Conspiracy

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.

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.