On the way to the Quai des Bernardins I stopped at a barber’s for a shave and a haircut. I asked him to cut it short; it seemed prudent to look as little like myself as possible if I wanted my plan for the following night to work. A blast of icy air whistled across the back of my neck when I came out; I ran a hand over my cropped skull and jammed my hat down hard over my ears. The barber must have done a good job; when I knocked at the door of the English embassy it took Stafford’s steward a few moments to recognise me. When he finally realised who I was he tried to claim the ambassador was busy, but I had my foot inside the door by then and insisted my business was urgent, so that eventually he was forced to let me pass.
Stafford glanced up from his desk with a frown as I entered his study.
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t come here in daylight,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘People might see you.’
‘Last time you told me not to come in the middle of the night.’ I pulled up a chair, though none had been offered. I was aware that I ought to show more deference but his manner riled me. ‘How much light would be proper, Ambassador? Dusk? Dawn?’
‘What is it you want?’ He tapped a knuckle on the papers before him. ‘I’m very busy and I have an engagement this evening.’
‘Of course.’ I placed the bundle of clothes on his desk, followed by the letter. ‘I came to return these, with thanks to your clerk. And I need to send this message urgently to Master Secretary with your next courier. In the next day or two at the latest – can that be done?’
Gifford had said he was travelling in a fortnight; it could take at least a week for my letter to reach Walsingham, and he would need time to alert his people at the ports along the south coast.
Stafford placed the clothes on the floor and eyed the document with suspicion. ‘What is it?’
‘A reply to the letter he sent me.’
‘The one in cipher?’
‘That’s right.’ We looked at each other, unblinking.
‘Fresh intelligence?’
‘Observations. Rumours. That is all.’
He put down his quill and steepled his fingers together, but he appeared twitchy.
‘Any observations you have for Walsingham should pass through me. I am the one who needs to know most immediately what direction events may take in Paris.’
‘With respect, Ambassador,’ I said, with a polite smile, ‘those were not my instructions. I work for Master Secretary.’
‘With respect, Doctor Bruno—’ he half rose from his chair, leaning towards me across the desk – ‘my instructions are to pay you from the embassy coffers when you bring me intelligence I deem worth the price. Then I will decide what to pass on to Master Secretary. That is how the system works here. Now, I will ask again – what news does your letter contain?’
I hesitated. Stafford continued to fix me with a glare that he meant to be intimidating, but I could read the strain on his face, in the red-rimmed eyes and the tiny muscle that jumped under the right one, the shadows from lack of sleep. I had to tread carefully, or he could simply refuse to send my messages to Walsingham in order to make a point. But I still did not know the extent of his collaboration with Paget, and if Paget was involved with Gilbert Gifford and his deliveries, I could not run the risk of Stafford putting them on the alert.
‘A girl died at the Tuileries last night during the ball,’ I said, after some consideration.
His eyes registered a brief flicker of interest. ‘I heard. One of Catherine’s attendants.’
‘You were not there?’
He made a noise of contempt. ‘I do not care for that sort of display. Vulgar Medici crowd-pleasing. And everyone knows it always descends into the worst kind of debauchery.’
I wondered what Stafford considered to be the worst kind of debauchery. I could not imagine he had much experience; I would put money on Catherine exceeding even his wildest expectations. It was also clear from his tone that he was trying to cover the fact that he had not been invited.
‘I heard the girl killed herself,’ he added.
‘So it was said. But I have reason to believe that she was connected to the plot against the King. She was known to Père Lefèvre, the dead priest.’
One eyebrow raised a fraction above his glasses. ‘So she was murdered too? By whom?’
‘I don’t know. Some associate of Guise, I would guess.’
‘And why does Master Secretary need to know this so urgently?’
‘I am only passing on what I know. You said yourself, the priest’s murder has the city on the knife-edge of an uprising. I thought he should be kept abreast of every development.’
He pointed a finger at me. ‘You see, this is exactly the kind of information I expect you to bring to me first. What does Henri intend to do about the girl?’
‘Find the murderer and bring him to justice, I would imagine.’
‘Ha. Henri couldn’t find the laces of his breeches without his mother’s help.’ He moved some papers from one side of the desk to the other, to make himself look busy. ‘He will not hold Guise to account, he is too afraid. How is the Queen?’
I shrugged.
