The Borgia Ring (27 page)

‘And that’s why it was hushed up?’

‘Precisely.’

‘But it doesn’t make sense. If the skeleton is that of the mysterious assassin, how did he die from arsenic poisoning?’

‘Sadly, Chief Inspector, I think that’s something we may never learn.’

Stepney, Saturday 11 June, 7.00 p.m.

The opening notes of Palestrina’s Missa Papae Marcelli ‘Kyrie’ spilled out of the speakers as the man crossed the floor to the cheval glass standing in the corner. The room was lit solely by candles which cast jagged shadows around the walls and the ceiling.

He contemplated his reflection and smiled with satisfaction. He looked good, he thought, very good. The long, black hair of his wig fell around his white-pancaked neck. A new band of gold roses, designed by a master craftsman he had found in Rome, rested on his head. He had chosen a rich blue silk gown with a gold bodice. His make-up was particularly dramatic tonight, and very fetching, he thought: a red slash of lipstick, the shade of spilled blood, black eyeliner and shiny green eyeshadow, rouged cheeks and a beauty spot just above his upper lip. His eyes sparkled as he considered himself. He smiled, revealing even white teeth.

Turning, he took two paces over to the bench. Above it was a print of his favourite portrait of Lucrezia. It was the Bartolomeo Veneziano, painted around 1510, in which she is wearing a white robe and a Turkish headdress, a small posy of flowers clasped in her right hand. She looked remarkably innocent, he thought, so wonderfully deceptive. A woman of pure genius.

He picked up a test tube from the rack and raised it to the candlelight. It contained a green, viscous liquid. He tilted the test tube and watched the substance flow slowly along the glass and back again.

Next to the rack of test tubes stood the little bracket he had fashioned himself. The ring rested in the bracket, the jewel levered back, the spike protruding. Taking a slender glass wand, he unstoppered the test tube, stuck the rod inside and removed it, coated in green. Very carefully, he smeared the spike in the ring with the green liquid and pushed the jewel back into place. Plucking the ring from the bracket, he pulled it down on to the fifth finger of his left hand.

He held up his hand and gazed at the ring. His own good fortune in learning of it never ceased to amaze him. It was destiny, of course. And, in his eyes, the ring’s beauty never faded. In the green depths of the jewel he could see infinite space, a trillion universes, all things, for ever. He felt his stomach churn as he remembered again how this object had once been owned by the Goddess Lucrezia herself. Her finger had slipped inside this gold band just as his now filled the space. It was a communion, a deep, deep connection between himself and the woman who had been the object of his adoration for so long.

He turned back to the mirror and rotated his hand, jewel outward, letting the candlelight catch the myriad tiny green worlds inside the emerald. He shifted his fingers, admiring the way the colour set off his eyeshadow so brilliantly.

He heard a sound and stopped. He turned the music off and concentrated on the silence. The sound came again. What was it? A swish of fabric? Something scraping? He tiptoed to the end of the room. The door was ajar. The living-room was dark, the curtains drawn, the lights off. He flicked the wall switch and the room was flooded with light. He stood
motionless, his breathing stilled, eyes surveying the room. But there was nothing to see and the only sound was the traffic from the main road and the faint whirring of the fridge in the kitchen.

Returning to the small, candlelit room, he crossed back to the counter where he kept his chemicals and laboratory apparatus. There was a distillation set up: a condenser, flasks, rubber tubing. Next to this stood a Bunsen burner, a tripod and a set of crucibles. To the right of these, a mortar and pestle, an asbestos mat and metal tongs.

He moved to the end of the bench where a small pile of black-and-white photographs lay. He picked them up and walked over to a candle in a holder close to the edge of the bench. The photographs were portraits of familiar faces. He took his time studying some of them, his facial expression constantly shifting: a smile, a frown, another smile, a grimace.

‘Who should it be?’ he said aloud. ‘Who should it be?’

Five pictures in, he stopped. ‘Yes.’ He pulled the photograph closer, his eyes moving around the image, taking in every detail. ‘Yes. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Pendragon, MA (Oxon). Oh, yes, perfect, perfect!’ He chuckled as he selected the picture and went to place it on the bench top. Then he stopped. ‘Oh, but hang on … Oh, my!’ He stared at the next image in the pile, glanced back at the photograph of Pendragon then again at the other image. ‘Now that … that would be pure genius.’ And he let out a roar of laughter. ‘Pure … fucking … genius!’ He plucked the picture from the pile and put it down on the counter. Staring up at him was the face of Sue Latimer.

Westminster, London, March 1589

It was the greatest day of his life. As William Anthony backed out of the Queen’s council chamber, bowing low, he fingered the Collar of Esses which Her Majesty had just bestowed upon him. This was the single greatest honour any man could receive from the Queen – a personal gift, as well as an official acknowledgement. The collar was solid gold and carried the badge of the Tudor rose, to signify the wearer’s perpetual attachment to the Royal Family. It had once been worn by no less a figure than Sir Thomas More.

But this was not all. After the Queen had placed the chain over William’s head, resting it across his shoulders, with a smile, she had presented him with a small box as well. ‘We wish you to have this, Anthony,’ she had told him. ‘In further token of Our undying gratitude. Open it only after you leave.’

Outside the chamber, servants had escorted him along a succession of empty corridors. Unable to contain his impatience, William opened the box the Queen had given him and gazed in awe upon the ring of Lucrezia Borgia. Emerging into the light of morning and the Royal stables, he removed the ring from the box and pulled it on to his finger.

Two companions, Thomas Marchmaine and Nicholas Makepeace, were there to meet him, already on their mounts. William’s white mare, Ishbel, was saddled and ready. He flicked the reins and led them out from the stable on to the
mud track that wound down a gentle incline. From there they picked their way through the mud towards the path east that would take them to the City and beyond.

By the time the small party reached London Bridge, a weak sun was high in the sky. Nicholas and Thomas had trotted ahead and William saw them stop at the entrance to the bridge. William caught up with them and saw three pikes protruding from a buttress. There was a head on each. They were barely recognisable as human, let alone the remains of three people he had once known. On the first pike hung the head of Edward Perch, recognisable only from the scar that ran from his nose to his upper lip. In the centre, the head of Father John William Allen. The left side of his face was missing, the sinews black and flapping away from the bones. To the right of Allen hung the head of Ann Doherty, remnants of her black hair plastered to her face with long-dried blood. Her eyes had been pecked out, her mouth was a red hole.

‘A merry threesome,’ Nicholas Makepeace chortled. ‘Aye, William?’ He turned towards his friend. But William ignored him and simply stared at the three heads. And for the first time, the full weight of what he had done bore down upon his shoulders. Edward Perch had been a criminal for sure and a Catholic, an unforgivable combination perhaps. But Father Allen? He had been at worst misguided, controlled by forces he neither understood nor questioned. Perhaps, William Anthony mused, he and John Allen were not so different. Each of them had killed to defend their beliefs. They were soldiers fighting a war. If their roles had been reversed, they would each still have acted in the same way.

He could barely bring himself to consider Ann, but made himself look at her, made himself study her ravaged features. This was part of his penance, for even though he was a soldier of God, he must answer for his part in bringing about such a death. Ann, sweet Ann. She had cared for him
and he had deceived her. Hers was a noble soul. Her only crime was that she had worshipped the wrong God, prayed at the wrong altar. Perhaps, in a better world, William thought, he could have changed her instead of leading her to the worst of deaths. He forced his eyes away. Without a word, he removed the Collar of Esses and placed it carefully in his saddlebag. Flicking his reins, he gave Ishbel a nudge with his heel and broke into a canter along the road heading east out of London.

They passed the east gate without incident and took the road towards Essex. The snow and rain had turned the track to a slurry and then sleet began to fall, a brisk wind picking up from the north. An hour of struggling along the path exhausted the horses, and as the day started to darken, they saw a welcoming light ahead of them.

‘I would pay double for a jug of ale at the Grey Traveller this eve,’ Nicholas declared, coming up between the other two.

‘I would pay triple, my friend,’ William replied. ‘And offer my first-born for a comfortable bed.’

It was an old inn. Parts of it had been built using wattle and daub, and a few claimed it had first served travellers making the long journey between the capital and Colchester when Henry II had been King, centuries earlier. The inn-keeper knew Walsingham’s relative and his friends and welcomed them into the warmth, serving them soup and ale, and offering them his best rooms.

William was in celebratory mood and bought drinks for everyone in the inn. But then, after a few tankards of ale, he became morose and not such good company. Thomas and Nicholas noticed it and tried to cheer their friend with bawdy tales. When these failed, they invited over a couple of local whores they had spotted. But even this effort foundered.

‘Come, William. What troubles you?’ Thomas asked. ‘Surely, my friend, tonight you should be the merriest fellow in all England.’

William forced a smile. ‘You are right, Thomas. But I am melancholy, and on my life I cannot account for it. If you will excuse me, I think maybe I need to take the air. Perhaps that will jolt me from my ill humour.’

The inn stood on the banks of a stream, a wide wooden balcony overhanging the water to the rear of the main building. It was said that old King Henry, the Queen’s father, had hunted in the fields beside this stream and had stayed at the Grey Traveller with his favourite mistresses.

William leaned against the railing and stared out across the stream. Directly ahead, he could see the drain that led to a cesspit beneath the inn. Beyond that lay black fields. He knew the source of his misery. It was Ann. He could not shake off that last glimpse of her face, ripped apart and desecrated. The hollow black spaces where her lovely green eyes had once been seemed to draw him in, dragging him into the very pits of Hell.

Throughout the ride from London, he had paid little heed to the foul road, the treacly mud or the cold. His mind had been filled with memories of dead faces. He had tried losing himself in false merriment and alcohol, but it had not worked. Over and over again he had asked himself the same question. Would God forgive him? Would God excuse the horrors he had allowed to befall someone who had trusted and loved him? He knew the three traitors had also been heretics and deserved to be doubly punished. And he knew that God forgave the killing of heretics … but Ann, dear Ann.

He turned and saw two men walking towards him. They were shrouded in shadow, and for a fleeting moment he thought it was Thomas and Nicholas come to try and console
him once more. But it was not. As the men emerged into the faint light cast by the inn, he saw faces he did not recognise. Instinctively, he reached for his dagger.

The two men stepped up to the railing nearby. ‘A chilly night,’ one of them said, his voice strongly tinged with the local accent.

‘It is,’ William replied.

‘Travelled far?’ the other man asked.

William felt a spasm of anxiety in his guts. He had been born into a world of privilege, but had learned much about acting and deceit. Had he not lived by his wits, playing that duplicitous game in Southwark for an interminable year? He started to reply to the second man, to alleviate any suspicion of his own intent, and then darted quickly sideways and made for the door to the inn.

But the other men had lightning reflexes. One of them stuck out his foot and William was sent flying. Before he could right himself, the man was upon him. William twisted and rolled about, managing to unbalance his attacker and send him sprawling along the wooden boards. Propelled by sheer terror, William sprang to his feet and dodged a blow aimed straight at him by the second man. He swiftly drew his dagger, its blade glinting in the light. He brandished the dagger threateningly, slashing the air in front of him.

The man William had floored was on his feet again now. He drew his own blade and edged round behind his quarry. The other man jumped forward, and William lashed out. His elbow landed in the man’s abdomen, making him groan and tumble backwards, landing heavily against the wall of the inn. William saw his chance and dashed for the end of the balcony. He could see a small door leading off it, just a few paces before the railings ended.

He grabbed the handle, but it took him only an instant to realise the door was locked. The effort had cost him dear. The
man with the dagger was incredibly quick on his feet. Anticipating William’s move, he sprinted to the end of the balcony. Out of the corner of his eye William could see the other man had clambered to his feet and was running towards him. He had pulled something large and heavy-looking from inside his tunic, a cosh.

William stood with his back to the door, the dagger in his right hand, his left hand close to the blade, just as he had learned on the streets of Southwark. The man with the knife took a step forward, thrusting at him with startling speed. The tip caught William’s left hand, making him cry out. Before he could recover, the man with the cosh threw himself forward. William felt a sharp pain at the side of his head as the leather-covered club hit him hard. He slashed with his dagger. The man with the cosh sidestepped the blow and brought his weapon down again, hard, knocking the blade from William’s hand and shattering three fingers.

It was only then, through his pain and the terror, that William remembered the ring. He fell back against the door, sweat running into his eyes. Raising his shattered hand, he flipped open the top of the ring and waved it in front of him.

For a moment, the other men seemed confused and then one of them broke into a smile. ‘Oh, what new terror is this?’ he mocked.

William thrust his arm forward into the face of the man with the dagger. Some strange intuition or superstition made the attacker step back. But he quickly found new courage. He glanced at his friend and they both rushed forward together. William lashed out and somehow managed to pass between the two of them without further injury. But his foot found a loose board and he lost balance. Falling badly, his arm went under him and he felt a stab of pain as the spike of the ring slid through the fabric of his hose and drove into the flesh of his thigh.

He pulled himself to his feet and backed towards the balcony’s railing. The two men watched him retreat, then froze.

William had slumped against the railing. His assailants watched as he raised his injured hand slowly through the air towards his face and then stopped, paralysed. He began to shake violently. A hideous sound came from deep within his body and his mouth hung open. He convulsed, spewing a stream of blood and vomit. The force of the eruption pushed his head back and he pivoted over the railing like a wax effigy, tumbling backwards into the stream.

The two men rushed to the railing, just as Thomas Marchmaine and Nicholas Makepeace emerged from the door to the inn. In shocked silence, they watched as William Anthony hit the bank of the stream head first. He bumped along among the reeds half-submerged, his blank, white face paralysed, mouth agape, eyes staring. Then he was gone, sucked down into the drain that led under the building where the stream flushed out the cesspit of the Grey Traveller.