The Borgia Ring (25 page)

The stairs were narrow and enclosed. We turned off at the first landing and marched along a passage that opened out on to a galleried area. The Queen’s quarters were
directly overhead, on the second floor, but I knew we could not risk going there yet. Instead, I took the lead and we followed the gallery round to a grand staircase on the far side. I took us down the stairs, tapping the pike against the steps as I went.

The bottom of the stairs opened on to a large hallway with doors leading off in all directions. A footman was hurrying towards the main doors at the end. Two men in the attire of bakers were carrying what looked like heavy wicker baskets. They were accompanied by a guard who directed them to the servants’ stairs. Two more guards stood at the far end of the hall. We had arrived a little earlier than planned and took up position at the foot of the stairs.

For several minutes, Martin Fairweather and I watched the comings and goings of the Royal household. It was clear the servants rarely stopped working. Dinner had been served hours earlier, and the Queen would now be in her bedchamber, but the kitchen staff were preparing for the next day and the tradesmen were doing late-night rounds so that everything would be ready for the morning.

I had just turned to glance at Martin, standing opposite me at the foot of the stairs, when the nerve-racking interlude ended. Two men in guards’ uniforms crashed through the front doors. ‘Fire!’ one of them screamed. ‘Quickly, the north tower!’

A man rushed past us from a door behind the stairs and spun round on his heel. He was clearly a senior guard, his lined face and pronounced limp evidence of long service to his Queen. ‘Come on!’ he yelled at us. ‘What you waiting for?’

We ran after him the length of the hall. The two guards who had been stationed at the far end had followed the men who’d raised the alarm. As we neared the end of the hall, the senior guard took the corner with surprising speed and Martin and I dived under a narrow archway, almost tripping over each
other on the steep stone stairs that fell away just beyond the opening. I grabbed a handrail and Martin slammed into my back, the handle of his sword knocking into my hip making me cry out in pain.

We emerged back into the hall with Martin leading the way and came face to face with the senior guard who had yelled orders at us only a few moments earlier. He had his sword drawn. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you?’ he screamed. In a panic, I lowered my pike threateningly. He fell back and took up a defensive stance. Martin unsheathed his sword and took a step towards the man.

‘Go!’ he yelled to me.

I hesitated for a second then turned and ran towards the stairs, my heavy boots echoing on the marble floor as I picked up pace. A guard emerged from a door to my left. He looked at me and then at the scene along the hall. Without hesitating, I plunged my pike into his chest. He fell back, his face frozen in shock and terror. I yanked out the pike and ran on. At the foot of the stairs, I glanced back and saw the old guard knock Martin’s sword from his hand and force him back to the wall at the tip of a dagger. I was torn between running on up the stairs and dashing back to help Martin. But my decision was made for me.

The guard kept Martin pinned against the wall with the dagger and slid his sword into my friend’s abdomen, levering it up towards his heart. Martin gasped and began to choke on his own blood. Sneering, the guard leaned closer, pushing in the steel blade with all his weight behind it. But the sneer faltered, to be replaced by an expression of bewilderment. Two lines of blood rolled from the guard’s nostrils and he fell back, a dagger in his chest. Martin turned his head painfully in my direction. ‘Go,’ he gurgled, and slid down the wall.

I took the stairs three at a time. Reaching the top, I spun to my left and ran as fast as I could along the carpeted gallery.
From far off, I could hear shouts and the faint smell of burning. At the end of the gallery, a second staircase led upwards. I slowed to a stately pace and tried to proceed calmly, in spite of the fear raging through me. Marching along the gallery on the second floor, I could see ahead of me the doors into the Queen’s private chambers. A guard stood to one side.

‘What’s happening?’ he exclaimed. ‘I was told to wait here. Simon said something about a fire. He’s gone to find out.’

I shrugged and looked to my left suddenly as though I had just seen something strange. The guard followed my gaze and I slammed the shaft of my pike into the side of his head. He swayed, half-stunned, and before he could cry out, I plunged my dagger into his throat. Slicing it away from me, I ripped a great gash along his neck. He dropped like a stone, his blood splashing on to my leather tunic.

I opened the door and stepped inside. In the small antechamber a sumptuous Persian rug lay on the floor and the walls were covered with murals: scenes from an Athenian pageant. A door the other side of the chamber was half-open. I leaned against the wall and peered into the next room through the narrow space between the back edge of the door and its frame. A young woman was arranging a gown over a long stool. A mirror on the wall showed the room behind her. It was otherwise empty. I slid around the door and into the second room.

The girl heard me and spun around to face me. She was probably no more than seventeen and exquisitely beautiful, with huge, doleful brown eyes and full ruby lips. Her long golden hair was artfully arranged in curls around her pretty face and two narrow plaits ran back on each side of her head and were caught up behind it. I rushed towards her, managing to get my hand to her mouth before she could make a sound. She struggled, landing a kick in my groin that sent a
terrible pain up into my abdomen. One of her hands came round and she dug her nails deep into my cheek, raking them downwards, taking flesh and skin with them. I stifled a scream and thrust an arm around her neck. She bit the palm of my hand, clutched to her mouth, but I held on. I knew not what to do. I could not risk trying to knock her unconscious and tying her up. I felt possessed, fury burning in my guts, full of a crazed desire to do whatever it took to kill the Queen. I twisted the girl’s neck and heard it snap. I lowered her to the floor, limp and lifeless.

The door to the Queen’s chamber was closed. I eased the handle round and prayed the hinges had been well oiled. They had. The door opened silently inwards. The only light in the room came from a single large candle set in a magnificent gold holder which occupied an alcove close to a row of windows overlooking the most splendid gardens in England.

The room was dominated by a massive four-poster bed. Each of the four posts was carved out of oak. Faces of strange creatures from the depths of dreams emerged from the wood. They were accompanied by nymphs and wolves, hunters, stags and gargoyles. Hanging down beside the posts were rich, red velvet drapes. These had been drawn across three sides of the bed, but on the side closest to me, a swathe of the finest silk formed a diaphanous screen. In the bed lay the Queen of England. She was on her back, her head propped up on a pile of pillows, her arms over the sheets. She was snoring softly. She moved suddenly and I froze. She twisted on to her side, facing me, farted and turned on to her back again.

I took a step forward and parted the silk screen. I could see her face now. She looked much older than I had imagined. Her face was leathery and lined, but her eyelids were gossamer-like, lightly veined and frail. I pivoted the top of the ring and gazed at the spike that rose up as the emerald fell away. And I paused.

Time seemed to come to a halt. The silence of the room filled me with sudden dread. We were in a cocoon, isolated from the world. Nothing of reality could reach me now. I looked again at Her Royal Highness Elizabeth Tudor. She appeared completely powerless. This was not the woman who ruled a kingdom, wielded a power that awoke fear in the hearts of men, ruled by Divine Right. This was not the sovereign who had sent the Spanish Armada packing. This figure on the bed was just an old woman, flesh and blood, like any other.

I leaned forward, brought my hand over the edge of the bed, closed my eyes and thrust forward.

The first thing I noticed was the sound … a whoosh! A rush of air close to my arm … and then the pain. My eyes opened wide and I saw the blade slicing through my hand and my fingers tumbling to the bed. Blood flooded out of me, spraying across the horrified face of Queen Elizabeth who had leapt from her bed into a waking nightmare.

I could not scream. No sound would come. I sensed someone beside me. He grabbed my arm and I felt the tip of a sword press against my throat. He was about to plunge the blade into me.

‘No!’ the Queen shouted, her face as pale as death.

‘But … Your Majesty!’

‘I said, no, William.’

I managed to turn my head as the blade was snatched away from my throat. Standing with his sword arm stiff and straight, in line with his out-thrust chin, stood Anthony.

Newgate Prison, London, March 1589

And so now I come to the end of my confessional, for that is what this sorry tale really is, the confession of a failed assassin.

I can hear the sound of boots outside my cell and the clanking of keys as the guards arrive to take me to my place of execution.

At this moment, I feel strangely calm. Oh, do not doubt I have had many nights of terror as I have foreseen my fate. In my dreams, I have already felt the executioner’s blade disembowelling me. There have been many times when I wished I would die from the torture I have received. But thanks to the skill of the Royal Physician I have been kept from Heaven’s Gate … temporarily. And now a new hope pervades my mind. For I know that although I failed in my mission to kill the Tudor whore, still I served God with my every fibre, my entire heart, my entire soul. And I like to believe the Lord will forgive me my failure and welcome me into Heaven.

Here, in this prison, I have heard strange and terrible things. My guard has taken great pleasure in relating how Ann Doherty died, and how Edward Perch sobbed like a baby as the hangman placed the noose around his neck. His latest news was to tell me that the Queen herself will be attending my execution. Well, we shall see.

And my nemesis – what of him? Anthony is a kinsman of Walsingham. My gaoler’s tittle-tattle informs me that, to perfect his role in my downfall, he took lessons from no less a figure than London’s greatest thespian, Edward Alleyn. Now, even through my pain and my fury, I cannot deny the lad’s skill, God curse him.

Ah, the clanking grows louder. And there goes the door. I fear my time has drained to nothing. What will be my final
words? Shall I scream outrage and splash bile on to the page? No, I shall not. For I have the best of it. Soon, I shall meet my Lord. I shall once again be with Sebastian, with Ann, and all the other martyrs who have died for the One True Faith. For, Lord, Yours is the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen.

Stepney, Friday 10 June, 6.30 p.m.

Pendragon clicked on the digital recorder in Interview Room 2 and leaned back in the chair with his fingers interlocked in his lap. ‘Maybe we should start at the beginning,’ he told Nigel Turnbull.

The young man was so grossly overweight, his buttocks overflowed both sides of the metal chair. Studying him closely for the first time, Pendragon realised that Turnbull looked at least ten years older than his true age. He was completely bald and there were lines under his eyes. His massive forehead was beaded with sweat.

‘I was DJ-ing at The Love Shack when some dead dude came through the air duct in the ceiling. That’s all I know about your investigation, DCI Pendragon.’

‘You know, Nigel, for someone in as deep as you, you’re being awfully cocky.’

Turnbull stared him out, arms crossed over his huge, flabby chest.

‘All right then. Let’s not start from the beginning. Let’s start with the findings of my forensics team. Within the past few days, two rather unusual plants have been removed from the greenhouse next to the lab at Queen Mary.’

‘That happens all the time.’

‘Yes, but these were removed rather amateurishly. Not,
I imagine, the way trained scientists like yourself would handle their valuable specimens.’

Turnbull shrugged.

‘Okay, Nigel. Let me help you a little more. The two plants are rare in this country. But, most importantly to my investigation, they each produce an essential ingredient in a very complex poison which has been used to kill two people. Furthermore, those victims were each associated with the building company who were the employers of “the dead dude” who landed so indecorously on your dance-floor only a week ago.’

Turnbull looked genuinely shocked. ‘I had no idea.’

‘What do you mean, you had no idea, Nigel? You’re involved in these murders up to your walrus neck.’

‘Now, hang on.’

‘What do you
mean
, hang on? You are either the murderer we are looking for or their accomplice – the expert poison-maker. It’s obvious.’

Turnbull turned very pale. ‘Look … I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘In that case, why did you run?’

‘I don’t know. I panicked, I guess.’

‘Oh, come on. You can do better than that. I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?’ Pendragon didn’t wait for a response. ‘You’re hard up, but you have a useful skill to sell. Someone made you an offer you simply couldn’t refuse. A nice fat cheque in exchange for a small vial of poison. You needed some plant materials from your lab, but they’re nursed like babies because they are extremely rare and valuable. So, you yanked them up to make it look like a theft.’

‘If I did that, why wasn’t it reported?’ Turnbull responded.

‘Well, that’s a good question, isn’t it, Nigel? Perhaps you
could tell me. Or maybe we should bring Dr Frampton in? He would have been responsible for contacting the police.’

‘Do what you want.’

‘I tell you what I will do, Nigel. I’ll give you a chance to help yourself. It’s not you we’re really after. You’re just a stooge, a hard-up kid with some knowledge of biochemistry. Having said that, Accessory to Murder, Theft, Resisting Arrest. Well …’ And Pendragon pretended to count on his fingers. ‘I can’t see you getting less than ten years, even without previous.’

Turnbull threw his head into his hands and started to sob. It was an awful sound, like a hippo with diarrhoea. His shoulders shook, which made his whole body vibrate in sympathy.

‘Now, if you were able to impart some names, I might, just might, be able to pull some strings.’

Turnbull raised his head from his palms. His eyes were red, cheeks streaked with tears. ‘I swear, Chief Inspector, on my mother’s grave, I don’t know anything about this.’

Pendragon fixed the young man with a truly spine-chilling look. ‘Nigel, your mother is still alive. I’ve read your file. And I don’t believe you. Not for one minute. Now, you can either carry on the innocent act and serve a decade in Pentonville, or you can do the sensible …’

There was a knock at the door. Turner came in holding a sheet of paper. He leaned close to Pendragon’s ear and said quietly, ‘Sir, the second report from forensics. I think you should read it straight away.’ He sat down next to the DCI.

Pendragon scanned through the report, then focused on the summary and conclusion at the end.

Pendragon lowered the sheet of paper, glanced at Turner and let out a heavy sigh. ‘It seems you and Dr Frampton have been very industrious,’ he said in a sorrowful tone.

Turnbull looked at his chubby fingers, clasped together in front of him. ‘I don’t really understand, Chief Inspector.’

Pendragon slid over the last page of the report. Turnbull’s eyes darted over it.

‘So that’s why you ran … and why you didn’t report the theft of the plants.’

Turnbull took a deep breath. ‘I swear I know nothing about the poisonings.’

Pendragon closed his eyes for a moment, leaned his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he stood up and strode towards the door. ‘Charge him, Sergeant,’ he said, without breaking stride. ‘Then bring in Frampton and charge him too.’