Chapter 11
Off we trotted into the night. Maria grasped my finger, hopping and skipping like a young girl going to dance round the maypole. It was the eve of a carnival and the crowds still milled about, but, thankfully, Florence's streets at night are safe. Maria led the way, taking us through back routes along alleyways where the only surprise was the occasional snarling cat or the incomprehensible whine of a beggar. At one window I paused and stared in. A young girl was playing a viol, softly, lightly, her sweet voice chanting words I couldn't understand. Nevertheless, the strain of the music caught my imagination and I quietly cursed powerful princes and corrupt cardinals who dragged me from such joys into the filthy mire of their sinister games.
At last we arrived outside Borelli's house. The great door was closed and locked. Benjamin banged with the pommel of his dagger until a rheumy-eyed dribbling-mouthed old man pushed it open. Maria chattered to him, then looked up at us.
'He does not know if Master Borelli is in, though his friend might be there.'
Benjamin pulled a coin from his purse and waved it in front of the old man's face.
'Maria, ask him to describe Master Borelli.'
The old man, his eyes more lively at the sight of the coin, gabbled his reply. Maria looked at us mournfully and shook her head.
'Master Daunbey, something's wrong. According to Grandad here, Borelli has auburn hair.' 'Well, who was it we met?' I asked.
Benjamin pulled another coin from his purse. He pushed it into the old man's dirty hand and squeezed past him through the open door. Maria and I followed behind. The old man didn't protest but danced from one foot to the other, staring in amazement at the coins he had so easily earned. The door to Borelli's room was locked. Benjamin prised it open with his dagger and in we went. The chamber was in darkness. Peering through the gloom I saw that the canvas on which the artist had been working had been tossed to the ground.
For a while we stumbled about, cursing. Then Maria found some candles, which I lit. But I still walked carefully, fear pricking the nape of my neck and my stomach churning, for that chamber had the horrid stink of death. Then I saw the hand jutting out between some wooden slats piled in the corner of the room.
'Master!' I shouted as I pulled the slats away.
Behind them, sprawled against the damp, flaking wall, was the man we had met earlier. His throat was one bright red gash from ear to ear; his tawdry doublet was thickly encrusted with dried blood. His face shone liverish-white in the dancing candlelight.
'So we have found one artist," Benjamin whispered. 'Now, let's discover where the other one could be?'
He wasn't far away. In a small adjoining chamber, a tiny garret which served as a bedroom, the auburn-haired painter lay, sprawled half off the bed, head flung back, wide-open eyes staring. His throat, too, had been slashed. Benjamin and I hastily withdrew. My master sat down on a stool.
'Borelli,' he mused, 'paints for the king of England a portrait commissioned either by the Lord Francesco Albrizzi or by the Cardinal Giulio de' Medici. The painting is handed over in England. We are sent to Florence to invite the artist back to the English court. But the gentleman behind the wooden slats kills the artist and takes his place, play-acting for us. Now he, too, is dead. So it was important to someone that we should neither speak to the real Borelli nor, perhaps more importantly, invite him back to England.'
'So we must ask ourselves, Master, who knew we were coming here? That royal bastard in London did and your dear uncle, though Florence is too far away for even them to interfere. The Albrizzis also knew, my Lord Cardinal Giulio de Medici did and so did that lump of shit the Master of the Eight!'
'I'd discount the last one,' Benjamin said. 'You've seen his style, Roger. He would have arrested Borelli on some trumped-up charge and then interrogated him. So that leaves the Albrizzis and the Cardinal. Which?'
He got to his feet. 'Let's search the place.'
'What are we looking for, Master?'
'Any artist worth his salt always makes charcoal drawings and sketches before he commits the final work to canvas. Let's search for those. Perhaps we may even find the letter of commission.'
We searched those rooms from top to bottom. Even Maria scurried around like a little squirrel, chattering all the time. But there was no letter. The old door-keeper came up to enquire what was going on, but trotted off happy after Benjamin had tossed him another coin. At last we stopped, sweating and panting in the middle of the room, and surveyed the chaos we had caused.
'Nothing!' Benjamin exclaimed. 'Whoever commissioned that painting must have insisted that all the sketches be destroyed.' He beat his hand against his thigh. 'And the original is in England.'