Conspiracy

by Stephanie Merritt

  I didn’t smile. ‘So what is stopping you?’

  He leaned his weight on his right foot, allowing his hand to rest gently on the hilt of his sword as he eyed me with apparent indifference. ‘Because I know that you know more than you are telling, and this death means I cannot afford to indulge you any longer. It’s time you and I paid a visit.’

  I could guess where he had in mind.

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  He shook his head, as if my answer had disappointed him. He placed two fingers between his lips and produced a short but piercing whistle. The door opened instantly to reveal the burly servant who had accompanied him the night before, still holding his club in his hand. I could see that he also carried a large hunting knife at his belt. He closed the door behind him and stood against it, his eyes fixed on me.

  ‘It’s surprising how sharp an old woman’s memory can be when jogged by a little incentive,’ Paget said, not acknowledging the servant’s presence. ‘The neighbour will make a valuable witness. She says someone came up here earlier this afternoon, shortly after the friar arrived.’

  ‘What time? Did she get a look at him?’ I thought of the unseen gaze I had sensed in the dark of the hallway downstairs. She would have seen the killer. I wished again that I had thought to speak to her first.

  ‘I have an awful feeling that, if pressed, she’d say he looked exactly like you,’ Paget murmured, smoothing his hair. ‘Let’s not waste any more time, Bruno.’ He jerked his head towards the door.

  ‘What about him?’ I glanced towards the bed.

  ‘He’s not going anywhere. We can discuss what to do about him later.’

  ‘And the widow? She might call the watch. If someone else finds him—’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’ He patted his purse. ‘They drive a hard bargain, these widows. I’ll leave one of my men outside – tell her it’s for her own safety. She won’t try and look in here.’

  He nodded to the man by the door, who held it open and waited for us to pass. Paget led the way down the stairs, stopping at the door of the ground-floor rooms to exchange a few hurried words with someone inside. I heard the servant’s heavy tread behind me and felt a sudden flush of fear. If I were to be accused of murder, only the King could possibly come to my defence against the testimony of men like Paget and the Abbé of Saint-Victor. Would Henri rouse himself to save me from a false accusation? I supposed it would depend on whether he was implicated. As the street door opened and I felt the slap of cold air on my face, I realised everything now turned on the outcome of the encounter I had been hoping to avoid since I arrived in Paris.

  Firelight flickered in restless patterns over the face of the man who stood with his arm resting on the great mantel at shoulder height, staring in silence into the flames. It silvered the scar snaking down his right cheek and hid his deep-set eyes in shadow. In every corner of the chamber, banks of candles gave out a bright glow, their lights constantly in motion, like sun on water. The grand salon at the Hotel de Montpensier lent the occasion a ceremonial air, its high ceiling bright with gilded panels of biblical scenes and plump-cheeked putti, the oak-lined walls hung with antique tapestries of hunting scenes. From every ceiling boss and capital the Montpensier coat of arms gleamed forcefully. No one had spoken since we had arrived. All eyes were on the scar-faced figure by the fire. Paget had settled himself on a stool near the hearth, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, casting from one to the other of us with the alertness of a spectator at the Colosseum. I stood, stupidly, in the centre of the room, as if by keeping still I could avoid making a wrong move.

  Just as it seemed he had forgotten I was there, the man by the fireplace stirred and lifted his head in my direction. I drew myself up, set my shoulders back and met his appraising stare. If he expected me to grovel to him, he would be disappointed. The face I looked into was refined but hard, an impression emphasised by the scar but implicit in the sharp cheekbones, the pointed beard, small mouth and, most of all, the unblinking eyes, cold as stone. A face weathered by battle, making him appear older and more world-weary than his thirty-six years. Unlike his namesake the King, Henri Duke of Guise did not wear earrings or perfume or shirts of embroidered lace. He smelled of sweat, leather and horses. Despite that, le Balafré was reported to be irresistible to women; if half the rumours were true, there was barely a wife or maiden at court who hadn’t been willingly conquered by that ruthless manner. I could not see it myself.

  ‘Who do you think killed Joseph de Chartres, then?’ The question was addressed directly to me in a voice that belied his appearance; low and resonant, almost musical, the voice of a man assured of his own authority. It was there in his bearing, too; a quiet self-possession distinct from Paget’s more obvious swagger. You might almost say that, unlike the King’s, the Duke’s poise was instinctively regal.

  I watched him, trying to gauge what answer he might be expecting. ‘I think you did,’ I said, eventually.

  One corner of his mouth moved a fraction; I could not tell if it was a smile. ‘And yet I was not the one discovered crouching by his naked corpse with a knife in my hand. Well – let us suppose for a moment that you are correct. Why did I do it? I am interested to hear your theory.’

  I hesitated. The smirk vanished in an instant; the eyes glittered. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ he said, his tone just as measured and elegant as before, but with an edge of flint. ‘If you disappeared tonight, Giordano Bruno, who would miss you?’

  I did not reply. I had already assumed that I had been brought to the house of his sister, the Duchess of Montpensier, in order to distance him from whatever might happen here. He removed his elbow from the mantel and folded his arms.

  ‘Not King Henri. Nor your English connections, I fear. You are friendless in Paris,’ he continued, in the same low voice, ‘and that is a dangerous state for any man in these days, all the more so an excommunicate heretic with such a gift for making enemies.’

  He was waiting for a response. I inclined my head by a tiny degree to show that I acknowledged the truth of his words. Otherwise I intended to give him nothing. But he had cut through to my greatest vulnerability, and he knew it.

  ‘It would be to your advantage to make new friends, one would think.’ He brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve. ‘You have been a thorn in my side for some time now, Bruno. You destroyed a project in which I had invested heavily. I have considered having you killed, obviously.’

  The logs spat and hissed in the hearth. He lifted his chin as if daring me to answer back. We looked at one another in silence.

  ‘Is this where I graciously thank you for having decided against it?’

  ‘Decided against it, so far.’ The corner of his mouth twitched again. ‘On reflection, I felt that for the present you were more useful alive.’

  ‘And now you wish me to be your friend? That is quite a change of heart.’

  ‘The royal family are not your friends, no matter how much you wish to believe otherwise. You may soon be glad of influential allies in Paris. Let us raise a glass to new alliances.’ He picked up a small bell from the mantelpiece and rang it. At the clear note the door opened, though as far as I could see no one had entered, despite the sound of laboured breathing. I peered over the back of a chaise longue and started at the sight of a dwarf in a black velvet suit embroidered with tiny pearls, who crossed to execute a bow towards Guise.

  ‘A jug of hot wine for our guests,’ the Duke said, hurrying him out with an impatient gesture. The dwarf turned and moved towards me with his strange, bow-legged gait. It was difficult to judge his age, but he was not a youth; his tightly curled hair was touched with grey at the temples, as was his beard. He returned my stare with open contempt; as he was almost past me he pulled his lips back and bared his teeth. Did he recognise me, or was that merely his way of greeting all visitors? I did not think the dwarf in Paul’s rooms had seen me any more than I had seen him; it was impossible to know whether it was the same man, bu
t his appearance had only sharpened my sense of the danger I was in. I was tired of being a source of entertainment.

  ‘What is it you want from me, my Lord of Guise?’

  The Duke appeared surprised by my bluntness. He tilted his head and considered his answer. ‘Good, then, let us be direct. I did not order the deaths of Paul Lefèvre or Joseph de Chartres. You may choose to disbelieve me, but it is the truth. And I want to know who did.’ He pulled at the point of his beard, not moving his eyes from my face. ‘At first I assumed Lefèvre’s murder was Henri’s doing. But de Chartres’s death complicates matters. If he killed Lefèvre, he would not have done it for Henri, I am certain, not for any price. So something else is at work here. Paget is under the impression you could shed light on it.’

  I glanced at Paget, who smiled as if he had done me a favour. ‘Did Joseph work for you?’ I asked.

  Guise frowned. ‘He served God and his Abbé, in that order.’

  ‘Who is also your supporter. The Abbé, I mean – I cannot speak for God’s allegiance. There are enough people in Paris already who claim to do that.’

  This time Guise allowed a brief smile. ‘It will not be news to you by now that both the dead men were active on behalf of the Catholic League. De Chartres was a relative of my sister’s by marriage and the family will take his murder hard. It is not in my interest to have my name dragged into the business. It would be extremely convenient for me if you took the blame for de Chartres’s death. And – let us be frank – you have served yourself up on a platter, and the King with you.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice even. ‘But you know I did not kill him.’

  ‘Ordinarily, that would be no reason not to have you arrested for it.’ He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. ‘Except that you know something about this matter. Lefèvre confided in you – don’t pretend otherwise. You are going to tell me, one way or another, before I hand you over to the authorities.’

  I took a deep breath. Though I was far from convinced that Guise was telling the whole truth, instinct born of experience told me that his uncertainty over the murders was genuine. Beneath the commanding demeanour I thought I caught a hint of anxiety in his eyes, in the way he continued to worry his nail against his teeth. Some element of his network had escaped his control, and it troubled him. I guessed that it had something to do with the conspiracy Paul had hinted at; one or both deaths had taken him by surprise and he needed to discover how much had become known, and by whom. The dwarf returned with a jug of wine and handed me a glass, nailing me with the same hostile glare from beneath his wild brows. I thanked him, hoping he would speak so that I could see if I recognised his voice, but he only showed his teeth again and shuffled away.

  Guise gave an impatient cough. Realising that I had no choice, I ran through a brief, carefully edited summary of my reasons for pursuing Joseph, the links I had found between him and Paul, without mentioning Cotin’s name, and my conclusion that Joseph had killed Paul on someone’s orders and been killed himself once he had served his purpose. The Duke watched me keenly as I spoke, stroking his scar with the tip of his finger, his eyes never straying from my face; it was the same penetrating look that Walsingham trained on his agents when he questioned them, and I had no doubt that Guise was as well versed in how to read the signs of deception. I had never been more conscious of the need to appear entirely without emotion. I did not mention Circe, nor the burned letter I had found in Paul’s fireplace; if they were connected with the plot Guise was concerned about, it was better he remained ignorant of the fact that anyone else knew. Other lives might be in danger – mine chief among them. I kept my version concise, and told him no more than I suspected he had already heard from Paget. When I had finished he nodded and turned back to the fire.

  ‘But you still haven’t answered my question. Why were they killed?’

  ‘We cannot know that without knowing who killed them.’

  ‘Speculate, then. Let us imagine, as you say, that I ordered it. What were my reasons?’

  ‘I would suppose that Paul Lefèvre, as an active supporter of the League, was privy to information that someone felt he could no longer be trusted to keep safe. He was urged to preach a ferocious sermon denouncing the King, after which it would appear that his death was a retaliation from the Palace. Very neat – silence a threat and inflame the people against Henri in one move.’

  He nodded, still watching the fire, pulling at the point of his beard. ‘A logical hypothesis, one I presume the King favours. And what do you suppose this secret was, that Paul Lefèvre knew and could not keep?’

  ‘That is beyond my powers of guesswork. My lord,’ I added, lowering my eyes.

  He gave a soft laugh, directed towards the glowing logs. ‘Let me put it another way. What did he tell you the day you made your confession at Saint-Séverin?’ The voice was knife-edged again, the smile evaporated. A chill spread through my gut. If Guise believed our meeting had been prearranged, that Paul had betrayed him to me, and that I was spying for the King, it would mean my impetuous visit to the confessional was directly responsible for the priest’s murder. I swallowed, but my throat was dry.

  ‘He told me nothing. It was I who approached him, to confess my sins.’

  ‘Is that right?’ A quick, pitying smile flickered across his lips. Without warning, he took one long stride across the room and struck me forcefully across the face with the back of his hand. I felt the stones of his rings tear open the wound on my lip; I clenched my teeth against the pain and managed not to cry out. My hands trembled from the shock; I clasped them hard around my cup of wine so it would not show. A warm trickle of blood ran down my chin and dripped on to my collar. I did not reach up to brush it away.

  ‘You are supposed to be a master of the art of memory. Perhaps yours needs refreshing. The way your friend Walsingham had to refresh young Throckmorton’s memory in the Tower. Surprising how much a man can recall with a little prompting.’ He rubbed the knuckles where he had hit me. ‘If you had been confessing your sins, Bruno, you would still be there. You would be there till Candlemas. So let us try again. Why did you meet Paul Lefèvre in the confessional?’

  ‘I needed to ask him a favour.’ I glanced up; he nodded for me to continue. ‘I wanted him to speak to the Papal nuncio on my behalf. To petition for my excommunication to be lifted.’

  I had expected mockery; instead Guise studied me, his eyes thoughtful. ‘What was his response?’

  ‘He said he would see what might be done, if I showed some evidence of contrition. He insisted I hear his sermon last Sunday. He also urged me …’ I hesitated, swallowed again and tasted blood, ‘… to consider my future and where my loyalties were best placed, if I meant to stay in Paris.’

  ‘Interesting. What did you take him to mean by that?’

  ‘I think he meant to suggest that the King could not be relied upon as a patron in the future.’

  Something – recognition? – flashed across Guise’s eyes. ‘What else?’

  ‘That was the sum of our conversation, my lord. He did not give me absolution.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Guise sucked in his cheeks. He seemed to be deciding whether to accept this testimony. ‘And later – at the abbey, as he lay dying? I understand he called for you by name to impart something urgent. It would be wise for you to tell me of your own volition what that was.’

  I tried to keep my voice level, hoping he could not hear how my mouth had dried.

  ‘I do not know why he asked for me. Perhaps he wanted to tell me who attacked him. But by the time I arrived he was past the point of rational thought or speech. He made one sound only before he died, but it was incomprehensible. Most likely it was the name of Our Lord.’

  I looked him straight in the eye, unwavering, as I spoke. He took another step towards me and flexed his knuckles; I flinched, a reflex response before I could stop myself, and he laughed again.

  ‘This is where I begin to suspect you
are playing false with me, Bruno,’ he said, in a soft voice that managed to contain more menace than any explosion of rage. ‘Because whatever he said sent you scurrying straight to Henri that same night.’

  ‘No!’ I heard the note of panic in my voice. ‘That was coincidence. It was the King who sent for me, on a different matter.’

  ‘You can see why I might struggle to believe that.’ He was standing close to me now, his voice little more than a whisper, almost seductive. I revised my opinion; I was beginning to see exactly how he might manipulate a woman’s interest. ‘Since I know that immediately after your visit to the Louvre you began making enquiries about Lefèvre and his activities. You are keeping something from me, Bruno, and I will prise it out of you, one way or another.’

  ‘My lord, I have told you everything I know.’ I felt my gut constrict. If he chose not to believe me, I had no doubt that he would be prepared to use torture. His casual reference to Francis Throckmorton had been a less than subtle reminder that, in his eyes, I still owed him an unpaid debt. I would not have been surprised to learn that there was a room with the necessary instruments somewhere in this house, and he was right to suppose that no one would come looking for me. But behind the rapid wingbeats of fear in my head, I registered something else. Guise believed I had begun investigating Paul’s death the day after my visit to the King. Meaning he did not know that I had been to Paul’s rooms the same afternoon he was killed. Meaning, then, that Joseph and the dwarf could not have been sent by Guise that day, or they would have told him straight away that they had surprised a third party there, and by now he would have put two and two together and guessed that it was me. But if Guise knew nothing of that visit, then it seemed he must be telling the truth, at least as far as Joseph was concerned, and that Joseph and the dwarf had been searching for whatever they hoped to find at someone else’s behest. I looked at the glass in my hand. So the Duchess of Montpensier had a dwarf who served her, and she was also related to Joseph.