I felt like reminding him that only a few hours earlier he had been quite offhand about our assistance. But the mood of the Albrizzis had turned ugly.
'How do we know,' Alessandro asked, 'that it is not the Inglese themselves who are the assassins?'
'Don't be stupid!' I retorted. 'We had never even heard of Lord Francesco or any of you before all this happened!'
'What Master Shallot is saying,' Benjamin tactfully intervened, 'is that when Lord Francesco was in Cheapside we were in Ipswich. But I agree with the Lord Roderigo. I do not wish to alarm you, but I believe you are being hunted by a skilful assassin intent on all your deaths. Now logic dictates that the deaths of both Francesco and Preneste are the work of a single assassin, who killed Francesco in London, who managed to enter this garden and shoot Preneste and who killed Matteo the steward in a similar way on board ship. Ergo,' Benjamin concluded softly, 'the assassin must be in this house. He or she must be one of us!'
There were murmurs of protest, but nothing as vehement or vociferous as those that had been voiced in London. No longer was the honour of the family name paramount. Everyone glanced sideways at their neighbour as they accepted the truth of my master's assertion.
Enrico spoke up, peering across at Benjamin. 'We must therefore establish where each of us was when Preneste was killed.'
I stared down at little Maria perched like a child on her stool. She gazed solemnly back. My stomach churned. What if it was her, I thought? Small and lithe, she could move unnoticed amongst the crowds - but had she the strength to manage an arquebus? I looked at Giovanni, the professional soldier, who sat fingering his long hair; he stared passively down the table, ignoring the glances directed at him.
Nevertheless, he sensed the unspoken accusation. He was a mercenary. What guarantee could he give that he had not been hired by some enemy to wage silent, bloody war against the Albrizzis? He straightened on the stool, his quilted leather jacket creaking. He still played with a tendril of hair, which he was now braiding. He tapped the floor with his boot.
'Anyone here,' he said softly, 'could purchase a handgun.' His voice rose. 'Everyone in this room is proficient in its use. Don't look so accusingly at me! Why should I turn my hand against my patron?'
Nobody even looked at him, let alone answered.
Benjamin got to his feet. 'Perhaps we should return to the garden? I know where I was standing. Where were all of you?'
Enrico clapped his hands softly. 'Lady Bianca, I was standing behind you. Alessandro, you were a little forward to my right. You were scratching your neck, yes? So, where was everyone else?'
Benjamin sat down again as confusion broke out, everyone telling their story but nothing tallying. Benjamin tapped the top of the table.
'The truth is,' he said, 'that we were all so frightened by what Preneste was doing that none of us can clearly remember. But there is a further possibility to consider.'
The hubbub of conversation finally died away.
'Perhaps the assassin is not in this room,' Benjamin went on, nudging me gently under the table to tell me to keep silent. 'There were servants in London, servants on board ship and servants here in the house tonight. All I can advise is that each of us, until this murderer is unmasked, walks carefully.'
The meeting broke up. Benjamin beckoned me to follow him back into the garden; behind us the babble of conversation died as the household retired to bed.
'Did you mean what you said about the servants, Master?' I whispered.
'Of course not!' Benjamin replied. 'The assassin was sitting at that table. What servant would dare commit three murders? Someone would notice something amiss. One death perhaps, but not three.'
We walked further into the darkness. Benjamin turned and looked at me squarely.
'But what could the motive for the murders be? Is it revenge for some secret hurt? Is it the lust for power and wealth?' He held a finger to his lips. 'Francesco dies, he is head of the family. Matteo dies, he is Francesco's steward and faithful companion. Then Preneste, the priest lawyer and family confidant. Now, why should the assassin select those last two? Eh, Roger?'
'Because they might know something,' I replied slowly. 'Preneste, though, may have been killed because the powers he possessed may have enabled him to name the murderer.'
'Or Preneste, like Matteo, may simply have remembered something that is the key to this puzzle,' Benjamin said.
'What about Throckle?' I asked.
Benjamin shrugged. 'How can the suicide of an old doctor in the wilds of Essex be connected to bloody, violent death in the golden hills of Tuscany?' He shivered and crossed his arms. 'All murders have a pattern but this one is a maze.' He looked back at the darkened house. 'I wonder?'