A Brood of Vipers(13)

'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot, we are pleased to meet you. The Lady Maria' - he gestured elegantly to the little woman - 'always rejoices in new acquaintanceship with her countrymen.' His face became serious. 'But the matters before us are most grave. My brother, the Lord Francesco, has been foully slain in a London street. We seek vengeance, but we do not know the killer. His Grace the King and your fair uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, have assured us, Master Daunbey, of your skill in hunting down and unmasking murderers. You have been assigned to my household.' He paused so we could take in the emphasis on the word 'my'. 'Whatever your lowly status,' he continued, glancing superciliously at me, 'you are our guests.' He stroked his moustache. 'We look to you for justice to be done!'



The last words were tinged, however subtly, with a threat. I stared at his 'household', who sat like wooden statues. Nevertheless, I thought, the assassin must be here; beneath the courtly etiquette, tactful murmurs and polite smiles flowed an underlying tension. People can say more with gestures than with torrents of words. I glanced quickly to my right. Little Maria was studying me closely. Agrippa, sitting midway down the table, coughed and spread his hands. He still wore his black gauntlets.



(Ah, excuse me, my little chaplain, my beloved apple-squire, is jumping up and down. 'Why did he wear those gloves? Why did he wear those gloves?' he pleads. Very good, I'll tell him. I have seen the cross burning red on each of Agrippa's palms, open wounds to remind him of where he came from.



My chaplain is still not satisfied, he has other questions. 'How could those Florentines understand Agrippa? They surely knew little English.' Now my little noddle is wrong.



Listen to Old Shallot. I have been constantly amazed in my long and varied life by how poorly the English can speak their language or anybody else's, yet how quickly others can master our tongue. I don't know why. I was discussing the matter with young Ben Jonson and Walter Raleigh when we met for a meal in our secret chamber in the house of Bethel. Do you know what I told them? I think the English believe God is an Englishman and speaks our tongue. Consequently, we consider it useless learning anyone else's language, whilst insisting that everyone else learns ours?)



Ah well, back to Agrippa. He was making the usual silky, courtly protestations, but at last he came to the nub of the matter.

'I have informed Master Daunbey of everything the king has done in this matter,' he said, 'and we have visited Cheapsidc and seen where the Lord Francesco was killed. Yet I must be blunt, we can discover nothing.'

'But that's impossible!' Enrico drummed the tabletop, his eyes squinting down at us. 'How can a man take a gun into a busy London street, fire it, kill my father-in-law and escape?'

'That is the mystery,' Benjamin said. 'An arquebus is cumbersome; it has to be loaded, primed, aimed and fired. It stains the person who uses it and cannot be easily hidden.' Benjamin shrugged. 'If we could solve the mystery of how the gun was used, we would trap the assassin and hang him or her at Tyburn. But there is a much more important question.'

'Which is?' Alessandro demanded imperiously. He stared down his hooked nose as if we had crawled out of the nearest sewer. He simply couldn't understand why we were sitting at the same table as he.

Benjamin pulled a face and pointed at the henchman who had been introduced to us simply as Giovanni. He sat playing like some girl with the tresses of his long hair. His hooded eyes never left mine.



'Master Giovanni,' Benjamin asked. 'You are a soldier?'



'I am a condottiero,' the man replied. 'What you Inglese call a mercenary.'



'And you have experienced gunfire?'



'Of course.'



'And you would agree with what I say?'



The man pulled a face and waved one be-ringed hand.



'What is your "important question"?' Alessandro insisted, gesturing at Giovanni to keep silent.



The condottiero's eyes narrowed in a look of hate. Oh dear, I thought, here are two men who have no love for each other.



'My question is quite simple,' Benjamin replied. 'Concedo, for the purposes of the argument, that the Lord Francesco was killed by a ball fired from an alleyway off Cheapside. He was, however, a great Florentine lord visiting the English court - not the sort of man who would saunter through London whenever the whim took him. What really intrigues me is who knew he would be in Cheapside on that particular day?'



Benjamin stared around. The Florentines gazed stonily back.



'What are you implying?' Alessandro asked menacingly.



'My master is implying nothing.' I spoke up. 'The question is simple enough. Someone was waiting for Lord Francesco. Someone who knew he would be there. And someone who knew the best place to commit the murder. There's a warren of alleyways and runnels in the city which would delight any rat, be it four-legged or two!'