The poisoned chalice

the flames of the fire.
    'What is the matter?' I asked. 'Why did Vauban make you so angry?'
    'I am puzzled, Roger,' he replied. 'Why were Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and Waldegrave murdered? What is the connection between them? Is their killer Raphael or someone else? How does Raphael convey his secrets to the Luciferi?' 'There is one common theme,' I replied. 'Which is?'
    I ticked the points off on my fingers. 'First, the secrets of the King's Council are not revealed until they have reached Maubisson. Now we know the letters are opened by Dacourt and deciphered by Peckle, but Millet is Dacourt's secretary and will be privy to such information. The same could be true of Throgmorton. After all, physicians can wander where they wish and prise secrets from others. Secondly, Falconer was murdered here at Maubisson after broaching a flagon of wine with Dacourt. Thirdly, the Abbe Gerard apparently drowned after drinking claret which was undoubtedly sent to him by Dacourt, though taken down to the village probably by his secretary, Master Millet. Fourthly, Waldegrave was killed by Dacourt's horse, Vulcan.'
    'And finally,' Benjamin interrupted, 'Master Millet has a tendency to slip out of the chateau at night to meet God knows whom.' My master sat rocking himself gently in the chair. 'The common denominators in all these factors, as a mathematician would say, are Dacourt and Millet but, first, we don't know for certain if the wine sent to the Abbe Gerard was in fact the same he was drinking the night he died. Secondly, we don't know if Millet took it. Thirdly, the night Falconer died, Dacourt tasted the same wine he drank.' 'We have only his word for that.'
    'Yes, but Throgmorton examined the wine later. He said it was free of any infusion. He also said neither Falconer nor the Abbe Gerard showed any signs of being poisoned.' I watched my theories slowly crumble.
    'And, of course,' I added wearily, 'though Dacourt's horse killed Waldegrave, anyone could have dragged the drunken priest into the stable.'
    Benjamin grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'I did not say your reasoning was wrong, Roger, only that it was faulty.'
    We stayed in the hall and dined with the rest of the company. The conversation was desultory, passing from one banal matter to another. Benjamin did establish that all memoranda, letters and documents sent from Westminster were handled by Dacourt, Peckle and Millet, whilst our mysterious young secretary did take the ambassador's presents down to the Abbe Gerard.
    We retired to bed a little more hopeful that some glimmer of light had been shown but, just before I fell asleep, I realised Benjamin hadn't answered my question about disliking Vauban, so I asked him again.
    'Go to sleep, Roger,' Benjamin drowsily replied. 'I'll tell you in God's good time, as I will about the secret instructions dear Uncle gave me at Hampton Court.'

Chapter 7
    They say lightning never strikes twice but it does when old Shallot's around. I could hardly believe it. We were aroused late that night by the most terrible screams and a pounding on the door. I leapt from my bed and threw open the door. (In my youth I was rash. Now, I'd let someone else do it, whilst I checked to see what window I could jump out of!) Peckle stood there, eyes rounded in fear.
    'The castle is under attack!' he screamed. 'Maillotins! They are forcing the main gate!'
    Benjamin and I seized our arms and rushed out. This time I made sure my master went first and, whilst he ran down the stairs, I scampered like a rabbit to the top of the tower, forcing back the trap door, standing in the same place that poor Falconer had. I looked up. Stars dusted the sky but it was an attacker's moon which slipped treacherously in and out of the clouds. I peered over the battlements. The wind whipped at my hair whilst my stomach lurched in horror at the dreadful sight below. The dark fields in front of the castle were covered in what seemed to be pinpricks of light until I realised they were men carrying torches, streaming towards the main gate. Indeed, most of the fighting was taking place there. I heard the hiss of arrows and the crashing of some makeshift battering ram buckling the beams of the iron-studded gates. The chateau was ill prepared. I glimpsed half-dressed soldiers seizing crossbows and other armaments and heard Dacourt's voice on the breeze screaming out orders. Most of our archers were massing in the gatehouse, shooting at those trying to force an entry.
    I