The remark provoked faint laughter and Throgmorton flushed with embarrassment. (Well, as I say, never trust a doctor. It's surprising how many of them love to see a pretty wench stripped down to her shift.) Benjamin, however, refused to be diverted.
'Master Physician, I asked you a question.'
Throgmorton glared once more at Millet, composed himself and ticked the points off on his fingers. 'First, Falconer had the chamber you have now.'
Oh, thank you very much, I thought.
'I have a chamber on the floor above. I saw Falconer go up to the top of the tower. He seemed cheerful enough, with a cup of wine in his hand. I bade him good evening and he smiled back. No one else went up the stairs after him and certainly no one went before.'
'Are there other witnesses?' Benjamin asked.
'Do you doubt my word?' Throgmorton bellowed.
'Tush, Tom!' Millet spoke up, slouching against the table and admiring the cheap, tawdry rings on his fingers. 'I, too, heard Falconer go up.' Millet smiled dazzlingly at Benjamin. 'My humble abode is a garret at the top of this benighted tower.'
Benjamin grinned. 'And you would confirm what the good physician has said?'
'Of course!'
'There's one other matter,' Dacourt boomed, refilling his goblet. 'The top of the tower is covered with a fine coat of sand and gravel. Millet and I were the first to check that tower, after Falconer's body was discovered by a guard. It bore only the mark of Falconer's boots.'
'And the body?' Benjamin asked.
Throgmorton slurped from his goblet. 'The head was smashed open and the face badly bruised. The neck was so twisted you could lay the chin on either shoulder. Of course, there was bruising throughout his whole body.'
'And the wine he drank?'
'Good claret,' Dacourt boomed. 'Old Falconer liked his tipple. On Easter Monday, as the season of Lent finished and we need no longer abstain from wine, we opened a new bottle. Millet and I were present. We each had a cup before we left.'
'It's a custom here,' Millet added. 'During Lent, we all, as good sons of the Church, abstain from wine. On Easter Monday, we broach the best Bordeaux.'
'So there was nothing strange?' Benjamin asked.
Dacourt looked at me under lowered brows as if recognising my existence for the first time. 'No. Falconer was quiet and secretive but seemed in very good humour, laughing and talking rather garrulously. I did wonder if he had been in his cups before we opened the wine but he assured me he had not.'
'I scrutinised the corpse most carefully,' Throgmorton intervened. 'There was no real smell of ale or wine fumes nor of any other substance.'
'And the cup he drank from?' Benjamin asked, turning his chair slightly to look down the table at Dacourt.
'A pity,' the ambassador replied. 'Smashed to pieces.'
'Why do you say it's a pity?'
'Well, it was one of a set, wondrously carved from pewter. Falconer had four; people call them liturgical cups. You know, each cup bears a picture of one of the Church's four great feasts: Advent, Christmas, Easter and Pentecost.'
'And he was drinking from the Easter one?' I asked.
'Yes,' Dacourt replied. 'But now it's smashed to pieces.'
'Falconer was a very religious man,' Waldegrave slurred. 'Always talking about God. He was affected by the writings of that new teacher in Germany. You know, the monk who has jumped over his monastery wall, Martin Luther.'
(Oh, by the way, I once met Luther and his wife Katherine. He was strange! Brilliant, but still strange. Do you know, he was constipated? Oh, yes, there was nothing wrong with old Luther that a good bowel purge wouldn't have cured.)
'Did he discuss Luther?' Benjamin asked.
'No, not really,' Waldegrave slobbered. 'He was always talking about being saved. About whether he would go to heaven or hell. And if he wasn't talking about the after life, he was talking about birds.'
'Birds? What do you mean?' I asked.
Waldegrave leaned forward and stared blearily at me. 'I mean what I say. He was always watching bloody birds. Be it a duck, a sparrow, a linnet or a thrush. Mind you,' he tapped the side of his fleshy red nose, 'there were other matters.'
The rest of the company groaned in unison at having to listen to a well-known story.
'You see,' Waldegrave squirmed on his fat bottom, 'he came for confession to me. He said he thought he knew who Raphael was. When I asked him what he meant, all he replied was, 'It is a grave matter'.'
There were further moans and groans at the old toper's repetition of an apparently well-worn story.
'It's time for bed,' Dacourt snapped. 'Sir Robert, you must be tired.' He smiled. 'And the Lady Francesca waits. As for you, Sir Priest,' Dacourt glared at Waldegrave, 'I think you have drunk enough!'
The chaplain just stared back, open-mouthed, and belched like a thunder clap. Dacourt took a step nearer. The priest staggered to his feet and waddled off with an air of drunken disdain.
Dacourt watched him go. 'Bloody priest!' he muttered. 'Him and his jokes.'
'Lord save us!' Millet said languidly. 'If it's not his jokes, he is constantly relating how he fought as a moss trooper on the northern march.' Millet played with a lace cuff. 'The old drunk thinks he knows about horses, and is always trying to get to Sir John's destrier. Have you seen it?' The young man beamed at Benjamin, who shook his head. 'A beautiful horse. Pure air, fierce spirit, with the light tread of a dancer.'
Benjamin looked away and examined his finger nails.
'Sir John, where's Falconer buried?'
'At St Pierre,' Throgmorton the doctor interrupted. 'We couldn't send him back to England. He had no family and the body was a bloody pulp, so we bought a plot in the cemetery of St Pierre in the village of Maubisson.'
'The same church where Abbe Gerard was priest?'
'That's right,' Dacourt boomed. 'Though Abbe Gerard is no longer with us. He went for a swim in his own carp pond and drowned.'
'Strange,' Clinton mused. He leaned forward in his chair. So far he had been quiet, staring into the darkness, though keeping a careful eye on Sir John.
'What is?' Benjamin asked.
'Well,' Sir Robert also stood up, stretching himself carefully, 'on the Monday after Easter, Falconer dies from a mysterious fall from a tower. Two days later an old priest drowns in his own fish pond.'
'Are you saying there's a connection?' Peckle spoke up.
'No.' Sir Robert just shook his head. 'I just think it's strange.'
Sir John Dacourt gathered his cloak and made to leave.
'One last question?' Benjamin pleaded. 'Falconer's possessions, where are they?'
'His moveables are kept in the vaults below the hall here. What documents he had were handed over to Peckle.'
'You kept them well?' Clinton asked. 'Of course,' Dacourt snapped back. Oh, dear, I thought, not much love lost here! 'You've seen them already, Sir Robert. Was there anything amiss?'
'No, no, certainly not!' Sir Robert smiled falsely. 'But, as you say, Sir John, the hour is late and it's time for bed.'
Clinton put his goblet down on the table, bade us good night and walked softly away. Dacourt and Millet followed. Benjamin, however, sat staring down the hall. He shivered and pulled his cloak closer about him.
'Master?'
'Yes, Roger, I know, it's time to sleep. Perchance to dream.'
(Oh, by the way, I always remembered that line and later gave it to Will Shakespeare. You will find it in his play Hamlet which I helped to finance. It's about a Danish prince who finds out his mother is a murderess and spends his time lolling around, mooning about it. I am not too fond of it but go and judge for yourself. Old Will
