Читать книгу Conspiracy - S. J. Parris - Страница 11

I woke late the next morning, opening my eyes to a dusty grey light with a lingering sense of dread. Easing myself on to my elbows, I registered the bruises along my shoulder and hip from my plunge the day before, but it took a moment longer for my mind to struggle through the fog of sleep until I could be sure that I had not dreamed my nocturnal audience with the King and its unwelcome conclusion.

So she had fled to Paris, as I had suspected. Sophia Underhill, the woman I had known in Oxford and Canterbury. The King was right; she had bested me, and the memory of it still burned. Like a fool, I had thought myself proof against the wiles of women; the self-discipline I had learned in thirteen years as a Dominican served me well enough to withstand the cynical and obvious seductresses of the French court, but nothing had prepared me for a woman like Sophia. Educated, spirited, hungry for life, knowledge, independence, she had found herself ceaselessly frustrated by the constraints placed on her by her sex. Life had not been kind to her, and those scars had lent her a lean and wary look, and an edge of ruthlessness in her determination not to be duped. She made it a matter of principle to strike first, before you could touch her; she trusted no one. That was a bitter lesson, and one I had learned too late. I had done my best to excise her from my heart and my memory, but the agitation I now felt at the possibility that she might still be in Paris suggested I had not succeeded. I tore a comb through my hair and examined my face in the glass to judge how much I had aged since she last saw me, all the while cursing her under my breath. Now I would walk every street searching the crowds for her face, despite myself.

Outside, the rain had relented but a thick mist lay over the streets, rising in curlicues from the river; it would not burn off now, with the air so cold and dank. Resting one hand on my dagger beneath my cloak and darting frequent glances over my shoulder, I followed the rue Saint-Jacques north towards the river, picking my way through hoof-churned mud and waterlogged wheel-ruts as the damp seeped through the soles of my boots. A bell tolled sullenly nearby; students hurried between the faculties of the Sorbonne, urgent voices carrying out of the mist before they emerged like rooks, robes snapping around dirt-spattered ankles, deep in earnest debate. I kept my head down, but my senses alert. No one appeared to pay me any attention, for which I was grateful.

The church of Saint-Séverin squatted on the corner of Saint-Jacques and rue des Prêtres, one street away from the river, a sprawling mongrel of styles and stones jumbled together over four centuries. Gargoyles leered down from its buttresses. I was surprised to find a crowd of at least a hundred gathered in the churchyard, clustered around a tombstone on which a man with grey stubble and fiery eyes stood shouting with his legs planted wide and a fist raised. I wondered first if he was mad, but as I drew closer I could hear his voice ringing out clear and purposeful, as if he were accustomed to oratory; some among his audience were clutching sticks and pokers and bellowing their agreement. The mood felt as edgy and dangerous as it had the previous Sunday, after Paul’s sermon.

‘The House of Valois believe they can defy all the laws of God and man without consequence,’ he cried, to an appreciative roar. ‘For years they have been stained with incest and murder, sorcery and heresy.’ (More roaring.) ‘Now our king allows heretics to flourish in France and we all know what is coming, don’t we, my brothers and sisters?’ (A frantic chorus of agreement.) ‘When the Huguenot Navarre is king, the Protestants will take their revenge for Saint Bartholomew’s night. They will rise up and cut us down in our homes. The streets of Paris will run red with Catholic blood, yours and mine, brothers and sisters!’ (A scream of ‘God have mercy’ from a woman in the throng.) ‘God has turned his face from France. Our harvests have failed, our armies are defeated, children and widows starve in the gutters. And what right have we to expect otherwise, when we allow ourselves to be governed by a king who is a blasphemer, a sodomite and a murderer, and his witch mother?’

The crowd almost lost control, roaring and brandishing their weapons; I stepped back in alarm as a man near me swiped a butcher’s cleaver through the air. I began to wish I had stayed away; there would be blood spilled before this was over.

‘Our dear curé, Père Lefèvre, has been murdered in cold blood for daring to speak out against the decay and corruption of the royal line. Thus the Valois show their contempt for the Church, for the laws of God and for human life. There will be no justice for him unless we the people demand it. We must march on the Louvre! Justice for Père Lefèvre!’

The crowd erupted in a cacophony of righteous fury; ‘Death to the King!’ and ‘Justice for Père Lefèvre!’ rang in the damp air. I took the opportunity to scurry away to the church. The main door was locked, but I followed a path around the back and found a side door that had been forgotten. It was a relief to step into the cool gloom of the empty nave. Despite the mist outside, a pearly light filtered through the high windows, painting faint jewel colours over the delicate arches of the vaults and the worn faces carved on the capitals. Here the air was cold and clear; the mineral smell of old stone cut through lingering traces of beeswax and stale incense. It seemed a lifetime ago that I had listened to the echo of my footsteps on these same stones on my way to corner Paul in his confessional. The dust swirling in ribs of light might have hung in the air for centuries. I stood before the altar, casting around as if I had lost something, until I attracted the attention of a young curate crossing one of the side aisles, a red-haired man in his mid-twenties with a preoccupied air and a tic in his left eye that gave the impression he was frantically winking at me.

‘The church is closed, monsieur. How did you get in?’ He sounded frightened.

‘I’m not one of them,’ I said, jerking my thumb towards the door. ‘I was a friend of Père Lefèvre.’

‘May God have mercy on his soul,’ he muttered, crossing himself. ‘A very sad business. But I can’t help you. The doors are supposed to be barred until they disperse.’ He chewed his lip and pulled at a thread on the cuff of his cassock.

‘I only wondered if anyone knew what had happened. I heard him preach on Sunday. It’s been a terrible shock.’

The young curate bit his thumbnail. ‘I understand there was an accident.’ His gaze flicked past me to the pillars of the ambulatory and the recesses behind. ‘He was attacked outside the city walls, they said.’

‘That doesn’t sound like an accident.’

Another sideways glance. ‘I don’t know any more than that.’

‘He seemed anxious recently. Something was troubling him.’ I left this hanging, neither quite a question nor a statement. This young man, for all his twitching, appeared shrewd; if he worked with Paul every day, he would surely have noticed any unusual behaviour.

Recognition sparked in his eyes for a moment, before it was replaced by the shadow of suspicion.

‘Who did you say you were?’

I searched his eyes again. A man in a priest’s robes, the laundress had said. Not this one; the voice was wrong. But there would be other curates here, potentially his friends or confederates.

‘I’ve known Paul – Père Lefèvre – for a long time. Before he was ordained. We were at the Sorbonne together.’

‘Before he joined the League, then.’ His tone gave nothing away. I had the sense that he was testing me. I decided to take a further risk.

‘Yes. Back when he was still human.’

The young curate’s face visibly relaxed. ‘I did not have that pleasure. I have only been here six months.’ He fixed me with a look that seemed intended to convey what he felt he could not voice. ‘I don’t think I have seen you here before?’

‘I did not attend often. I found Paul’s sermons increasingly hard to swallow.’

‘You were not alone there.’

Little by little, I thought, I could coax some truth out of him. ‘He was a difficult man to get along with,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘He was sincere in his beliefs, at least.’

‘Not in itself a virtue. The Pharisees were sincere. Luther and Calvin were nothing if not sincere.’

‘True.’ He liked this; a faint smile chased across his lips. He glanced past me again, down the aisle towards the door, and dropped his voice another notch. ‘I say nothing against the League, you understand. They may be right on some points. Many points, even. But I believe a priest’s role is to preach the word of God, and to bring harmony where there is discord, not to fuel more discord. Our duty is the cure of souls, and there is a high price to pay for disregarding that.’

‘And you think Paul paid that price?’ I said.

The twitch in his eye intensified and his face closed up. ‘You have heard the crowd out there. They have already delivered their verdict. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now, monsieur, so that I can lock the doors.’ He paused as another animal roar rose up from the churchyard. ‘When they are inflamed, they tend to break things.’

He turned and began to walk away through the ambulatory. I hurried after him as he slipped between the rows of carved columns, and caught at his sleeve.

‘But you had noticed that he seemed troubled lately, Father?’

He walked on a few more paces then stopped and turned to face me, anxiety knotting his features. ‘I don’t know who you are, but for the sake of Saint-Séverin, leave this alone. Let us mourn him quietly. His death is tragedy enough without it becoming more ammunition for one side or the other.’

‘It is already too late to escape that, I fear.’ I gestured in the direction of the noise outside. ‘Please – if you know anything about his death, it may help to prevent more violence.’

He regarded me a moment longer, then drew me by the elbow into an unlit side chapel, out of sight.

‘You are right that he was not himself lately,’ he said, in a voice that barely reached a whisper. ‘It began no more than a month ago. He seemed all of a sudden – uncertain.’

‘About what?’

‘Everything.’ He circled a hand to encompass the chapel, the altar, the crucifix above it. ‘He grew more and more withdrawn – I might almost say fearful. He was often absent – he turned up to celebrate Mass, but between times none of us knew where he was. Once he stopped me and demanded out of nowhere to know why I had desired to be ordained, and if I still felt the same.’ He shook his head. ‘I had witnessed something similar with a fellow ordinand when I was in the seminary. If it had been anyone else, I would have said …’ He let the sentence tail off.

‘That he was losing his faith,’ I offered. I had seen it too, when I was taking holy orders; no one who has entered the religious life could fail to recognise a crisis of belief in a brother. ‘But it did not show in his sermons.’

The young curate’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said you did not attend service here?’

‘I came on Sunday. He invited me in person.’

He weighed this up and nodded. ‘You are right. It was quite the opposite, in fact – the more he seemed to be unravelling in private, the more of a demagogue he became in the pulpit. As if he could drown out his doubts by shouting his convictions in public.’

‘And you have no idea what prompted this – unravelling? Was there a confrontation, perhaps?’

A guilty flicker across his face; the eye tic quickened. I waited.

‘Four weeks ago,’ he said, so quietly the words barely escaped his lips, ‘the first day of November, we had celebrated the Mass of All Souls. I stayed late after the service to clear up and lock away the silverware. I thought everyone had left, but when I came back to the ambulatory, I heard raised voices from inside this chapel. Père Lefèvre was arguing with someone.’

‘Did you hear what they said?’

‘Père Lefèvre called him Judas. The other man laughed, and said Lefèvre should be more careful with his words. I wanted to get home but I didn’t want them to think I’d been listening, so I made an obvious noise outside and they fell silent immediately. They must have thought they were alone. The other fellow slipped away down one of the side aisles and Lefèvre walked out and tried to greet me as if nothing had happened. But I could tell he was upset.’

‘Did you see the man he was arguing with?’

‘I did not catch sight of his face, but I saw what he wore.’ He hesitated, biting his lip again. ‘The black habit of the Augustinians.’

‘A friar from Saint-Victor, then?’

He seemed about to reply when I thought I caught a slight movement outside the chapel; I whipped around, but when I poked my head out, there was no one in sight in either direction. The curate had heard it too; his eyes darted around the walls like a cornered animal.

‘You must leave now. I have to lock the church.’

He chivvied me out into the damp air. When I turned the corner by the apse, I saw that the crowd had grown; people stood on tombs and jostled for position along the wall as the man with the stubble, his voice now hoarse, whipped them on to cries of bloody vengeance against the King. The mood had darkened; they brandished makeshift weapons and turned black stares on those who did not join in with the chorus of slogans.

‘Death to the House of Valois,’ I muttered, to placate a murderous-looking blacksmith who was eyeing me while pounding a hammer into his fist. The mob had knotted tightly around the churchyard gate; it would be impossible to fight my way through without injury. I knew how these protests ended, too; shop windows smashed, carts and houses set on fire, people bloodied and wounded in the confusion; then royal troops called out to quell the crowd, shots fired, more injuries or even deaths, which would stoke the anger further. I only wanted to get away as quickly as possible. I decided I would have to climb over the wall, though it was hard to see a place where it was not jammed with eager spectators. I glanced to my left and noticed a tall man of about my own age standing on the fringe of the crowd, his arms folded, watching the growing frenzy with an air of detachment. His clothes were expensively tailored, his neat pointed beard and chestnut hair carefully barbered, making him conspicuous in this rabble of rough-clad tradesmen and apprentices. I wondered if he was an informer. He glanced across and caught my eye with a frankness that implied recognition. I half-expected him to address me, but his look seemed neither friendly nor hostile; he merely observed me, making no attempt to hide it, before returning his attention to the man still delivering his impassioned speech from the plinth. Unease needled up the back of my neck. A quick check through my memory assured me that I did not know his face, though he had seemed to know me. I turned and walked briskly the way I had come, away from the mob, conscious of the stranger’s eyes following me until I was out of sight.

It was a relief to escape the churchyard; the mood of the crowd promised violence before too long. I realised I had not eaten since the night before and my stomach was pinched with hunger. On the corner of rue Saint-Jacques I bought a galette in a greasy paper from a street vendor and demolished it in two bites. The noise from Saint-Séverin carried through the chilly air; the vendor shook his head and began to pack up his wares, anticipating a riot. Over my left shoulder, the façade of Notre Dame gazed downriver towards the Louvre, serene and implacable on its island.

The rabble and its leader clearly held the King responsible for Paul’s death, or were content to use it as an excuse, though I concluded that I had no choice but to proceed as if Henri were telling the truth: that he had nothing to do with the murder and that the Duke of Guise, having encouraged Paul to attack the King in his sermon, had then had him murdered with the sole purpose of inflaming further outrage against the House of Valois. If that were the case, it meant I was looking for evidence that would link the murderer to Guise, who already had more than enough reason to want me dead, if he too suspected that I had been instrumental in disrupting his plans to invade England. Guise had no firm proof that I had intercepted those letters in London, but that hardly mattered; since I was the only known enemy of the Catholic Church living in the French embassy at the time the conspiracy was uncovered, it hardly took advanced powers of reasoning to point the finger in my direction. As I had already observed, Guise was no fool. If the Duke found out I was trying to expose him a second time, he would have my balls roasted on a skewer, while the King looked the other way and studied his manicure. In that light, it became clearer why Henri had asked me to undertake this business and not one of his usual fixers: he considered me expendable.

I passed under the Porte de la Tournelle and paused in the shelter of the tower wall to wipe my forehead where the mist had condensed in cold droplets on my hair and brows. Behind me, under the shadow of the arch, I thought I glimpsed someone else stopping too. I twisted around, but saw only the usual stream of hawkers and goodwives, mules and handcarts, ragged children and dogs, all spattered with mud and weighed down with bales of cloth, coils of rope, barrows of vegetables or baskets of eggs, making their way in and out of the city to barter or beg. No one obviously loitering or watching me; and yet, after nine years of living in exile, one eye always open for anyone who might want to arrest me or knife me in a back alley, I had developed a finely tuned instinct for being followed, and now it quivered like a cat’s whiskers. I pulled up the hood of my cloak and moved on along the road away from the Porte, straining to catch any unexpected movement through the grey air.

The abbey church of Saint-Victor reared up in the distance behind its boundary wall and orchards, its spire a bony finger poking through a shroud of low-lying mist swirling up from the river. A lone crow called into the empty sky, as if announcing my arrival. I shivered, wondering if the night’s rain had washed Paul’s blood away from the track along the bank behind the abbey, by that small door in the back wall. Now there was a man in a friar’s habit to add to the picture, and I wished the curate’s testimony had not pointed me here again.

Saint-Victor – or at least its opulent library – had become a kind of sanctuary for me since my return to Paris. Four years ago, before I left for England, the old abbot had been pleased to grant me free access to the library, despite the misgivings of some of his brothers over my writings, but that was when I had the distinction of being a Reader at the Sorbonne and personal tutor of philosophy to the King, before the rumours of magic trailed after me. The new Abbé was deeply conservative in matters of religion and learning, a public supporter of Guise and the Catholic League; though Frère Guillaume Cotin, the librarian, had welcomed me back as a friend, we had kept the arrangement between ourselves. But I had come to depend on the library, and not merely because it would be impossible for me to finish my next book without access to its manuscripts. In all the turbulence of the last few months, I had come to find in its stillness and its smell of old books, polished wood and candles, a comforting sense of order. I did not want to lose my one refuge in Paris, nor did I wish to cause any trouble to Cotin, after his generosity to me. If Paul’s killer came from the abbey, he would have powerful men protecting him, and they would not welcome the intrusive questions of an ex-Dominican known to be a friend of the King.

An ominous silence hung over the scriptorium with its rows of chained manuscripts; at the hour of None, most of the friars would be in church. Two who must have had special permission to miss divine service were still working at desks under the west windows; they glanced up with mild curiosity as I entered. Cotin bustled across to intercept me. He had evidently been waiting.

‘Bruno! I thought you weren’t coming today. I feared—’ He glanced across the room at the two young copyists, who had turned to whisper to one another, and nodded me towards a spiral staircase in the corner. This led to an upper gallery, which in turn opened on to a series of connecting rooms, each with a locked door guarding the volumes considered either too valuable or too inflammatory for public display. Cotin unlocked the first of these doors from a key ring on his belt and pulled me inside, closing it behind him.

‘They’ve been looking for you,’ he said, breathless. He was well into his sixties by now; short and broad, with tufts of white bristle sprouting from his ears and nostrils and a bushy greying beard, as if all the hair had migrated south from his flaking scalp. Without his eyeglasses, his face appeared undefended, his pale blue eyes squinting and anxious, as if fearful of missing some vital detail. ‘There’s been a lot of talk, since yesterday, that business with the priest. What’s going on, Bruno?’

I shook my head. ‘Who’s looking for me?’

‘The Abbé wants to question you. They know the priest asked for you before he died, and spoke some words that you refused to share. The Abbé called me in to see him last night – gave me quite an interrogation. How long you had been coming here, which books you asked for, what you were writing. He was not happy that I had let you return without seeking his permission.’ He paused and grimaced, pulling the cloth of his habit away from his neck as if it was chafing.

‘I am sorry to have caused you trouble. I never anticipated—’

He tutted the apology away, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The Abbé is a pompous fool. I have learned to accommodate him. But there is a great commotion over this death, Bruno – apparently the priest was a close associate of the League, and the Duke of Guise regards his killing as a personal attack. The Abbé wants to know what secrets he whispered to you on his deathbed.’

‘I see. Prompted by his love of justice, of course.’

Cotin gave me a long look from under his brows. ‘The Abbé has his eye on a cardinal’s hat. He thinks Guise is his surest route to one. And he has no choice but to concern himself with this murder, since the priest died inside the abbey walls.’

‘He was attacked only yards from your back gate, too,’ I said. ‘I’d be surprised if that was a coincidence.’

His face contorted with distress. ‘God have mercy on us all. There is something I must show you, Bruno. You are the only man I dare tell.’ He stopped abruptly, laying his hand on my sleeve, head cocked as if listening. I thought I caught a sound from the room behind us. ‘Follow me. The servant on the gate will have told them you’re here by now. We’ll go out this way.’

He unlocked the far door and led me through a further succession of rooms until we emerged from a tower in the west side of the courtyard beyond the cloisters. Cotin motioned to me to keep back inside the doorway until two friars had passed, carrying a basket between them. When he judged we were safe, he led me along a passageway between stone walls and out into the gardens behind the abbey’s complex of buildings. Here we were exposed, though the dense mist offered a useful cover; Cotin pulled up his hood and I followed his example as we hurried across the open space to the shelter of the orchard beyond.

Fruit trees loomed in twisted shapes, the fog lingering clammy between them, but Cotin ploughed on, ducking under branches and around trunks with a dogged sense of direction, despite the absence of any path that I could make out. I glanced back to see if we had been followed, but saw nothing through the web of mist except the knotty outlines of bare trees.

After a good ten minutes’ walking we reached the far side of the orchard and the solid mass of the boundary wall appeared, twelve feet high around the perimeter. Gulls circled above, harsh calls echoing over the river on the other side. I had not been to this part of the abbey grounds before; there had been no reason for me to venture so far from the main cloister and the library. I now saw that a row of low buildings lined the inside of the perimeter wall. There was no sign of any living soul out here. As we approached the outbuilding at the end of the row, Cotin selected a key from the ring at his belt and as he fiddled with the lock, I noticed a narrow path running along the inside of the wall. I followed the line of it as far as I could see and realised that it led straight to a small wooden door, set into the wall. This must be the gate I had seen from the towpath on the other side, where I had found the evidence of Paul’s death. I wondered what Cotin could want to show me here with such urgency.

He ushered me through the low doorway, peering back into the mist to make certain we were still alone. Once inside, he took down a lamp from a high shelf behind the door, drew out a tinder-box from inside his habit and struck the flint, lighting the stub of candle, before pulling the door closed behind us. Rodent feet scuttled away into the corners at the sound. As the flame took hold and flickered up the walls, I saw that we stood in a low, windowless storeroom, with wooden crates stacked along one side, casks and sacks piled up at the far end.

‘You say the priest was attacked close to the abbey gate,’ Cotin whispered, glancing around again as if we might be overheard.

‘I saw his blood on the track out there, by that door that leads to the jetty,’ I said.

He nodded, absorbing this, then gestured to a pile of crates in the far corner of the room. ‘My predecessor acquired over the years all manner of books and manuscripts from private collections. The most valuable went straight to the library, but the remainder could not be housed in the library archive, there was not the space. He died before he had a chance to catalogue them, so when I became librarian I inherited all these boxes that no one has looked through in perhaps thirty years.’ He swept a hand to encompass the volume of material. ‘Slowly but surely, I am working my way through, deciding which are worth the cost of repair. The answer is precious few, to my lasting regret – time has not been kind to them and many are suffering the ravages of damp, this place being so close to the river, even though they were packed in treated skins. At least the mice have spared them. But whoever decided to keep them in here should be thrown in the Bastille, in my view.’

He folded his arms and glared at the door, as if the culprit might appear at any moment. I motioned for him to continue. Intrigued as I was by the prospect of crateloads of forgotten manuscripts, with the Abbé already combing the grounds for me, I wanted him to come to the point.

‘And?’

‘Well.’ He twisted his hands together. ‘I came in yesterday after supper to make a start on the next pile. The atmosphere among the brothers was sombre after the death of the priest, you may imagine, but I had not thought – I mean to say, it was supposed that the poor man had been attacked by brigands on the road …’ He broke off to set the lantern down. Then he lifted off the topmost of the boxes, placing it on the floor before rummaging through the books in the crate beneath, from which he retrieved a bundle of rough brown cloth. ‘I pulled those boxes out and found this stuffed behind them. My first instinct was to leave it, since whoever put it there would surely come back to dispose of it more permanently. But my conscience … I don’t want to be mixed up in this business, Bruno,’ he said, his eyes bright with fear, ‘but if someone in this abbey …’ He shook his head and handed over the cloth, as if that were explanation enough, holding up the light so that I could see it more clearly.

The bundle was heavier than I had expected; I unfolded it carefully and understood the source of Cotin’s distress. I was holding a rough woven cloak, such as the abbey servants might wear; wrapped inside it was a statue of a saint, about eighteen inches high – Saint Denis, to be precise, staring up at me with blank eyes from the severed head he carried tucked under his own arm, his expression serene. He was carved from a block of white limestone, discoloured with age, the same stone as the walls and pillars of the abbey church; the sculptor’s art had once teased delicate details into the folds of his robe, the curls of his hair and beard and the braiding on his mitre, but his shoulders and the halo surrounding his empty neck had been smoothed and effaced by time and weather, and one of his feet was chipped away. Denis stood on a solid cuboid base, its edge stained with gobbets of bloody matter and a few strands of hair. I balanced it in my hands; it was easily heavy enough to strike a killing blow. I held up the cloak with the other hand; the front was spattered with dark blotches, now dried to a rust-brown crust. There could be little doubt as to the significance of these items. I looked up and met Cotin’s fearful gaze.

‘I haven’t told the Abbé. Do you think—’

‘Was this statue taken from the church?’

He shook his head.

‘Originally. But it has been in here for as long as I can remember. Those crates at the back there are full of bits and pieces from the church awaiting repair. Reliquaries, masonry, statues, candlesticks, glass. Anything that is no longer fit to glorify God is put here to be mended or else given away or the materials sold, though in practice it just gathers dust waiting to be sorted.’

‘Whose job is that?’

‘The sacristan’s.’

‘Could one of the servants have come in here and taken it?’ I asked, indicating the cloak.

‘Almost certainly not. This storeroom is kept locked, only three of us have a key. Some of those sacred objects are valuable. The servants are not allowed to enter unless they are helping one of the brothers to move things.’

‘Then who has access?’ I asked, eyeing the ring at his belt.

‘Myself, for the books. The almoner, Frère Joseph – he keeps the dry goods here that we distribute to the poor once a week at the back gate. And the sacristan.’ He paused, reluctant. ‘Frère Albaric. I believe you met him.’

I recalled that prickle of distaste I had felt on encountering Frère Albaric in the infirmary; his snide expression and shiny skin, the impatience with which he had tried to nudge me away from the dying priest’s bedside as he administered the last rites. Dio cane – had that been because he was afraid of what Paul might say to me? I looked down at the bloodied mess on the base of the statue. I must not jump to conclusions just because I had taken a dislike to the man.

‘And this Frère Joseph,’ I said. ‘What kind of man is he?’

Cotin snorted softly. ‘One that should not be in holy orders, in my view. The usual story – surplus son of a wealthy family. The one they give back to God, but no less full of worldly ambition for that. Joseph is a cold man. He barely troubles to disguise his contempt for the poor – hardly a desirable quality in an almoner. Of course, that may be why the Abbé appointed him,’ he added. ‘He has a reputation for frugality. The abbey’s profits have certainly improved since he began to review the distribution of alms to the needy.’

‘What age is he?’

‘A little younger than you. Not yet thirty-five, I think.’

‘Which family?

‘His name is de Chartres. Parisians. He’s a cousin of the Duke of Montpensier. Well connected.’

‘Ambitious, you say. Is he – let me speak bluntly – a man who might be persuaded to take a life if he thought it would help advance him?’

‘I could not swear to that, Bruno. Who knows what any of us might do, given the right incentive? By temperament, perhaps …’ He hesitated, looking at the statue.

‘But?’

‘Joseph has an affliction of his right hand. Some weakness from a childhood illness, he says. He can do everyday tasks competently enough with his good arm, but he lacks the strength for manual labour.’

‘So …’ I held the statue by the neck with my left hand and attempted to swing it through the air as if striking a blow. Paul Lefèvre was a tall man; if he had been standing when he was first hit, the assailant would have had to raise the statue above shoulder height before bringing it down. Saint Denis was heavy and unwieldy when held aloft with one hand. A strong man might be able to muster enough force for a killing blow one-armed, but it would be difficult to aim with any precision. Paul’s attacker could not have afforded to miss and risk the priest trying to fight back – especially if he lacked the strength to fight.

‘And Albaric?’

‘Two good arms, as far as I know.’

‘I meant, is he ambitious too? Political?’

Cotin looked unconvinced. ‘I do not know him well enough to say. I’m not sure anyone does, though he has been here eight or more years. He is devout in his duties, and that is all I can tell you, except that he guards his privacy, as far as one can in a community such as this. If he has political interests, I have no idea what they might be.’

For all that, he is certainly not politically naïve, I thought, recalling Albaric’s throwaway remark about looking to the Louvre to find the killer. It had struck me as an odd comment, given that at first Paul was assumed to be the chance victim of street robbers. He had known who Paul was, too, though he had affected only a vague recognition.

‘What about the back gate? Who has the key?’

‘All the senior officials whose work concerns deliveries to the abbey,’ he said. ‘Various goods come in by river to be unloaded at that jetty. So the two I have mentioned, but also the cellarer, the bursar, the infirmarian, among others. But it is not impossible that copies have slipped into other hands over the years.’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘In my day it was not unknown for younger friars to find their way out at night.’

‘In my day, too,’ I said, remembering my own nocturnal sorties in Naples. I looked back at the statue in my hands. ‘But why did he – whoever he was – not simply throw these in the river so they would not be found?’

‘Perhaps he was interrupted,’ Cotin suggested. ‘If a boat came too close and he needed to hide himself, he may not have had time to throw the statue into deep water. Or perhaps he was afraid it would be noticed missing. He may have meant to clean it later and return it to its place.’ He dragged a hand across his beard, covered his mouth. ‘God have mercy.’

‘Either way, he will be back for it,’ I said. ‘I am going to wait for him.’

He peeled his fingers away from his face and his mouth pinched. ‘You should not involve yourself in this any further, Bruno.’ He sighed. ‘By which I mean, I would prefer not to find myself in any more trouble with the Abbé as a result of your meddling. I have already defended you once.’

‘Defended?’

‘The Abbé advanced the theory that the priest had spoken your name repeatedly not because he was asking for you, but because he was trying to accuse his killer. I insisted that was impossible, that you had been sitting under my nose in the library all afternoon. Even then I’m not sure he was persuaded. Either way he wants you questioned.’

‘Thank you.’ I wondered who had planted that helpful idea in the Abbé’s mind. ‘But listen to me, Cotin. What are your choices? Will you go to the Abbé and tell him what you found here, or will you keep quiet in the knowledge that one of your brothers is a killer?’

The old man looked stricken. Neither prospect held much appeal. ‘It could have been a servant,’ he faltered. ‘A stolen key—’

I clicked my tongue, impatient. ‘Whoever struck Paul Lefèvre did it on behalf of someone more powerful, you can be sure. I’d be surprised if that person would have entrusted such a task to a servant. The Abbé will not thank you for drawing his attention to the scandal, if it was one of his friars. He may even have an interest in protecting the murderer. No one was supposed to find this evidence—’ I lifted the statue into his line of sight. ‘If you speak up about it, you may put yourself in danger. That’s why I should be the one to confront whoever comes back for this. Once I know who he is for certain, it will be for others to deal with and no one will connect it with you.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t be absurd, Bruno. Everyone will know I let you in here.’

‘You just said yourself, a key might be stolen. Supposing you had left yours unattended in the library? I might well have helped myself. It’s the sort of thing they would expect of me.’

I cocked an eyebrow, waiting to see if I had convinced him. He regarded me with a tired smile.

‘You are relentless, Bruno. You propose to conceal yourself in here until he returns to dispose of the evidence. Then what? Will you accost him yourself? By whose authority?’

‘You can guess,’ I said quietly.

He pulled at his beard, looking doubtful. ‘You know the religious houses outside the city walls have their own jurisdiction. Unless you are carrying a royal seal, Henri’s name will not mean much here. It will be your word – a known heretic who has broken into abbey property – against that of a senior official of the order. Do you think the Abbé will meekly send for the royal guard at your request? Or is it more likely that you are the one who will end up detained?’

I sucked in my cheeks. He had a point. ‘Then I will not confront him. I will merely make sure I can identify him beyond doubt, and report what I know. It will be in the King’s hands after that. You’ll need to give me the key to the back gate, so I can escape.’

‘And by the time you have passed on what you know and the King’s guard arrives, that evidence will be gone, if you do not intervene.’ He spread his hands to indicate helplessness. ‘So it will be your word against the perpetrator’s once more. Henri will not send his soldiers barging into a powerful abbey and accusing a friar of murder without proof, not with rumours already flying that it was he who had the priest killed in the first place.’

‘Damn you, Cotin – you are right again.’ I closed my eyes for a moment while I considered. ‘Very well – we will do it this way. You must send a message to the Louvre palace as soon as possible. Address it to Jacopo Corbinelli, sign it from me. Tell him to ask the King to send two of his strong men, the two that know me, have them wait outside the abbey gate after Compline tonight. I don’t think our man will come looking for this until he can be sure he won’t be seen. Tell them to be discreet, and I will deliver the killer into their hands, with proof. I can pay you,’ I added, seeing his discomfort, though I knew that was not the issue.

‘I don’t want your money.’ He tutted, turning his head away. ‘This is your notion of keeping me out of it, eh?’ He hunched his shoulders, weighing up the price. ‘I know you need the King’s favour again, Bruno, but tell me – can you be certain he is blameless in this?’

I passed a hand over my face. ‘I can be certain of nothing, Cotin. Except that it seems beyond doubt that Paul Lefèvre was bludgeoned with this statue by someone who has access to this building and your back gate. That man is the only one who can tell us the truth about this business, and I mean to find him.’

‘I would face severe discipline if the Abbé learns I was part of your escapade – which he will. I could lose my position. I know I owe you, but …’

He lowered his eyes. He did not need to say more; I knew what the risk meant to him. When I had first met Cotin, during my last stay in Paris, he had dreaded losing his office as librarian; too proud to admit that his sight was failing, he did his best to hide his deficiency from his brothers, living in fear of the day he could no longer read his beloved manuscripts. Through my friend Jacopo’s connections, I had had made for him a pair of eyeglasses that could magnify the smallest script; not such a great expense for my pocket at the time, but a luxury beyond the means of a friar sworn to a life of poverty. The instrument had restored Cotin to his work; now I was the one threatening it again.

‘I will not persuade you against your better judgement,’ I said, affecting unconcern. ‘Only consider this: how will it feel to look across the chapel every day during the office and catch the eye of one of your brothers, knowing he killed a man in cold blood?’

‘God’s tears, Bruno.’ He made a soft noise that might have been a curse, or a rueful laugh. ‘You know how to pluck at my conscience. Where do you want to hide yourself, then? I had better hurry with this message – they will be ringing the bell for Vespers any minute.’

I gripped his shoulder. ‘God will reward you, my friend. Or at least, I will, when I get the chance. Let us pile up those crates at the back and I’ll squeeze in behind them. That would give me a view of the door between the two stacks, providing he has a light with him.’

I indicated a recess at the back of the storeroom; together we pulled away misshapen sacks of root vegetables and shifted the crates of old masonry and ornaments into a stack the height of a man to cover it. I pressed in behind the boxes and the wall; cobwebs moulded across my mouth and nose and there was barely space to expand my lungs, but I would be concealed from anyone searching in the opposite corner behind Cotin’s boxes of books.

‘You’re well hidden,’ he said, standing back. ‘Now you just have to stay there for as long it takes, without needing a piss or falling asleep. Rather you than me.’ He eased a heavy iron key from the ring at his belt as I scraped out from the recess. ‘That’s for the back gate. For the love of God, don’t lose it. And you’d better take this one for the door here, in case your fellow locks it behind him when he leaves.’ He shook his head again. ‘I don’t like this, Bruno. If you should be caught off guard – this man is a killer, after all.’

‘I can put up a fight against any friar. Wouldn’t be the first time.’ I grinned, bending to show him the knife hidden in my boot; no weapons were permitted inside the abbey precinct, but the gatekeeper was usually too lazy or too bone-headed to bother with more than a cursory check of my belt. Cotin jumped back in alarm.

‘For Jesus’ sake, try not to shed more blood inside these walls. Come.’ He replaced the statue of Saint Denis, carefully wrapped in the cloak, in its original hiding place behind the boxes of books in the opposite corner. When it was secure, he opened the door a crack and held up his lantern, peering out and listening for any movement. ‘Quick.’ He nodded towards the path. ‘All quiet for now.’

The mist had thickened – or perhaps it was just that the light was already failing. It must be close to four in the afternoon. If I was right, and the killer would wait until the abbey was asleep, I could be standing behind those crates for six hours or more. I had survived worse, I told myself. By the corner of the outbuilding, I unlaced my breeches and relieved myself in a steaming stream on the grass, trying not to think that it might be my last opportunity for some time, while Cotin kept his eyes trained on the trees ahead. I nodded to him when I was ready, and he waited until I had taken my place again in the recess behind the crates.

‘I’ll stay in the library tonight after the lights go out,’ he said. I could just make out the shape of him through the gap between the stacks. ‘I have special permission to work there if I am unable to sleep – they will see nothing unusual in that. If you have any trouble, you will know where to find me. Pray God you’ll have no need. Get what you came for and leave quietly. I will find you at the Swan tomorrow after dinner to fetch the keys – best you stay clear of this place for a while. And take care of yourself,’ he added over his shoulder, his voice gruff to disguise his concern.

I smiled to myself in the shadows. The door closed behind him, leaving me in darkness as the lock clicked into place. I fidgeted until I found a position that allowed me to lean my weight against the wall and settled back to wait, reminding myself that the discomfort would be worth it, that in a matter of hours I would deliver both murderer and evidence into the King’s hands. After that, how they chose to persuade the man to implicate the Duke of Guise would be Henri’s concern. I allowed myself to dream a little of how the King might choose to reward me for my service.

Perhaps if I had been less cocksure about my ability to apprehend the killer single-handed, so that I could prove myself to the King and take the credit, the night would have unfolded differently and another death might have been avoided. But I run ahead of my story, and it does no good to speculate on what might have been.