The Borgia Ring (21 page)

‘Quick!’ I hissed to Anthony, and pulled him none too gently away from the scene and towards the looming walls of the Bear Garden.

I tossed another couple of pennies into a wooden box at the door and we were in and merging with the crowds. A large elliptical arena occupied most of the space within the walls. A rickety-looking three-tiered stand had been built to circumvent the arena and this was packed with people yelling and screaming, the entire audience transfixed by what was happening. For a second, I became fascinated by the face of one particular spectator. His flabby cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, pupils huge. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and a line of spittle had dribbled down from the corner of his gaping mouth and reached the bottom of his chin. Unheeded, the drool dangled there and formed a long, pale string that shook as he moved his head and shouted at the spectacle. His fists were clenched at his sides and he was punching the air with rapid, almost involuntary thrusts. I stopped staring at him and turned to see what was happening in the arena.

A bull was on its knees, roaring with pain as a mastiff gnawed at its neck. The dog’s teeth, smeared with blood, flashed tarnished white, and a red spray flew up into its eyes. Two other dogs were gnashing at the bull. One sank its fangs into the animal’s rump and the other attacked its flank. I heard Anthony squeal beside me and bury his face in my shoulder. I turned and led us away from the terrible sight. No one took the slightest notice of us, their minds focused entirely on the grisly entertainment.

As we reached the perimeter of the stands, a roar went up from the crowd. We didn’t stop to find out what new obscenity had been committed but walked quickly along the circular passageway, low-walled and open to the falling snow. Rounding the bend, I almost collided with a huge man sitting
on a stool to one side of a large door. He shot to his feet with surprising agility and blocked our way. He had a head not much smaller than the bull’s in the arena, but his large, watery eyes looked almost benign. At first glance, his gigantic face had a childlike quality, but the effect was marred by a scar at least six inches long, running in a jagged red line from his left temple across his cheek to his mouth.

I looked back the way we had come and was about to retreat when Anthony took a step forward. ‘Benjamin,’ he said quietly.

The man ceased staring at me, peered at Anthony and broke into a gap-toothed smile. He placed a massive hand on Anthony’s bony shoulder and made a low gurgling sound. It was then I noticed how slack his mouth was and realised this giant’s tongue had been removed.

‘He cannot speak,’ Anthony said quickly, darting his gaze from me to Benjamin and back again. ‘The devils cut out his tongue for criticising the new church.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Benjamin protects the brothers,’ Anthony replied. ‘He is my friend.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say before?’ I snapped. The brute, who was still smiling at Anthony, turned to glare at me then. He took his hand from the boy’s shoulder and I could see his fingers curl into a fist.

‘No,’ Anthony said gently, and pushed down on Benjamin’s hand. ‘Friend.’

‘Can you take us to the brothers?’ I asked, keeping a close eye on that massive fist.

Benjamin eyed me suspiciously then made one of his low, guttural sounds deep down in his throat.

‘I need to speak with them. It is a matter of great urgency.’

Benjamin fixed me with those huge childlike eyes of his for a few moments. Then he shrugged, turned and opened the
door into a darkened room. He nudged me to go in first. I took one step inside and was immediately grabbed about the neck by a strong arm. I felt cold steel at my throat and tried to speak, but my assailant’s grip was like a vice. I brought my hands up, but the grip merely tightened. I was almost lifted off my feet and propelled across the room before being thrown to the floor. Anthony landed beside me and started to whimper.

I pulled myself up and helped the boy to his feet, putting a finger to his lips to prevent an outburst. We were in a small room, its walls draped with brightly coloured silks. A large sconce hung from the ceiling, holding a dozen or more white candles. The stone floor was covered with a sumptuous, patterned rug.

A few paces in front of us an enormously fat, bald man, dressed in purple silk, reposed on a velvet-covered couch. His ruff was lilac and he was wearing make-up like a stage performer, bright rouge on his cheeks and dark smudges beneath his small black eyes. He smiled and his whole face creased grotesquely. To either side of the man lay a pale-skinned, semi-naked young boy. But the most extraordinary thing about the fat man was the contraption he had in his mouth. It was a long slender tube with a bulb at one end. He was drawing on the narrow end and smoke was curling up from the bulbous bowl. The smell was like nothing I had ever experienced. It racked my throat, and I coughed involuntarily.

‘Well, what have we here?’ the man said, removing the contraption from his mouth. His voice was shrill and effeminate. He looked straight through us at the two men who had dragged Anthony and myself into the room so indecorously. Benjamin stepped between them. He made a strange sound from the bottom of his throat and the man on the couch studied us properly for the first time.

‘Friends, Benjamin?’ he said. ‘Really? Well, what a wonderful and rare thing.’ He waved one hand as he spoke, and I noticed he was wearing far too much jewellery: huge gold rings on each finger, and a thick, jewelled bracelet. ‘What’s your name?’ he addressed me.

‘I am John Allen,’ I told him.

‘And how may I be of assistance to you, Mr Allen?’

I heard one of the men behind us laugh. Anthony clutched my arm.

‘I am looking for Edmund and Edward Perch. I was told they would be here this evening.’

‘Oh? And what would be your business with those two gentlemen?’

I paused for a moment to take stock and held the fat man’s eye. ‘You are one of the brothers?’

‘You have not answered my question … friend.’

‘I am a trader visiting London on business. I arrived this morning with my friend, Sebastian Mountjoy. If you are one of the brothers, you will have heard of our visit.’

‘Perhaps I have,’ the man said, a faint sardonic smile playing across his lips. ‘Tell me, what is the nature of your business?’

‘We are calamine importers.’

He nodded. ‘And the whereabouts of your associate? We were told there would be two of you.’

I gave a heavy sigh and squared my shoulders. ‘My friend was killed this evening,’ I said quietly.

‘How very unfortunate. And what of your monkey?’ the man said softly, flicking his gaze towards Anthony. The two boys on the couch burst into giggles.

‘If you cannot help me, then I would like to leave,’ I replied.

‘Bring him closer,’ the fat man ordered, and I saw Anthony tugged to one side as the guards dragged me to within a few inches of the man on the couch. I could not stop myself from coughing. He rose to his feet and brought his face close to
mine, blowing a plume of blueish smoke full into my face. My eyes stang and I felt my throat burning as I tried to cough away the smoke. Through the haze, I could see one of the pale-skinned boys guffawing. The fat man leaned closer and started sniffing me. Then, to my disgust, he flicked his tongue along the side of my neck, sat back down on the couch and smacked his lips.

‘Mmm, I love the taste of fear,’ he said, and clicked his fingers at the two guards. They let me go and I took a step back, wiping my neck with the back of one hand.

‘Tell me, Friend John, what is it you want of us?’

‘I was told you could help with our business venture.’

‘And how do I know you are not a spy from the Queen’s court, come to trap me and my brother?’

‘How would a spy know the things of which I have spoken?’

‘That would not be difficult. Walsingham’s servants are unrelenting in their work. You know that well enough.’

‘I might say the same to you, sir,’ I replied with all the conviction I could muster. ‘How do I know you are not a spy?’

The man stared at me, his face expressionless. Then he eased himself up from his couch and walked slowly towards me again. He stopped, looked down and grabbed my left hand, bringing it up to the light.

‘So this is the ring,’ he said. ‘I was told it was a thing of beauty, but this … this is … Remove it.’

I yanked my hand away and one of the guards stepped forward. The fat man glared at him and he retreated. I saw the flash of a heavily jewelled hand and felt the touch of metal at my Adam’s apple. Then a sharp pain. I gasped. Peering down, I could see an ornate dagger with a serrated edge. The tip had drawn blood that ran in a narrow stream down the blade.

‘Edmund.’ The voice was quiet, but sharper than the blade
at my throat. The fat man turned his head lazily towards the door. I dared not move a muscle.

‘Put the knife away,’ the voice said.

It did not move.

‘
PUT IT AWAY
.’

I felt the blade lift away from my throat and Edmund Perch took a step backwards, his eyes filled with malice. I turned to see a man standing beside the door. With him was Ann Doherty.

Anthony ran forward and threw his arms around her. ‘My lady!’ he squealed. ‘My lady.’ And kissed her on each cheek. Ann hugged the boy and smiled wanly at me over his shoulder.

The man with her strode over to me. ‘I apologise,’ he said. ‘Edmund is a little … theatrical. Are you not, dear brother?’ Edward Perch gave his brother a contemptuous look.

I must have been in mild shock because, for a few moments, I could not put my words or thoughts in order. Instead I stared at the new arrival, barely able to imagine that he and Edmund Perch were indeed brothers. Edward was tall and well built with a full head of black hair. He might once have been handsome, but the years had ravaged his face. One of his eyelids drooped low, covering much of his left eye. His nose had been shattered at least once and a white line of scar tissue ran from septum to upper lip.

‘Ann has told me all about your mission, Father,’ Edward Perch told me. ‘If you still seek my assistance, I’m here to offer it.’

Stepney, Thursday 9 June, 3.30 p.m.

‘Sorry, guv, but that thing bloody stinks,’ Turner said, and opened the window on his side of the car as they swung off Mile End Road, heading south towards the river.

Pendragon gave a contemptuous shake of the head and took another bite from his baguette. ‘Believe me, Sergeant, it’s wonderful,’ he said with his mouth full. He was starving and had been delighted to find a superb deli not a hundred metres from the station.

‘What’s in it? Smells like my dog’s breath.’

Pendragon pulled a face and lowered the baguette to the paper wrapper on his lap. ‘Charming. It’s actually very fine Parma ham and Brie. I’ve found the ideal lunch spot.’

‘You’ll put on a stone in a month if you fall for that.’

‘Very possibly. Tell me, what did you find out about the slippers?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. There are only two places in the country who use gold thread for their top-of-the-range dance shoe, and neither of them make men’s sizes. I then took a look at makers of men’s fancy slippers. Dress slippers, they call ’em. Versace sells them for over a thousand quid a pair, would you believe? Every place I tried imported them from Italy and France, but when I checked there I found they were actually manufactured in Thailand.
Cheap labour. Makes you wonder what the mark-up must be, dunnit?’

‘So that line of inquiry has run dry?’

‘I think it has, guv. Unless you can come up with another angle? Whoever bought those slippers could have got them from a dozen places in London any time over the past thirty years. Or they could have bought them abroad. I think it’s a dead end.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Pendragon agreed. ‘Do you know where you’re going, by the way?’

It was the sergeant’s turn to offer a contemptuous look, and Pendragon returned to the pleasures of his baguette. A few minutes later, they pulled off Commercial Road into a small industrial complex with warehouses and utilitarian low-rise brick office buildings lining a narrow access road. Murano Glass UK was one such building on the right, towards the end of the road. Its frontage consisted of closed warehouse shutters and a plain red door to one side. Pendragon rang the bell. An intercom crackled and a woman’s voice said: ‘Murano Glass.’

‘DCI Pendragon. The station called through this morning. I’ve come to see the MD, Mr Sidney Gregson.’

There was a buzz and the door opened. Pendragon led the way into a brightly lit corridor. A woman’s head appeared around an opening at the end and she beckoned to the two policemen. ‘I’ve called Mr Gregson. Should be here in a moment,’ she said as they came into the room. ‘Please take a seat.’

Turner had just picked up a motor sports magazine from a coffee table when the door opened and Sidney Gregson came in. He was a well-dressed man in his mid-forties with a goatee and large red spectacles. He had ‘moneyed bohemian’ stamped all over him. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said with a
smile. Pendragon introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Gregson turned as Jez walked over.

‘Sergeant Turner.’

‘Please, this way.’

They followed him out, Turner trailing behind. Glancing round, he caught the secretary giving Gregson’s retreating back a very black look. They entered a smart office and Gregson closed the door behind them. Cabinets filled with exotic glass sculptures lined one wall, a large limed oak desk filled the far end of the room, and a plush suede sofa stood to its left. Gregson threw himself into a huge leather swivel chair. He didn’t offer the policemen a seat. Picking up a crystal paperweight, he tossed it casually from palm to palm.

‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, Mr Gregson,’ Pendragon said.

‘The person who made the appointment mentioned that you were investigating the Stepney murders. I saw a report on TV last night. I can’t imagine what you would want here, Chief Inspector.’

‘Two of the victims were poisoned. Preliminary analysis indicated one of the major constituents of the poison used is arsenic.’

The MD knitted his eyebrows. ‘So you immediately thought of glass-makers?’ There was a sarcastic edge to his voice. Pendragon very quickly decided he didn’t much like Sidney Gregson.

‘Arsenic and arsenic compounds are controlled substances,’ the DCI replied. ‘As you would know, you can’t just pop into a shop and buy some.’

‘That’s quite true, Inspector. So you think your poisoner works here?’

Pendragon gave Gregson a puzzled look. ‘Not at all. But
the arsenic had to come from somewhere. Have you had any chemicals stolen from the foundry?’

‘I can give you a pretty unequivocal no on that,’ Gregson replied smoothly, halting the paperweight-tossing for a second. ‘But would you like me to check with the stores manager, just to make sure?’

‘That would be helpful.’

‘Let’s go.’

They turned right out of the office, away from reception, and down a flight of stairs. A swing door opened on to the foundry floor. It was a relatively small space, but filled with activity. A group of workmen stood along one wall, grinding some sort of powder using large pestles. Beside them was a large machine that had the appearance of an enormous food processor. A furnace took up most of the centre of the floor. At its mouth stood a burly man wearing a heavy leather apron, protective gloves, and a visor pulled down over his face. In his hands he held a long metal pole. A large blob of orange-red molten glass extended from the far end of the pole. As Gregson and the two policemen passed, the glass worker leaned over and twirled the metal pole. The molten glass shifted and changed shape like melting toffee. Beside the furnace, another man in similar clothes but with his visor up over his head was stirring a brightly coloured substance in a large metal tub.

‘We make top-end stemware here,’ Gregson explained. ‘Wine glasses primarily. But we also accept private commissions for figurines and vases. We’re a boutique manufacturer, we only produce a few thousand hand-crafted pieces a year.’

‘How many staff do you have?’ Turner asked as they passed into a glass-sided passageway that ran the length of the foundry, well away from the dangers of the furnace.

‘Fourteen,’ Gregson replied. ‘That includes admin staff
and drivers. We have three master glass-makers. The chap you see there is Tom Kanelly – almost a celebrity in his world. And the man stirring the treacle-like stuff is Francesco Donalti. He’s what’s called a “hot metal man”. He’s one of the top colourists in the trade. Actually worked on Murano for ten years. We’re very lucky to have him.’

At the end of the corridor, they came to a door with a sign that read:
CHEMICAL STORE
.
AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY
. It was a small, square, windowless room lined with metal shelves, a single spartan wooden bench standing the middle. A man in white overalls was sitting at a computer terminal. He stood up as Gregson entered.

‘Alec, where’s Daniel?’ Gregson asked him. ‘Daniel Beatty is our storeman,’ he added, turning back towards the two police officers. ‘This is Alec who helps out here a couple of days a week.’ Gregson’s tone was dismissive. Then, to Alec, he said, ‘This is DCI Pendragon and Sergeant Turner. They think we might have been supplying arsenic to undesirables.’

Alec was in his early-twenties. He wore thick-framed glasses and had greasy hair worn in a side-parting. ‘A-aarsenic?’ he stammered. ‘We d-d-d-on’t use that m-m-much.’

‘It doesn’t take a lot to kill someone,’ Pendragon retorted.

Alec flushed. ‘N-n-n-o. That’s r-r-right.’

‘So where is Daniel?’ Gregson repeated impatiently.

‘He’s p-p-popped out f-f-for a late l-l-lunch.’

Gregson looked at his watch and sighed. ‘Okay, Alec, could you just confirm for these gentlemen that we have not mislaid any arsenic trioxide?’

‘Yes. I-I-I m-m-mean, n-n-n-o.’

‘See over here, Inspector,’ Gregson said, pointing to a toughened glass box with a combination lock. Inside could just be seen a small collection of brown bottles. On the front of the glass box there was a sign:
DANGER – CONTROLLED
SUBSTANCES. EXTREME CAUTION. FOR USE BY AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. HAZCHEM LEVEL
2. ‘This is where we keep the most hazardous chemicals. Arsenic trioxide is not just a poison, it’s extremely carcinogenic. Only Daniel knows the combination … and I myself, of course.’ ‘Could we take a look at your inventory?’ Turner asked him.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, man!’

‘It should be an easy matter, should it not, Mr Gregson? It would be computerised, surely?’ Pendragon insisted.

‘Yes, very well. Alec, can you pull up the files?’

The young storeman tapped at the keyboard and quickly brought up the appropriate screen. Gregson nudged him aside and took up position in front of the monitor. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘We had a fifty kilo delivery of arsenic trioxide from Toulouse in March. As Alec said, we use relatively little. High-quality glass has nothing like the arsenic content of the cheap stuff. Here are the daily uses throughout April and May. We had a second delivery on May the twenty-third. Take a look. Everything’s accounted for.’

Turner studied the figures for a moment and then nodded to Pendragon.

‘Well, thank you, Mr Gregson. We won’t trouble you any further,’ said the DCI.

Gregson showed them to the main entrance to the building. ‘I’m glad we couldn’t be any more helpful. If you see what I mean,’ he said, closing the door.

‘Lovely man,’ Turner remarked as they walked across a small parking area towards the car.

‘DCI Pendragon?’

The two policemen turned in unison. The secretary from the glass company was striding towards them. She kept glancing over her shoulder.

‘I have to be quick,’ she hissed. ‘I know why you’re here. We
did
have a break-in – two weeks ago.
He
was away on one of his fancy holidays.’

‘He being Mr Gregson?’ Turner asked.

‘Obviously.’

‘Why didn’t someone report it?’

‘We did. I did. I phoned Limehouse police station on May the twenty-fifth.’

‘And you felt you couldn’t tell the boss?’ Turner queried.

‘Were you born a genius or have you had to work at it?’ the secretary snapped in reply. Turner was speechless. ‘Alec is my son. He’s … well, he’s very bright, but he has problems. Gregson thinks he’s a retard. He only gave him the job to shut me up. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Sergeant,’ she said, breaking into a grin. ‘Women like me learn to use every weapon in the arsenal.’ She glanced behind her again. ‘Dan covered for us and we all chipped in to repair the lock – it was forced open. Look, I have to go.’

Pendragon caught her by the elbow and held it gently. ‘Sorry, but what’s your name?’

‘Lydia. Lydia Darlinghurst.’

‘Lydia, I’m a little confused. You had a break-in on … what? … the twenty-fourth?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the only thing taken was some arsenic trioxide?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much went?’

‘Just one small jar of a hundred grams.’

‘We’ll have to check with Limehouse.’

‘You do that, Chief Inspector. I’m no liar.’ She looked over her shoulder again, then fixed Pendragon with a hard stare. ‘You will keep this quiet, won’t you? You have your information. If that bastard learns …’

Pendragon touched his nose and let go of Lydia’s elbow. Without another word she ran back to the building.

‘“Oh, what a tangled web we weave”,’ Pendragon said, opening the door to the squad car.

The DCI arrived in the briefing room ten minutes before the others. He brought a freshly filtered cup of his preferred Bolivian blend with him and was busy reading up about the Borgia family on Wikipedia. Jez Turner was the first of the team to arrive.

‘You’re not supposed to download from iTunes on police time, you know, sir,’ he said, seeing Pendragon at the computer.

‘I’ll remember that, Sergeant.’

‘What you up to?’

‘Taking a lead from you this morning and doing some research on the Borgias. Remember I mentioned them yesterday after I saw Professor Stokes? His theory about the bishop ring once owned by the family?’

‘Yeah, I do. But, well … what of it?’

Pendragon sighed and sat back in his chair, holding his cup above his crossed knees. ‘It wasn’t owned by just any old family, Sergeant. The Borgias …’

Turner looked blank.

‘For Christ’s sake, why do I bother paying my taxes? There’s no bloody education system left! The Borgias were one of history’s most notorious families, at the peak of their influence in the late-fifteenth century. The head of the family, Rodrigo Borgia, became Pope Alexander VI. His son was Cesare Borgia … ring any bells? No? Of course not! He was what you’d call a warlord, and vicious with it. In fact, the Borgias were a sort of Renaissance Mafia, super-rich and very, very unpleasant. And the
Pope’s daughter, Cesare’s sister Lucrezia, was perhaps the worst of them all: spoilt, cruel, a nymphomaniac and murderess …’

Turner looked interested suddenly. ‘What? Like a psycho Renaissance Paris Hilton?’

‘Paris who?’

‘You
are
joking?’ Turner gave Pendragon an incredulous look.

The DCI’s mobile rang.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Pendragon?’

‘Ah, good evening, Dr Newman …’

‘I’ve just put down the phone on a Professor Stokes.’

‘Ah, yes, I should have called you. I’m sorry. I forgot.’

‘He claims you told him he could have samples of the skeleton?’

‘I said no such thing,’ Pendragon replied, pulling a face at Turner. Meanwhile Sergeant Mackleby and Inspector Rob Grant walked in and sat down.

‘But he …’

‘Dr Newman, if I may interrupt? Professor Stokes has actually been very useful to us and has some interesting ideas about the skeleton. He asked if we could loan him one of the bones. I think he called it a …’

‘A proximal phalanx. Yes, I know.’

‘Is there any particular problem with letting Stokes take a look?’

There was silence at the other end of the line.

‘You do have the rest of the skeleton?’ Pendragon added hopefully.

‘All right, Chief Inspector,’ Dr Newman said in her crispest, most official tones. Then, more gently: ‘As a personal favour to you, this Professor Stokes can have the bone for twenty-four hours. Is that good enough?’