'Who could be the murderer?' I asked.
'Any of those four. Oh,' he added, 'we missed out one person: Richard Waldegrave, the chaplain.'
'You wish us to go to Paris?' Benjamin interrupted.
'Yes, we do, so perhaps it's time you met your companions.'
Wolsey picked up a silver bell but Agrippa raised his hand.
'Lord Cardinal, I believe your nephew has further questions?'
Benjamin gazed at the cardinal, then at his familiar.
'Doctor Agrippa,' he asked, 'when matters are decided regarding France, how are such conclusions reached and despatched abroad?'
'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.'
'Then what happens?'
'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.'
'Why is that?'
'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'
I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction.
'What happens then?' my master asked.
'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.'
'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'
'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.'
'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'
Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves 'Maillotins' or 'Club-Wielders'.'
(Oh, I knew about these. Last time I had been to Paris they had rescued me from the freezing streets and hungry wolf packs.)
'These Maillotins attacked the messengers and killed them but a party of royal guards, who by chance were in the vicinity, hunted the outlaws down. The bags were returned in accordance with diplomatic protocol, and were found to be unopened and untampered with.'
'Could the spy be in England?'
'We suspect he is in France at our embassy.'
'Why?'
'The French do not betray what they have learnt until the despatches reach our embassy.' 'What happens then?'
'The chief cipher clerk, Walter Peckle, decodes them and hands them to the ambassador.'
Benjamin tapped the toe of his boot on the soft carpet. 'These messengers?' he queried.
'They are professional couriers. There are two in England and two in France. They often cross each other in their travels.' 'And two of them were killed?'
'Yes, but they have been replaced,' Agrippa answered. 'They are trustworthy men?'
'They cannot be faulted. You may question the two in England before you go. Now,' Agrippa picked up the bell, 'perhaps you should meet your travelling companions?'
The silver bell tinkled. A servant wearing the cardinal's livery slipped like a shadow into the room.
'Ah, yes.' Wolsey got up. 'Sir Robert Clinton?'
'He is in the presence chamber, Your Grace.'
'Bring him in!'
Clinton entered, a small man with silver hair brushed back from his forehead, a neatly clipped moustache and beard. He looked what he was, a veteran soldier, with suntanned face, clear eyes, dark doublet and hose, the only concession to fashion being the ornate, thick silver rings on each hand and a gold cross round his neck. Beside him stood his clerk, Ambrose Venner, a young man with thinning hair and the fat, cheerful face of an over-fed scholar. Agrippa introduced them, ushering them to seats, clicking his fingers for the servant to serve them wine and sweetmeats.
'Sir Robert,' Agrippa began, 'is chief secretary to the French chancery of the Privy Council. Sir Robert, Benjamin Daunbey and his servant, Roger Shallot.'
Clinton smiled and sketched a bow to both of us. He seemed a courtly gentleman with the inbred manners of a diplomat. Venner gave a gap-toothed grin.
'Sir Robert,' Agrippa continued, 'Master Benjamin and his manservant will be in your retinue. They will travel to Maubisson to determine the true cause of Falconer's death and assist you in the hunting down of Raphael.'
'My Lord Cardinal, Doctor Agrippa.' Clinton's face was now severe. 'You already have my thoughts on this matter. Raphael may well be in England. I speak for all the servants of the embassy in Paris. They are loyal to His Majesty.'
'Yes, yes,' Wolsey testily interrupted. 'But we have established that the French only seem to know our secrets after the king's letters and memoranda are delivered to our embassy in Paris.'
'Yes, yes, Your Grace,' Clinton snapped back, revealing the tension between the two of them. 'And you also know my thoughts on that. His Majesty should stop such letters being sent.'
'Sir Robert,' Agrippa smoothly intervened, 'we have been down this path before. If our embassy in France cannot receive its instructions, His Majesty's affairs there will come to a halt.'
'How long has this been going on?' I asked.
Clinton looked at me in surprise, Wolsey in annoyance as if resenting my interruption.
'About eighteen to twenty months!' Agrippa snapped back.
Benjamin nudged me to keep quiet. I looked away and went cold with fright. Agrippa's black cat sat beneath one of the heavy, gold-encrusted arrasses, crouched like a panther, his amber eyes studying me as if I was a mouse. Not a blink, not a change of expression. I looked back at Agrippa. His eyes had turned the same colour and I caught a whiff of that strange perfume which sometimes emanated from him, sweet but sickly. He, too, was watching me and
I shivered. What deadly game, I wondered, was about to begin?
'Your Grace,' Clinton spoke up, 'your nephew and his companion will be most welcome in our retinue but I cannot promise you any success.'
'Like your last mission!' Wolsey snapped.
Clinton flinched. Wolsey stretched out a hand and patted him gently on the shoulder.
'Sir Robert,' he said softly, 'my words were harsh. I withdraw them. It was due to your efforts that we discovered the name of Raphael.'
'How's that?' Benjamin asked.
Clinton smiled and I noticed how white and even his teeth were. A careful, precise man, I thought at the time, one who looked after his health.
'Over two months ago,' Clinton explained, 'I and my wife, the Lady Francesca, visited Maubisson just before Lent to see what help could be given in tracking the spy down.' He shook his head. 'I think it was the week before Ash Wednesday. Falconer – well, Giles, for he and I were friends – devised a scheme whereby one of our agents would use one of Paris's most expensive whores to trap a leading member of the Luciferi. She passed on to our agent the name Raphael, though he paid for it with his life. He was attacked and killed whilst leaving Paris.' Clinton shrugged. 'I returned to England after Holy Week had begun. Six weeks later Falconer was discovered at the base of the tower.' He looked at Wolsey. 'My Lord Cardinal, have you told your nephew of the other matter?'
