The corridor opened into a grand entrance hall with a vast chandelier suspended above the centre. Decorative cabinets stood around the walls; a wide staircase swept in a curve to the upper floor. Though there was nowhere to hide, I realised I would be less conspicuous here than trying to sneak up the servants’ stairs, which would be busy. I took a deep breath, waited until I was certain no one was coming, and ran up. On the first landing, I tried to orientate myself to work out which way would take me to the east wing. While I was calculating, I heard someone coming and had to dive into the nearest doorway. The footsteps veered away, echoing down the passage to my right. I turned in the opposite direction, peering into rooms, trying the latches of doors, less certain now that this had been a good idea. If I were caught up here, it would be assumed that I was a thief, and the rest of the Gelosi would be punished with me. It was imperative that I found what I came for without being seen, for everyone’s sake.
The corridor dog-legged around to the right and I noticed that here the starkness of the house was softened by more feminine touches: tapestries on the walls, fresh rushes strewn over the floor. I tried one door; it opened into a prettily furnished bedchamber with a fire burning low in the hearth. In the next room, though, my pulse quickened; it was arranged as a study, with cabinets and shelves for books along the walls, two chairs with embroidered cushions by the fireplace and an escritoire of carved walnut in the corner. The room was dark and cold, suggesting no one intended to use it that evening. I lifted a candle from the sconce in the corridor and closed the door behind me.
The writing desk had two drawers set into the wood. Before I attempted to open them, I checked the room for possible places to hide if I should be interrupted. Velvet drapes hung over two tall windows reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling; these were covered by wooden shutters on the outside but on trying the latch I found they opened to reveal a small stone balcony overlooking the courtyard. I pulled the shutters and the windows almost closed again, shielding the flame from the draught, and turned my attention to the desk.
The drawers were locked, as I had supposed. The knife I had with me was not fine enough to work into the keyhole – I thought bitterly of my own dagger, hanging at Montpensier’s belt – but it was solid, and I had risked too much now to go home empty-handed. I jammed the blade into the gap at the top of the drawer next to the lock; fortunately it was decorative rather than substantial and with a little force I managed to bend it until it snapped. There would be no disguising that the lock had been broken, but I hoped we would be long gone before the Duchess noticed.
I drew out a leather folder from the drawer and opened it to reveal a sheaf of letters. With all my senses alert for the slightest sound from outside, I brought the light closer so that I could read them. The first sheet was addressed to Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris; skimming it, I gathered that it was a delicately worded plea for further funds from King Philip of Spain for the League’s armies. But it was not the content that troubled me. Tucked inside my doublet I had brought the love letter I had taken from Frère Joseph’s mattress, but I hardly needed to look at it to know that the handwriting was no match for the letters in this folder. I flicked through the papers; these were all written in the same small, round hand, neat and compressed, no sign of the bold flourishes that characterised the note I had found in Joseph’s cell or the one Cotin had passed on to me the night before. I turned over the sheets in the folder to be certain. They all bore today’s date – the 8th of December – and were signed with the Duchess’s name, Catherine de Montpensier, in the same careful writing; I presumed these had been written earlier and were waiting to be sent. I offered up a silent curse. I had been willing my theory to be true; if the Duchess of Montpensier had been Joseph’s lover, everything would tie up tidily and I would be able to take proof to the King in the form of these letters. But unless she was adept at disguising her hand, it seemed I must accept that this was not the case. Joseph’s lover – and murderer – remained unknown.
I was unbuttoning my doublet, thinking to compare the letters even though I already knew my conclusion, when I caught the sound of footsteps and the exchange of low voices from the corridor. I bundled the papers back into the folder,
