The Book Of Secrets Part 21

Emily seemed to flinch. 'I'm not . . .' She trailed off, paused, began again. 'I'm not going home.'

He knew he ought to argue but he didn't have the will. She flicked him a tentative look and he held it, trying to rea.s.sure her. It was hard when he had so little to give.

'At least I got something for my troubles.' Warmth returned to Emily's face. 'Gillian was reading up on a physiologus a book of beasts. I'll bet that was the book she found the card in. There must have been one in the chateau's library.'

Nick thought about it for a second.

'I know the man who'd know.'

'Atheldene.'

The familiar voice, so intimidating in its studied neutrality. 'It's Nick.'

A taxi drove past the phone box. The noise of its wheels on the slick cobbled street drowned out Atheldene's surprised silence. As it died away, Nick heard, 'Any news of our mutual friend?'

'Maybe we're not sure. We need to check the list of books she recovered from the chateau. Can you do that?'

'Perhaps with a good enough reason.'

'Gillian's missing. Emily went to the Bibliotheque Nationale today and almost ended up the same way. How's that for a reason?'

'I'm very sorry to hear it.'

Nick glanced at Emily, watching through the phone-box door. She nodded.

'Gillian found a card. An old one.'

'The Master of the Playing Cards, I presume.' Atheldene didn't sound surprised. 'Have you got it?'

'We think she may have found it in some sort of bestiary, or .. .' Nick stumbled over the word. 'Physiologus.'

'Really?'

Nick could almost imagine the raised eyebrow, the searching stare. He was glad of the phone line between them. He waited out the silence.

'I'll check the inventory from Rambouillet. Can I call you back on this number?'

'It's a payphone.'

'I'll be quick.'

Atheldene hung up. Nick waited in the phone box, scanning the road through the cracked gla.s.s. A little way down the street, a homeless man sat hunched under a filthy quilt on a raft of cardboard boxes. Nick was amazed he hadn't already frozen. His hand dipped to his pocket to find some euros, but fear restrained him. What if the old man wasn't what he seemed? He was sure he'd read books where spies dressed as b.u.ms to conduct surveillance. Was the man looking at him? Nick watched him carefully and kept his hand in his pocket.

A shadow crossed his line of sight. He jumped, but it was only Emily. She walked across the empty street and crouched beside the homeless man. She dropped some coins into his styrofoam cup and exchanged a few words, then hurried back. Nick felt ashamed.

'What did he say?'

'He said you should stop staring at him.'

Before Nick could feel even more guilty, the phone rang. He seized the receiver gratefully.

'Yes?'

'Good news. There was a bestiary in the old man's collection. Just the one. Gillian catalogued it. Date, mid to late fifteenth century. Remarks: some stylistic similarities with the workshop of the Bedford Hours Master.'

'The who?'

'I'll tell you later. You'll like it.'

'When can we see the book?'

A dry laugh. 'I'm afraid it's not quite so straightforward.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well for one thing, the book's not in Paris any more. Remember it had been soaked through? The conservators took it away to their controlled storage facility.'

'Where's that?'

'Brussels.'

Nick swore. 'Can we get in there?'

'I could get you in there.' There was an implicit offer in the sentence, a stress that opened a negotiation. Nick's mind raced. He looked down the street and saw that the beggar had gone. Had he used Emily's gift to find a warm bed for the night or was he even now telling a man with a broken nose where to find Nick and Emily?

'How soon can we leave?'

'Straight away, if you like. It's only about three hours' drive. But there's another problem.'

Nick waited.

'The book's frozen solid.'

x.x.xVIII.

Stra.s.sburg

The house reminded me of my father's. That instantly deepened my discomfort. It stood near the wharves, where the streets echoed to the roll of barrels coming up from the barges. The square opposite looked like a rabbit warren: holes yawned outside every house where trapdoors stood open to the wine cellars beneath.

There was a trapdoor outside the widow Ellewibel's house, but it was bolted shut. So were the shutters over the ground-floor windows. I knocked on the door and hoped no one would answer.

The door swung in. A servant in black admitted me and led me up to a room overlooking the square. My first impression was that it looked well enough. Rich wine-coloured fabrics draped the walls; a welcoming fire burned hot in the hearth. Though it was not yet dark outside, candles were lit. Four large chests positioned around the room announced they had no shortage of possessions.

Yet on second glance, the picture diminished. The floor around the chests was streaked with dust, as if they had only recently been dragged into place. The chandeliers had been sc.r.a.ped clean of old wax, but the candles within were little more than stubs. The cloths on the wall were scarred with many darnings; one of them looked like an old dress that had been recently pressed into service. Even I, who had spent half my life in hovels and attics, could see through the pretence. It was probably the first time in my life that anyone had tried to impress me.

A woman of about fifty rose as I entered. She wore a long black robe belted just below the b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with a white collar and a scarf carefully arranged to cover her thin grey hair. Her mouth turned down at the corners; her eyes were small and hard. But, like the room, she did what she could with what she had. She forced a smile and managed to hold it for as long as it took to usher me across the room. She put me in the place of honour, a high-backed chair that must have been her husband's, and told the servant to bring the best wine in the best silver cups.

'My daughter will join us presently,' she told me. 'I thought it best we acquainted ourselves first.'

The servant brought wine on a tray. I took the goblet and drank thirstily far more than was respectable. Ellewibel looked surprised, but collected herself and sipped parsimoniously at her own.

'I am told you are a goldsmith, Herr Gensfleisch.'

'I served an apprenticeship.'

I did not volunteer any more information. I doubted the widow Ellewibel wanted to hear how it had ended.

'My late husband was a wine merchant.'

I did not dispute it. 'I have heard that Mainz is also renowned for its wines.' She peered at me hopefully. 'That is where you come from, is it not?'

'It is.'

'And your father: he was . ..?'

A brute? A pig? 'He was in the cloth trade. He was also a companion of the mint.'

Hope rose in Ellewibel's drawn face. 'And your mother's family?'

'Grocers.'

She visibly deflated, as I knew she would. I enjoyed it. The wine and my misgivings put me in a cruel humour.

'Tell me of your work here in Stra.s.sburg.'

'Various ventures,' I said vaguely. 'Andreas Dritzehn tells me you instructed him in the art of gem polishing.'

'I owed him money.'

She did not flinch. 'But you have an income?'

'A little.'

'And a house?'

'Rented. In St Argobast. You probably do not know it it is some miles from Stra.s.sburg.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'I know it well. A pretty village, and no distance from the city at all.'

I was about to embark on a disagreeable anecdote about a woman who had been surprised by bandits and abducted on the road to St Argobast, when a knock sounded at the door. Ellewibel stood.

'My daughter. She will be delighted to meet you.'

I had prepared myself for a monster. In fact, all that surprised me was her utter ordinariness. True, she was no beauty. Her face was flat and hard, like overbaked bread, its oval shape accentuated by her white wimple. Her nose was small, her teeth crooked (but no more than normal), her skin no longer smooth. With two hundred gulden attached to her name, there seemed no reason any man should not want to marry her. Except me.

She curtsied. We both stood there, neither knowing what to say. With a start, I realised she was examining me just as I had examined her. What did she see? A man in his middle age, sweating under the weight of the fur-trimmed hat and coat he had borrowed. My back was stooped, my face scarred by too many misadventures in the forge. Grey had begun to appear in my beard, though my fair hair disguised it. With a good name and an adequate income, why should she not want to marry me?

'Of course, there is the matter of the dowry,' I said.

'My late husband bless him was an honest and thrifty man. When he died, his estate was valued at two hundred gulden. I am willing to endow my entire claim on Ennelin.'

There was something evasive in her manner. 'That is very generous.'

'A mother's joy at seeing her daughter established in marriage is beyond price.'

I did not answer. My borrowed coat weighed on me like stone; the collar choked me. I could hardly bring myself to look at Ennelin. The worm twisted in my guts.

'I will have to consider . . .'

Ennelin was well schooled. She watched me modestly, without betraying the least doubt. Her mother was more direct.

'Herr Gensfleisch, do you want to marry my daughter?'

x.x.xIX.

Paris

The Jaguar pulled away from the kerb and headed up the boulevard de Sebastopol towards the E19 highway and Belgium. Atheldene swung across two lanes of traffic and past the Gare du Nord, then gunned the throttle as the road opened in front of them. Nick sank back in the leather seat and wondered if Gillian had sat there, if she'd felt the same throb of the car's powerful engine and been impressed by it.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was following. The road behind was empty. All he saw was Emily, curled up in the corner of the back seat staring out of the window.

'What did you mean when you said the book was frozen?' Her voice was soft, barely audible over the engine noise.

'It's the latest thing in conservation. After fire, water's a book's worst enemy. You need to get rid of it as quickly as possible. But drying out a book a valuable one is a b.u.g.g.e.r of a job. If you've got a whole library on your hands you can't deal with the books individually. No time. So you flash-freeze them and keep them in a cold store until you're ready to thaw them out and conserve them properly. That's what this outfit in Belgium does.'

'How long does it take to defrost?'

'A few hours. They have all the kit there on site.' Atheldene guided the car past a line of trucks. 'Then we'll see what we find. Maybe your mysterious playing card?' He jammed on the brakes as a small Peugeot veered in front of them, then swung out to overtake. 'Unless, of course, you've already found it?'

Nick had expected the question, had debated at length with Emily what they'd do. He reached into the bag in the footwell and pulled the card out of its stiff-backed envelope. Atheldene's eyes flicked towards it.

'Where did you get that?'