The Poisoned Chalice by Michael Clynes Read Free Book Online

Agnes to go for a walk in the tree-lined garden, and foolishly dismissed the Ralembergs' unease.
    The next day de Macon sailed. I wrote a short letter to Benjamin, proclaiming myself a merchant but asking if his uncle had written to him recently. I made the letter sound as if all was well, and I suppose it was.
    (I must pause. I can hear the little chaplain sniggering at me, the loathsome turd! He murmurs that my success is a fable like that of Dick Whittington who became Lord Mayor of London fifty years previously. Why should the little sod laugh? Can't old Shallot have a run of luck? Oh, no, the little bastard's more interested in seeing his patron, his generous master, hunted, beaten and starving in some rotting gaol or facing terrors which would reduce many a man to an inmate of Bedlam. Well, the little sod needn't worry, he can have his fill of all that before this murderous tale is finished.)
    Four days after the Ralembergs told me about the Luciferi, I was in the Golden Turk carousing by myself. My partner had told me there were private matters he wished to attend to. I shrugged and left him alone. Now, isn't it strange how terrors begin? A band of gamesters joined me, with a cupful of dice and purses jingling merrily. Sturdy rogues intent on fleecing me, as I was them. The wine flowed freely, my pile of silver grew. The blood in my veins ran high and my usually sharp wits dulled. Young men who read this, take Shallot's advice! First, never drink and gamble; secondly, never drink and gamble with strangers; thirdly, if you do fall into temptation, as I sometimes did, make sure you know where the wine comes from. Anyway, I became as drunk as a vicar. The noise grew, flashes of fire burst before my eyes. I danced, I sang. I threw my largesse round the emptying tap room. I was full of joy at the prospect of meeting Agnes the next day. At last I fell back on to my stool and into the blackness of a drunken stupor. But, oh, what a wakening! I felt as if I was at the end of a long tunnel where someone was kicking my legs. I opened my eyes, groaned at the sunlight and peered around.
'The bastard's awake.'
    A grizzled, bearded face pushed itself into mine. I looked away. I was in a garden, my clothes wet with dew. My head thumped with pain, my mouth tasted foul and stale. I was ringed by men, some in armour, and recognised the blue and mustard livery of the City of London. I struggled to rise but my arms were pinioned. I was dragged to my feet. My wrists were tied behind my back, an iron brace fixed around my neck and the long chain which hung from it secured round my ankles.
'For sweet pity's sake!' I murmured.
    The soldier whose ugly face I had glimpsed on wakening punched me in the mouth. I turned and retched. I peered round once again. I was in the Ralembergs' garden where something black and white was floating in the small carp pond. I stared closer. It was the corpse of Agnes's dog. Thick blood from its slashed throat appeared to buoy it up. Over in the bower where Ralemberg and his wife used to sit were four corpses, each covered by a dirty, canvas sheet. I glimpsed the feet peeping out from beneath.
'Sweet mercy!' I cried. 'What's happened?'
    The soldier seized me by the hair and pushed me across the garden. On his command the sheets were dragged back. How can I describe it? Ralemberg and his wife sprawled there, their throats gashed from ear to ear. The blood had splashed out, drenching their clothes. Agnes was different. Her neck was broken, carefully and expertly. She lay there as if asleep, those beautiful eyes half-open. Beside her the pathetic corpse of the servant, the garotte cord still round his scrawny neck. I howled like a dog, struggling against my captors, until someone gave me a crack across the head and I slipped into unconsciousness.
    I awoke in the Little Ease, a smelly, rat-filled dungeon, watered by the sewers of the Fleet river and the slops of the prison bearing the same name.
    I must have been