been built into the cemetery wall where the more wealthy had their remains interred in the pious hope that their bones would not become the meal of some scavenging dog. Above these arches was a huge open loft or garret. Every so often the cemetery would be cleared of all its remains to make way for fresh corpses. The bones collected would be tossed into this garret and, when I saw it, the pile was at least two yards deep. In fact, the French had a joke: for a Christian, Paradise was heaven, but for a dog Paradise was a charnel house at Holy Innocents!

Millet sauntered round this macabre place. I watched him carefully. So far he had met no one. I was confident he had not seen me but, at the same time, I was uneasy.

I felt sure I was being watched but, when I turned sharply or hid behind corners, I noticed nothing untoward. At last Millet went into Holy Innocents Church. I followed and stood admiring the Dance of Death carved in the stone work. (Believe me, if you are full of the joys of spring, that carving will soon remind you that in the midst of life we are in death. The sculptor must have had a genius all of his own, for Death and his squadron of devils danced in a drunken stone frenzy along the frieze, collecting kings, emperors, popes, bishops, and I suppose, when the time is right, even old Shallot.) A bell sounded, its hollow boom sounding out above the graveyard, and I glimpsed Millet coming out of the church, so I hid in the shadows and let him go by. I noticed others in the cemetery had begun to stir and wondered if the bell was the curfew when the graveyard must be locked.

Millet, however, followed by other fops and dandies, left the cemetery by a small postern door and made his way up an alleyway to a dingy-looking tavern with the sign of a golden sickle above it. Inside, the taproom was large, spacious, clean and well swept. Each table was hidden in a shadowy alcove and the wine was served by young boys dressed in tight hose and short jerkins who had the looks, hair style and walk of saucy young wenches. Their lips were carmine-painted and the one who served me wore more face powder than any self-respecting whore in London would have used. I ordered wine and carefully watched the other side of the room where Millet was sitting.

Now, in my youth I may have been inexperienced but I had no illusions about the Golden Sickle or Millet's presence there. It was a molly-shop, or so the denizens of Southwark would have termed it: a drinking house where young men, or old, who liked other men could meet kindred spirits in a warm, intimate and secure spot. Believe me, they had to be careful! The laws against sodomy and buggery were as cruel in Paris as they were in London. If caught, the culprit could face hanging, disembowelling and castration – though I suppose, by the time you reach the last, you'd really be past caring. Now I do not sit in judgement. I just report things as they are, not as they should be. Indeed, to be perfectly honest, I always felt sorry for the likes of Millet: their lives were an eternal nightmare, waiting for the traitor or paid informer to turn them in.

I wanted to see who Millet was meeting. Certain men did approach his table but he summarily dismissed them. (There goes my chaplain again. 'Did any approach you?' he sneers. Well, I've never claimed to be an Adonis. Yes, one did approach me, and no, contrary to my chaplain's opinion, he wasn't blind, just as drunk as a bishop's donkey!) An hour passed. I had to be careful I didn't become tipsy for the drink was heavy and rich.

At last a young man came in, covered from head to toe in a long, black cloak, the hood pulled well forward. He sauntered up to Millet. Our young Horatio smiled at him and the stranger sat down. He pulled back his hood and I gasped. You see, I have an excellent memory for faces and I was sure I had glimpsed the man amongst Vauban's entourage at Fontainebleau. Millet and he talked for a while then rose and left the tavern. I followed a few minutes later but, when I reached the darkened alleyway beyond, they had disappeared and, despite my curses and hurrying to and fro, I had lost them. I stumbled round the church of Holy Innocents for a while but my search was fruitless so I decided to fulfil the second part of my master's instructions.

Now, if you have read the earlier instalment of my memoirs, you will recall that the previous year I'd spent some time in Paris as the enforced guest of the Maillotins, or 'Club-Men' as they called themselves. They were the bottom layer of Parisian society who constantly plotted and conspired to bring about a bloody revolution and create God's kingdom here, where justice and prosperity would reign and the meek would surely inherit the earth. Of course, they were idiots or dreamers. As far as I can see, the only earth the meek inherit is a shallow hole in the likes of Holy Innocents graveyard, and even then the dogs make sure they don't have that for long. Now, I had become friendly with the Maillotins, especially two of their leaders, Capote and Broussac. Capote had died, choking his life out on the gallows of Montfaucon. I hoped Broussac had not yet received his just reward as I slipped like a cat along the dark, foul, smelly alleyways of Paris to the tavern where he and his court of whores always assembled.

I was not disappointed. Broussac was in the same corner, drinking himself stupid, surrounded by some of the most loud-mouthed harridans of the city. At first he didn't recognise me, but isn't silver wonderful? I produced two coins and Broussac's red, beery, dark-whiskered face broke into a gap-toothed grin and those wicked eyes danced with merriment.

'Of course,' he bellowed, throwing one smelly arm round my neck and planting wine-drenched kisses on my cheeks. 'Ladies,' he shouted, 'may I present Master Roger Shallot, the only good Goddamn – the only man who was hanged at Montfaucon and survived to tell the tale!'

I told the noisy bastard to shut his mouth as I did not want to be arrested by the Provosts as a spy. Another piece of silver was produced. Broussac became as sober as a priest, ordered a fresh jug of wine, two of the establishment's cleaner cups, and a table far enough away from any would-be eavesdropper.

'Listen, Broussac,' I began. 'Forget old times. Here's a coin. Answer one question: the attack on Maubisson, did the Maillotins organise it?'

Broussac grabbed the coin.

'No,' he replied. 'We did not. We never leave the streets of Paris. But, for another coin, I can tell you who did.'

I flicked a further piece of silver across the table. Broussac clutched it and it disappeared in a twinkling of an eye. I don't know how he did it, whether he had purses in his sleeves: one minute he had it in his hairy paw, the next it was gone.

'Well, come on,' I demanded. 'Who the hell did?'

'Look around you, Monsieur.'

'That's no answer.'

He saw my hand go to my knife.

'Now, now,' he purred like some benevolent cat. 'Come on, old friend, what are you going to do? Draw on poor Broussac? If you do, you'll never leave this tavern alive. As it is, you still might not!'

I looked around. In the poor light of the smelly, tallow candles, every customer resembled a rat on two legs. Their thin, pallid or yellowing faces, greedy looks and sharp glances proved Broussac right and I cursed myself. I was in the devil's own kitchen and these were his scullions: dice-coggers, coin-flickers, pickpockets, pimps, conjurors (most of them failed), footpads and nightwalkers. Indeed, in any other circumstances, I would have felt very much at home but I'd been so eager to see Broussac I had blundered in and now began to wonder how I would get out. He leaned over and seized my wrist.

'Don't worry,' he whispered as if reading my thoughts. 'You're Broussac's friend. I have given you the kiss of friendship.'

'Aye, and so did Judas!'

Broussac threw back his head and bellowed with laughter until his devil's eyes disappeared in rolls of flesh.

'Listen, Broussac,' I continued, 'I have no wish to quarrel but I asked you a question and paid you good silver!'

'And I gave you fair answer. These villains took part in the attack on Maubisson. They were hired by bully- boys and organised by some great lord, I don't know who.'

I knew I would get no further. 'There's something else,' I hastily added. 'I need a whore.' 'Don't we all, my friend?'

'No, I want a high-ranking courtesan brought to the Chateau Maubisson within three days. She is to assume a new name and tell no one her true identity. If you do this you will be richly rewarded.'

Broussac's smile widened as if he could almost hear the chink of coins falling in his purse. He rose and beckoned me to follow.

'Come, we cannot talk here.'

We went upstairs to a small, dust-laden chamber where Broussac ordered some stools and fresh wine, shouting for the best, not the vinegared water I had been sipping down in the tap room. A slattern, having lit

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