‘God bless you,’ he croaked. His fingers moved under mine, and he fell silent once more.
TWENTY-ONE
I stumbled home and fell into bed as a thin light began to spread over the horizon and a lone bird trilled its dawn song into the brittle air over the river. When I woke, the day was already advanced, the sky clear and pale. I asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought up and cleaned myself thoroughly, examining my new injuries from the night before; a purple bruise spread over my hip and there were fresh scratches on my face and hands from falling into the bush, but the damage was not as bad as I had feared. When all this was over, I thought, I would shut myself away in a library and never again complain of the lack of incident in a life of writing. Then I remembered that I might have to return to England with news of Stafford’s treachery; in my present state of exhaustion I could not work out whether the idea excited or depressed me.
My immediate preoccupation was finding something to eat; I could not remember the last time I had had a proper meal. I dressed in clean clothes, ran a comb through my hair – a quick task now there was less of it – and climbed on my stool to retrieve the bag of items I now thought of as evidence that might link the murders. I slipped the silver penknife inside my doublet, swung my cloak around my shoulders and took myself to the Swan and Cross for a bowl of stew.
‘Seen the latest pamphlets?’ Gaston asked, as he slopped it down in front of me. I shook my head, as my mouth was crammed with bread.
‘That girl that was killed up at the Tuileries the other night,’ he continued, with the air of a professional opinion-former, resting one hand on the table. ‘The pamphleteers are saying Catherine did for her by witchcraft.’
‘Ah. And do they say why she wanted to do that?’
He sniffed. ‘Witches don’t need a reason, do they?’
‘So she just killed one of her ladies for her own amusement?’
‘Well.’ He leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘You know what they say about that Italian sorcerer – no offence – she favours. He has built a chapel to the Devil under the palace where he keeps the severed head of a Jewish child to prophesy for him. And he makes wax dolls of all the royal enemies and sticks them with needles when she commands him. They say he can call up spirits who aid him to walk forth out of his body so he can commit murder invisibly.’
‘Trust me,’ I said, tearing another hunk of bread, ‘I know Ruggieri – he is much less interesting than that.’
‘Anyway, the point is, they’re saying he murdered that girl by mistake. Catherine meant for him to kill someone else.’
‘Perhaps his spirit had trouble recognising people after he left his eyes behind. Who do they think he meant to kill, then?’
‘Don’t know. They say maybe her daughter, Margot.’
‘Margot is not in Paris.’
‘I’m just telling you what I read.’ He held up his hands as a disclaimer. ‘I thought you’d want to keep up with the tide of public feeling.’
‘Thanks, Gaston. I can’t help thinking these pamphleteers run ahead of the facts.’
He gave me a pitying look. ‘It’s a story about a beautiful rich whore killed by black magic. Do you think anyone gives two farts for the facts?’
After I had eaten, I crossed the river and made my way up the old rue du Temple towards the north of the Marais district, where the silver and goldsmiths had their workshops. As I walked, my thoughts returned to Sophia. There had been a moment, the previous night, when I imagined I saw a spark of what had once been between us, but now, in daylight, I realised I was fooling myself. Perhaps there had never been anything beyond a superficial attraction. With a twinge of anxiety, I recalled what she had said about keeping her eyes open for Paget by way of payment. I wondered now if she meant within the Fitzherbert household, or in more general terms. Would she run straight to Paget and tell him about seeing me sneaking around the Hotel de Montpensier, jumping off balconies? Sophia was an opportunist, and I could not blame her for that; she had had no choice. Brought up in an Oxford college, educated equally with her brother, she had come of age with ambitions and expectations that far exceeded what society would grant to a young woman of her status. She had rebelled against the constraints placed on her, and she had suffered for it. I had been useful to her for a time, but that time had passed. There was nothing I could offer her in my present circumstances. And yet, for a fleeting moment as she looked into my eyes, I could almost have persuaded myself that I could win her back.
Dismissing these thoughts, I made for a narrow shop with no sign over the door. Inside it was clean and well kept, though dim, since the small windows allowed in little light. A skinny apprentice leaned against the ware-bench polishing a monstrance. He glanced up as I entered, his eyes suspicious.
‘Is your master in the back?’
The boy jutted his chin out as if to argue, then thought better of it and disappeared through a door into the workshop. A moment later an older man in a leather apron appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth.
‘Help you?’
‘You are the master silversmith?’
‘I am.’
I removed my gloves and took the penknife from inside my doublet.
‘What can you tell me about this?’ I handed it to him.
He turned it over, running
