The poisoned chalice

illusions as to what would happen once the fat bastard got hold of it. The book would be burnt and Henry left free to tell whatever lies he wished. I turned to the loose leaves at the back which, as was the custom. Abbe Gerard had used for his own personal notes. I noticed that the dead priest had written there, 'Chantry Masses to be sung for the souls of the lately departed.' As would be expected these included names of relatives of those at the English embassy. Some I did not recognise, others were quite fresh: a sister of Millet's, John Dacourt's wife, Catherine Stout, as well as that of Sir Robert Clinton's first wife, Clare Harpale. I was disturbed by Benjamin's return. When I unbolted the door he took the book off me.
    'What have you been doing, master?' 'Oh, this and that.'
    He lay on the bed sifting through the pages of the book, leaving me to my own thoughts.
    The next few days dragged by. Benjamin claimed he was waiting for news and went back to his secret writing but I could see from his frayed temper he was making very little progress. Doctor Agrippa's presence only deepened his gloom, and everyone else's. Dacourt became openly nervous, Peckle buried himself in his work and Millet was one of those stupid young men who think music is the solution to every problem. Even Sir Robert Clinton looked agitated as if he realised his friendship with the king would not save him from the royal wrath. Old Dacourt, to lighten the mood, hired a troupe of acrobats, the usual mummers and clowns who entertained great lords and ladies in their halls and bowers. If anything, these idiots only deepened our gloom, their laughter and merriment ringing hollow in the dour atmosphere of the hall.
    But isn't it strange how little things can cause the most devastating changes? I am reminded of that childhood rhyme:

    For want of a nail, the shoe was lost, For want of a shoe, the horse was lost. For want of a horse, the rider was lost. For want of a rider, the battle was lost.

    In this case it was a mongrel dog, an intelligent little beast who, under instructions, could draw painted letters from a small bucket and spell simple words like 'bone' or 'meat'. Sometimes he got them mixed up and this caused unwarranted merriment but it reminded me of poor Falconer's absorption with the name Raphael. A notion occurred to me but I dismissed it until I was alone with my master. I told him and he sat down as if poleaxed.
    'I can't believe it! No,' he stuttered eventually. 'It's not possible!' He rose and paced up and down the room. 'What is it, master?' 'Shut up, Roger, and let me think.'
    The pacing continued. He sat down at his desk and began scribbling madly on any available piece of parchment. He was still writing when I fell into a fitful sleep.
    The next morning a red-eyed Benjamin shook me awake.
    'Look, Roger,' he said, almost dragging me from the bed. 'You are to dress, go down and join the rest and break fast with them in the hall. You are to draw them into conversation and ask John Dacourt whether his late wife's name was Catherine Stout, but watch Millet and ask him a question: did he have a sister called Gabriel who has recently died?' 'But what's the use?' I asked.
    'Oh,' Benjamin jibed, 'his name's Michael, the name of an archangel, his sister was Gabriel, the name of another, and Raphael's the name of a third!' 'But…'
    'Shush!' Benjamin raised a finger to his lips. 'Please, Roger, just do it. But make sure they are all there.'
    I wandered down to the great hall and sat making idle conversation until the rest joined us. I turned the talk to the Abbe Gerard.
    'When I was at his house,' I lied, 'I saw his list of Masses for the dead. Sir John, your late wife was the Lady Catherine Stout?' Well, old Dacourt's eyes immediately brimmed with tears.
    'Yes, yes,' he mumbled, tipping his nose into his cup of watered wine. 'She died five years ago. The old abbe and she were friends.'
    'And you, Michael? I see you also paid for masses for your sister Gabriel?' Millet looked self-conscious.
    'Yes, she died about eight months ago when the sweating sickness visited Lincoln.'
    'Michael and Gabriel,' I smiled. 'The names of archangels.'
    Oh, I tell you this, I felt as if I had put a noose round that young man's neck. He writhed in embarrassment. Dacourt looked up sharply, Clinton became agitated, whilst Peckle's eyes narrowed. I saw the cloud of suspicion grow.
    'It was a conceit of my father's,' Millet blurted out as if he couldn't stand