Conspiracy Page 8

  ‘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.

  FIVE

  Muffled by fog and distance, the church bells of Saint-Victor tolled the passing hours, summoning the friars to observe the holy offices first of Vespers, then of Compline. The temperature dropped as darkness enfolded the abbey; in my coffin-like space behind the crates, my limbs grew so chilled I felt I was being paralysed from the inside out, my feet so frozen that hot currents of pain began to needle through them and up my legs. My back developed a fierce, dull ache; from time to time I dared slide out and stretch or stamp to restore some blood to my extremities. Despite the discomfort, I must have dozed, waking with a start each time I began to tilt sideways, wrenched from monstrous dreams of being buried alive. I wished I had asked Cotin to leave his lantern; I could have passed the hours looking through the boxes of forgotten manuscripts. But that was folly; I would not have had time to conceal myself if the door opened, and the smell of candle smoke would give me away. Instead I remained hidden in the darkness, listening to the squeaks and pattering of rats and the slow creak of old timbers, reviewing what I thought I knew.

  Paul Lefèvre had intimated to me during our conversation in the confessional that he believed the King would not hold power for much longer. Though he had quickly tried to deny that he meant anything specific, it seemed likely that he had some concrete intelligence of a planned coup by the Duke of Guise and the Catholic League. But a priest like Paul would be small fry to Guise; useful while he could be persuaded to attack King Henri from his pulpit, but hardly someone to whom Guise would have confided plans for an act of treason. So Paul must have come by that knowledge another way; the burned scraps of letter in his hearth suggested that he had heard something in the course of a confession that had disturbed him so greatly he had considered breaking the holy seal of the confessional in order to warn the King. Some terrible harm planned by someone or something known as ‘Circe’. Whatever he had learned had troubled him so much that it had been the last thought to pass from his shattered brain to his lips as the life bled out of him. But here my theory foundered on a lack of certainty. There was no way of knowing whether Paul had sent a copy of that letter to the King, or whether he had changed his mind but someone had still felt he needed to be silenced.

  The nature of the letter also puzzled me. Paul was a zealous supporter of the Catholic League; you would suppose that he would support any plot to topple the degenerate King and replace him with a righteous Catholic. What could be so terrible about the harm intended by ‘Circe’ that it could have induced the fervent Paul to consider betraying not only the sacrament of confession but his loyalty to the entire cause of the League? And who could have confessed such a conspiracy to him? I did not have the answers to these questions. I could only guess that, somehow, the Duke of Guise had anticipated betrayal and taken measures that he hoped would prevent it. But if so, that meant he must also know about the confession; presumably that person too would have to be silenced. Perhaps the killer would be able to shed more light on the plot once he was in the custody of the royal guard.

  I was jolted from my theorising by the sound of a key in the lock. Wedged tight into the recess, I leaned across to make sure I could see through the narrow gap between the two stacks of boxes. Ignoring the pain in all my joints, I held myself still, terrified that the slightest sound would give me away and ruin my advantage. Despite what I had promised Cotin, I had no intention of allowing the killer to leave and hide his evidence. I was confident that, with surprise on my side and the help of a weapon, I could easily overcome him and force him at knifepoint to the gate, where the King’s soldiers would be waiting.

  The door creaked open and a faint circle of light appeared; behind it, the outline of a figure, the cowl of his habit pulled up over his head. I heard the door click shut and the light brightened; I realised he had draped the lantern with a cloth to dim it on his way through the grounds. I held my breath, every fibre tensed. He crossed immediately to the boxes of books, set down his light and crouched to pull away the first crate. Silently, I eased out from my hiding place and drew my knife. The light from his lantern puddled on the floor; I caught a glimpse of his profile as he straightened, clasping the bundle with the statue to his breast with both hands like a Madonna holding an infant. I stepped forward; the movement startled him and he whipped around to face me, frozen with surprise.

  ‘Keep quiet, don’t move, and you won’t come to harm,’ I said, holding the point of the knife towards him. ‘I need you to come with me. Bring that with you.’

  His face was still hidden in shadow, but I saw his eyes flick down to the statue, as if he had forgotten he was holding it. In an instant he seemed to recover his power of thought; he leaned back and, with considerable force, hurled the statue at me so that it struck me in the chin. I staggered backwards, touching my fingertips to my face, and in that unguarded moment he swung a punch that connected with the left side of my jaw. I dropped the knife; my mouth filled with blood as I struggled to recover my balance, but he reached out and pulled at the stack of crates beside us so that it toppled forwards. I managed to jump back as boxes of stone, glass and metal crashed across the floor, trapping me in the corner. I was fortunate that no flying debris struck me, but by the time I had clambered over the heap, he had already grabbed the lantern and plunged me into darkness as he closed the door behind him.

  Cursing, I stumbled blindly across the room, spitting blood, relieved to find that he had not locked me in. Outside the mist was so thick now that I could not see more than four or five feet in front of me, but the lantern was just visible as a
pinprick of fuzzy light between the bent shapes of trees ahead. I lurched after it, tripping on clumps of grass, branches clawing at my clothes, damp skeins of cobweb clinging to my face as trunks loomed out of nowhere and the light bobbed and grew fainter. Moonlight barely silvered the layers of vapour that hung heavy as smoke in the air. After a few paces I could no longer see the lantern at all. I thought I heard a low laugh from just behind my left shoulder, though it might as easily have been a magpie. I realised he had led me into the orchard deliberately to confuse me. There was no sound now but the stillness of the night and my own blood thudding in my chest. Turning again to what I believed was the direction of the path, I moved with caution, but before I found the edge of the trees I glimpsed the light again, jouncing up and down a few yards ahead. I ran towards it, only to see it disappear as I heard the sound of a gate slamming and the key turning in the lock.

  ‘Merda,’ I muttered. A few feet further on I found the path leading to the door in the wall; my quarry had slipped out while I was stumbling among the trees. I hesitated, trying to decide my best course. I had Cotin’s key; I could pursue him, but he might have hidden himself along the river track with the idea of ambushing me if I followed. He had already shown himself unafraid to kill a man on that path; I did not want to go the same way, and I was unarmed now. Besides, I thought, brightening – if all had gone smoothly, he would have run straight into the arms of the King’s soldiers. I hoped they would have the wit to hold him until I caught up with them. But there was still the matter of evidence; while he was away from the abbey, this was my chance to see if there was anything more than the cloak and statue that would serve to condemn him beyond doubt. Perhaps he had kept some correspondence hidden in his cell that would make explicit who had set him on to kill Paul – any such letter would be a thousand times more valuable than a bloodied statue. It was worth a try. I ran my fingers gingerly over my swollen lip; though I had still not had a clear view of his face, I could be fairly sure that punch was not thrown by a man with a crippled right hand. If Cotin was right, there was only one other friar with a key to the storeroom. At least that meant I had an idea of where to start.