The poisoned chalice

clerk, Walter Peckle; Doctor Thomas Throgmorton, physician; Michael Millet, personal assistant and clerk to Sir John Dacourt; and the man responsible for our agents… or rather, who was, Giles Falconer. We already knew there was a spy either in England or France selling secrets to the French. It was Falconer who discovered the spy's code-name: Raphael.' 'How?' Benjamin asked quietly.
    'One of Falconer's agents was discovered in the Rue des Billets. He had been stabbed a number of times but, before he died, he used his own blood to etch on a piece of parchment the name Raphael. Now on Easter Monday last [almost six weeks ago I thought], Falconer retired to his chamber. Late that night both Millet and Throgmorton heard him going upstairs to the top of one of the towers of the chateau. Millet peeped out of his chamber, Falconer had a goblet in his hand, he was smiling but not drunk. Throgmorton heard him singing. On Tuesday morning, Falconer was found at the base of the tower, his neck broke, his head shattered.' 'He could have slipped,' Benjamin said.
    'Impossible. The tower does have a crenellated wall but the gaps have iron bars across to prevent anyone falling. Moreover, the tower roof is sprinkled with fine sand to prevent anyone slipping. Throgmorton, who surveyed the area after Falconer's body had been discovered, found no trace of any such slip or, indeed, of anyone else being with Falconer on the top of the tower.' 'Could it have been suicide?' I asked.
    'I doubt it. The rest of the embassy met Falconer at dinner that Monday. He was as happy as ever. Falconer was a bachelor but a man in love with life. He enjoyed his work and was one of the best agents we had.' Agrippa's eyes hardened. 'Indeed, he was a personal friend of mine.' Another black magician? I wondered. 'No,' he snapped, 'Falconer was murdered.' 'The wine,' I asked. 'Was it poisoned?'
    Agrippa smiled sweetly. 'We considered that but Sir John Dacourt, an honest old soldier, was with Falconer in his room when he broached the bottle. Dacourt had a cup of the same wine and suffered no ill effects.' 'Who could be the murderer?' I asked.
    'Any of those four. Oh,' he added, 'we missed out one person: Richard Waldegrave, the chaplain.' 'You wish us to go to Paris?' Benjamin interrupted.
    'Yes, we do, so perhaps it's time you met your companions.'
    Wolsey picked up a silver bell but Agrippa raised his hand.
    'Lord Cardinal, I believe your nephew has further questions?' Benjamin gazed at the cardinal, then at his familiar.
    'Doctor Agrippa,' he asked, 'when matters are decided regarding France, how are such conclusions reached and despatched abroad?'
    'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.' 'Then what happens?'
    'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.' 'Why is that?'
    'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'
    I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction. 'What happens then?' my master asked.
    'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.' 'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'
    'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.' 'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'
    Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves "Maillotins" or "Club-Wielders".'
    (Oh, I knew about these.