by Paul Doherty
'What nonsense is this?' I murmured.
Benjamin stepped back. 'Look at his face, Roger.'
Preneste stood up. I noticed how smooth and white his face had become, the eyes enlarged. Drunk on poppy seed, I wondered, or on the juice of mushrooms which allows a man to see visions through the curtain of reality? No one objected to Preneste's transformation from chaplain to black magician. I remembered a saying that the Florentines' religion was like wax, 'very hot and easily moulded', and recalled Dante's acceptance of sorcery in the Inferno, where a special part of hell is reserved for the sorcerers, where their heads are twisted back so that they, who in life were always straining to see the future, could only look backwards. Dante had it right - black magic flourished in Florence - and the Albrizzis were involved in it.
'Stand back!' Preneste ordered. 'Retire beyond the pool of light!'
I was only too happy to. At the time Benjamin and I were quite relaxed - such practices were common even in London, where witches, with cupboards full of human skulls, bones, teeth and skin, were six a penny. I viewed what the Albrizzis were involved in as a masque or pantomime, put on to whet jaded appetites and entertain, even perhaps frighten, their visitors from England. We all withdrew to the edge of the lawn. I don't know where everyone was standing. All I can remember is that I was near Benjamin as Preneste began his ritual. He was holding a marble vase in his left hand and a sponge tied to a dead man's leg in his right. He lifted his face and began to chant, staring at the moon as if it was some beacon light for his prayer. He then knelt and kissed the earth, dipped the leg bone in what looked like a bowl of human blood and sketched a circle which encompassed both himself and the sconce torch fixed to a rod driven into the ground. He placed a skull in the centre of the circle, poured some of the blood over it and began to chant in a language neither I nor my master understood. At first I stood there bored. Suddenly, Preneste looked up, eyes staring. He clapped his hands.
'The Master comes!' he shouted.
'I wish he'd bloody well hurry up!' I muttered.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a cold wind sprang up. The torchlight danced, lengthening Preneste's shadow, and the man himself seemed to grow like some swelling toad. In the woods beyond a dog howled, a long and curdling cry. Preneste's lips were moving soundlessly. Again the howl, and suddenly a dog or jackal sped across the torchlight. God knows where it came from! God knows what it really was! And only God knows where it went! To hell I hope! Lady Beatrice squealed, but now Preneste turned, staring into the darkness. He was holding in his hands a wax tablet and a sharp knife. I stared into the shadows and saw one deeper than the rest. The cold wind grew stronger. A terrible stench pervaded the garden, corrupting and rotten. The hair on the nape of my neck curled. I shivered and grasped my master's arm, tense and rigid. Suddenly there was a crack like a gun firing. Preneste staggered sideways, turned and stared at us, a look of surprise on his face. He crumpled to the grass, hitting the pole which held the torch and extinguishing the light. For a few seconds no one moved. A woman screamed, I don't know who.
'Bring torches! Bring torches!' Roderigo shouted.
I heard tinder strike. Giovanni brought a light and lit the other torches in the garden. Roderigo was already bending over Preneste but one look at the man's waxen features, slack jaw and half-open eyes told all. The man was dead, killed by a metal ball which had struck him on the side of the temple. My master picked up the wax tablet, but all Preneste had had time to draw was one line.
'Anybody's,' Benjamin said, 'it could have been anybody's name!'
'If you really believe in that nonsense,' I answered, my courage now returning.
Roderigo turned Preneste over on to his back. Lady Bianca had to be carried away, her gasps and splutters of near-hysteria being stilled by Alessandro, who took her to one of the garden seats and thrust a goblet of wine into her hands.
Roderigo got to his feet and swore deeply. This was the first time I had seen him frightened - his face was slack and his hands trembled. He stared round at the rest of us. 'Whoever it is,' he hissed, 'intends to kill us all! Giovanni, take Preneste's body upstairs to his chamber. The rest of you, come with me!'
We followed him into the house, past silent, frightened servants who, summoned from their quarters, now began to clear up the remains of the banquet. They whispered amongst themselves, staring at the body still sprawled on the grass. A small pool of blood ebbed out from that dreadful black hole in the side of the skull. Roderigo led us back into a room that in England we would have called the solar - a pleasant chamber with quilted window-seats, decorated walls and delicately carved furniture. Dominating the room was a long, polished, oval table with quilted stools ranged around it. We all took our seats. Servants lit candles and brought goblets of sweet wine infused with a cordial. I didn't touch mine. I'll be honest, old Shallot was terrified. Demon-worshippers, the black arts, a mysterious assassin who could fire a handgun and not be detected - it was all too much for me to cope with. Mind you, I wasn't alone - Roderigo had lost his arrogance and everyone there had been shocked by Preneste's death.
'At first,' Roderigo said, 'I believed Francesco's murder was the work of a solitary assassin, perhaps the result of a blood feud because he had wronged some family, either in England or in Florence. Matteo's death could have been an accident. But this!' He banged the table with his fist. 'Who can carry an unwieldy weapon into a secure and well-guarded garden, fire it and then disappear? You, Inglese!' - he pointed angrily at Benjamin - 'your master sent you here to help. I demand that help now.'
I felt like reminding him that only a few hours earlier he had been quite offhand about our assistance. But the mood of the Albrizzis had turned ugly.
'How do we know,' Alessandro asked, 'that it is not the Inglese themselves who are the assassins?'
'Don't be stupid!' I retorted. 'We had never even heard of Lord Francesco or any of you before all this happened!'
'What Master Shallot is saying,' Benjamin tactfully intervened, 'is that when Lord Francesco was in Cheapside we were in Ipswich. But I agree with the Lord Roderigo. I do not wish to alarm you, but I believe you are being hunted by a skilful assassin intent on all your deaths. Now logic dictates that the deaths of both Francesco and Preneste are the work of a single assassin, who killed Francesco in London, who managed to enter this garden and shoot Preneste and who killed Matteo the steward in a similar way on board ship. Ergo,' Benjamin concluded softly, 'the assassin must be in this house. He or she must be one of us!'
There were murmurs of protest, but nothing as vehement or vociferous as those that had been voiced in London. No longer was the honour of the family name paramount. Everyone glanced sideways at their neighbour as they accepted the truth of my master's assertion.
Enrico spoke up, peering across at Benjamin. 'We must therefore establish where each of us was when Preneste was killed.'
I stared down at little Maria perched like a child on her stool. She gazed solemnly back. My stomach churned. What if it was her, I thought? Small and lithe, she could move unnoticed amongst the crowds - but had she the strength to manage an arquebus? I looked at Giovanni, the professional soldier, who sat fingering his long hair; he stared passively down the table, ignoring the glances directed at him.
Nevertheless, he sensed the unspoken accusation. He was a mercenary. What guarantee could he give that he had not been hired by some enemy to wage silent, bloody war against the Albrizzis? He straightened on the stool, his quilted leather jacket creaking. He still played with a tendril of hair, which he was now braiding. He tapped the floor with his boot.
'Anyone here,' he said softly, 'could purchase a handgun.' His voice rose. 'Everyone in this room is proficient in its use. Don't look so accusingly at me! Why should I turn my hand against my patron?'
Nobody even looked at him, let alone answered.
Benjamin got to his feet. 'Perhaps we should return to the garden? I know where I was standing. Where were all of you?'
>
Enrico clapped his hands softly. 'Lady Bianca, I was standing behind you. Alessandro, you were a little forward to my right. You were scratching your neck, yes? So, where was everyone else?'
Benjamin sat down again as confusion broke out, everyone telling their story but nothing tallying. Benjamin tapped the top of the table.
'The truth is,' he said, 'that we were all so frightened by what Preneste was doing that none of us can clearly remember. But there is a further possibility to consider.'
The hubbub of conversation finally died away.
'Perhaps the assassin is not in this room,' Benjamin went on, nudging me gently under the table to tell me to keep silent. 'There were servants in London, servants on board ship and servants here in the house tonight. All I can advise is that each of us, until this murderer is unmasked, walks carefully.'
The meeting broke up. Benjamin beckoned me to follow him back into the garden; behind us the babble of conversation died as the household retired to bed.
'Did you mean what you said about the servants, Master?' I whispered.
'Of course not!' Benjamin replied. 'The assassin was sitting at that table. What servant would dare commit three murders? Someone would notice something amiss. One death perhaps, but not three.'
We walked further into the darkness. Benjamin turned and looked at me squarely.
'But what could the motive for the murders be? Is it revenge for some secret hurt? Is it the lust for power and wealth?' He held a finger to his lips. 'Francesco dies, he is head of the family. Matteo dies, he is Francesco's steward and faithful companion. Then Preneste, the priest lawyer and family confidant. Now, why should the assassin select those last two? Eh, Roger?'
'Because they might know something,' I replied slowly. 'Preneste, though, may have been killed because the powers he possessed may have enabled him to name the murderer.'
'Or Preneste, like Matteo, may simply have remembered something that is the key to this puzzle,' Benjamin said.
'What about Throckle?' I asked.
Benjamin shrugged. 'How can the suicide of an old doctor in the wilds of Essex be connected to bloody, violent death in the golden hills of Tuscany?' He shivered and crossed his arms. 'All murders have a pattern but this one is a maze.' He looked back at the darkened house. 'I wonder?'
'What?'
'Would Preneste still have that information somewhere?'
We walked back into the house. Benjamin stopped a sleepy-eyed servant and asked for a fresh cup of wine. He also took the opportunity of using the little Italian he knew to discover the whereabouts of Preneste's chambers, on the other side of the courtyard. We slipped up darkened stairways and along a gallery. As we passed a chamber door, we paused. In the poor light Benjamin smiled as he gestured to me to listen. I did so and, from the room beyond, heard the gasps and passionate cries of the Lady Bianca.
'A merry widow if there ever was one,' Benjamin whispered.
We crept on, now and again pausing as a floorboard creaked. We turned a corner and the hair on the back of my neck curled as I stared along the passageway. I was sure I had seen someone moving, but then dismissed it as the effect of too much wine.
At last we reached Preneste's chamber. The door was closed but not locked. We pushed it open and crept in. The room was dark, the shutters of the window firmly closed. I wrinkled my nose at the sour smell which the cloying fragrance from the garden could not hide. The four-poster bed in the centre of the room had its drapes pulled close. Benjamin moved over. I heard him mutter and curse. He struck a tinder, lit the candles, picked one of these up and moved across to the bed. He pulled the curtain back, pushed the candle forward and, in the pool of light, Preneste's pallid face gazed sightlessly up at us. He looked even more eerie in the candlelight, the small hole in the side of the head an ugly black-red patch. I stared at it curiously. It stirred a memory, but I could not place it. Benjamin was now whispering at me to search the room. I did so. Thankfully, the chests and coffers had not been locked, except one at the foot of the bed. One clasp was open, I had to use my dagger to prise the other loose.
Now, I have met strange priests but Preneste was one of the strangest. Never once did I come across a breviary or crucifix, rosary or medal. The man hadn't just dabbled in the black arts but steeped himself in them. I recoiled in disgust as I handled the dry corpse of a toad, the yellowing skull of a monkey and a book of spells. Benjamin searched amongst the other coffers and chests, but found nothing. He tiptoed across to me.
'Where would a man like Preneste hide something secret?'
I picked up the candles and stared around. There were no pictures or hangings on the wall. I rapped the floorboards, but this was no English manor with joists and beams. I gazed at the bed. I remembered the head-board, with its small wooden panels. I pulled back the drapes, climbed on to the bed and, with Preneste staring ghoulishly up at me, began to tap at these panels. One sounded hollow. I grinned at Benjamin.
'God knows why, Master, but people always think their beds are the safest places.'
The wood was thin. I punched a small hole with my dagger, then paused, wondering whether the slight noise would arouse attention. However, apart from the thudding of my own heart, J heard nothing except the cries of the night birds from the garden and Benjamin's heavy breathing behind me. I broke the wood away.
'They'll ask questions in the morning, Master,' I grunted.
'Then they'll have to accuse each other!' Benjamin hissed. 'I doubt if this family would care very much.'
I snapped away the wood. Somewhere there must be a secret mechanism or lever. Inside I felt a metal spring and, putting my hand deeper down, I drew out a small leather pouch. I handed this to Benjamin, who cut the cord at its neck and took out the manuscripts it contained. He sat on the bed as if he and Preneste were old friends and studied the manuscripts. Two were spells. One was a letter from the Lady Bianca addressed to a 'Bellissimo'. Even with my limited knowledge of the tongue I could, following Benjamin's finger, see that it was a love letter, which Preneste must have intercepted for the purpose of blackmail.
'What if these murders are quite distinct?' I asked.
'You mean the Lord Francesco was killed for one reason and Matteo and Preneste for another?' He shook his head. 'But the means are always the same. I wonder if the Lady Bianca would stoop to murder to hide her infidelities?'
He put the letter on the bed and undid another. Written in Latin, it was from no less a person than the Prince Giulio de Medici. The parchment was of high quality, though yellowing with age. Dated years earlier, the letter was 'To my good friend and ally, Gregorio Preneste'. Prince Giulio thanked Preneste for his services and promised that he would use all his power to ensure that Preneste received advancement in the household of Lord Francesco Albrizzi.
'So simple and so obvious,' Benjamin murmured. 'So why hide it away?'
I was about to reply when I heard a floorboard creak in the gallery outside. We both froze, not even daring to breathe, but heard no further sound. We went back to the letter. At one moment I heard a click, but thought it was one of the night sounds of the house. Benjamin insisted on examining the cavity in the bedhead himself. I, still alarmed by what I had heard, got up and walked towards the door. I slipped and had to steady myself. I looked down and saw a glassy, watery substance on the floor. At first I thought it was one of the dead magician's potions but, bending down carefully, I dipped my finger and smelt it.
'Oil,' I whispered.
Now, you must remember that my wits were dulled.
Slipping and cursing, I made my way to the door and tried the latch, but it was locked. I heard heavy breathing on the other side and the sound of a tinder striking. I charged back across the room, even as the flame licked under the door. It caught the oil and a sheet of fire raced across the room. Within a minute the room, or at least half of it, was turned into a raging inferno. We scrabbled at the shutters, but they too were locked. I knocked the clasps loose with the pommel of my dagger.
The night air rushed in, fanning the flames. Benjamin and I pushed ourselves through on to a small ledge and jumped into the darkened garden.
We were lucky enough to fall into a flower bed and the drop wasn't too great. I was immediately sick with fright. I crouched like a dog behind a bush. I retched and coughed, uttering every filthy curse I knew, whilst Benjamin rubbed his sprained ankle.
'I want to go home, Master,' I murmured. 'To hell with the glories of Italy!'
I could not curse any longer - my stomach heaved and, coughing and retching, I staggered away from the house.
The Albrizzi garden was surrounded by thick privet hedges. We went through an archway in one of these - and stopped. Before us stood a figure dressed all in black, the head and face hidden behind a black pointed hood with gaps for the eyes, nose and mouth, a small candle in its hand. In the poor, flickering light from the candle it was a terrifying apparition. Moaning with terror, I fled through the garden. Thank God, Benjamin had the wit to follow.
By the time we made our way back to the main doorway, the whole household was aroused, everyone in various stages of undress. Lord Roderigo, a night robe wrapped around him, was screaming at Giovanni to organize the servants, who were rushing up the stairs with slopping buckets of water from the well and fountains. Thankfully, we were ignored. Benjamin hissed at me to pretend that we had been taking the night air in the garden. We helped douse the flames, but not before they had reduced Preneste's chamber, his bed and corpse to a pile of steaming ash. Lord Roderigo and the rest left the servants to clean up whilst they began a fierce discussion about how the fire started. Now I couldn't be involved in that. I didn't give a fig. One of those Florentine bastards had tried to kill me. My head was thick, my stomach churning. I wasn't frightened, just terrified absolutely witless by what was happening.