I fixed the candle back in the wall bracket and rolled Joseph on to his side once more to examine his back. There I found what I had missed at first: two bruises between his shoulder blades, suggesting that someone had knelt on his back to hold him down while they tightened the ligature. With the force of their own body weight bearing down and a strong cord or tie, even a weaker person – a dwarf, or a woman – might easily subdue a bigger man while he was prone once the ligature was around his neck. It occurred to me that I should speak to the old widow downstairs after all; if she had been watching me, she would likely also have seen anyone who had entered the building earlier.
I crouched with the candle to look under the bed in case anything else had been taken. The small chest containing the grisly martyr’s relics was still there. As I reached in to check whether the contents had been disturbed, my hand brushed against a hard object just under the edge of the bed that had half slipped between the floorboards. I lifted it into the light and saw that it was a slim penknife, the kind used to sharpen quills, about six inches long, the handle made of solid silver and decorated with a delicate tracery of vines and leaves. I drew it from the sheath and pressed the blade against my finger. It was sharp enough, though small and neat; it would hardly be much use as a weapon. But it had not been here the last time I searched under this bed, so it was likely that Joseph or his killer had dropped it. The friar had not been cut anywhere, as far as I could see. Had he grabbed for it in self-defence? I peered at the blade as the candlelight danced along its edge. One side was engraved; at the top, just below the handle, a maker’s mark stamped in the shape of a single crenellated tower. An expert would know what this emblem signified – where the knife came from and which guild the silversmith belonged to – but it meant nothing to me.
I tucked the penknife into the pocket in my doublet. For now I needed to make sure I left the building unseen while I decided who to inform about Joseph’s murder. I supposed that the King ought to know before anyone; he would not be happy. To have come so close to taking the man who could have explained the reasons for Paul Lefèvre’s death, and then to lose his confession at the last minute, would strike Henri as a gross failure on my part, I had no doubt. Now there was another murderer to find, higher up the chain, and I might well find myself charged with that task too, as a punishment. I rolled the body back to its original position, glad that I could no longer see those bulging eyes with their wild death stare. It seemed I had won Paget’s challenge to see who would find Joseph first, I thought, as I reached to pull the curtain across, and the realisation made me freeze in the act.
He had been so certain that Joseph would not turn up at the printer’s shop this afternoon. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the tone, the expression on his face, as he speculated on which of us would track down the missing friar first. All I could picture was a mischievous twist of a smile, an impish suggestion of mockery behind the words, but perhaps I was imposing imagination on memory. Even so, I could not ignore the question: had Paget known what had happened to Joseph all along?
I let my hand fall to my side and remained at the bedside, staring at the corpse, running through everything Paget had said to me that afternoon. I was still lost in thought when I heard a creak of boards, the click of the latch. In one motion I blew out the candle, leapt up on to the bed beside the body and crouched in a corner behind the drape. I dared not attempt to draw it across lest the movement attract attention. As silently as possible, I slid my dagger out of its sheath. The door closed and footsteps – one pair – advanced a few paces across the floor as the wavering light of a lantern lurched along the far wall. I leaned forward, muscles tensed, ready to spring with the knife as a tall figure came into view and the light was held aloft. From behind its glare a familiar, aristocratic voice spoke in carefully enunciated English.
‘Good Lord, Bruno. I’m not sure even I can get you out of this one.’
NINE
The same glint of amusement flickered in his eyes, as if this were still a great game. I felt too tired to humour him by playing along. He was right; he had caught me in an impossible position. I climbed down from the bed and sheathed my knife. He was alone and his own sword hanging at his belt; I did not think he meant to attack me. Not by such an obvious means, anyway.
‘I see you’ve won our little wager, then,’ he said casually, moving a few paces nearer to stand by the bed, where he tilted his head and regarded Joseph with professional interest.
‘I don’t recall agreeing a wager.’
‘Perhaps not explicitly,’ he said, ‘but the stakes are high nonetheless, don’t you think?’ He turned to me with a victor’s smile. ‘Whatever have you done to the poor fellow?’
I ignored the question. ‘How did you know to find me here, Paget?’
‘Process of deduction. You’re looking for de Chartres because you think he killed Lefèvre. You’re methodically checking all the places you think Joseph might visit, as we saw this afternoon. Presumably you have a reason
