Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 17

The shadow slipped down the corridor running alongside the scriptorium, preceded by her steamy breath. She turned the corner when she reached the refectory and listened out. Not a sound. The coast was clear. The guest house was empty owing to the lingering acrid smell left by the blaze. The shadow’s accomplice had been clever to think up that diversion. She had started the fire. The shadow had only needed to wait for the resulting confusion on the far side of the abbey to sneak in and steal the manuscripts. As for that fool of a guest mistress, Thibaude de Gartempe, she was annoying everybody with her insistence that she had done her best, that she couldn’t understand how it had happened and that she was in no way to blame for the fire that had almost destroyed her little domain.

The figure arrived at the steam room, not far from the bathhouse. Blanche de Blinot, who had made the place her own during the past few weeks, had retired to the dormitories where, as soon as her head touched the pillow, she would continue the semi-permanent slumber from which she rarely emerged these days. The old woman was fond of the room where, according to her, she was able to read the scriptures without getting cold and risking a chest infection. The scriptures! Only a fool would believe such a story! Blanche spent virtually the whole day asleep.

The shadow groped her way in the dark over to the cabinet where the ink was placed overnight to keep it from freezing. Sitting on the bottom shelf was a collection of cracked ink-horns that hadn’t been thrown away because nothing in that place of voluntary poverty was ever thrown away. The shadow felt a further rush of resentment. The abbey was wealthy, extremely wealthy. Why, then, must they be deprived of everything on the pretext of doing penance and remembering the poor? Did shivering under skimpy blankets make the poor feel any warmer? Did digging the earth or cleaning the muck off pigs improve their lives?

Soon. Soon she would be free to live in the world. To live, at last. Monsieur de Nogaret had promised introductions to the best Parisian society, where the shadow’s talents for underhand deeds would be valued by the King’s counsellor, who had already employed her to spy on troublesome members of the nobility. What did it matter that the shadow received payment from Nogaret as well as from one of his staunchest opponents, the camerlingo Benedetti?

Paris, how exhilarating! The idea of serving the powerful had finally seduced the shadow. She wanted freedom and wealth. Admittedly, the idea of killing Éleusie de Beaufort was repugnant, but it had to be done in order to retrieve – and above all to remove from the abbey – her pot of money, which included the modest sum that the wretched Mabile had entrusted to her. She had hidden her hard-earned gold in the false bottom of a reliquary – allegedly containing the tibia of Saint Germain d’Auxerre, who had fought against the Picts and the Saxons in England – donated to the abbey by Madame de Beaufort. After all, the Abbess was as stubborn as she was blind. What strange madness causes some people to fight those who are more powerful than they? For the ‘Italian friend’, as Madame de Neyrat had referred to him in order to avoid saying his name, was one of those dangerous creatures who should never be opposed. The shadow shuddered. Sometimes she had the disturbing impression that the camerlingo was watching her every move, entering her head and rummaging through her thoughts. Childish notions inspired by her fear of the camerlingo.

At last, an end to fear. Was that not true freedom? Madame de Neyrat was free because she was fearless, had no regrets, no conscience. Madame de Neyrat scared and fascinated her. She detested Madame de Neyrat.

She seized the large dark-grey ink-horn, which a hairline crack had rendered obsolete. Red ink had dried along its rough edges, like a trickle of blood. The shadow removed the hemp stopper that kept the greenish-brown powder captive inside. As far as the shadow knew, it came from an exotic Asian fruit roughly the size of an apple. The little-known substance was highly prized by poisoners, despite its exorbitant cost – no doubt justified by its extreme efficacy which, thanks to Yolande de Fleury’s unexpected participation, the shadow had been able to witness at first hand. That poor fool Yolande. The good sister in charge of the granary had come bleating to her in the registry22 after her violent encounter with the Abbess. The pretty little goose had cried on the shoulder of the person she thought was her friend, had sworn she hadn’t given away the name of her kindly informant, had explained that she had seen through Éleusie de Beaufort and Annelette Beaupré’s wicked ploy, insisting loudly that as his mother she would have known if her little Thibaut were dead. That same night she had joined him!

The shadow considered the meagre amount of powder that was left, and wondered whether there might not be enough for both the Abbess and the meddlesome apothecary, Beaupré. Was it not too much of a risk? Was it worth incurring the wrath of that pretty monster Neyrat in the event that Madame de Beaufort survived the poisoning? Certainly not.

The shadow emptied the contents of the ink-horn onto a small square of cloth, which she tied carefully before hurrying back to the dormitories.