He nodded, absorbing this, then gestured to a pile of crates in the far corner of the room. ‘My predecessor acquired over the years all manner of books and manuscripts from private collections. The most valuable went straight to the library, but the remainder could not be housed in the library archive, there was not the space. He died before he had a chance to catalogue them, so when I became librarian I inherited all these boxes that no one has looked through in perhaps thirty years.’ He swept a hand to encompass the volume of material. ‘Slowly but surely, I am working my way through, deciding which are worth the cost of repair. The answer is precious few, to my lasting regret – time has not been kind to them and many are suffering the ravages of damp, this place being so close to the river, even though they were packed in treated skins. At least the mice have spared them. But whoever decided to keep them in here should be thrown in the Bastille, in my view.’
He folded his arms and glared at the door, as if the culprit might appear at any moment. I motioned for him to continue. Intrigued as I was by the prospect of crateloads of forgotten manuscripts, with the Abbé already combing the grounds for me, I wanted him to come to the point.
‘And?’
‘Well.’ He twisted his hands together. ‘I came in yesterday after supper to make a start on the next pile. The atmosphere among the brothers was sombre after the death of the priest, you may imagine, but I had not thought – I mean to say, it was supposed that the poor man had been attacked by brigands on the road …’ He broke off to set the lantern down. Then he lifted off the topmost of the boxes, placing it on the floor before rummaging through the books in the crate beneath, from which he retrieved a bundle of rough brown cloth. ‘I pulled those boxes out and found this stuffed behind them. My first instinct was to leave it, since whoever put it there would surely come back to dispose of it more permanently. But my conscience … I don’t want to be mixed up in this business, Bruno,’ he said, his eyes bright with fear, ‘but if someone in this abbey …’ He shook his head and handed over the cloth, as if that were explanation enough, holding up the light so that I could see it more clearly.
The bundle was heavier than I had expected; I unfolded it carefully and understood the source of Cotin’s distress. I was holding a rough woven cloak, such as the abbey servants might wear; wrapped inside it was a statue of a saint, about eighteen inches high – Saint Denis, to be precise, staring up at me with blank eyes from the severed head he carried tucked under his own arm, his expression serene. He was carved from a block of white limestone, discoloured with age, the same stone as the walls and pillars of the abbey church; the sculptor’s art had once teased delicate details into the folds of his robe, the curls of his hair and beard and the braiding on his mitre, but his shoulders and the halo surrounding his empty neck had been smoothed and effaced by time and weather, and one of his feet was chipped away. Denis stood on a solid cuboid base, its edge stained with gobbets of bloody matter and a few strands of hair. I balanced it in my hands; it was easily heavy enough to strike a killing blow. I held up the cloak with the other hand; the front was spattered with dark blotches, now dried to a rust-brown crust. There could be little doubt as to the significance of these items. I looked up and met Cotin’s fearful gaze.
‘I haven’t told the Abbé. Do you think—’
‘Was this statue taken from the church?’
He shook his head.
‘Originally. But it has been in here for as long as I can remember. Those crates at the back there are full of bits and pieces from the church awaiting repair. Reliquaries, masonry, statues, candlesticks, glass. Anything that is no longer fit to glorify God is put here to be mended or else given away or the materials sold, though in practice it just gathers dust waiting to be sorted.’
‘Whose job is that?’
‘The sacristan’s.’
‘Could one of the servants have come in here and taken it?’ I asked, indicating the cloak.
‘Almost certainly not. This storeroom is kept locked, only three of us have a key. Some of those sacred objects are valuable. The servants are not allowed to enter unless they are helping one of the brothers to move things.’
‘Then who has access?’ I asked, eyeing the ring at his belt.
‘Myself, for the books. The almoner, Frère Joseph – he keeps the dry goods here that we distribute to the poor once a week at the back gate. And the sacristan.’ He paused, reluctant. ‘Frère Albaric. I believe you met him.’
I recalled that prickle of distaste I had felt on encountering Frère Albaric in the infirmary; his snide expression and shiny skin, the impatience with which he had tried to nudge me away from the dying priest’s bedside as he administered the last rites. Dio cane – had that been because he was afraid of what Paul might say to me? I looked down at the bloodied mess on the base of the statue. I must not jump to conclusions just because I had taken a dislike to the man.
‘And this Frère Joseph,’ I said. ‘What kind of man is he?’
Cotin snorted softly. ‘One that should not be in holy orders, in my view. The usual story – surplus son of a wealthy family. The one they give back to God, but no less full of worldly ambition for that. Joseph is a cold man. He barely troubles to disguise his contempt for the poor – hardly a desirable quality in an almoner. Of course, that may be why the Abbé appointed him,’ he added. ‘He has a reputation for frugality. The abbey’s profits have certainly improved since he began to review the distribution of alms to the needy.’
‘What age is he?’
‘A little younger than you. Not yet thirty-five, I think.’
‘Which family?
‘His name is de Chartres. Parisians. He’s a cousin of the Duke of Montpensier. Well connected.’
‘Ambitious, you say. Is he – let me speak bluntly – a man who might be persuaded to take a life if he thought it would help advance him?’
‘I could not swear to that, Bruno. Who knows what any of us might do, given the right incentive? By temperament, perhaps …’ He hesitated, looking at the statue.
‘But?’
‘Joseph has an affliction of his right hand. Some weakness from a childhood illness, he says. He can do everyday tasks competently enough with his good arm, but he lacks the strength for manual labour.’
‘So …’ I held the statue by the neck with my left hand and attempted to swing it through the air as if striking a blow. Paul Lefèvre was a tall man; if he had been standing when he was first hit, the assailant would have had to raise the statue above shoulder height before bringing it down. Saint Denis was heavy and unwieldy when held aloft with one hand. A strong man might be able to muster enough force for a killing blow one-armed, but it would be difficult to aim with any precision. Paul’s attacker could not have afforded to miss and risk the priest trying to fight back – especially if he lacked the strength to fight.
‘And Albaric?’
‘Two good arms, as far as I know.’
‘I meant, is he ambitious too? Political?’
Cotin looked unconvinced. ‘I do not know him well enough to say. I’m not sure anyone does, though he has been here eight or more years. He is devout in his duties, and that is all I can tell you, except that he guards his privacy, as far as one can in a community such as this. If he has political interests, I have no idea what they might be.’
For all that, he is certainly not politically naïve, I thought, recalling Albaric’s throwaway remark about looking to the Louvre to find the killer. It had struck me as an odd comment, given that at first Paul was assumed to be the chance victim of street robbers. He had known who Paul was, too, though he had affected only a vague recognition.
‘What about the back gate? Who has the key?’
‘All the