‘It’s surprising how sharp an old woman’s memory can be when jogged by a little incentive,’ Paget said, not acknowledging the servant’s presence. ‘The neighbour will make a valuable witness. She says someone came up here earlier this afternoon, shortly after the friar arrived.’
‘What time? Did she get a look at him?’ I thought of the unseen gaze I had sensed in the dark of the hallway downstairs. She would have seen the killer. I wished again that I had thought to speak to her first.
‘I have an awful feeling that, if pressed, she’d say he looked exactly like you,’ Paget murmured, smoothing his hair. ‘Let’s not waste any more time, Bruno.’ He jerked his head towards the door.
‘What about him?’ I glanced towards the bed.
‘He’s not going anywhere. We can discuss what to do about him later.’
‘And the widow? She might call the watch. If someone else finds him—’
‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’ He patted his purse. ‘They drive a hard bargain, these widows. I’ll leave one of my men outside – tell her it’s for her own safety. She won’t try and look in here.’
He nodded to the man by the door, who held it open and waited for us to pass. Paget led the way down the stairs, stopping at the door of the ground-floor rooms to exchange a few hurried words with someone inside. I heard the servant’s heavy tread behind me and felt a sudden flush of fear. If I were to be accused of murder, only the King could possibly come to my defence against the testimony of men like Paget and the Abbé of Saint-Victor. Would Henri rouse himself to save me from a false accusation? I supposed it would depend on whether he was implicated. As the street door opened and I felt the slap of cold air on my face, I realised everything now turned on the outcome of the encounter I had been hoping to avoid since I arrived in Paris.
Firelight flickered in restless patterns over the face of the man who stood with his arm resting on the great mantel at shoulder height, staring in silence into the flames. It silvered the scar snaking down his right cheek and hid his deep-set eyes in shadow. In every corner of the chamber, banks of candles gave out a bright glow, their lights constantly in motion, like sun on water. The grand salon at the Hotel de Montpensier lent the occasion a ceremonial air, its high ceiling bright with gilded panels of biblical scenes and plump-cheeked putti, the oak-lined walls hung with antique tapestries of hunting scenes. From every ceiling boss and capital the Montpensier coat of arms gleamed forcefully. No one had spoken since we had arrived. All eyes were on the scar-faced figure by the fire. Paget had settled himself on a stool near the hearth, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, casting from one to the other of us with the alertness of a spectator at the Colosseum. I stood, stupidly, in the centre of the room, as if by keeping still I could avoid making a wrong move.
Just as it seemed he had forgotten I was there, the man by the fireplace stirred and lifted his head in my direction. I drew myself up, set my shoulders back and met his appraising stare. If he expected me to grovel to him, he would be disappointed. The face I looked into was refined but hard, an impression emphasised by the scar but implicit in the sharp cheekbones, the pointed beard, small mouth and, most of all, the unblinking eyes, cold as stone. A face weathered by battle, making him appear older and more world-weary than his thirty-six years. Unlike his namesake the King, Henri Duke of Guise did not wear earrings or perfume or shirts of embroidered lace. He smelled of sweat, leather and horses. Despite that, le Balafré was reported to be irresistible to women; if half the rumours were true, there was barely a wife or maiden at court who hadn’t been willingly conquered by that ruthless manner. I could not see it myself.
‘Who do you think killed Joseph de Chartres, then?’ The question was addressed directly to me in a voice that belied his appearance; low and resonant, almost musical, the voice of a man assured of his own authority. It was there in his bearing, too; a quiet self-possession distinct from Paget’s more obvious swagger. You might almost say that, unlike the King’s, the Duke’s poise was instinctively regal.
I watched him, trying to gauge what answer he might be expecting. ‘I think you did,’ I said, eventually.
One corner of his mouth moved a fraction; I could not tell if it was a smile. ‘And yet I was not the one discovered crouching by his naked corpse with a knife in my hand. Well – let us suppose for a moment that you are correct. Why did I do it? I am interested to hear your theory.’
I hesitated. The smirk vanished in an instant; the eyes glittered. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ he said, his tone just as measured and elegant as before, but with an edge of flint. ‘If you disappeared tonight, Giordano Bruno, who would miss you?’
I did not reply. I had already assumed that I had been brought to the house of his sister, the Duchess of Montpensier, in order to distance him from whatever might happen here. He removed his elbow from the mantel and folded his arms.
‘Not King Henri. Nor your English connections, I fear. You are friendless in Paris,’ he continued, in the same low voice, ‘and that is a dangerous state for any man in these days, all the more so
