'We are here,' he began, 'to determine the identity of the blood-stained traitor Raphael, who has been responsible for the deaths of Giles Falconer, the Abbe Gerard, Richard Waldegrave, Thomas Throgmorton and Ambrose Venner.'
Benjamin paused and I stared round at the assembled company. Lady Francesca was wearing a dark blue dress of samite tied high at the neck, her thick, white veil of gauze, falling down to her shoulders, kept in place by a fine gold chain around her hair. She was haggard and pallid with dark shadows under her eyes. Beside her Sir Robert was dressed like a parson in a black jacket with only a trace of a white lace collar peeping above it. I remembered his face as it was then, cold, impassive and inscrutable. Sir John Dacourt looked a beaten man, humiliated by the knowledge that his secretarius was a probable traitor. Peckle was tired and very nervous, his bony fingers moving continually, covered in blue-green ink stains. Agrippa sat silently watching us like some dark shadow, beside him my master, his long face as hard and white as marble – one of the few times I had seen him seethe in anger. He looked as cruel and as cold as any hanging judge at Westminster.
'We have the murderer, Master Daunbey,' Lady Francesca suddenly spoke up. 'I thought you agreed? Master Millet tried to kill us, as he did those other unfortunates you mentioned.'
Benjamin made a face. 'Ah, yes, Master Millet. Sir John, have your guards bring him up.'
Again we sat in silence. Dacourt went to the door and whispered instructions to the captain of the guard. A few minutes later the young secretarius was dragged in. He was no longer the fop. His hair was dirty and straggling, his face unshaven and there were large bruises under his dark eyes. His fine shirt was now grimy with dust and his breeches looked as if he hadn't changed them for weeks. His hands were tied securely before him and, when the guards let go of his arms, he sank in a moaning heap on the floor. Benjamin just sat watching this pathetic young man plead his innocence. Suddenly he rose, drew his dagger and, going down on his knees, slashed the prisoner's bonds with one stroke of his knife.
'What are you doing?' Dacourt demanded.
The young man crouched on the floor and stared tearfully up. Benjamin patted Millet on the back and returned to his chair.
'I am freeing Michael Millet,' he explained quietly, 'because he is guilty of nothing more than preferring young men to young ladies, as well as having the misfortune of being befriended by one of Monsieur Vauban's innumerable legions of spies.' Benjamin sipped from his cup. I tensed, for the drama was about to begin. 'Michael Millet is not the assassin,' Benjamin continued. 'He is not Raphael, is he, Sir John?'
Dacourt just shook his head.
'How do you know that, Sir John?'
'I don't!'
Benjamin looked down at Peckle. 'Do you, Walter? Do you believe Millet is an assassin and a spy?' 'I don't know!' was the snarled reply. 'Lady Francesca?' She just stared blankly back.
'And what do you think, Sir Robert? You know Millet is not Raphael, don't you?' 'Why should I?'
'Because, Sir Robert, you are Raphael!'
The accusation, so quietly uttered, caused immediate outrage and consternation. Clinton sprang to his feet, his hand going to his dagger, but Agrippa banged on the table with his hand.
'You will sit, Sir Robert, as will you all. Anyone who leaves this chamber without my permission, whether he be the cardinal's nephew or the king's friend, will be killed immediately.'
'How can you say that?' Sir Robert's eyes blazed with fury. 'I wasn't even in France when Abbe Gerard and Falconer died.' He blinked. 'Even if I was the spy, why should I kill Falconer and the Abbe Gerard? They were my friends!'
'So was the king!' Benjamin retorted.
'Let us examine things carefully,' Agrippa interrupted. 'Master Daunbey, please?'
My master leaned forward. 'Let us describe how things happened,' he began. 'And only later explain why. For eighteen months,' he continued, 'there has been a spy called Raphael at the heart of the English council. Master Falconer, through one of his most trustworthy agents, learned his name was Raphael. This was in Holy Week when, Sir Robert, you were here at Maubisson.' He waved a hand. 'Please don't give me your protestations that you were working with Falconer. Of course he told you about the spy. After all, you are the king's friend and head of the chancery which deals with French affairs. You passed this information back to your masters at the Louvre Palace and Monsieur Vauban arranged the death of Falconer's agent.
'Now Falconer became immediately suspicious about this and concentrated on the name Raphael. Before you left for England you probably noticed his change of attitude towards you and decided on a very clever way of removing this dangerous clerk. Remember, it was Holy Week when you left: Falconer, like everyone else, was observing the Church fast, abstaining from meat and wine. But once Lent was over, he would celebrate. He would use his liturgical cup, the Easter goblet, and you smeared that with a very special poison.'
Benjamin looked down at his own cup and swilled the lees of wine round the bottom. 'It must have been a unique kind of poison, though quite an easy feat for you with your interest in chemicals and alchemy. I suspect the juice of Ergot or what the herbalists call 'Claviceps Purpurea'. You see, even Ergot or Mandrake will eventually kill, but rather slowly. Their primary effect is to cause the victim to hallucinate. They feel incredibly happy and believe they can do anything they wish.' Benjamin stared across at Dacourt. 'The wine you shared with Falconer, Sir John, was untainted, but Falconer's cup was not. After you left Falconer fell under the influence of the strong concoction smeared on his cup. He loved birds, loved to study them in flight. It was a warm, spring evening so he went to the top of the tower.' Benjamin shrugged. 'Did he slip or maybe even try to fly? Whatever, with the cup clenched in his hands, he fell to his death.' My master smiled. 'It's not too fanciful. Any man who has drunk too much wine knows how the mind plays tricks.'
'Nonsense!' Clinton, his face now white as a sheet, sprang to his feet and stared round. 'What nonsense is this? Even if I did that, how would I know Falconer would fall to his death?'
'Oh, that was an unexpected gain,' Benjamin replied. 'If he had not and had stayed in his room, the dream effect would have worn off. He would have fallen into a coma and died in his sleep without any visible sign of poison. His death could have been dismissed as due to natural causes. After all, the wine was untainted and who would think of examining the cup?' Benjamin stared at the top of the table for a while. 'Yes, you were very clever, Sir Robert. Oh, please do sit down, I haven't finished yet.'
Clinton slumped back in his chair. I kept my eyes on Lady Francesca. She now sat next to her husband, head bowed, clasping and unclasping her hands.
'Very clever,' Benjamin murmured, 'to poison someone by playing on their fantasies. And most subtle of you to arrange it from scores of miles away.'
'And the Abbe Gerard?' Dacourt barked, now recovering some of his bluster.
Benjamin held up a hand. ‘I can say no more than that the abbe's death was easy to arrange. Once again it was Lent; the abbe, too, was fasting. He received gifts, one of them a flask of wine from Sir Robert sent just before he and Lady Clinton returned to London. Now the good abbe opened the wine after Easter Sunday, once Lent was over. It was only a small jar, perhaps two or three cups at the very most. Under the influence of the poison in the wine, the same poison Falconer drank, the good abbe turned to his constant absorption with the miracles of Christ, particularly the miracle of Jesus walking on water.' Benjamin stared at Clinton. 'As the abbe's friend you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Sir Robert?' Benjamin didn't wait for an answer. 'The good abbe, while hallucinating, went out to the carp pond and tried to walk on water. He was an old man and the shock of the cold water, not to mention the effects of the poison he had drunk, would have killed him in minutes. He struggled but was weak and so quietly drowned. Murder was not suspected, the body removed for burial. The cup he drank from fell into the water with him and was cleansed, whilst the wine jar was thrown out like any piece of rubbish. Once the abbe was dead, Vauban and the Luciferi began to search for the book.' Benjamin paused and smiled to himself. 'But the old priest was astute. He really valued that book, so he hid it.' Benjamin looked straight at Clinton. 'Oh, yes, Sir Robert, I have the book in safe keeping.'
Do you know, I have confronted many murderers, men and women, who have dabbled in the blood of others. They have the arrogance of Cain, who could challenge God and proudly declare that he didn't know where his brother was. Nevertheless, there's a point when such arrogance will suddenly crumble as the murderers realise they have lost control of the game. So it was with Clinton. He stared at Benjamin, mouth half-open, like some weak, senile man devoid of wit and reason.
'I found the book,' Benjamin repeated. 'And I have seen what is written in it. Your first wife's surname was
