Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Read online

  Ketteridge had his palms flat on the table, his head tilted to one side. ‘I was on my way to Hannah’s flat,’ he said. There was a momentary flash of defiance in his eyes and then he sagged, cupping his head in his hands, elbows propped on the metal table. ‘And that’s my fucking marriage down the toilet!’

  ‘Does Hannah have a surname?’

  ‘Hannah James, flat two, sixteen Mitchell Lane. It’s a little cul-de-sac off Frimley Way. She’s on the game. I’ve been seeing her for over a year.’

  Pendragon was in his office when Turner called from the car. ‘The woman confirms his story.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Pendragon hissed. ‘Okay, Sergeant, thanks.’

  He put down the phone and stared blankly at his computer screen. Hannah James could be lying, he thought, but there was no proof. They were back to square one.

  The photographs of the skeleton lay on the desk beside his coffee mug. Such pathetic remains, he thought. Little more than an imprint of a human being. But these bones had once been encased in flesh; a human being had lived and breathed and walked the earth, a person with friends and family, lovers, children perhaps. Now all these people were long dead, as were their children and their children’s children.

  He snatched up the phone and called Turner back.

  ‘Just had a thought,’ he said. ‘That computer-enhancement software in the media room … can you enhance stills as well as video?’

  ‘’Course.’

  ‘Okay, get hold of the SIM card from Tim Middleton’s mobile. There’s one particular shot of the skeleton where the ring is in clear view. Do what you can with the image.’

  Paris, February 1589

  At first, consciousness returned only fleetingly. I remember seeing a shifting pattern of light on the ceiling, feeling hot, then cold; a sensation of extreme pain, then of soporific ease. The first distinct thing that came into view was the face of a beautiful young woman. I have no idea how long I was unconscious or what had caused it, but returning to the waking world to perceive the features of what I took to be an angel smoothed the transition for me. She had large brown eyes, a slender nose and full red lips. She wore a blue kerchief but I could see a few curls of jet-black hair falling across her perfect, pale skin. When she smiled, she reminded me immediately of a Madonna of Cima da Conegliano’s I had once seen in Rome.

  But then she was gone and it felt as though many hours passed before I saw anything else of substance. A hand turned my face to one side and then back. I peered upwards and the face of an old man appeared. I felt a spasm of fear, but I could barely move. He put a finger to my lips and then came around my cot to sit on the edge, close to me.

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you, my boy,’ he said. ‘But, unfortunately, it was necessary.’ I could see him clearly now. He was old, very old, his skin like parchment. His eyes, though, were those of a much younger man, dark blue and with the clarity of youth. His lips were pale and narrow, nose slightly crooked. His hair was drained of all colour, like wisps of cloud.

  I still could not move but managed to find my voice, albeit little more than a croak. ‘Where …?’

  ‘You are in my home. You are safe here.’

  ‘Sebastian …’

  ‘Your friend is well.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘All will become clearer soon. Now you must rest.’ He touched my forehead and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly tired, as though I wanted nothing but sleep.

  The next time I awoke, the beautiful girl was back. I found I could move a little. As she came close, I grabbed her wrist. Her eyes filled with fear. Some instinct made me realise that this girl was not party to what had happened to me, that she was as much subject to it as I, and I let her go. She stood up and tilted her head to one side.

  ‘You seem much better,’ she said, almost mocking me. Her voice was soft and gentle. She spoke English, but with a strong French accent. ‘Here, drink.’

  She lowered a cup to my lips and I allowed the cold water to trickle down the back of my throat. It was as if it awoke my senses and I suddenly became aware of my physical being. All at once I felt hungry and thirsty. My limbs seemed to come to life, my vision cleared. I could see the room properly; feel the sheet covering me, and my own nakedness under the cloth.

  And then she was gone. I lifted myself up in the bed and rested my head against the wall behind me. It was a bare room. Cold, grey light came in through a small, shuttered window. I could hear nothing from outside, no sounds of man nor beast. The walls were whitewashed and blank. To one side of the room was a wooden table. On top of it stood a bowl from which steam rose. Behind it, propped against the wall, was a small mirror in a plain silver frame.

  I pulled the sheet away from me and looked down at my body. I was thinner than usual but could move normally and had no visible wounds. I flexed my fingers, moved my arms and legs. Sitting upright, I ran my fingers over my head and was shocked to feel hair, something I had not known since beginning my studies at Rome. It was little more than stubble, but there nevertheless. I stood up unsteadily and the room started to spin around me. I quickly sat down again and lowered my head between my knees to ward away the sudden nausea.

  I stood again, more slowly this time, and remained still, adjusting to the change. Then I noticed some clothes laid out on the bed – a tunic, hose, boots. I put them on. Slowly, I walked over to the window. Standing to one side, I peered around the edge. Outside, I saw it was very early in the morning, a poor thin light was struggling against the dark of an alley. There was the grey stone wall of a building directly opposite the window. I peered down and saw that I was on the second floor of another building. I could see flagstones, uneven and stained, directly below the window. On the ground floor of the building across the alley was a shuttered window. I looked to left and right but could see little more. There was a faint mist clinging to the walls of the buildings, slowly burning away in the mean warmth of the morning. I could just discern, far off, the sound of hooves on stone and a voice encouraging a horse. Beyond that, I could make out the cry of a grocer calling from his market stall.

  I turned back to the bare room. The sheets of my bed were striped with panels of light. The sheets were clean, recently changed. I stepped over to the small table with the bowl and mirror. I touched the water with one fingertip. It was welcomingly hot. I thrust my hands into it and splashed the liquid over my face, revelling in the stinging of my skin. Then I stretched out one hand and picked up the mirror.

  The shock of what I saw almost undid me. I felt my knees weaken and clutched at the table, bringing it and the bowl of hot water down on me as I slid to the stone floor. The bowl glanced against my shoulder and I felt a spasm of pain before the water cascaded across my chest and the bowl clattered across the floor.

  I still had the mirror gripped in my left hand. I could not resist. I had to look into it again.

  The face that peered back at me was not mine. Or, at least, it was not the face I’d once had. My cheeks were a different shape entirely. My face was altogether wider, my nose slightly longer and very different in shape. My brows were thicker and I had a full beard and moustache. I had once been fair-haired; now my hair was black, my lips thicker and paler.

  I turned at a sound from the door. The girl I had seen earlier stood with her hands clasped in front of her. She looked wary. ‘Sir, would you please come with me?’

  I was incandescent with rage, but knew there was nothing I could do. I had the feeling this young woman was as powerless as I and would do nothing under my persuasion or even the threat of a blade at her throat, had I one to brandish. It was clear Sebastian and I were in the hands of a necromancer of great power.

  As the girl led me from the room, I clutched at my crucifix and prayed. I recited the Lord’s Prayer quietly and beseeched God to save me, His humble servant, in this, my darkest hour. For surely, I begged, if You need me, Lord, if You wish me to fulfil the task You have set me, I cannot be allowed to fall at the first hurdle. I was so imme
rsed in my devotions that I barely noticed when we arrived in another room.

  It was dark save for the light spilling from the coals in a brazier set in the centre of the floor. In the gloom, I could just make out shelves covering one wall. They were heavy with glass containers and strange twisted glass tubes. Closer by, to my left, stood more shelves. In the flickering light from the fire I caught sight of a jar holding a pale yellow liquid with a solid object floating in it. I jumped as I realised the object was a human foetus.

  There were three chairs set equidistant around the fire. The girl led me to one and insisted I sit. It was only then that I realised there was another man already seated in a chair identical to my own. I stared at him blankly.

  ‘It is your friend Sebastian Mountjoy,’ the girl told me.

  I gazed at him in disbelief. What seemed like only hours earlier he had been as bald as I, fair-skinned, with long lashes over olive-coloured eyes, a noble Roman nose and a wide mouth – a handsome man. Now his colouring was reddish. His nose was misshapen, lips pale and narrow. He had a scar running down one cheek.

  I could not suppress a sob as I looked at him, but pulled myself together, if only for Sebastian’s sake. I was about to speak when the old man appeared before us. He lowered himself into the remaining chair and stared into the fire. I felt bitterness seethe within me; fury that my words with God seemed to have gone unacknowledged.

  ‘What magic is this?’ I exclaimed. ‘What in the name of Our Lord have you done to us?’

  The old man continued to stare into the flames, but raised one hand in acknowledgement of my questions. Then he looked up, fixing us with those black, fathomless eyes of his. ‘It is not magic,’ he said, his voice sounding surprisingly young for one so outwardly ancient. ‘I am gifted in many magical skills, that is true, but the change in your appearance is a trifle and not permanent. I know of plants which colour the skin and hair. I know also of substances which, when placed under the skin, can transform the shape of a face.’

  Sebastian was very quiet and I surmised he had been awoken more recently than I, and was still drowsy from the spells or strange substances this man was speaking of. For my part, I could still barely control my anger.

  ‘Your fury and feelings of impotence are understandable,’ the old man said, as if he could read my mind. ‘And, again, my knowledge of this is not derived from magic. It is to be expected that you would feel this way. Besides, I can read the lines of your face, the posture of your body. These things tell me your mental state. It is an art that anyone may learn, given patience and time.’

  ‘Why have you done this to us?’ I asked, forcing myself to remain as calm as I could. Sebastian shifted in his seat and ran one hand across his brow.

  ‘I am obeying the will of the Holy Father.’

  I sat up in my chair and glared at the old man.

  ‘You don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘That too is understandable. But it is only because of the way in which I had to treat you. What else could I have done? Should I have asked you nicely if I might transform your appearance?’

  ‘You are a deceiver,’ Sebastian said. ‘Why should we believe anything you say?’ His voice was little more than a croak. He glanced at me for a second, taking in my new appearance.

  ‘Because I speak the truth, my boy. I know everything about you. You are Sebastian Mountjoy. Father Sebastian Mountjoy. And you …’ the old man added, turning to me ‘… are Father John William Allen. You have travelled to Paris from the Jesuit College in Rome on the instructions of Roberto Bellarmino himself. He in turn is acting upon the orders of the Holy Father. You are en route to London, there to complete a most urgent and long-overdue task.’

  I was shaken, but did my best not to show it. ‘Your knowledge of such things does nothing to convince me that your intentions are honourable.’

  The old man nodded and produced a faint smile. ‘Good. That is a good answer. Then perhaps this will convince you.’

  He handed me a parchment. I unrolled it and read: ‘By Order of His Holiness, Sixtus V, you are instructed to aid in all and every way within your power the passage of my two servants sent to you from the Venerable English College, this tenth day of January in the Year of Our Lord Fifteen Hundred and Eighty-nine. Their purpose is of the utmost importance to Us and We grant you permission to use whatever means you deem appropriate to expedite the success of their Most Holy mission.’ Beneath this was the holy papal seal.

  I handed the parchment to Sebastian and turned back to the old man. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sometimes I barely know myself,’ he replied, eyeing me closely. The light from the shifting coals seemed to set his dark blue pupils aflame. He stared deep into the fire for a moment before continuing, ‘I was once named Cornelius Agrippa.’

  Sebastian made a strange sound and turned to me. ‘He lies. Agrippa died many years ago.’

  ‘Yes, in a way, he did,’ the old man replied. ‘The person I was barely remains as part of me, but I am who I say I am. Cornelius Agrippa, alchemist, friend of noblemen and royalty, philosopher, truth-seeker, devout Catholic … and one hundred and three years old.’

  I snorted and he smiled thinly, fixing me with those clear and youthful eyes again. I felt a shudder pass through me and turned to look at Sebastian, but he was staring at the old man.

  ‘It matters not whether you choose to believe me,’ he said in his oddly youthful voice. ‘You do not need to believe that I am here to help you, nor even that the Holy Father has instructed me to do all I can to expedite your success. I will not fail my master.’

  ‘But what help is this?’ I exclaimed, finally losing control of myself. I stood up and glared at the old man who claimed he was the famed alchemist and magus Cornelius Agrippa. ‘You have disfigured us. Why?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he replied, ignoring my fury, not even bothering to glance up at me. ‘There are spies everywhere. Indeed, we are in the middle of a war of spies, if you will. Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth’s Principal Secretary and spymaster, has dozens of servants in this city, many men and women in his pay who would denounce you in a heartbeat and collect their few pieces of silver as reward.’

  ‘And how do we know you are not one of them?’ Sebastian said. He was sitting bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘You don’t. Perhaps you should not trust me. But then, you have to trust someone. So far you’ve made a pig’s ear of things.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘How so?’

  ‘The inn-keeper. He is one of Walsingham’s men.’

  ‘But we were told to proceed to his inn, that he could be trusted.’

  ‘The man has turned. I managed to get you to safety before others could intervene. In a way, I was already too late. Your faces were known. The only way I could help you was to use my skills to change your appearance.’

  I let out a heavy sigh, still unable to believe him.

  ‘Who else did Father Bellarmino say you could trust?’ he went on.

  ‘A man named Gappair.’

  ‘Gappair?’ he laughed. Sebastian glanced at me as I sank down in my seat again.

  ‘Gappair?’ He repeated. ‘Hah! An anagram, my boy … for Agrippa.’

  I sensed Sebastian sag with relief in his chair and, for my part, suddenly felt a huge weight lifted from my shoulders.

  The old man rose to his feet and approached us. ‘Now, perhaps we should stop wasting precious time,’ he said. ‘You need to learn what you must do with this.’ And he held out the ring which Roberto Bellarmino had placed in our safekeeping.

  Stepney, Sunday 5 June, lunchtime

  La Dolce Vita, an Italian restaurant on Mile End Road, was every bit the cliché its name implied. Owned by Giovanni Contadino, a former sales executive from Milan who had moved to London over a decade earlier, it was decorated with heavily patterned wallpaper and an equally strident carpet. A huge but cheap-looking chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling, casting a surprisingly pallid light
. But the food was good and the service friendly.

  On this oppressively hot afternoon, all the windows of the restaurant had been flung open and a couple of portable electric fans did their best to quell the stifling heat. A storm was brewing.

  By 12.45, the staff of Rainer and Partner had gathered at the bar. It was their annual get together, and, in ebullient mood, the owner of the company, Max Rainer, was buying everyone drinks. Suddenly, the storm broke. Rain came down in great torrents. The restaurant staff rushed around, slamming shut the windows.

  Tim Middleton was fifteen minutes late. He pulled into the car park in his red MG, slammed shut the car door, opened an over-sized Ralph Lauren umbrella and dashed through the rain to the restaurant. He looked dapper in a beautifully tailored Ozwald Boateng suit, taupe calfskin loafers and a floral-patterned shirt. He was about to open the door when he noticed a young couple standing in the passageway leading to the dining-room. She was slim with brown, wavy hair. Her white 1950s-style dress clung to her, accentuating large breasts and a narrow waist. Her partner was a tall man, at least twenty years her senior. He was greying at the temples and heavy-jowled. The young woman had her arm linked with his. Middleton stopped abruptly and was about to turn on his heel when the woman spotted him.

  ‘Hello, Tim,’ she said, and pressed closer to her partner.

  ‘Sophie,’ he replied evenly.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Middleton said, ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me?’

  Sophie blocked his way by moving almost imperceptibly to her left. Middleton gave her a contemptuous look.

  ‘Always were on a hair trigger, weren’t you, Tim?’

  The man at Sophie’s side laughed. ‘Ah, that Tim,’ he said.