A Brood of Vipers

began, 'when your father and uncle were murdered in Rome. They were there to buy jewels, precious stones. Two men were taken and hanged.' Enrico nodded.
    'At the time,' I continued, 'Rome was under the dominance of Pope Leo X, a member of the Medici family. I suppose he trapped the killers?' Enrico murmured his assent.
    'But you always had your suspicions. I surmise that, just before you left for England, Cardinal Giulio de Medici told you that your father and uncle's real murderers were not the two hapless unfortunates hanged. These were only the bully-boys who carried out the crime; the real assassin was Lord Francesco Albrizzi.' I sipped from the goblet. 'Now, you would have asked the cardinal for proof?' 'Perhaps.'
    'You did,' I insisted. 'And the good cardinal told you that a priceless emerald stolen from your father's corpse was in Lord Francesco's possession.'
    Enrico watched me unblinkingly. I breathed deeply to control my panic.
    'Now the cardinal went on to say that when Lord Francesco arrived at the English court he would give King Henry a precious jewel. No Albrizzi had ever seen that jewel before; it was the one taken from your father.' I shook my head, ‘I don't know what further proof the good cardinal gave you, but you were half-convinced. The Albrizzis had certainly profited from your father's death. They had taken you into their house and, as your guardians, had access to your dead father's wealth. Of course, they had also arranged the marriage between you and their daughter Beatrice – a beautiful young woman with the morals of an alley cat.' Enrico smirked. 'How can you say that?'
    'Oh, for God's sake!' I replied. 'You played the role of the doting husband well, but you were not blind to the lovelorn glances between Lady Beatrice, God rest her, and the soldier Giovanni!'
    He leaned back, flexing his fingers – the only sign of the rage seething within him. 'Do continue,' he said softly.
    'Well, the rest you know better than I do,' I told him, stating the obvious. 'The powerful Albrizzis travelled to the English court as envoys from Florence. The exchange of gifts was made. Lord Francesco produced the emerald for our good King Henry. The Albrizzi women protest at a precious stone they'd never seen before being given away. So now you have your proof. Already seething at being under Lord Francesco's control and being cuckolded by the faithless Beatrice, you decided to act. Lord Francesco's death was so easy. You went to Cheapside with him, remember?' 'Of course.'
    'Your wife is looking at English cloth. Lord Francesco walks on. You pretend to be busy in a goldsmith's. When the goldsmith tells you to look outside, you do so – and slip into the mouth of that alleyway and, from its narrow darkness, kill the Lord Francesco.'
    'But how?' Enrico spread his hands, Inglese, you move so fast. This story about the cardinal and the jewel?'
    'Oh, don't lie!' I snarled, it's in your face. What are you saying, Enrico? That you'd allow your father's assassin to walk away laughing? That you'd allow him to kill your father and seize his wealth and his son?'
    My words stung Enrico. His hand went under the table. My blood chilled. He had been in the refectory before I arrived, and arranged the wine. Where was the crossbow he had used to kill Roderigo? Enrico straightened up.
    'Let us assume,' he said, digging at the table top with his finger, 'that the Lord Cardinal produced evidence – a letter written to him by my father many years ago expressing his fears about the Albrizzis and their ambitions. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal had a list of the jewels and precious stones my father was carrying when he was killed and that one of these matched Albrizzi's gift to your fat king. Let us assume that the Lord Cardinal produced proof that when Lord Francesco Albrizzi claimed he was elsewhere, he actually was in hiding on the outskirts of Rome. And let us assume that I saw such proof. How it would chill my heart and spark a burning passion for vengeance!' Enrico sat up, placing his elbows on the arm-rest of the chair. His mood had abruptly changed. 'But assuming is one thing, proof is another. Lord Francesco was shot by a handgun.'
    'Nonsense!' I replied. 'You know that and so do I. There was no gun. That was simply a red herring – a device used to confirm that, although you were near Albrizzi when he was slaughtered, you could not have killed him. You could not possibly have been carrying an arquebus. No powder