The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 9

Early the next day, I strapped a money belt round my waist and armed myself with a fearsome sword and dagger. I saddled my horse and, slipping through a postern gate, managed to ride round Vauban's men, along the country tracks, towards the main road into Paris. Millet would have to follow the same route for his nocturnal journey and all I had to do was leave the road, lurk amongst the trees and watch for him to arrive. Naturally, this meant a tedious wait, broken only by the consolation of an occasional sip from a wineskin and tender thoughts of my dear, dead Agnes. I became quite maudlin, so locked in my misery I almost missed the faint clip-clop of hooves on the gravelled track. My long wait was rewarded: Millet, dressed from head to toe like a courtier, was riding into Paris without a care in the world.

I let him go and, following Benjamin's instructions, waited for a quarter of an hour before I took up a slow pursuit. As we approached the Porte D'Orleans the task became easier as the thoroughfares became clogged with wandering friars, pedlars, tradesmen, country bumpkins, wandering scholars, troubadours, and even a few Egyptians with their gaudily painted caravans and a tame bear which danced to the tune of a reedy flute. Millet was easy to keep in sight. He stabled his horse at a tavern just within the gateway. I followed suit, then tracked him through the winding streets of Paris.

The city teemed with noise and clamour. Every rogue in Christendom seemed to have gathered to join his fellows and they swarmed like fleas on a turd: musicians; students in their tight hose and protuberant cod-pieces; relic-sellers; rag-pickers with their wheelbarrows full of scraps of cloth; knights; porters; priests; hawkers and beggars; young nobles with falcons on their wrists, riding through all this din in order to train their birds not to stir or flutter at any noise. The gibbets were well hung. Near the Grand Pont the spire of a church had collapsed and was surrounded by a mass of onlookers. Carts full of produce forced their way through from the Seine, jostling with huge carriages pulled by two palfreys which could take six people sitting alongside each other on a bench. The late evening rang with the sound of bells from dozens of churches, rivalled by the shrieks of the urchins who pelted a convoy of carts full of criminals, each with a halter round his neck, as they made their way down to the city gaol.

All the time I kept one eye on Master Millet's colourful jerkin as he wound through the fetid streets, sauntering daintily around piles of refuse and ducking carefully to avoid the painted signs which hung outside the houses, at times so clustered together they blocked out the sun. We crossed the Petit Pont on to the He de la Cite. For a while my quarry sauntered under the towering mass of Notre Dame where stone gargoyles snarled above us. He stopped at a wine shop. I waited outside, realising that Master Millet was killing time. When he came out he walked straight into the nearby cemetery of Holy Innocents Church.

The graveyard was massive, like a huge paddock, surrounded by a high, brick wall. It was a favourite meeting place for Parisians; lovers lounged in the long grass whilst hucksters laid their wares out on the tops of weather-beaten tombstones. A strange place, this cemetery! The mud there was so foul some claimed it was mixed with sulphur, and it had become a favourite burial place because the corpses interred there decomposed quickly. One wag said it took only nine days. The bodies were buried just a few inches beneath the soil and I saw two dogs fighting over some deceased person's thigh bone. Most of the weather-worn tombstones had collapsed and the few wooden crosses leaned drunkenly to one side. In the centre was a huge watch light, a thick tallow candle placed on a high stone plinth, protected by a metal hood, which was lit every night to fend off evil spirits. Little arches had been built into the cemetery wall where the more wealthy had their remains interred in the pious hope that their bones would not become the meal of some scavenging dog. Above these arches was a huge open loft or garret. Every so often the cemetery would be cleared of all its remains to make way for fresh corpses. The bones collected would be tossed into this garret and, when I saw it, the pile was at least two yards deep. In fact, the French had a joke: for a Christian, Paradise was heaven, but for a dog Paradise was a charnel house at Holy Innocents!

Millet sauntered round this macabre place. I watched him carefully. So far he had met no one. I was confident he had not seen me but, at the same time, I was uneasy.

I felt sure I was being watched but, when I turned sharply or hid behind corners, I noticed nothing untoward. At last Millet went into Holy Innocents Church. I followed and stood admiring the Dance of Death carved in the stone work. (Believe me, if you are full of the joys of spring, that carving will soon remind you that in the midst of life we are in death. The sculptor must have had a genius all of his own, for Death and his squadron of devils danced in a drunken stone frenzy along the frieze, collecting kings, emperors, popes, bishops, and I suppose, when the time is right, even old Shallot.) A bell sounded, its hollow boom sounding out above the graveyard, and I glimpsed Millet coming out of the church, so I hid in the shadows and let him go by. I noticed others in the cemetery had begun to stir and wondered if the bell was the curfew when the graveyard must be locked.

Millet, however, followed by other fops and dandies, left the cemetery by a small postern door and made his way up an alleyway to a dingy-looking tavern with the sign of a golden sickle above it. Inside, the taproom was large, spacious, clean and well swept. Each table was hidden in a shadowy alcove and the wine was served by young boys dressed in tight hose and short jerkins who had the looks, hair style and walk of saucy young wenches. Their lips were carmine-painted and the one who served me wore more face powder than any self-respecting whore in London would have used. I ordered wine and carefully watched the other side of the room where Millet was sitting.

Now, in my youth I may have been inexperienced but I had no illusions about the Golden Sickle or Millet's presence there. It was a molly-shop, or so the denizens of Southwark would have termed it: a drinking house where young men, or old, who liked other men could meet kindred spirits in a warm, intimate and secure spot. Believe me, they had to be careful! The laws against sodomy and buggery were as cruel in Paris as they were in London. If caught, the culprit could face hanging, disembowelling and castration – though I suppose, by the time you reach the last, you'd really be past caring. Now I do not sit in judgement. I just report things as they are, not as they should be. Indeed, to be perfectly honest, I always felt sorry for the likes of Millet: their lives were an eternal nightmare, waiting for the traitor or paid informer to turn them in.

I wanted to see who Millet was meeting. Certain men did approach his table but he summarily dismissed them. (There goes my chaplain again. 'Did any approach you?' he sneers. Well, I've never claimed to be an Adonis. Yes, one did approach me, and no, contrary to my chaplain's opinion, he wasn't blind, just as drunk as a bishop's donkey!) An hour passed. I had to be careful I didn't become tipsy for the drink was heavy and rich.

At last a young man came in, covered from head to toe in a long, black cloak, the hood pulled well forward. He sauntered up to Millet. Our young Horatio smiled at him and the stranger sat down. He pulled back his hood and I gasped. You see, I have an excellent memory for faces and I was sure I had glimpsed the man amongst Vauban's entourage at Fontainebleau. Millet and he talked for a while then rose and left the tavern. I followed a few minutes later but, when I reached the darkened alleyway beyond, they had disappeared and, despite my curses and hurrying to and fro, I had lost them. I stumbled round the church of Holy Innocents for a while but my search was fruitless so I decided to fulfil the second part of my master's instructions.

Now, if you have read the earlier instalment of my memoirs, you will recall that the previous year I'd spent some time in Paris as the enforced guest of the Maillotins, or 'Club-Men' as they called themselves. They were the bottom layer of Parisian society who constantly plotted and conspired to bring about a bloody revolution and create God's kingdom here, where justice and prosperity would reign and the meek would surely inherit the earth. Of course, they were idiots or dreamers. As far as I can see, the only earth the meek inherit is a shallow hole in the likes of Holy Innocents graveyard, and even then the dogs make sure they don't have that for long. Now, I had become friendly with the Maillotins, especially two of their leaders, Capote and Broussac. Capote had died, choking his life out on the gallows of Montfaucon. I hoped Broussac had not yet received his just reward as I slipped like a cat along the dark, foul, smelly alleyways of Paris to the tavern where he and his court of whores always assembled.

I was not disappointed. Broussac was in the same corner, drinking himself stupid, surrounded by some of the most loud-mouthed harridans of the city. At first he didn't recognise me, but isn't silver wonderful? I produced two coins and Broussac's red, beery, dark-whiskered face broke into a gap-toothed grin and those wicked eyes danced with merriment.

'Of course,' he bellowed, throwing one smelly arm round my neck and planting wine-drenched kisses on my cheeks. 'Ladies,' he shouted, 'may I present Master Roger Shallot, the only good Goddamn – the only man who was hanged at Montfaucon and survived to tell the tale!'

I told the noisy bastard to shut his mouth as I did not want to be arrested by the Provosts as a spy. Another piece of silver was produced. Broussac became as sober as a priest, ordered a fresh jug of wine, two of the establishment's cleaner cups, and a table far enough away from any would-be eavesdropper.

'Listen, Broussac,' I began. 'Forget old times. Here's a coin. Answer one question: the attack on Maubisson, did the Maillotins organise it?'

Broussac grabbed the coin.

'No,' he replied. 'We did not. We never leave the streets of Paris. But, for another coin, I can tell you who did.'

I flicked a further piece of silver across the table. Broussac clutched it and it disappeared in a twinkling of an eye. I don't know how he did it, whether he had purses in his sleeves: one minute he had it in his hairy paw, the next it was gone.

'Well, come on,' I demanded. 'Who the hell did?'

'Look around you, Monsieur.'

'That's no answer.'

He saw my hand go to my knife.

'Now, now,' he purred like some benevolent cat. 'Come on, old friend, what are you going to do? Draw on poor Broussac? If you do, you'll never leave this tavern alive. As it is, you still might not!'

I looked around. In the poor light of the smelly, tallow candles, every customer resembled a rat on two legs. Their thin, pallid or yellowing faces, greedy looks and sharp glances proved Broussac right and I cursed myself. I was in the devil's own kitchen and these were his scullions: dice-coggers, coin-flickers, pickpockets, pimps, conjurors (most of them failed), footpads and nightwalkers. Indeed, in any other circumstances, I would have felt very much at home but I'd been so eager to see Broussac I had blundered in and now began to wonder how I would get out. He leaned over and seized my wrist.

'Don't worry,' he whispered as if reading my thoughts. 'You're Broussac's friend. I have given you the kiss of friendship.'

'Aye, and so did Judas!'

Broussac threw back his head and bellowed with laughter until his devil's eyes disappeared in rolls of flesh.

'Listen, Broussac,' I continued, 'I have no wish to quarrel but I asked you a question and paid you good silver!'

'And I gave you fair answer. These villains took part in the attack on Maubisson. They were hired by bully-boys and organised by some great lord, I don't know who.'

I knew I would get no further. 'There's something else,' I hastily added. 'I need a whore.' 'Don't we all, my friend?'

'No, I want a high-ranking courtesan brought to the Chateau Maubisson within three days. She is to assume a new name and tell no one her true identity. If you do this you will be richly rewarded.'

Broussac's smile widened as if he could almost hear the chink of coins falling in his purse. He rose and beckoned me to follow.

'Come, we cannot talk here.'

We went upstairs to a small, dust-laden chamber where Broussac ordered some stools and fresh wine, shouting for the best, not the vinegared water I had been sipping down in the tap room. A slattern, having lit candles, hurried up with this. Broussac, his face as serious as a father confessor, leaned forward.

'How much?' he asked.

'For your expenses, two hundred pounds.'

'Sterling?'

'No, livres tournois or fifty pounds sterling, in freshly minted coins.'

'And for the whore?'

'Four hundred pounds, livres tournois or one hundred pounds sterling.'

'Where's the money?'

I emptied the contents of one small purse into his grimy paw. 'There's twenty-five pounds. Before you get the rest the girl must be with us, suitably clad, and bringing one fresh gown with her. She must be,' I continued, 'beautiful, wholesome and pleasing. Not one of your doxies,' I added. 'I want a courtesan, someone skilled in the social arts and graces.'

The old rogue heard me out.

'One final thing,' I added. 'I want to leave here and reach Maubisson without let or hindrance. I have seen the pack of weasels below. I don't want to be followed and quietly knocked on the head.'

Broussac smiled, rose, and pointed to the wafer-thin pallet bed in the corner. 'Tonight, rest here. Tomorrow,' he picked up the wine jug and cup, 'you will be safely back at Maubisson.'

He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and I heard the bolts being pulled across. That night I slept the sleep of the just. You see, I trusted Broussac. He'd walk to Cathay and back if he thought there was enough profit in it for him. The next morning he roused me, his manner all servile. I broke my fast on bread and wine, and Broussac, true to his word, led me through the streets of Paris to the Porte D'Orleans, not leaving me until the turrets of Maubisson showed above the trees.

My return provoked little interest. Benjamin scrutinised my face and immediately hustled me to a quiet part of the garden where he let me speak freely.

'The king will be here in four days' time. We have a suitable lady friend?' he asked.

'She will arrive in three days.'

Benjamin nodded and bit his lip in excitement. 'Good, that will give us time to prepare. And the rest?'

I described exactly what had happened to Millet. Benjamin shook his head. 'You are sure it was one of Vauban's men?' he asked.

'As certain as I am of sitting here.'

Benjamin stood and half-cocked his head, listening to the liquid song of a wood pigeon. 'Too simple,' he murmured. 'Far too simple. Oh, I believe you, Roger. Master Millet is a man who likes the best of both worlds, but you say he went to the tavern and turned others away?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps,' Benjamin continued, 'we are only thinking what we are supposed to think.' He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. 'As for the chateau, nothing untoward has happened here.' He crouched, plucked a wild flower, raised it to his nose and sniffed the sweet fragrance. 'Mind you,' he said absent-mindedly, 'I have been thinking.'

'About what?'

'About the Abbe Gerard. Perhaps it's time we visited the church.'

'Is Millet back?' I asked. 'Oh, yes. Why do you ask?'

'Well, if that bastard can rest,' I wailed, 'why can't I?'

'Come, come, Roger, time is passing. Dacourt has received letters from His Majesty the King and Cardinal Wolsey. Both Henry and my dear uncle expect results and, so far, we can report on nothing.' Benjamin gazed up at the blue sky. 'Vauban's guards are still there,' he said, 'scattered round the castle, but they are great eaters and drinkers and Dacourt has generously supplied them with a cask of malmsey. They'll either be drunk or sleeping it off, so we'll leave now.'

'I'm hungry,' I moaned, 'thirsty and tired.'

Benjamin's smile faded. He came close and pushed his long face into mine. 'Roger, I tell you this: if we are not successful in these matters, we'll have more to worry about than meat or drink!'

Well, you know me, put like that I had little choice. I re-saddled my horse and within the hour we'd slipped through a postern gate, following the path round the lee of the hill and down to the church of Maubisson village. Cure Ricard was not pleased to see us. The poor fellow had scarcely recovered from the fright of Vauban's visits. Oh, he invited us in, but only the sound of Benjamin's clinking purse made him a more genial host. His housekeeper served us bowls of pottage, liberally garnished with peppers and peas, and watery beer he must have made himself.

'I suppose,' the yellow-skinned priest began, 'there's no crime in talking to people who patronise our church?' 'What do you mean?'

'Well, the English envoys, Sir John Dacourt and Sir Robert Clinton, often came here to watch the Abbe Gerard celebrate Mass. They gave him gifts and the old priest liked to hear the gossip of the English court.'

'Did they ever ask about His Majesty's book?'

'You mean St Augustine's work On Chastity! No, they did not.'

'But Vauban has?'

'Well, yes,' Ricard stammered. 'He has, but I tell you, masters, it can't be found. I say again the same to you as I have to them. The Abbe Gerard claimed he would take it to heaven, that it would be with him in Paradise.'

The priest looked nervously over his shoulder at the silent girl who crouched before the hearth as if carved from stone.

'The abbe was like that,' he continued in a half-whisper. 'He was always making little jokes.'

'What did the abbe do?' I asked curiously. 'I mean, he had the care of souls, the duties of this parish, but what was he interested in? After all,' I glanced slyly at the girl, 'everyone needs some respite from the tedium of life.'

Ricard sniffed and pointed to huge copies of the Bible which lay chained to a heavy lectern in the far corner.

'He studied scripture. He claims to have heard the lectures of Erasmus and Coelet. He was forever translating different passages from the Gospels.'

'Was he a Lutheran?'

'Of course not!' Ricard snorted. 'But he had his theories.'

'About what?'

'About miracles. He was fascinated by the miracles of Christ and speculated whether Jesus performed them because he was God or because he was a perfect man.'

'May I have a look?' Benjamin asked and, without waiting for an answer, rose and went over to open the great Bible.

'The New Testament,' Ricard called out. 'He was forever studying the New Testament.'

Benjamin nodded and found the place easily enough; the pages were worn by many thumb prints. For a while he stood and studied the book in silence, then he smiled and waved me closer.

'Look,' he whispered.

Benjamin was studying a chapter from St Matthew's gospel, where Christ walked on the waters during the storm on Galilee Lake. Now, my master was a biblical scholar, hence his speed and dexterity in finding the place, but he'd been helped by the Abbe Gerard who'd carefully underlined each word and scribbled his own commentary in the margin. Benjamin peered at this and translated it for me.

'Did Jesus really walk on water?' the abbe had written. 'Or did the sea of Galilee have shallows?' 'What does it mean?' I asked.

Benjamin made a face. 'There are some scholars,' he whispered, turning his back so Ricard, who was craning his neck, couldn't hear him, 'who maintain that certain of the miracles in the New Testament can be explained by natural phenomena. Now Jesus walking on the waves is one of these: they claim the Sea of Galilee is very shallow and what the apostles thought was Christ walking on the waters was really Christ walking along some sand bank.'

'Very interesting,' I answered. 'But do they explain how Jesus stilled the storm? And can you tell me, master, what this has got to do with our present problem?'

Benjamin smiled and closed the Bible. 'Master Ricard, may we look at your carp pond again?'

The cure waved his hand airily. 'You know where it is. By all means.'

We went out. In the late afternoon sunshine the overgrown garden hummed with the buzz of hunting bees. Benjamin led me to the edge of the carp pond.

'Isn't it strange?' he mused. 'Poor Giles Falconer was interested in birds and their flight and he falls from a tower. The Abbe Gerard was interested in miracles, particularly the one about Christ walking on the water, and he drowns. Waldegrave was keen on horses, and he is pounded to death by a horse's hooves. Do you see the connection, Roger?'

'Not yet,' I snarled. 'But give me another decade and I will!'

Benjamin nudged me gently. 'Come,' he said. 'Let's see the abbe's church. Perhaps that will yield a few secrets.'

The cure was only too willing to show us around. The church was large and lonely, surrounded and shaded by great elms which dominated the cemetery, extending their majestic branches in benediction over the sleeping dead. The large, low porch was guarded by a Norman doorway, heavy and oaken and studded with nails. Ricard unlocked this and we followed him inside. Despite the sunshine it was gloomy and the cure had to light some of the sconce torches. We stood and gazed around. Heavy arches rose into the darkness and between them arrow-slit windows, without glass or horn, dazzled white in the sunlight. At the far end was the chancel where the windows were of rich glass; the sunlight illuminated their noble colouring and lit up the black oak of the altar and other sanctuary furniture. It was a simple church. The walls were unpainted; the rood screen, uncarved, was nothing more than a wooden panel. Ricard pointed out the church's two notable features: the stone, sculpted baptismal font and the ornately carved choir screen above our heads. Benjamin looked at everything carefully as if trying to search out the Abbe Gerard's hiding-place.

'He can't have hidden his book here,' I said. 'This is scarcely Paradise.' I shivered. 'The place would frighten a ghost.'

Benjamin smiled absent-mindedly and stared up at the choir loft.

'A fine church,' he murmured. 'And the Abbe Gerard is buried where?'

'I told you,' Ricard answered crossly. 'In the churchyard, under one of the yew trees.'

We followed him back into the warm sunlight along the coffin wall and across the overgrown grass where a simple, white headstone, marked with the cross of Lorraine, stood next to a stunted yew tree. We studied the simple inscription. Benjamin made pleasant conversation, then prepared to leave. We shook Ricard's hand, collected our horses, and made what I thought was our way back to the chateau. Outside the village, however, Benjamin suddenly left the track, pushing his reluctant horse in amongst the trees.

'Master, have you left your senses?' I called.

Benjamin just waved me forward and I followed him into the forest darkness. God knows the place must not have changed in a thousand years. It was like entering some vast, green cathedral: trees stood like pillars and their rich foliage spanned out to hide the summer sun. Only when we entered a small glade, silent except for the bubbling of a brook which snaked through the green darkness, did Benjamin dismount and unhook the heavy saddle-bags he had swung across his horse's neck.

'In sweet God's name!' I murmured, almost frightened to raise my voice and break the stillness. 'Have you lost your wits, master?'

Benjamin stretched and gazed around.

'I found this spot when you were in Paris,' he remarked. 'It's secluded, near the road, and there's water to drink.'

'So?'

'So, Roger, we stay here until darkness. Then we go back to Abbe Gerard's grave. The coffin won't be buried deep. We'll disinter it and see what secrets the grave reveals.'

'Master, you're insane!' I yelped. 'This is France. Vauban's men are everywhere and the sentence for grave robbing is, I presume, the same as in England. Death by hanging!'

'Tush, Roger, we won't be seen.'

'And what are we supposed to use?' I shouted. 'Our hands and teeth?'

Benjamin kicked one of the sacks.

'There are small spades and mattocks here. They'll suffice.'

Now my master was like that; once he'd decided on the course of action, and that long face became resolute and those soft eyes hard, there was no turning him. We would stay in that damned forest and dig up poor, bloody Abbe Gerard whatever the outcome. He'd brought some food, bread and fruit, and we drank from the brook as we waited for the sun to set. The hours seemed to drag by. Benjamin gave me a lecture on the different types of trees and plants around us until I nodded off to sleep.

When I awoke, the sun was setting and Benjamin was staring at the bubbling waters of the brook and muttering something about men who walk on water. We both fell silent as the sun finally set and the forest became a different place; the silence became more oppressive, broken only by the rustling of animals in the undergrowth, the hoot of hunting owls and the blood-tingling screams of the bats which flitted amongst the trees. A hunter's moon rose, slipping in between the white wisps of clouds, bathing everything in a ghostly light. I sat and softly cursed those princes and prelates who had brought me to this haunted woodland to lurk like some animal whilst preparing to rob a grave.

'It's wrong,' I piously announced.

'No, it's not,' Benjamin replied. 'All sin, my dear Roger, lies in the will. I have nothing but the greatest respect and reverence for the Abbe Gerard but the king requires that book.'

'Why?' I snapped. 'Why the bloody hell does the fat bastard want it?'

'If I find it, I'll tell you,' Benjamin promised. 'Come, it's time we moved.'

We tethered and hobbled our horses, removed the spades and mattocks from the sacks and crept back on to the track. Every step we took only increased my fear as the twigs cracked like thunder under our booted feet and the night birds screeched horribly at our unwarranted intrusion. We found the path back to the church, crept over the wall, and froze as we heard the howl of a dog. We checked the priest's house. No lights burned so we returned to the graveyard, following the line of the church, jumping and starting when birds nestling in the eaves stirred and rustled their wings. We crept across the cemetery and stopped as a heavy-feathered owl swooped low to seize its shrieking victim in the long grass. At last, we reached the abbe's headstone and I began to dig like some demented mole.

'The sooner we finish our ghastly task,' I reasoned, 'the sooner I get back to my warm bed!'

Now and again Benjamin struck a tinder to ensure all was going well. At last my shovel scraped the coffin lid. I pressed again and heard the welcoming thud of metal on wood.

'We don't want it out,' Benjamin whispered.

So we continued digging around, clearing the earth on either side of the long, oblong coffin. Then both Benjamin and I, one of us working each side, bent down and began releasing the wooden pegs which screeched like ghosts protesting at their eternal dream being disturbed. I quietly cursed. The sound seemed so strident I was sure they could hear it in Maubisson. The pegs were removed more quickly than I had expected.

'Let's see,' Benjamin said. 'Let's see. I wonder…?'

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'Nothing,' he murmured. 'Lift the lid.'

It came away easily and Benjamin's suspicions were confirmed. We were not the first ones to open this coffin. Despite the summer heat the soil had been loose, the coffin pegs easily removed. Inside, the decaying, garish skeleton was lying haphazardly; the head and neck, to which pieces of dried flesh still hung, were skewed to one side whilst the rotting, white gauze which had once covered the corpse had been pulled back and bundled at the bottom of the coffin.

'Vauban,' Benjamin whispered. 'The bastard has been here before us.' He poked around in the coffin, softly exclaiming as his fingers touched rotting pieces of flesh. He tapped the bottom and sides. 'Nothing,' he concluded. 'But let us at least pay the abbe some last courtesy.'

Despite my protests, Benjamin insisted that we rearrange the skeleton in a more reverent position and that we say the Requiem.

Lord, I could have cursed! Here we were at the dead of night in a lonely cemetery in France, disturbing the remains of a dead priest, only to make sure his skeleton was comfortable and say a prayer for his soul. Yet my master was like that. I'll be honest: given half a chance I'd have left the grave as it was, jumped over the wall and run like a whippet back to Maubisson. Nonetheless, I helped. We re-sealed the coffin, ploughed the earth back in, flattening it carefully though anyone with half a brain could see it had been disturbed. We then left to collect our horses in the forest.

Oh Lord, I was relieved to see them. We put our spades back in the sack, mounted, and were about to leave the forest when a twig cracked behind us. I froze like a statue.

'Monsieur Daunbey! Monsieur Shallot!' the voice purred from the darkness around us. 'What a waste of time. You'll never find that book!'