‘Selling it, are you?’
‘Possibly. I want to know more about it. Do you recognise this maker’s mark?’
‘Fetch my lenses,’ he barked at the boy. He peered more closely at the blade, affecting detachment, but I had seen the gleam in his eye when I had mentioned selling it; clearly it had some value. The boy returned with a thick disc of glass, cut and polished to magnify objects, like one lens of a pair of spectacles. The silversmith fitted it to his right eye and examined the knife.
‘Florentine,’ he said, with satisfaction.
‘You are certain?’
‘No doubt. This symbol of the tower has been used by the guild of Florentine silversmiths since the last century. Fine piece of work, this. Fifty years old, I’d say, maybe more. Worth something, though.’
‘Could it have been bought in Paris?’
‘I’ve not seen anything like this for sale here in all the time I’ve been working, and that’s over forty years myself. No, I reckon this came out of Italy a while ago.’ He removed the lens and squinted at my expression. ‘Is it stolen, then?’
‘No. It’s been in my family for a long time.’
He shrugged, unperturbed.
‘Not my business how you came by it. But I’ll give you a good price, as long as the owner won’t come looking for it.’
‘I am the owner,’ I said, holding my hand out for the penknife. ‘And I thank you for your time – you’ve been a great help. If I decide to sell, I will certainly come to you.’
‘Don’t you want to know how much I’m willing to offer?’
‘Next time,’ I said, tucking it away again and rushing out of the shop before he could ask any more questions.
I hurried back towards the river, mulling over this new possibility. There were Italian merchants and traders in Paris, of course, as well as diplomats and couriers from Rome, but the majority of Florentines were to be found at court, orbiting around Catherine. Just as I had thought everything pointed indisputably to the Duke of Guise, the penknife seemed to tell a different story. I was so confused by this conflicting information that I stopped still in the middle of the Pont Saint-Michel to puzzle it out, drawing curses from those trying to pass through the narrow street around me. The letter Cotin had found among Joseph de Chartres’s private papers made it clear that he had feared being exposed as a spy; he had feared it so much, in fact, that he had been willing to kill Paul Lefèvre to prevent such a denunciation. So the letter implied, anyway. The question was: who was Joseph spying for, and on whom? I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead and tried to think clearly, as the crowds jostled past. Had I been looking in the wrong direction all this time? If Joseph’s lover was not the Duchess of Montpensier, could she be someone within the court – someone with access to an antique Florentine penknife?
An elbow in the back from an impatient passer-by jolted me out of my reverie and I walked the rest of the way home thinking that perhaps Jacopo was right and I should make the decision to walk away. Too many powerful interests were pitted against one another for this to be resolved with anything as simple as identifying a murderer. It was folly to imagine the King would dare bring Guise to justice, even if I turned up with irrefutable proof against him. Henri was too afraid of the Duke’s popularity and, as Gaston pointed out, people don’t much care about the facts if the truth is less exciting. If they want to riot against the King because Guise tells them Henri killed a priest, they won’t put down their weapons and go quietly home because someone like me turns up with the real perpetrator. They’re rioting against the shortage of bread, the poor harvest, the endless wars, the instability, the failure of their leaders to tell them once and for all who God favours and who He will burn. None of them really cared who killed Lefèvre.
By the time I reached the Place Maubert I had almost convinced myself to heed Jacopo’s advice, but I could not shake off the thought that, if someone within the court was involved in Guise’s plot, the King was still in real danger. As I turned into rue du Cimetière and approached the front door, Madame de la Fosse shot out and launched into an attack as if she had been watching for me from the window.
‘This is a respectable house.’ She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes blazing accusation.
‘Has someone suggested otherwise?’ I asked, with wide-eyed innocence, though my stomach lurched; she would not forgive me if armed men had turned up to arrest me in full view of the neighbours.
‘I’m not having fornication in here.’ She drew herself up, bristling with indignation.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, trying to edge past her. ‘I wish you better luck in future.’
‘It’s not a joke.’ She blocked my way. ‘Some doxy appears on my doorstep, insists on seeing you, refuses to leave. Says if I don’t let her in she’ll wait outside until you come back. What would people say to that? Well, I couldn’t have her hanging about where everyone could see her.’
‘So, where is she now?’ My heart was hurtling, tripping over itself in a mixture of relief that I was not being arrested and a fierce thrill that Sophia had come to find me so soon. I had been right about that frisson last night, I thought.
‘Well, I had to let her in, didn’t I? I told her she could wait on the landing outside your door. But I’m not happy.’
‘Madame, you are magnificent.’ I planted a kiss on her cheek before she could protest and bounded up the stairs two at a time, my spirits revived by optimism. I rounded the turn of
