The English printer occupied the ground floor of a house in a row of buildings that stood along the boundary wall of the Palais. It appeared to be one of the better-kept premises; the front windows were glazed behind their wooden shutters and a painted sign swung outside. I peered in; my breath misted the glass, but I could make out a neat shop with rows of printed books displayed on shelves behind a counter where a man in his shirtsleeves bent over an open volume by the light of a candle. As church bells across the river struck the hour of four, I stepped back and ducked into the shadow of a wooden shed opposite, where I could remain half-obscured with a view of anyone approaching Brinkley’s shop.
I did not have long to wait. At about ten minutes past four, a figure in a dark cloak hurried past the windows and entered the printer’s, slipping around the door as fluidly as a cat. He had worn his hood pulled up; I had not seen his face but his furtive manner made clear that he did not want to advertise his presence there. I flexed my fingers and checked my knife as I crossed to Brinkley’s door, ignoring the voice in my head that questioned whether I was fit to fight two men at once. Perhaps I would do better to wait until the friar came out, but I was so close now to taking him, with evidence of his treasons; if I could catch him exchanging documents with the printer and bring him alive to the King, he would soon be persuaded to reveal his part in Paul’s murder and perhaps the wider conspiracy.
At the sound of the door, both men snapped their heads around immediately with faces as guilty as adulterers. The one in the cloak had drawn down his hood and was looking at me with a startled expression, fixed in the act of passing over a packet. I stared back at him; he was younger than I had expected, no more than mid-twenties, blond and rangy, with pale skin and sharp features dusted with freckles. He did not have the tonsure of a friar; more than that, there was no hint of recognition in his eyes. I had not seen Frère Joseph’s face last night and I was not sure how clearly he could have seen me, but I would have expected my appearance to excite some reaction, given that he knew people were looking for him. This boy seemed nervous, but not necessarily on my account.
‘May I help you, monsieur?’ The older man behind the counter addressed me in French with a blunt English accent as he took the packet from the boy and tucked it under the counter in one brisk movement. I assessed the room with a quick glance. The ground floor was divided in two by a partition wall; through the open doorway that connected the shop with the room behind I heard the rhythmic clanking of a printing press. The only way out was the main door; as long as I did not allow either of them to get behind me, I would have a clear escape. I smiled, attempting to recover an air of normality, though my presence was clearly unwelcome.
‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen,’ I said, in my best English, offering them a slight bow. ‘I did not mean to interrupt. Please – finish your business.’
‘We are finished, sir,’ the printer said, his voice hard. ‘And what is your business?’
I was tempted to observe that his manner of dealing with customers could do with a little refinement, but the boy was still staring fixedly at me.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, addressing him, ‘but have we met? You seem familiar.’
He looked even more alarmed. ‘I do not believe so, sir.’ Despite his evident unease, his voice was firm and educated. It was also unmistakably English.
‘I beg your pardon, then. It must be that you remind me of someone.’ I inclined my head by way of apology and turned back to appraise the man with the rolled sleeves. Middling height, sandy hair receded so far that he had apparently decided to cut his losses and crop what remained so close to his skull that he appeared almost bald. Perhaps nearing fifty, though thickset and muscular, with the air of someone who knows how to throw a punch.
‘I was told this was the place to find a good selection of books translated from English into French,’ I said. ‘Books that are not widely available, if you understand my meaning. Ask for Master Brinkley, I was told.’ Immediately his face tightened.
‘I am Brinkley. But it would depend which titles you are looking for. I don’t think we have had the pleasure of your custom before, monsieur? I would be interested to know who recommended my shop. I have only a small clientele, as you can imagine, and they are Englishmen for the most part. But you are not French either, I don’t think?’ I noticed his eyes flicker to the outer door.
‘Oh, do not let me disturb you, if you are expecting somebody,’ I said, following the direction of his gaze.
‘Not at all – I am expecting no one.’ But his face had grown wary.
‘In answer to your question – I am Italian, and it was an old friend, Père Paul Lefèvre, who suggested I visit you,’ I continued. ‘He told me a great deal about you and spoke highly of your shop as a place where one might find all manner of hidden treasures difficult to obtain elsewhere.’
Brinkley was struggling to hide his confusion. ‘Is that so? God rest his soul. You have heard the news, I suppose?’
I composed my face into a solemn expression and lowered my eyes. ‘Diabolical. That anyone could strike a man
