‘That would be the most convenient theory,’ the young man broke in, hotly. Brinkley shot him a warning glance.
‘And I see you do not believe it. But convenient for whom?’ I turned to him, but it was Brinkley who answered.
‘If he was your friend, you will know where he has been making enemies of late.’ He came out from behind his counter, arms folded across his chest, gently intimidating. I took a step back towards the door.
‘Ah. I see your meaning.’ I mimed a mincing walk in imitation of the King. This obviously pleased him, because his face relaxed a fraction and he almost cracked a smile. The paper rustled inside my doublet as I moved. ‘If that is the case, then we are all in danger,’ I said, dropping my voice and sending him a complicit look.
He had regained his composure now and was not to be drawn. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that, monsieur, or who you regard as we?’
‘I mean—’ I leaned in – ‘that if the royal family will strike at anyone who speaks ill of the King, there can be few people in Paris who would escape that charge.’
‘Only you know your own conscience there, monsieur. For myself, I do not speak ill of the King or his appointed heir. Has someone suggested otherwise?’ He held my gaze, impassive. He was waiting for me to slip up, give myself away; clearly he suspected I was a spy. I would have done the same in his place.
‘Of course not. I spoke in general terms only.’
‘In any case,’ he said, shifting half a step towards me, arms still folded, ‘I barely knew Père Lefèvre. He may have come in once or twice but he was not a regular customer. Why don’t you tell me which books interest you and I will see if I stock them?’
I nodded. ‘But I believe we may have another acquaintance in common. A friar from Saint-Victor by the name of Joseph de Chartres?’ I glanced at the door. ‘I thought I might run into him here today.’
‘I know no one of that name. I told you – I trade with Englishmen, for the most part.’ Brinkley’s glare grew more concentrated, but I detected a flicker of anxiety across his brow. It was impossible to tell whether he was speaking the truth. Behind me, a shadow passed across the shop window, blocking the light for an instant. I made a decision; a reckless one, but I felt I had to act, or we would be dancing around one another until nightfall.
‘Master Brinkley – may I speak frankly with you?’ I met his gaze full on.
‘I wish you would, monsieur,’ he said, running a hand across his stubbled scalp, though the crease between his brows deepened.
‘Paul Lefèvre was supposed to deliver something to you today,’ I began.
He gestured to stop me and turned to the young man. ‘Come back later.’
‘But—’ the boy tried to protest; Brinkley jerked his head sharply towards the door. Reluctantly, with a last reproachful look at me, the boy left.
Brinkley crossed and recrossed his arms and planted himself squarely in front of me, but his eyes darted constantly to the door.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Filippo. You are expecting this, I think.’ I took the two écus that Stafford had given me from my purse and tossed them on to the counter. Brinkley jumped and backed away. If anything, the money had made him more suspicious.
‘Who sent you?’
By way of answer, I reached inside my doublet for the pamphlets. Before I had a chance even to unfold them, Brinkley’s face stiffened, eyes wide; he raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. We continued to stare at one another, each waiting for the other to speak, when the silence was broken by the click of the latch behind us. Brinkley started as if he had been stuck with a knife. I whipped around and my heart dropped.
‘Ah. Afternoon, Brinkley. Doctor Bruno – what a surprise.’ Paget, immaculate in a fur-trimmed cloak of plum velvet, ducked his head to enter and took off his hat, brushing non-existent dust from the brim and smoothing its feathers. He stopped, taking in the guilt and confusion on our faces, and his eyes locked immediately on to the paper in my hand. ‘What have you there?’
Before I could react, he leaned forward and whisked it from my grasp, uncreasing it and scanning the first few lines. I could feel the pulse beating hard at my throat.
‘I don’t know this man, sir. He just turned up here and shoved these at me.’ Brinkley was still backing away, as if putting his counter between us might afford him some protection. He appeared to be scared of Paget; this did not surprise me.
Paget flicked a hand in his direction as if to dislodge a fly, his eyes still running over the page. Eventually he lifted his head and fixed me with that infuriating expression of amusement. ‘Dear me, Bruno – this is not the sort of thing one should be waving around in public. Very dangerous. Did you write this?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I believe you, naturally. I’m not sure others would, though.’ He looked at me with a level gaze; I saw Brinkley flinch. ‘Imagine if you were caught with such a tract. People might not understand.’
Before I could stop him, he took two long strides across to the fire and threw the paper in. I watched in silence as it curled and blackened in the flames, cursing my impatience. I should have watched and waited; now Paget had destroyed the only evidence linking Joseph to Paul Lefèvre. He looked up at me and smiled.
‘There. Wouldn’t want you or Master Brinkley compromised, would we?’ He turned to the printer. ‘Don’t worry about this man. We go back a long way.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. Brinkley continued to scowl at me, unconvinced. ‘Do you
