Conspiracy. S. J. Parris

a while. ‘I venture to suggest He had little experience of intelligence work.’

      He was so pleased with that answer that I did not bother to reply. We reached the grand, four-storey houses of the Quai de la Tournelle, with their wide leaded windows overlooking the river. The torch-bearer stopped outside one with a heavy studded front door, and knocked. There was no response. He pounded again; after some time the door was opened by a harassed-looking servant, who regarded us with understandable outrage. Paget’s man exchanged a few words with him, gesturing up at us; the servant appeared to be protesting, until finally he nodded and closed the door in our faces.

      ‘They are all abed. Let me go home,’ I said to Paget, when it seemed we had been turned away.

      ‘Wait.’ He pointed to a high double gate at the side of the house. After some minutes, it swung open and he clipped through into a cobbled stable yard. A boy came forward to take the reins; Paget hopped down lightly and held out a hand to assist me. I ignored it and slid to the ground. I could not help but notice that the boy seemed nervous. He may have been skittish at being roused from sleep, but I did not think that was the case; he was dressed in outdoor clothes and seemed alert, his eyes flitting past us as he led Paget’s horse towards the stables. Following the direction of his gaze, I saw a fine black stallion tethered to a post in the yard, a handsome creature with four white socks, saddled up with expensive tack, as if someone had that moment arrived, or was about to leave. There was no distinguishing badge or livery on the harness or saddle cloth. The horse turned its head to regard us with dark liquid eyes and I noticed a pink scar running along its nose and down one cheek.

      We were met by the servant who had answered the front door, who led us, apologising, through a tradesmen’s entrance to a stone-flagged scullery and on into a spacious kitchen, where a fire burned in a hearth large enough to accommodate an entire cow on a spit; Paget gently urged me towards it and I crouched by the embers, shivering violently, grateful for the heat but conscious of the prison stink rising from my clothes.