Conspiracy

by SJ Parris

  The smell of old woodsmoke still lingered, overlaid with a new scent, delicate and noticeable only in patches, as if it were shifting just out of reach: perfume, spicy and rich, a scent that made me think of Henri and the rarefied air of the court, not the austere rented rooms of a dead priest. Turning towards the desk, I noticed a heap of cloth on the wooden chair. I lifted it to see that it was a linen undershirt and silk hose, folded neatly. I bent and sniffed the shirt; it smelled faintly of sweat, but no trace of perfume. Perhaps Joseph had come here to change clothes; one of his friends or relatives could have arranged to meet him with an outfit less conspicuous than the habit of a religious, and he might have applied the perfume as part of his altered image. This idea brought a jolt of panic; suppose he had changed his appearance in order to leave Paris until someone else was hanged for Paul’s murder and he was no longer under suspicion? Once he was out of the city, the chances of finding him or holding him responsible were as good as non-existent. But if he had swapped clothes, where was his friar’s habit?

  The candle flame snapped and shivered in a sudden gust as the curtain across the partition flapped again and I realised that the small casement in the alcove must be open. Had Joseph escaped that way, to avoid being seen in his new disguise? I pulled back the drape and stifled a cry at what I saw in the instant that the wind snuffed out the candle.

  A man lay prone on the bed, naked, his face turned away from me, his skin white and disturbingly luminous in the gloom. Though I had sprung back by instinct, in the same moment I knew already that he would not be woken. I reached out a tentative finger to make sure; the flesh was cold and unyielding. I leaned across and pulled the window shut; it took a few moments before I could reignite the tinder-box and steady my breath. The crown of his head was tonsured; I had little doubt that this was Joseph de Chartres, who only the previous night had landed such a forceful punch to my jaw and outrun me through the fog. Now he was lying dead and naked in the bed of the man I supposed him to have murdered.

  Attached to the wall above the bed was a fixture for a candle; I fitted the light into the bracket so that I had both hands free to turn the body on to its back, half-dreading what I would find. But there was no blood; his skin had the flawless white sheen of a waxwork, an impression aided by his fair complexion and sparse body hair. I laid him out with as much gentleness as I could manage, given the weight of his body; whatever a man may have done in life, it is a basic human courtesy to treat his corpse with dignity. I lifted his right arm and felt along its length. The time I had spent as a young friar assisting the brother infirmarian at San Domenico had given me a basic knowledge of human anatomy in various states; it had always interested me to note, as we prepared the body of a deceased brother for burial, the different stages of stiffening in the limbs, how quickly the discolouration would appear on the skin. The ability to judge such matters had proved unexpectedly useful more than once over the past few years when confronted with unnatural death. With Joseph the rigidity was only just beginning to set in; I estimated that he had been dead not much more than four or five hours. That fitted with the laundress’s story that she had seen him arrive here around noon.

  I looked more closely at the face. He would have been an attractive man in life; now his lips had taken on a bluish tinge and he stared at the canopy of the bed from glassy eyes. I lifted the candle down for better light. Though it was cheap tallow and the flame coughed out an oily smoke, I could see in the dim light that the whites of his eyes were flecked with scarlet pinpricks. I clenched my jaw, fought down my distaste and prised open his mouth to find the tongue swollen, the inside of his mouth darkened with discoloured patches, all signs suggesting that he had been strangled. A faint brown mark ran across his throat, almost too indistinct to suggest a ligature. Soft material, then, whatever the killer had used; not a rope. Leaning in, I noticed livid scratches down the side of his neck where the skin had been gouged. I checked his right hand again. Three of the fingers were slightly misshapen – perhaps this was the source of his claim to have a crippled hand. It had not hampered him from hitting me; I could see bruises across the top of the knuckles where he had made contact. More significantly, I found traces of dried blood under the fingernails. He must have been scrabbling against the ligature as it tightened; the killer had taken him by surprise. How, though? Had he been waiting here to ambush Joseph, knowing he would come back eventually, or was it someone he had arranged to meet – someone he knew and trusted, but who needed to dispose of him now that his part in Paul’s death was suspected? But that still did not explain why Joseph was naked. I shone the candle along the length of his body and stopped when I reached the shrunken penis in its furze of pale hair. The light picked out a faint pearly sheen across the crease of his groin. Reluctantly, I looked more closely, touching a fingertip to the skin, where a dried film cracked and peeled. So he had ejaculated recently; this could happen to a hanged man at the point of death, I knew, but I was not certain if the same occurred with strangulation. Or was there another, more obvious explanation – that he had met the lover Benoît mentioned and been killed while he was off guard?

  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 for thinking he would have come here, or else someone claims to have seen him. A helpful washerwoman, perhaps.’ He peeled off his gloves with precision, finger by finger, and gestured with them towards the body. ‘You must admit, Bruno – it doesn’t look good. Finding you crouched over the naked corpse of the man whose room you broke into last night.’

  I swallowed, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Since you’re obviously still following me closely, you’ll know that I’ve only been here twenty minutes at most. This man has been dead for hours – look at the limbs.’

  ‘Hm.’ Paget tucked his gloves into his belt and gave the body a cursory prod. ‘The widow downstairs is extremely observant, you know. People up and down these stairs all afternoon, according to her. She’s naturally alarmed by so much activity in the rooms of her murdered neighbour. I’ve had to leave one of my servants to reassure her.’

  My heart dropped. So he had brought reinforcements; of course he had. He had planned this with care.

  ‘What an undignified way to go,’ he remarked, still looking at Joseph’s naked back. ‘How was he killed?’

  I turned to him. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘I?’ He held my gaze. ‘I am not a physician.’ I continued to look at him in silence; after a few moments he nodded, as if making a concession. ‘Very well. I will hazard a guess.’ He leaned over to examine the dead man’s face, pulled up one of the eyelids, shone his candle on the throat. ‘Garrotted, I would say.’

  ‘With what?’

  He raised a shoulder. ‘How should I know? Something broad and soft, there’s not much of a mark. A scarf, perhaps, or a stocking.’

  I stared at him. ‘Wait.’ I lifted the shirt from the chair and drew out the silk stockings that had been left folded in the pile. I held them up to the light. They were long, the kind held up around the thigh with a garter. More usual under the velvet or satin breeches of a court dandy than beneath a friar’s robe, but I recalled that at San Domenico the aristocratic young brothers had liked to indulge in finery under their habits as a reminder of their status – the inverse of a hair shirt. Most striking about this pair, though, was that a knot had been tied approximately halfway along.

  ‘He tried to pull at the ligature as he was strangled – he made his neck bleed. There – look.’ I pointed; the stockings were spotted with blood and snagged, where the fabric had been torn by frantic nails. ‘I’ll be damned. Killed with his own stockings.’ I stretched them between my hands at either end; there was not much give in the material. ‘You’d think they’d be too flimsy,’ I murmured, half to myself.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Paget said, taking them from my hands and studying them. He appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration. ‘Not if you had a stick.’

  ‘A stick?’

  ‘To make a tourniquet.’ He held his fingers about six inches apart to indicate. ‘A stick or baton, this sort of length. Get the loop around the victim’s neck, twist the ends together, insert the stick and turn it. Tightens instantly without the killer needing to use much force. Then the knot crushes the windpipe.’ He wound a stocking once around his wrist and mimed a rotating action with a finger.

  I looked at him, almost impressed. ‘You seem very familiar with the technique.’ The distance between his fingers was about the length of the penknife I had found.

  He gave a dry laugh and tossed the stockings back to me. ‘I dare say you and I are both conversant with skills that might surprise polite society. One has to learn certain tricks to survive, in our business.’

  ‘How to garrotte a man with a tourniquet?’

  ‘Not something I’ve put into practice, but I understand the theory.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  A silence elapsed. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, eventually. His moustache twitched with a smile. ‘You think I did it?’

  ‘You knew Joseph was not coming to Brinkley’s shop this afternoon.’ I spoke slowly to give myself time to formulate my thoughts. ‘I wondered how you could have been so sure. You’ve coordinated all this. Did you arrange to meet him here, with the promise of helping him escape?’ I laid the stockings on the chair and continued to back away from him, towards the door. ‘Was that why you got me out of the Conciergerie last night – because you were planning for me to take the blame all along?’ I could hear the pitch of my voice rising and broke off; I must remain in control. I was acutely aware of the danger I was now in. Paget laughed.

  ‘I’m flattered that you think I’m so capable, Bruno, but I must say you’re beginning to sound a little overwrought.’ He took a step back, so that he blocked my way to the door. ‘I knew Joseph would not come to Brinkley’s because I understand how those networks operate. Lefèvre was the go-between. Joseph would never have turned up himself – that’s not how things are done. But you’re right to think that you are in serious trouble. I could send for the watch right away. You’d be arrested like that.’ He snapped his fingers and grinned. ‘Especially with him naked. Everyone knows what you friars are like.’

  I didn’t smile. ‘So what is stopping you?’

  He leaned his weight on his right foot, allowing his hand to rest gently on the hilt of his sword as he eyed me with apparent indifference. ‘Because I know that you know more than you are telling, and this death means I cannot afford to indulge you any longer. It’s time you and I paid a visit.’

  I could guess where he had in mind.

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  He shook his head, as if my answer had disappointed him. He placed two fingers between his lips and produced a short but piercing whistle. The door opened instantly to reveal the burly servant who had accompanied him the night before, still holding his club in his hand. I could see that he also carried a large hunting knife at his belt. He closed the door behind him and stood against it, his eyes fixed on me.

  ‘It’s surpr
ising 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.