly at me. 'Go with Maria to the village. Then we will confront the Lord Roderigo.'
I picked up my cloak and sword belt and went down to the stables. Giovanni was there, seated on a bench, playing dice against himself. He watched us from underneath his eyebrows, black hair falling forward, almost concealing his face. He never uttered a word and neither did I. I saddled Maria's donkey and took the loan of a gentle cob. We rode out of the villa and down into the local village. Small, whitewashed houses glistened in the late afternoon sun. Pigs, chickens and dogs foraged in the rutted cobbled paths. Women, dressed only in smocks, stood in the shadows of the doorways and watched us pass. Maria led us through and, in the shadow of the village church, stopped and knocked at a door. The old woman who opened it was small and sprightly, not much taller than Maria. She recognized Maria and was friendly enough, beckoning us in. She was the local wise woman, Maria told me, and her name was Richolda. The house was simple with a beaten-earth floor and lime-washed walls. A long table and stools were the only furniture. Pieces of meat and vegetables hung from the rafters, a pile of ash lay in the hearth. The only difference between it and any other peasant cottage was the sweet, fragrant smell from the many herbs and spices crushed and stored in small jars or heaped on shelves. Richolda sat us down and, with Maria acting as interpreter, I asked her questions about plants and flowers. The old woman, encouraged by the coins I placed on the table, answered pithily, most of the time nodding her head, agreeing with what I said. Maria looked perplexed and, on one occasion, asked what was the point of all these questions. 'You'll see,' I told her. 'In the end, you'll see.'