Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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‘We must fear for them.’

‘I can’t see Alexander Neville running away.’ She reminded Hubert of the time when she had been travelling with the Archbishop to Westminster, to the parliament King Richard had summoned to discuss the threatened French invasion.

Their char had been halted by a band of men in dense woodland outside Lincoln. The men had clearly imagined it contained only the driver, a nun and a young monk.

Then Neville, asleep in the back under cover, had risen from his couch to put in a dramatic appearance when he realised what was happening.

“I,” he had declaimed, rising up with a huge sword swinging from his belt, “am the Archbishop of York!”

The men had been knocked back from their felonious intentions by the sheer magnificence of his appearance and the obvious inference that he could use his sword to good effect.

Hubert managed to bring a faint smile to his face when she mentioned him. ‘That’s Alexander all right. Firey Neville. I agree, I can’t see him running away. But he has no army of his own. If it comes to the worst, what can he do?’

‘The bishop of Norwich will urge him to reconsider arming the Church. He’ll cite his success in putting down the Peasants’ Revolt in Norfolk by means of his own armed militia.’

He frowned. ‘Most of us joined the Order precisely because we did not want to go on killing. We put down our swords. We believe there’s a better way of solving our differences than resorting to violence. We seek peace.’

‘Is it possible to live unarmed in this world?’

He rubbed his eyes. ‘It seems not, unless we turn ourselves into martyrs. Heaven prevent Alexander from being forced to take that route!’

The other two monks arrived. Hubert had referred to them previously as his supporters. Now it was clear why he had done so. They would present him to the school of cardinals as a prospective candidate. Everything showed that he took precedence over them.

They listened in silence to what he had to tell them. Made one or two conventional exclamations of horror. And then waited to see what he would say next. The tall lanky Brother Gregory, the one she imagined as a swordsman, looked as if he would burst into tears. His companion, Egbert, clenched and unclenched his fists and bit his bottom lip.

Hildegard grew impatient. ‘We should be in London, giving a voice to all those who are repelled to see the king’s council acting outside the law.’

Hubert’s eyes gleamed then quickly clouded. ‘Would it were possible. I am tied here – for various reasons,’ he added avoiding her raised eyebrows.

Stiffly she said, ‘My gratitude for this information about current events, abbot.’ She bowed her head and was about to move away when he got up from his seat and stepped towards her.

‘Wait!’ He put out a hand but let it fall. Turning to the monks he growled, ‘I shall see you at compline, brothers. We’ll discuss this matter further.’

When they left he said hurriedly, ‘Can you go back?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you have instructions to remain here?’

She knew what he meant. He was trying to find out whether she was in Avignon at the prioress’s behest and if so what was her business.

With his allegiance to Clement and not to the rightful Pope Urban, she merely shrugged. ‘There’s the mystery of the murder of two retainers to keep me here at present and – ’ she hesitated.

‘And?’ he prompted.

‘Hubert,’ she spoke slowly, ‘were you ever over at Villeneuve?’

His smile was suddenly knowing. ‘I see. There was a whisper you were asking questions. You must have already heard I went over there this morning after lauds.’

‘I heard something to that effect.’

‘And you want to know what I know?’

‘That would be a tall order.’

‘If you want to know whether I saw somebody murder the esquire of the duc de Berry the answer, to my sorrow, is no. I crossed over with Cardinal Fondi, his concubine and child after attending lauds here in la Grande Chapelle. Many people saw me. When we crossed it was terrible weather, wild, windy and with a pelting rain quite as bad as anything we suffer in Yorkshire. We saw the light in the St Nicolas chapel half way along the bridge and considered taking shelter there but the thought of a warm bed persuaded us to continue. Apart from the weather there was nothing else of note.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘I told you, I went across in the company of Fondi. I believe other cardinals who had been attending night office at the palace were also crossing but, truly, it was difficult to see who they were as everyone had their hoods up and one or two were even carried back by litter.’

‘Thank you.’

His voice was steady and, it seemed, full of concern. ‘It was a terrible thing to happen. And to know we were so close we might have prevented it.’

‘Taillefer was such a bright, handsome boy, full of promise for the future.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’

‘You need to find his murderer. But I wonder if you suspect something more behind it? A link to the other boy, the English one?’

‘You always read me,’ she gave a half smile. Not always, heaven forfend.

His eyes were dark with compassion. ‘Have you considered the possibility that there is no mystery, that it’s nothing more than coincidence? It’s very rough down there under the bridge at night. Maybe the French boy was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘And Maurice?’

His eyes held that smoky look that made her weaken for him and now, despite everything, she felt some of his immense compassion directed towards herself struggling to survive among the countless cruelties of the world. It succeeded in weakening her further. Then common sense told her that he might have a reason of his own to suggest she return to England.

Before she could speak he leaned closer. ‘You think there’s more to it.’

‘Isn’t there always more under the surface than we see at first glance?’

His smile sparkled for a moment. ‘That can be so indeed.’ He took her arm. Changed the subject. ‘Where were you going when we met just now?’

‘To the inn near the bridge.’ She could have bitten her tongue off at the indiscretion.

‘There?’

She saw his glance sharpen.

‘You intend to question someone? Who?’

‘I just thought I’d ask if anybody had heard anything. You know what those places are like for getting hold of information.’

‘I do indeed. And I’m coming with you. It’s not safe for you to go alone.’

‘I must go alone. They’ll not speak openly if two monastics turn up to badger them.’

**

Le Coq d’or was a typical quayside inn, keeping its licence to open by staying just inside the law. Hildegard had seen enough in York to know what they were like, what types were attracted to them and the sort of fare on offer.

It was already dark and still raining hard when she hurried from the shelter of the gatehouse and crossed over to it. With hood pulled well up and white habit tucked out of sight, she entered with as little fuss as possible. No-one took any notice of her.

She found space at the end of the long communal trestle and when the grizzled landlord came round she asked for a stoup of ale and a portion of bread and cheese. He soon slapped them down in front of her and she put a few coins on the table in exchange.

Sitting next to her was a man and what might or might not have been his wife and they soon got into conversation. Hildegard allowed it to be thought, when they asked, that she was on pilgrimage from a little town near Paris. A conversation of sorts followed. It wasn’t long before the murder was mentioned and soon they attracted a few comments from others who thought they were in the know.

‘I was here in the early hours,’ an old man sitting opposite told them. ‘I saw the doomed young fellow with my own eyes. Live as a cricket, he was, as spark as you or me. Fancily dressed,’ he added.

‘If he was fancy what was he doing in here? Why not at one of the inns in town where they like that sort of thing?’ asked the woman in a sharp, critical tone. Her question saved Hildegard from asking the same.

The old man gazed lugubriously into his stoup of ale for a moment before answering. ‘Wenching, wasn’t he?’

‘I knew him,’ another one butted in. ‘Used to come in here when he could get out of the palace, nights. A mate of his used to leave a back postern unlocked for him. Putting one over on the pope’s guards, he used to say.’

‘I knew him well,’ the old man reminisced as if it had all taken place long ago.

‘Was he with a girl that night?’ asked Hildegard.

‘Of course he was. Yolande. His favourite.’ The old man gazed deep into his ale as if reading something in it.

The conversation turned to other things while Hildegard waited until eventually, after her patience was tested, she heard the same name above the buzz of conversation. It was the inn keeper, shouting over his shoulder to someone in a back room. A girl appeared, flushed, scantily dressed, her eyes red rimmed as if she’d been crying. She patted her hair as she came through and looked the customers over.

‘Get yourself in here and do some work, will you, Yolande? What do you think I pay you for?’

The girl grimaced and went to a group of men taking up the end of the main table. ‘Come on fellas, let me earn an honest living tonight. What’s wrong with you all?’

There was some muttering, an agreement was reached and one of them put his arm round her waist and led her out.

Not much chance of talking to her for a while, thought Hildegard. She turned to the old man. ‘Let me fill your stoup, master.’

He pushed it towards her. ‘An angel from heaven, bien merci, ma dame.’

The landlord came over again. When Hildegard put more coins on the table he hovered, aware he had a reliable customer.

She looked up at him. ‘I heard about the trouble you had last night, sir. The poor young man was in here, then?’

The inn keeper leaned his untidy bulk against the edge of the trestle and wiped both hands on his apron. ‘It’s a sad business, ma dame. You wouldn’t believe it. Young gentilhomme comes in here after a dagger. Said it was stolen from his lord from inside the palace and there’d be trouble if it wasn’t found.’

‘Did he find it?’ she asked, pretending ignorance.

‘Found more than what he was looking for, that’s for sure.’ The inn keeper guffawed in a heartless manner.

Cautiously she asked, ‘So was somebody trying to sell such a thing?’

‘Fella comes in here, never seen him before, said he was just passing through and had something of value he wanted to find a buyer for. You know how it is, we spread the word. That must have been how the young’un heard about it, to his rue.’

‘This stranger?’

‘Scar faced. A mercenary in the French wars? I didn’t ask. He was looking for a buyer for a little jewelled dagger. Showed it me. Pretty little thing worth a small ransom.’

‘And you thought it was the one the young courtier was looking for?’

‘Me, middle man. Word gets out. No harm. Pope gets enough in taxes.’

‘So what happened?’

‘The young lad asks around and somebody points out the stranger and says, ask him, so what does he do? He goes right up to the fella, looks at the dagger and offers money, straight off.’

‘So did he have to pay a large sum to get it back?’ She wondered where Taillefer had got the money.

The inn keeper shook his head. ‘Not a bit of it. The strange fella refused point blank. Said his instructions didn’t involve entering into a bargain with some losel without a silver coin to his name and to bugger off.’

‘That wouldn’t go down well.’

‘It didn’t. But this is the bit that made us laugh. The lad insisted, the stranger refused, the lad insisted again so the stranger says, “All right, let’s see the colour of your money or go to the devil,” and you know what the lad does? He offers him a bill of credit! Laugh? We nearly wet our britches.’

‘So what next?’

‘This is where he brought trouble on himself. He scraped to the bottom of his money pouch for a night with Yolande then when we were all asleep he creeps out in the dark and sneaks this dagger from out of the stranger’s pack, brazen as you like. He gets out into the street before the fella realises his pack has been tampered with. When he finds sout he lets out a bellow enough to wake the dead. I thought, there’s a stabbing now. I’m down them stairs in a trice with my knife at the ready but I only got there in time to see scarface disappearing down the street. The wench he’d been with, Juliette, stands at the top of the stairs with just a sheet round her shrieking, “Leave be, master!” she says. “He’s a violent bugger and he’s in a fury. Leave him or get a knife in your gut!” And she was right there, wasn’t she, considering what happened next? I had my angels watching over me that night, praise the saints.’

‘So you stayed inside?’

‘I did. Not my business, is it? An ill star was shining. I didn’t reckon he’d catch the lad but he did and that’s that. Pity. He was a regular paying customer, the lad I mean.’

He wiped his hands on his apron and went to the tun to pour more ale into one of the jugs a customer was holding out.

‘So the stranger got away with it,’ Hildegard’s neighbour observed. ‘Me, I wouldn’t want to be walking around here at night by myself with him on the loose.’ She touched her companion on the arm and they exchanged glances.

She turned to Hildegard. ‘I don’t want to alarm you in view of what we’ve just been saying, mistress, but there’s a fella watching you. Don’t look now. He’s sitting over there by the door.’

When she had an opportunity Hildegard half turned her head. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Hubert de Courcy. His give-away white robes were concealed under a thick black cloak but his features were unmistakable despite the hood he wore. She gave an involuntary scowl and he raised his stoup of ale to her.

‘You’ve got custom,’ chuckled the woman’s man friend.

‘He’s well set up by the looks of that cloak,’ observed the woman.

Hildegard accepted the offer of ale in return for the one she had bought them and turned her back on Hubert. Let him sit there all night. She refused to leave just yet. Not until she was sure there was nothing else to discover. Who was the scar-faced stranger? That was the question. It must be the one who had stolen the dagger from the mortuary. At last, she was getting somewhere.

‘Did this stranger not return?’ she asked the inn keeper when he came over again.

He nodded. ‘He was back a while later as brazen as you like. “Damned thief got clean away,” he said. “I’m getting my pack. I’m not staying here in this den of thieves.” And he got his gear and left.’ He gazed off into the distance. ‘Of course at that time we didn’t know he’d done for the lad.’

‘Surely there was blood on his hands?’

‘None that I saw.’

To her new companions Hildegard said, ‘At least we know the fellow over by the door isn’t the murderer of that poor boy. No scars.’

They all turned to stare at Hubert’s hawkish, alabaster features in silence.

**

It was close to midnight. The inn was at its rowdiest. Suddenly she felt a tap on her shoulder and a voice whispered, ‘Isn’t it time for matins?’

She swung round. ‘I told you not to follow me, Hubert.’

‘In most things I’m your obedient servant but not on this occasion. Let’s go.’

‘I need to speak to the girl Taillefer was with last night.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Yolande.’

Hubert said nothing. He simply closed his eyes in exasperation, turned on his heel and walked away. She expected him to leave then but to her surprise he went over to the innkeeper and she saw him mutter something. Money changed hands. He’s settling his bill and then he’ll leave, she thought.

But instead the innkeeper went into the back room, re-emerging a moment later with the girl she had seen earlier. To her even greater astonishment Hubert put his arm round her and led her into the back room.

‘That’s him sorted,’ sniggered the woman beside her, having watched this charade with interest. ‘I wondered who he was queuing for. You should have taken your chance when you had it.’

Her companion grunted, ‘Pretty face, that Yolande. She certainly pulls in the punters.’

For that he got a slap from his woman.

**

The great bell in the tower over on Villeneuve had boomed out its count of twelve.

Hildegard stood in the doorway of le Coq d’or preparing to hurry out into the rain to cross back to the palace gatehouse when Hubert came up behind her and put his arms round her in a blatantly familiar fashion.

‘Don’t come near me!’ She knew it was him before she even turned because she recognised the alluringly masculine scent of limes and sandalwood he used.

She swivelled to face him. ‘Go away!’

A faint smile flickered over his lips at her response. ‘Tonight I’m your disobedient servant. You’ll thank me tomorrow. There are three or four blackguards giving you looks I wouldn’t want if I were you.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘It’s not nonsense, Hildegard. Just step outside now, into the rain with me. It’s dark away from the lights of the inn. We’ll hurry and we’ll pretend you’re my woman.’

‘I don’t need a man to protect me. I’ve got a knife.’

‘We know about the usefulness of knives,’ he observed, ignoring her attempt to pull away. ‘Put your hood up. This rain is really coming down.’

Resigned to leaving with him but determined to get away as soon as they reached the palace gatehouse, she allowed him to put his arm round her and lead her away from the lights of the inn.

They had gone no further than a dip in the lane that led to the palace when there was a scuffle behind them. Hubert staggered back and Hildegard felt some other hands grip hold of her and a voice in French said, ‘I’ve got her.’

Then her attacker was trying to drag her away, along the lane to where it met the bridge and she was kicking out but failing to free herself. A gasp of someone receiving a hard blow confused her. They were attacking Hubert. There were shouts. More sounds of bone on flesh. Shapes appeared and disappeared in the darkness of the unlit lane.

There were three of them. No, four. The one holding her tried to drag her towards the bridge. She turned and smacked one hand hard against the side of his head, catching him off balance and as he stumbled she nearly managed to free herself but then one of the others grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her back. A voice somehow familiar shouted, ‘Watch out, the bastard’s armed!’

Then it was a chaos of movement in the darkness. Grunts. A howl of pain. Someone on the ground coughing up the contents of his stomach.

All at once her arms were released and Hubert was beside her. ‘Can you run? I’ll hold them off.’

‘Ridiculous!’ She drew her knife.

A second glint of steel must have made the men hesitate. Hubert lunged as a shape burst from the shadows and launched himself in a full-on attack but then, as Hubert parried and sent his opponent’s sword clattering to the ground, the attackers must have realised the fight wasn’t worth the risk. As suddenly as they had appeared they vanished into the night.

Hubert was licking one of his wrists as they entered the gatehouse a few minutes later. She had a close look at it underneath the fitful light of a cresset, saw with relief that it was no more than a graze.

‘I’m sorry.’ She pulled a face. ‘If you say, I told you so, I shall scream.’ She gave him a rueful smile.

‘No hard feelings. Luckily we had the advantage of darkness. They didn’t know whether they were stabbing each other or us.’

‘I should have listened to you. I’ve been warned often enough today about that place.’

‘I had a better view than you and could see how things were shaping up.’

Then she remembered the age he had spent with the whore, Yolande. ‘I’m sure you had a different view while you were in that back room.’

‘I did.’ He grinned. ‘Come up to the Tinel – we both need a drink after all that – and I’ll tell you what she said.’

**

They shared a jug of warm spiced wine in the echoing refectory with sleepy night staff floating among the empty tables and dreamily wiping up around them. It seemed unreal to be sitting with Hubert in such surroundings.

He reached out when the servant had moved out of earshot and took her hands in his. ‘Were you hurt just now?’

She shook her head. ‘Only my pride. What a fool I was. I owe you.’

‘It’s a debt I shall call in one day.’

‘I’m duly warned. But tell me what that girl said to you.’

‘She knew Taillefer. He was one of her regulars. Yesterday he asked her to let him know if anybody had been in trying to sell anything valuable. Something stolen from his master, le duc.’

‘Le duc de Berry’s a known collector of beautiful objects.’ She nodded.

‘She promised she would, the inn being one of those places where stolen goods change hands. Then last night a stranger came in looking for a buyer for a dagger. A rich piece, jewelled, clearly once the property of a nobleman. She got the message to Taillefer and he came back just after midnight. She said to him, apparently, “you’re eager, you were only in here a few hours ago,” and he said, “I’ve been locked out.” Note this, “My usual way must have been discovered. I’ll have to stay here till morning so I hope you’ll give me a bed.”’

‘That would cost him,’ she observed dryly.

Hubert smiled. ‘These girls are often willing to work for very little.’ Hildegard drew back. ‘Or so I’m told,’ he added, seeing her expression.

‘Go on, Hubert. Your activities are hardly my concern.’

He frowned. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting I’d ever break my vows with a whore?’

‘It’s the practise here. That’s plain to a blind man. Look at Cardinal Fondi. He’s not the only one.’

‘Fondi is – I’m not of these people, anyway. I’m – ’ he broke off. ‘Let’s not wrangle. I have something important to tell you – that is if you’re still intent on finding Taillefer’s killer?’

‘Of course I am. I’m sorry, Hubert, I’m still shaken by what happened just now. Nothing seems real. That voice – one of the attackers – I’m sure I recognised it. I just can’t place it.’ She shivered.

‘You think they were more than casual footpads?’

‘I don’t know. But do go on. Tell me what else she said.’

‘Well, Yolande told Taillefer about the stranger with a jewelled dagger for sale and she thought it was that that had brought him over last night, that – and not being able to get back into the palace. She said he was interested enough to try to buy the dagger but the man would not sell unless he had gold for it, and of course, the boy didn’t have gold.’

‘He tried to use a bill of credit, apparently.’

‘Yes. But later, as you know, he stole the dagger and made off with it. The stranger followed and then, of course, the body was found at first light.’

‘This stranger, who was he? Did she have any idea?’

‘She said he told everybody he was just passing through but she didn’t believe it. She thought he was staying in the palace, either as a kitchener, or in some similar fairly menial job, anything he could take, maybe in the retinue of one of the guests.’

‘Why did she think that?’

‘Because she had a feeling she’d seen him in the street a few days ago, wearing mail but with no sign of his affinity and also because of the big way he was talking. She felt it didn’t ring true. He mentioned his master who was no petty lordling, apparently, but close to being a king in his own right, to hear him talk, and, he seemed to hint, a guest or envoy of someone with immense power, which of course could only mean the pope and she assumed he was hinting that he was a guest at the palace.’

‘Did she name this lordling?’

He shook his head. ‘She had no ideas on that but what she did seem sure of was that the stranger was not French. His scars suggested he’d been in the wars, a mercenary, maybe, and she suspected he was a deserter from the English army. Evidently they regularly fetch up here. She said she’d heard the accent often enough.’

‘Gaunt’s men are scattered all over the region since his Castilian campaign. There are probably deserters from Aquitaine as well. And of course,’ she gripped Hubert’s arm then remembered herself and let it go.

‘What is it?’ he urged.

‘Woodstock, of course, and his Brittany campaign. It went on for long enough. When he was paid off after the duke changed sides many of his men stayed over here rather than return to England.’

‘Some had no choice but to remain abroad,’ quipped Hubert with a knowing smile. ‘There was that little question of back pay which escaped Woodstock’s attention.’

‘There’s also Woodstock’s vassal, Sir John Fitzjohn – ’

‘The stranger might even have arrived with him.’

She grimaced. ‘Let’s face it, Hubert, these are just suppositions and he could be anyone.’

Hubert wore a serious expression. ‘It fails to tell us why he would murder the lad. He could have forced him to hand over the dagger, surely? It seems unnecessarily savage to kill him. Or was there a personal element? Could it have been a vendetta against the duc, his liege lord? Or -’ he paused.

‘Or what?’ she prompted.

‘Was it simply Taillefer’s misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ He gave her a searching look. ‘If Taillefer had been able to get back inside the palace after his nighttime exeat,’ he continued, ‘and if the stranger had found another buyer…?’ He paused. ‘Wrong time, wrong place.’ He pulled his cloak on. ‘I’ll have to leave it for you to mull over yourself.’

‘Thank you for your help. I’m not sure why you should bother but I’m pleased you were there this night. It leaves us with the question of how the stranger got hold of the dagger in the first place. He must have been already inside the palace or entered it unnoticed.’

Hubert got up. ‘Night office soon. I must get some sleep.’

When they left the Tinel they walked up the wide stairs towards the guest wing. At the top before they turned their separate ways into the darkness a moment of stillness drew them close.

Hubert reached out to touch Hildegard on the lips but let his hand drop without doing so. ‘The wrong time, the wrong place,’ he murmured. ‘Will it always be so?’

Turning swiftly on his heel and with a suddenly strong, ‘Vale, domina!’ he was soon swallowed up in the shadows between the intermittent lights along the passage.

His complex character was what she loved about him, it was what intrigued her, it was what drew her to him despite all the warnings that he was not as he seemed.

Now, against all expectations, he had brought her information that she could not have obtained herself. She did not know his motive. She knew now, however, that Taillefer’s killer might very well be within the palace itself.

Somewhere here. Maybe close. Maybe far. She gazed down the long shadowy passage that led to her cell. Somewhere here. A man with a scar.

**

In the events concerning the theft of the dagger she had nearly lost sight of the mystery of who had murdered Maurice. That was a puzzle no nearer being solved. She went through a list of those she considered to be suspect.

First was the glum little page of the bedchamber with his secret complicity in Maurice’s game and his undisguised penchant for gold. She dismissed him as he was such a puny little thing and she doubted whether his greed was so great it would drive him to slit a companion’s throat when his back was turned.

Everyone suspected the guards. But she could find no reason for it. They would have had a reward if they had been able to produce a prisoner. As it was, a miasma of doubt now followed them wherever they went, a response that even the most obtuse murderer might have expected.

The only other men known to have been in the vicinity were the pope himself and the attendants at the midnight office, none of whom would have been able to leave without drawing attention to themselves. Was there such a one? How on earth could she find out? When she tried to speak to the pope’s serjeants-at-arms they had been less than helpful and plainly saw her as an interfering foreigner.

Despite Athanasius’s apparent protection it was strange, if he was supposed to be influential, that he had been unable to smooth her path in that respect. But that was by the way. Whoever was present that night in the chapel must have remained in the company of the others and presumably everyone had left the small private chapel together once the two consecutive night offices were over. Stairs led from the chapel directly to the pope’s private chamber where he slept, screened from the presence of his chamberlains, his cubiculaires, above his treasure vault.

By the time he went back to bed the deed had been done. Maurice was dead and his body had been discovered.

The rest of them would have returned to their chambers in different parts of the palace. Would anyone have had time to get to the treasury before the pope entered his bed chamber? It would have been a dangerous rush and then they would have had to escape before the guards came on duty. This assumed a prior knowledge of Maurice’s break-in, to be there at the right time. The idea that churchmen would involve themselves in such a matter was also a preposterous idea, wasn’t it? She scowled. A residual respect for them – even now, after all she had witnessed – almost persuaded her to make allowances for them. Surrounded by the casual, daily corruption that prevailed throughout the ecclesiastical world it was irrational. There was no escaping the conclusion: as outside the cloister, so within.

It most likely came down to nothing more than petty theft. When the truth was discovered she would find it had not warranted so many hours spent trying to untangle a very simple knot. It would be a crime a humble retainer might commit and regard himself as rich beyond his dreams. That was one view.

On the other hand was the fact that it might not be so petty after all that made her refuse to give up. What if it wasn’t the worth of the dagger itself, great though it was, but the contents in the secret compartment that made it an object of desire?

If it had been poison, something, say, with no antidote, it could have a cataclysmic effect in the wrong hands. Had Maurice known this? Is that what made it worth risking his life for?

The idea of a master mind seemed more compelling from this point of view. He might have been instructed to obtain the dagger, the poison, for just this reason.