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“I tend not to open dialogues with people who threaten to kill me.”
Marlowe looked surprised. “I can’t imagine what you mean. I certainly don’t want you dead, and neither does anyone else on the Senate. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Did you tell Agnes the same thing?”
Marlowe’s brows knitted together into a small frown. “I’m not certain I understand you.”
I brought out the small charm Pritkin had given me. He’d never asked for it back, so I’d stuffed it into a pocket. Now I let it swing in front of Marlowe’s eyes like a pendulum. “Recognize this?”
He took it and gave it a once-over. “Of course.”
I stared at him. It wouldn’t be a shock if Marlowe had been the one to mastermind the assassination—it fit his reputation—but I hadn’t expected him to just admit it. Did he think I’d be pleased that he removed Agnes and cleared my way to succeed?
“It’s a Saint Sebastian medallion.” He took it from my limp fingers. Mac had closed in, but he wasn’t saying anything. Maybe he also thought we were about to hear a confession. If so, he was disappointed. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Of course, there’s been no need for them.”
“What need?” Mac had a look on his face that reminded me of Pritkin at his most suspicious.
“The plague, mage,” Marlowe said impatiently. “Sebastian was the saint believed to be able to ward off disease. These were still popular on the Continent in my day, although most were made in the fourteenth century, during the Black Death.”
I leaned in for a closer look. “So this is what, a good-luck charm?”
Marlowe smiled. “Something like that. People wanted to believe they were doing something to protect themselves and their families.”
“Kind of ironic,” I said. Mac nodded, but Marlowe looked confused. “This was used to kill someone recently,” I explained.
Marlowe’s brows rose. It was the first expression I’d seen him wear that didn’t appear contrived. “The Pythia was murdered?”
Mac said one of Pritkin’s bad words. “And how would you know that if you didn’t do it?” he demanded heatedly.
Marlowe shrugged. “Who else were we talking about?” He turned the thing over in his hands, frowning. “Someone’s cut it open.”
“We did that,” Mac said, snatching it out of his hands. “It had arsenic in it!” He said the latter as if he expected it to stagger the vamp, but Marlowe didn’t appear fazed.
“Well, of course it did.” At my expression, he explained. “Powdered toad, arsenic—a whole host of substances were often put inside these things before they were soldered together. They were thought to ward off sickness, and added to the medallion’s value—and its price, of course.”
“You mean there was supposed to be poison in there?” I looked at Mac. “You’re sure she was murdered?”
“Cassie—” he said warningly. He obviously didn’t want to discuss this in front of Marlowe, but I couldn’t see the harm. If Marlowe had arranged the Pythia’s death, he already knew about it; if not, maybe he could provide a few clues.
“A medallion like this was found next to her body,” I told Marlowe. “Is there any way it could have been used to kill her?”
He looked thoughtful. “Anything that comes in contact with the skin can be a danger. Queen Elizabeth was almost assassinated by poison rubbed into the pommel of her saddle. And I once killed a Catholic by soaking his prayer beads in an arsenic solution,” he added nonchalantly.
He was creeping me out, but at least it looked like I’d come to the right guy. “Would that sort of method take a long time to kill someone?”
“An hour or so.”
“No, like six months.”
Marlowe shook his head. “Even assuming someone soaked her necklace in a weak solution, and she was in the habit of fingering the medallion, it wouldn’t have worked. Arsenic causes redness and swelling of the skin over time— she would have noticed. That’s why gradual poisoning is usually done in food. It’s tasteless and odorless, and in small doses, its symptoms are similar to food poisoning.”
“Her food was specially prepared and carefully tested,” Mac said. “And Lady Phemonoe was extremely . . . careful about poisons. You might almost say she was, well, not paranoid exactly, but—”
“That’s not what I heard,” Marlowe broke in cheerfully. He seemed to like talking shop. “They say she’d become extremely superstitious with age, and had been buying all sorts of questionable remedies. A knife believed to turn green when passed over unsafe food, an antique Venetian glass supposed to explode if filled with a poisoned liquid, a goblet with a bezoar set into the bottom—”
“Maybe she Saw something.” Agnes had been a seer, too, a powerful one. I shivered. How horrible would it be to see your own death, yet be able to do nothing about it?
“Perhaps.” Marlowe was smiling at me again, and I didn’t like it. “But if so, it appears to have done her little good. Which rather proves the point I am trying to make. The mages cannot keep you safe any more than they did your predecessor. We will be much more efficient, I assure you.”
