the runnels on the far side of the Grand Pont opposite the elaborately carved Notre Dame Cathedral.
The landlord was a snot-nosed, weak-eyed character with greasy, spiked hair and a face as pitted as the track which ran past his dingy tavern. I took a garret there, posing as an English student from the halls of Cambridge. It was the sort of place where you are accepted for what you claim to be, your worth depending on how much gold or silver you have in your purse. After two or three days I bought the landlord a carafe of his own wine – the mean-mouthed varlet picked a costly, unsealed jar, not the usual watery vinegar he served most of his customers – and asked him about Selkirk. The fellow gave me a world-weary look and shook his head.
'I cannot remember everybody, Monsieur.' A piece of silver jogged his memory. 'Ah, yes,' he answered, breathing wine fumes into my face. 'The Scottish doctor – thin as a beanpole with untidy red hair. He and his stupid verses!' The fellow shrugged. 'He was here for a while. But then other Goddams [This is what the French used to call us English] came and took him away.'
'What did Selkirk do?' I asked. 'I mean, before his arrest.'
The landlord made a face. 'He stayed in his room, he went out.. .'
I fidgeted angrily and the fellow licked his lips.
'I think he went to St Denis,' he continued. 'To the abbey there. Or to Notre Dame.' He brought a dirty finger up to his lips. 'He was always carrying a casket, a battered, tattered thing which he guarded with his life.'
'What was it?'
'I don't know.'
'The English who came for him, did they find the casket?'
'No, I don't think so. They ransacked his room and were angry because they couldn't find anything. Selkirk laughed at them, jumping up and down here in the taproom. Some of the things he said made no sense so they gave him a crack across the head and took him away. That was the last I saw of him.'
I could make no further headway with the landlord so I made enquiries amongst the other customers: a beggar who whined for alms inside the doorway and a greasy-haired knave, but they only repeated what the landlord had said. The only clue (and one I ignored at the time), was Selkirk's interest in the Abbey of St Denis to the north of the city. I was planning to go there when my descent into the horrors began.
Now, Moodie had given me a package. Of course, I had opened it and found nothing more than a piece of costly silk, blood-red and fringed at each end. A sort of sash for some lady to wear round her smooth, soft-skinned waist. It gave off a fragrant smell which stirred my memory though I could not place it. Anyway, bored by my stay at Le Coq d'Or I decided to go to the shop under the Sign of the Pestle in the Rue des Moines and leave Moodie's present there.
[Yes, yes, my little chaplain is correct. He has pursed his sour lips and guessed my true intentions: if I had not been so bored, I would have sold it. I wish to God I had!]
I found the Rue des Moines and entered the small apothecary's shop, but I was disappointed. There was no Madame Eglantine, only a garrulous old man who chattered like a magpie, took the package and said he would hand it over to the lady next time she visited the place. I told him who I was and where I was staying and then forgot the whole incident. Two days later I was in the taproom of Le Coq d'Or, the slattern beside me half drunk. She pressed up against me, her fingers tickling my codpiece though I knew she was after my purse. My hand was teasing her juicy shoulders and succulent breasts thrust out from a dirty, though very low-cut bodice. A call of nature interrupted my pleasure and I went out to the necessary house behind the tavern, nothing more than a hole in the ground enclosed by a shabby wooden palisade and a door which bolted from the inside. I was squatting there, contemplating my future, when suddenly the door burst open. Three figures, their faces muffled by cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, seized me and began to beat me as if I was some dog.
Now in life there is nothing more defenceless or ridiculous than a man with his pantaloons about his ankles, his shirt tail raised and his mind on other matters. The three ruffians pummelled me, banging my head against the wooden slats. Of course, I fought back like a veritable lion but my sword and dagger were in the garret and who in the tavern would listen to my screams?
Within a few minutes my body was one mass of bruises from head to toe. Two of the ruffians seized me, pushing me against the fence, and I could only gabble in horror as their leader drew a long, thin stiletto and pulled back my shirt to expose my throat. He said something in French about the shop and the Sign of the Pestle. I saw the evil light in his eyes and knew that so far they had only been playing with me: their real intent was to kill. I gave one more scream, I don't know for whom. Benjamin! My mother! My nurse! Wolsey! Anyone! The dagger moved closer, nicking part of my neck just under my left ear.
'I'm too young to die!' I screamed.
[I can see that little bastard of a chaplain laughing again. Does he think it's funny? Look, I'm no hero and, if you had your pants down and three ruffians bent on killing you, you'd bloody scream!]
I closed my eyes and suddenly the jakes door was thrust back and a veritable mountain of a man stood there. He roared in French at my three assailants, brandishing a huge club. They took one look at him and scampered over the fence as quickly as rats over the timbers of a sinking ship. I just slumped and sat down in the mud and dirt.
The Colossus squatted down next to me. I glimpsed a broad, cheery face, a bristling beard and moustache.
'Who are you?' I whispered.
The fellow stood up and I saw the long, brown gown of a Franciscan monk, the rough cord round his waist and the wooden crucifix slung on a piece of string round his neck.
'I am Brother Joachim,' he announced in a voice like thunder.
'You are a priest?'
'I am a Franciscan and a Maillotin.'
'A Franciscan I know. What's a Maillotin?' I mumbled through bloodied lips.
'Never you mind!'
He scooped me up in his great arms, barking at me to make myself presentable and half-carried me back into the taproom. On his orders the tapster broached a good cask of wine and brought across a bowl of water. Joachim cleaned my face, wiping dirt from the bruises whilst I greedily gulped the thick red claret. Perhaps I should have known there was something wrong; the taproom was strangely quiet, the slattern had disappeared and the landlord seemed too busy to care.
'Do you need any more help?' Joachim asked.
'No,' I muttered.
'Then I'll be off!' the friar boomed. 'I have to visit the shrine of the Blessed Dionysius.'
Despite my injuries, I gaped up at him.
'Dionysius?' I queried. 'Who is he?'
'St Denis, of course!' the friar joked back. 'I use the Latin name. You know the monastery?'
He shook my hand and strode out of the tavern. I never saw him again, the man who saved my life. (Do you know, until fat Henry crushed the monasteries, I always had a soft spot for Franciscans. Not just because of Joachim's kindness but that chance encounter put me on the road to solving Selkirk's riddles and the horrible murders they caused.) Once Joachim had gone, the landlord showed renewed interest in me. He came and stood over me, a mock-tragic expression on his face.
'Monsieur, you were attacked?'
'Oh, no,' I sarcastically retorted, 'just some French bravos welcoming me to this Godforsaken city!' I got up. 'I must go to my chamber.'
'Monsieur!' The villain stepped in front of me, two of the thugs he always kept in the tavern to crack the heads of noisy revellers now standing behind him.
'Monsieur, your room has been ransacked. By whom I do not know. Your baggage and silver, they have gone!'
'Hell's teeth!' I snarled but the landlord, the two thugs close to his shoulder, screamed his innocence. He peered closer at me and asked what an Englishman was doing in Paris.
