Shakespeare was forever asking about the murders I'd investigated. Strange, I never told him about the horrors of Maubisson.)
We wandered up the darkened staircase back to our chamber. I lit the candles and stared around curiously. From here, I thought, Falconer had left for his dreadful fall through the night. Benjamin went over to the open window, staring across at the darkened mass of the forest. He shivered at the 'yip, yip' of a fox carried by the cool night wind and jumped at the screech of the huge bats which flickered up and down the castle walls.
'This,' he murmured, 'is truly the valley of death.'
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared up at me.
'You should sleep, Roger. You are going to need your rest. We are in the company of a great assassin. Mark my words: Falconer and the Abbe Gerard were murdered, and things here are not as they appear to be.' He refused to be drawn any further.
I was young, tired, slightly drunk, and didn't give a rat's codpiece so I undressed and, within a few minutes, was lost in the sleep of the just.
Chapter 5
We rose late the next morning. Benjamin appeared to be in better humour and chattered about the history of the chateau as we broke our fast in the great hall. Afterwards, one of the servants led us down to a vaulted cellar.
'We must examine Falconer's possessions,' Benjamin explained. 'Perhaps the first key to this puzzle will be there.'
Venner was already in the cellar, standing over some coffers and trunks. He grinned in welcome.
'These are Falconer's goods,' he explained. 'But there's nothing much. We have been through them. You have just missed Sir Robert.'
'What will happen to them now?' I asked, my eyes on a cheap silver bracelet.
'Well, Falconer had no heirs so they go to the king.'
I decided to leave the silver bracelet where it was; Fat Harry would skin you alive for taking a crumb of bread from his plate. Venner wandered off and we went through the pathetic pile of possessions: a counter-pane, three dirty bolsters, hose, jerkins, battered boots, more cheap jewellery, a collection of quills and a bar of Castilian soap. As far as I was concerned, the Great Killer was welcome to them. What attracted our attention was the box of pewter cups, each of the three remaining in their small, red-baized compartment. We examined these carefully, especially the deep bowls ornately carved with the appropriate scene: a large dove for Pentecost, the Virgin Mary on the Advent cup, and a child in a manger for Christmas. (You know the sort, they were quite common in England before the Great Killer smashed the monasteries. You drank from each goblet according to the season.) Benjamin sniffed each cup, then the box. 'Nothing,' he exclaimed. 'There's nothing here.'
We went out to take the air in the inner bailey and stood fascinated as four ostlers struggled with the ropes tied to the bridle of a splendid, black war horse. They were trying to back it into a stable but the magnificent beast was all set to charge. The horse stood sixteen hands high, its jet black coat gleaming in the sunlight. Its ears were back in anger, its eyes rolled, and the horse curled its lips, revealing the foam on sharp, yellow teeth. Every so often the animal would rear, lashing out with his sharpened hooves, as the men struggled with a stream of oaths to back it into the stable. Eventually they succeeded, quickly securing both the bottom door and the top flap and, even then, we could hear the horse pounding the thick oaken panels. The ostlers, covered in sweat, walked away, still muttering curses.
'That must be Vulcan, Sir John Dacourt's destrier,' Benjamin remarked. 'Waldegrave must be mad if he thinks he can control such a beast.' He stared across at the wing built to the right of the chateau. 'I wonder if we should visit the priest? Perhaps he can explain Falconer's macabre joke about graves?' Benjamin grasped me by the arm. 'On second thoughts, let us finish the business in hand.'
We went back, past the hall down a long, stone passageway to Peckle's chamber. The chief clerk was working there, surrounded by a veritable sea of paper; memoranda, notes, bills, letters and indentures. He sat with his back to the door, crouched over his desk. The room smelt stale and musty with the pungent odour of the fat tallow candles placed on the desk. All the windows were shuttered as if we were in the depths of winter. Peckle hardly moved but continued to peer at a document covered in strange cipher markings.
'Good morning, Walter,' Benjamin said, a little too loudly.
The clerk looked round testily. 'Can I help?'
'Well, yes. Do you have Falconer's documents?'
The fellow, sighing dramatically, rose wearily from his chair like an exasperated parent dealing with two naughty children. He dug amongst some papers in the corner and tossed us a canvas bag tied at the top. Benjamin turned and made to leave.
'No! No!' Peckle announced pompously. 'You cannot take them away. You must study them here.'
Benjamin stuck his tongue out at Peckle's back, cleared a space on the floor and squatted there for at least half an hour sifting through the contents of the sack. There wasn't much; a few drawings of birds, quite well done but not of the calibre of the great da Vinci's notebook. (I met the great sculptor once, you know, when I was hiding from the Doge of Venice's assassins. But that's another story.) One strange discovery we did make -scraps of paper bearing the word Raphael. Falconer had apparently been playing with the letters of the name, breaking them up, distancing each from the other. Benjamin studied these carefully, shook his head and tossed them back. We thanked Peckle but he never stirred a hair.
'What do you think, master?' I asked as soon as we were out of the chamber. 'Falconer was murdered.'
'But how? He was alone on the tower and he wasn't drunk.'
Benjamin chewed his lip. 'Falconer was a man who liked birds,' he replied slowly. 'So he goes to the top of the tower to study them.'
'Do you think he discovered who Raphael was?'
'I don't think so but he did believe the word Raphael contained the name of the traitor.'
Benjamin wandered off, saying he wished to speak to Waldegrave, so I decided to take the air in the garden behind the chateau. I was even more eager when I glimpsed Lady Francesca, magnificent in her dark green velvet dress, with a small hat of the same texture and colour, ornamented with trailing peacock feathers set rakishly on her head. I strolled amongst the boxwood as if I was the keenest of gardeners, taking special interest in the herb banks, the ever-green boxwood, and the multi-coloured flowers where hungry bees searched for honey. The lady was humming a madrigal. She turned quickly at the sound of my footsteps on the gravel.
'Monsieur!' she exclaimed in mock surprise. 'You follow me!'
'To the ends of the earth, Madame,' I replied, fascinated by the sudden rise and fall of her ample bosom. She stepped closer, raising the hem of her dress to reveal thick, white petticoats above black, polished boots. She peered closer.
'You are Shallot, Master Benjamin's manservant?'
'His secretarius, Madame,' I replied more smugly than I intended.
'La, la, secretarius, and an ugly one at that!'
Well, I blushed and stammered.
'Well, well, Master Secretarius,' she continued, 'how can I help you?'
'You are pleased to be back in France, Madame?'
'After two years married to an Englishman, I am more than happy.'
'But you returned only a few weeks ago, during Holy Week?'
Lady Francesca stared at the flowers as if already bored by the conversation. Suddenly she jerked, clutching her stomach as if in pain.
'Madame,' I seized her wrist, 'you are ill?'
Francesca lifted her pale face, no mockery or laughter in those staring dark eyes now.
'Take your hands off me!' she rasped. 'Never, do you understand, never touch me!'
She swept by me, leaving old Shallot with the fragrance of her perfume and a deeper knowledge of my true status. I wandered back to the main entrance of the chateau and found Benjamin, equally disconsolate, sitting on
