The Borgia Ring (12 page)

Jack Pendragon came through the doors of the police station and flashbulbs popped. For a second, he was completely confused. Then he saw a group of journalists gathered at the top of the stairs leading to the parking bays. Two photographers continued to snap away. He decided quickly that he should not make a fuss about them. He had seen what the result of that could be when, years earlier, the
Oxford Times
had delighted in publishing the most unflattering shots of him they could find.

‘DCI Pendragon,’ one of the journalists shouted as he approached. ‘Fred Taylor,
Gazette
. Can you fill us in? Is it true a dead body has been dug up on a building site? The same site where Amal Karim was beaten to death?’

Pendragon was speechless. He slowed his pace and the other journalists descended on him. Four of them now stood in front of him, digital recorders at the ready.

‘I think you have your facts wrong,’ he said dismissively. He was startled still and realised as soon as the words had left his lips that he sounded terribly pompous.

‘How so, Inspector?’

‘It’s Detective Chief Inspector,’ Pendragon retorted, letting his guard down further and immediately feeling irritated with himself. At that point he should have paused, taken a deep breath and been co-operative. Instead, he flashed the newsmen a frosty look.

‘Apologies,’ Fred Taylor said sarcastically. ‘
DCI
Pendragon. So are you saying a body wasn’t uncovered on Friday afternoon at the Bridgeport Construction site on Frimley Way? Just hours before the labourer was murdered?’

‘I have no further comment,’ Pendragon responded and made to walk on. Without being exactly intimidating, the four men somehow managed to block his path. ‘Come on, Jack,’ one of the other reporters called. ‘We’re just trying to do our jobs. Give us something.’

The man wore a big grin on his face and had his recorder thrust directly under the DCI’s nose. Pendragon glared at him and the smile dissolved. ‘I told you, I have nothing to say on the matter. There will be a press conference in due course.
When
we have something concrete to report.’ He pushed his way between the men and took the steps down to the car pool.

‘You’re new here, aren’t you,
DCI
Pendragon?’ Taylor called after him.

Pendragon ignored him and lowered himself into the driver’s seat of the nearest patrol car.

Tim Middleton’s body lay on the dissection table. There was a Y-incision running from each shoulder to the middle of his chest and then down to his navel. His ribs had been cut open and pulled back. The white ends protruded like sightless eyes in a soup of red and grey viscera. A little lower lay a section of large intestine, shockingly pale. Flaps of his scalp were folded over his eyes. Pendragon caught himself thinking the dead man had the appearance of a lop-eared rabbit.

‘Ah, Pendragon,’ Jones said, looking up from his computer keyboard. He finished his sentence, typing uncertainly with two fingers and peering intently at the screen, then paced over. ‘We must organise a camp bed for you here.’

‘What have you got?’ Pendragon asked.

‘As I said on the phone, an old chum of mine managed to get the tox report over
PDQ
, but there’s something else I wanted to show you first.’ He waved Pendragon over to the other side of the table. Bending over Middleton’s body, Jones pointed to a fleshy spot on the man’s hip. Pendragon could just make out a red pinprick.

‘Puncture site,’ the pathologist said. ‘Explains how the poison was administered.’

Pendragon looked surprised. ‘Are you suggesting a hypodermic? In a crowded restaurant?’

Jones shrugged. ‘You’re the detective, Pendragon.’

‘It’s a bit James Bond.’

‘Well, it’s a fresh incision, or at least it was, and I’ve found trace chemicals at the puncture site. Middleton certainly didn’t die from ingesting anything orally. Here, take a look at this.’ He handed Pendragon a printout and carried on talking as the DCI did his best to decipher the information. ‘It’s definitely poisoning.’ Leaning in, Jones pointed to a coloured graph. ‘Four different components to the poison. A huge amount of arsenic trioxide.’ And he indicated a thick spike in the graph. ‘But also cantharidin, abric acid and oleander. A most intriguing combination.’

‘You said at the crime scene you’d never seen a poison like this.’

‘I haven’t. For starters, the concentration of arsenic is phenomenal. To kill a man Middleton’s size quickly, you would need to use half a gram of the trioxide. Either that or it could be a much smaller amount, but with its toxicity enhanced in some way.’

‘Maybe that’s where the other three come in? The cantharidin, etc?’ Pendragon replied.

‘Well, they’re certainly all deadly in themselves. But we
can’t escape the fact the poisoner had to administer a large dose of arsenic without being seen and without the victim noticing. There’s also the fact that although arsenic used to be known as “the murderer’s favourite” because it could be obtained from so many household items, nowadays it’s almost impossible to get hold of. Health and Safety have done a very thorough job there.’

‘Okay,’ Pendragon said. ‘Tell me about the other three components.’

‘Cantharidin you probably know by its common name, Spanish Fly.’

‘The aphrodisiac?’

‘A myth,’ Jones retorted. ‘It’s actually super-toxic, can kill in minuscule amounts almost immediately.’

‘And easy to get hold of.’

‘Yes and no. It
used
to be straightforward – sex shops, mail order – but strict new regulations have changed that. No problem, though, for anyone with a computer and a modem – thousands of dodgy sites are still selling the stuff illegally.’

‘All right,’ Pendragon said, looking back at the printout. ‘Abric acid.’

‘I’d never encountered it before, but a quick Google search gave me a wealth of information as only the Holy Internet can. Comes from the Paternoster Pea, scientific name
Abrus precatorius
. Commonly known as a “lucky bean”. Wasn’t so lucky for the poor sod over there though, was it?’ Jones glanced towards the metal dissection table and gave Pendragon a wolfish grin.

‘So … what? You can just buy it over the counter?’

‘No, that’s one of the big question marks for me. It’s hard to get hold of, internet or no internet. Originates in Africa and Asia, a climbing plant. The abric acid is distilled from abrin which is found in the seeds.’

‘And oleander?’ Pendragon asked.

‘Another mystery. Very exotic, very nasty. An evergreen shrub, narrow leaves, red flowers. Sometimes called Jericho Rose. Again, originates in Asia, very rare in Britain but quite popular as a houseplant in the States, apparently. The poison is distilled from all parts of the plant. According to Google, it’s commonly used as a rat poison in India, Bangladesh, and parts of Burma.’

Pendragon was studying Jones’s face. The pathologist looked more animated than he had ever seen him. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

Jones beamed. ‘Of course I am, Pendragon. Knife wounds and smashed-in skulls can become rather tiresome.’

‘So this report tallies with your findings?’

‘Well, of course it does,’ the pathologist replied with a nonchalant shrug. ‘The first two do anyway. I think I may be forgiven for missing abric acid and oleander.’

Pendragon gave him a sceptical look.

‘Still not convinced? Let me show you something.’

A row of stoppered test tubes stood in a rack on a counter behind Pendragon. Jones used a pipette to withdraw some clear yellow liquid from one of the tubes.

‘As you know, I was pretty sure Middleton hadn’t died of food poisoning. From what the witnesses reported, it was clear the man was fine one minute and in his death throes the next. They said he clutched his throat and then vomited blood. That immediately spoke to me of arsenic. It’s just that it’s so bloody unfashionable. A century ago maybe, but not these days.

‘This is a sample of Middleton’s urine,’ the pathologist continued, and lifted the pipette to the light. He picked up a piece of plastic the size of a credit card. In the centre was a slightly raised disc. Jones allowed one drop to fall from the
tip of the pipette on to the disc. It immediately turned brown. He laid the plastic card beside a strip of paper, a row of coloured discs across it. The disc on the far left was almost colourless, the next ochre, then dusty yellow, orange, and finally, on the far right, brown. ‘It’s a test for arsenic compounds. This result shows there’s at least three parts per million of arsenic in the dead man’s urine.’

‘A deadly dose?’

‘And then some! Arsenic is a trace element. It’s in all of us. In fact, we need it to catalyse some essential biochemical processes in the body. But three parts per million is about one hundred thousand times the level you’d expect to find in a living person.’

They walked over to the dissection table. On a trolley next to one end lay a stainless-steel dish holding what looked like a pile of blackberry jelly. ‘Our victim’s liver,’ Jones said matter-of-factly. ‘Necrosis so bad it’s almost liquefied. That’s precisely what you’d expect from cantharidin. It’s the same with his other internal organs.’ Jones pointed to an identical trolley on the other side of the table. ‘Kidneys and pancreas, all but wiped out.’

Jones touched Pendragon’s arm and pointed to the body with a pen. ‘Genitals swollen with congealed blood. That’s also the work of cantharidin. And cantharidin is another poison that causes vomiting of blood.’

Pendragon couldn’t conceal his revulsion. Not much could shock or horrify him any more, but he was rather comforted by the fact that he could still find some forms of death unspeakable. ‘So any one of these poisons could have killed Middleton almost instantly?’ he checked.

‘Many times over, Inspector. Someone wanted Tim Middleton
very
dead.’

Paris, March 1589

We stayed with the alchemist for another two days and nights. He wanted to be sure his ministrations to our physical appearance had worked and that the potions he had given us, and the chemicals used to change our hair and colouring, would not quickly dissipate. There was also the fact that the weather had taken another turn for the worse.

The woman I had seen when I first regained consciousness looked after us well. Her name was Catherine and she was the great-great-niece of Cornelius Agrippa. She was a friendly and gentle young girl of, I learned, just seventeen summers. I had found her countenance most pleasing from the moment I first set eyes upon her, even if I had then been in a diminished and sickly state. But, in my fully restored sight, her beauty grew. To my mind, as befuddled as it may still have been, Catherine had the countenance of a Madonna. The way she walked, her voice, her knowing manner – it did truly seem as though she had walked out of a painting. And yet I could not reconcile this with the fact that she was her uncle’s amanuensis, that she assisted him in what to me seemed to be diabolic arts.

On our last evening in Agrippa’s home, I could not resist raising this subject. Sebastian was asleep in the next room and Catherine had come to deliver the draught of a potion I was required to take as part of her uncle’s regimen.

‘Are you not afraid for your soul?’ I asked bluntly.

She looked startled for a moment and I could see she was of a mind to leave, but something made her stay. I indicated she should sit beside me on the bed.

‘You do not understand, Father,’ she said after a moment of hesitation. ‘My uncle is not an evil man.’

‘You cannot tell me the things he does are the actions of a good Christian, Catherine?’

‘My uncle is a good and devout Catholic.’

‘But the Black Arts and the path to the Lord are irreconcilable. You know that.’

‘My uncle is not a necromancer.’

I gave her a sceptical look.

She bridled, her back ramrod straight. ‘My uncle believes the pursuit of knowledge and the understanding of Nature should not be limited by the narrow vision of men.’

‘The Church views alchemy as heresy.’

‘It does not say in the Bible that it is wrong to concoct chemicals or to study Natural Philosophy, seeking knowledge of the world the Lord has made.’

‘The Bible is not a book of infinite length even if it is one of infinite wisdom,’ I retorted, growing irritated myself. ‘That is why we need Church leaders and why the Lord speaks through the Holy Father in Rome. There are many things we must interpret and upon which we must make our own judgements. Not everything is laid out for us, nor would it be to our benefit if it were so.’

‘Then, whether an alchemist is a heretic or not comes down to whether or not he is a true believer. It is simply a matter of motivation. My uncle is motivated by good.’

‘You believe the concocting of poisons and the committing of murder is …’ And I stopped myself, suddenly realising what I was saying.

Catherine looked at me with a strange blend of pity and
sympathy in her eyes. ‘In this matter, our own Father Bellarmino has made it clear what is right and what is wrong, Father John. Bringing heretics to the One True Faith, whether by persuasion or by death when the lost soul may be given a last chance of redemption, is our duty. Killing a heretic is not murder, it is a kindness.’

‘Yes,’ I said after a long silence. ‘Bellarmino himself guided us to you and your uncle. I apologise. It was wrong of me to cast aspersions on your uncle, to question his faith. Your uncle is a servant of the Lord, as are we, and he must use his every talent to further God’s work, as must I. And if it seems to the faint-hearted that we are committing mortal sins to speed on a greater good, then so be it. On the Day of Judgement the Almighty Lord will understand … and he will forgive.’

I can recall little of the journey from the home of Cornelius Agrippa to the port of Calais and I have eradicated completely the memory of the sea voyage that followed. I have always feared and abhorred the sea. Since I was a child playing on the beach with my family close to our home in Suffolk, I have distrusted the primal wantonness of the waves, the viciousness and abandonment of the water.

As we approached Dover, a customs ship pulled alongside and escorted us into harbour. Although our arrival there filled me with anxiety, I cannot deny that the port of Dover was an impressive sight. The area around the port was very ancient, but the harbour had only been completed a dozen years earlier. Two great piers extended from the quayside like jaws dragging us in. It was dark by the time we docked. A few lights were just visible from the town to our north-east and there was a fire which was never allowed to go out at the end of the quay.

Four customs men boarded our vessel. They searched all over the ship and checked the cargo: a confection of spices
and silks from Genoa, and a set of cages containing a score of exotic birds the captain claimed had originated in China. The customs men were much taken with these creatures for they had the most beautiful plumage in rainbow hues. And the birds were noisy – squawking and screeching and even mimicking human words as though they had been possessed by devils.

I had a vain hope the customs men would be so intrigued by the exotic birds they might overlook us entirely. As well as a crew of twenty, there was only a handful of passengers including Sebastian and myself. But, of course, we were all questioned at length and each of us was required to show our papers.

We had travelled to Paris under the guise of simple traders, silk merchants attending a trade fair in Montmartre. But as well as giving us new faces, Master Agrippa had concocted a whole new history for us. He turned us into English traders who had been in Europe to investigate the possibility of importing a substance called calamine. This material was essential for brass-making, a commercial concern just beginning to grow in importance throughout Europe. The alchemist had chosen this tale because he believed it would be suitably abstruse and save us from having to go into details of the silk trade or spice importing.

It worked. When one of the customs officers queried us on our business, it was a small matter to bore him with our enthusiasm for the technicalities of calamine. As for the ring and the poison Agrippa had distilled, I was afraid these would cause us further problems. The alchemist’s advice on the matter of the ring was, however, simple. ‘Brazen it out,’ he had said with a crooked grin. And so I wore the ring. Its giant round emerald looked a little ostentatious, but I pulled off the deception. The poison was more troublesome. Sebastian was carrying it inside his tunic. We were subjected to the humili
ation of a close search and the vial was found. Sebastian had prepared his tale carefully, however. The small glass container contained an Italian treatment for gout, extremely pungent and foul-smelling, he advised, and the customs officers let it go.

The customs men were thorough, that could not be denied, and we were perfectly aware that many of the officials at Dover doubled as spies for Walsingham. Ostensibly on the prowl for contraband, they were in direct communication with the Principal Secretary’s espionage network. They were ever eager to ensnare sympathisers of Philip of Spain, and Catholic missionaries such as Sebastian and myself. This wariness on the part of the English had increased greatly during the past few months, for it was little more than six months since the Spanish had seen their proud Armada humiliated by Elizabeth’s navy in these very waters.

It was the middle of the night before our ship was released to continue on its journey, and so it was that dawn was breaking over London as we drew alongside the north bank of the Thames and transferred to a wherry that took us west along the river and under London Bridge.

I had lived in London for some years before leaving England for Rome. But even during my relatively short absence, the city had changed. From the river, I could see new constructions as well as remnants of the old, changed and enlarged. London Bridge itself was teeming with life. Large houses lined each side of the bridge and some buildings had actually been built out over the water. Not a few looked precarious. On the banks of the Thames, too, buildings had been constructed so close to the water that their upper floors hung over the river.

The wherry crossed to the south bank and the area known as Southwark. The houses there were also packed so closely together that, from a few score feet away, it was hard to
imagine how people could move between them. It was only as our little vessel docked that narrow dark streets could be discerned between the overhanging timber houses.

I looked back to the north bank and saw the orange light of dawn bringing a new day to this grand city. Before me lay the sprawl of London. To the west, the river curved round to flow past Westminster. To my east, the Tower rose above shabby roofs. Directly ahead lay a vast conglomeration of houses – smithies, taverns, bakers, candle-makers, tanners, cobblers and brothels – every interconnected element of human life packed into a few square miles. Above it all loomed the huge monolithic structure of St Paul’s, a church that had once been the epicentre of Catholic life in the city. Now it was possessed by the new religion, usurped by heretics who called themselves believers. The building was still an awe-inspiring sight, its great square tower taller by far than any other structure in the whole of London. It would last for ever, I thought to myself as I stepped off the wherry. It would be the last thing left standing in this land and, with God’s blessing, I would help return it to its true purpose, a place of worship for the One True Faith.

As Sebastian and I stepped on to dry land I felt a tremendous sense of relief. I know men must travel across the seas, but it is not for me. I like my feet well and truly planted on firm ground. Two servants found our bags among a pile at the front of the wherry and brought them on to the quayside. I gave them a farthing and saw a young woman approaching us. She looked to be of common stock, wearing a drab outfit of honest kersey, a mixture of grey and brown woollen fabric. Her black hair was mostly hidden under a dirty, dark brown head-dress. Her one striking feature were her green, intelligent eyes. She was slightly out of breath.

‘I beg your forgiveness, sirs,’ she began in a voice with a soft Irish lilt. ‘I was detained by domestic problems.’ Then, seeing
our puzzled expressions, she glanced around for a second and said: ‘You were expecting me, were you not? Monsieur Gappair sent me a note saying you needed lodgings. Or have your plans changed?’

Sebastian and I realised what she was talking about at the same moment. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Of course not.’ He tossed my bag to me and I was almost winded by it.

The girl laughed and then checked herself. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘You need not be.’ I smiled at her. ‘What is your name?’

‘Ann, sir. Ann Doherty.’

‘Well, Ann, you’d better lead the way.’

Southwark was starting to wake up. A market stretched from the water’s edge down a lane to Kent Street. Stalls lining the street were being loaded up with all manner of vegetables, fish and bread. There was a shout behind me and I just managed to avoid colliding with a young boy pushing a cart heavy with potatoes caked in dark mud. He turned off the street and disappeared down a narrow alley.

This quarter of London was renowned as perhaps the most disreputable district of the city. Although I had previously lived in the relatively poor neighbourhood of Cheapside, north of the river, my neighbours and I there had considered those forced to live in Southwark to be most unfortunate souls. The main reason for the area’s poor reputation was the preponderance of brothels, alehouses and gambling dens. It was a place that was, of course, despised by the hypocrites who called themselves Puritans, the worst breed of the new religion.

As we walked along the lightening streets, I remembered reading a pamphlet published by one such heathen who was so impervious to the joys of life he had been offended by the simplest pleasures of those living and working in Southwark. If memory serves me, he had ranted about the evils of one of the new theatres in the quarter, saying something like: ‘There was dancing, music, mockery, merriment, all the things the
misguided flock enjoyed but the shepherd deplored.’ I too believed in propriety and moderation, but had no time for delusions such as these.

That said, I certainly would not have chosen to stay here if it had been my choice. Southwark was a dangerous and violent place where one needed constantly to be on guard against cutpurses, and where the number of vagrants outnumbered those doing an honest job to pay their rent. There was clearly good reason, I thought to myself with a smile, that so few Londoners lived this side of the Thames, but that there were no fewer than four prisons within the boundary of this small district.

Ann was walking at a goodly pace and was clearly experienced in the ways of the street. Although only a frail woman, she seemed sharp-witted and watchful enough to warn off those with any evil intent. We turned down a narrow lane and wove a route south along winding streets. Many of the houses here were in a poor state. Children in rags played under the shadows of these hovels, doing their best to avoid the turds and mossy dog bones.

After a while, I lost all sense of direction and no longer knew if we were heading further from the river or had doubled back. But Ann stayed surefooted, glancing back frequently to make sure we were still keeping up. If we had lost sight of her, I’m not sure either Sebastian or I could have found our way back to the river, and even less sure we would have escaped having our throats slit in a dark alley.