‘Then who has access?’ I asked, eyeing the ring at his belt.
‘Myself, for the books. The almoner, Frère Joseph – he keeps the dry goods here that we distribute to the poor once a week at the back gate. And the sacristan.’ He paused, reluctant. ‘Frère Albaric. I believe you met him.’
I recalled that prickle of distaste I had felt on encountering Frère Albaric in the infirmary; his snide expression and shiny skin, the impatience with which he had tried to nudge me away from the dying priest’s bedside as he administered the last rites. Dio cane – had that been because he was afraid of what Paul might say to me? I looked down at the bloodied mess on the base of the statue. I must not jump to conclusions just because I had taken a dislike to the man.
‘And this Frère Joseph,’ I said. ‘What kind of man is he?’
Cotin snorted softly. ‘One that should not be in holy orders, in my view. The usual story – surplus son of a wealthy family. The one they give back to God, but no less full of worldly ambition for that. Joseph is a cold man. He barely troubles to disguise his contempt for the poor – hardly a desirable quality in an almoner. Of course, that may be why the Abbé appointed him,’ he added. ‘He has a reputation for frugality. The abbey’s profits have certainly improved since he began to review the distribution of alms to the needy.’
‘What age is he?’
‘A little younger than you. Not yet thirty-five, I think.’
‘Which family?
‘His name is de Chartres. Parisians. He’s a cousin of the Duke of Montpensier. Well connected.’
‘Ambitious, you say. Is he – let me speak bluntly – a man who might be persuaded to take a life if he thought it would help advance him?’
‘I could not swear to that, Bruno. Who knows what any of us might do, given the right incentive? By temperament, perhaps…’ He hesitated, looking at the statue.
‘But?’
‘Joseph has an affliction of his right hand. Some weakness from a childhood illness, he says. He can do everyday tasks competently enough with his good arm, but he lacks the strength for manual labour.’
‘So…’ I held the statue by the neck with my left hand and attempted to swing it through the air as if striking a blow. Paul Lefèvre was a tall man; if he had been standing when he was first hit, the assailant would have had to raise the statue above shoulder height before bringing it down. Saint Denis was heavy and unwieldy when held aloft with one hand. A strong man might be able to muster enough force for a killing blow one-armed, but it would be difficult to aim with any precision. Paul’s attacker could not have afforded to miss and risk the priest trying to fight back – especially if he lacked the strength to fight.
‘And Albaric?’
‘Two good arms, as far as I know.’
‘I meant, is he ambitious too? Political?’
Cotin looked unconvinced. ‘I do not know him well enough to say. I’m not sure anyone does, though he has been here eight or more years. He is devout in his duties, and that is all I can tell you, except that he guards his privacy, as far as one can in a community such as this. If he has political interests, I have no idea what they might be.’
For all that, he is certainly not politically naïve, I thought, recalling Albaric’s throwaway remark about looking to the Louvre to find the killer. It had struck me as an odd comment, given that at first Paul was assumed to be the chance victim of street robbers. He had known who Paul was, too, though he had affected only a vague recognition.
‘What about the back gate? Who has the key?’
‘All the senior officials whose work concerns deliveries to the abbey,’ he said. ‘Various goods come in by river to be unloaded at that jetty. So the two I have mentioned, but also the cellarer, the bursar, the infirmarian, among others. But it is not impossible that copies have slipped into other hands over the years.’ He allowed himself a half-smile. ‘In my day it was not unknown for younger friars to find their way out at night.’
‘In my day, too,’ I said, remembering my own nocturnal sorties in Naples. I looked back at the statue in my hands. ‘But why did he – whoever he was – not simply throw these in the river so they would not be found?’
‘Perhaps he was interrupted,’ Cotin suggested. ‘If a boat came too close and he needed to hide himself, he may not have had time to throw the statue into deep water. Or perhaps he was afraid it would be noticed missing. He may have meant to clean it later and return it to its place.’ He dragged a hand across his beard, covered his mouth. ‘God have mercy.’
‘Either way, he will be back for it,’ I said. ‘I am going to wait for him.’
He peeled his fingers away from his face and his mouth pinched. ‘You should not involve yourself in this any further, Bruno.’ He sighed. ‘By which I mean, I would prefer not to find myself in any more trouble with the Abbé as a result of your meddling. I have already defended you once.’
‘Defended?’
‘The Abbé advanced the theory that the priest had spoken your name repeatedly not because he was asking for you, but because he was trying to accuse his killer. I insisted that was impossible, that you had been sitting under my nose in the library all afternoon. Even then I’m not sure he was persuaded. Either way he wants you questioned.’
‘Thank you.’ I wondered who had planted that helpful idea in the Abbé’s mind. ‘But listen to me, Cotin. What are
