with her candle through the strange uneven passages and up the winding turnpikes of all the great house, from the stone-flagged kitchens where the servants huddled, staring at them, to the vaulted warehouses on the quayside where Jerott’s stock-in-trade lay stacked, in bags and barrels and boxes.
In Jerott’s stockrooms, his office and his cabinet was the only order in all the brooding jumble of chambers. Swept, stacked, spartan in their furnishing they bore the last vestiges of the sea-going knight-hospitaller he had once been. And to Philippa, following silently on the heels of her husband, it was painfully clear that this was so because Jerott cared for these rooms himself. Shirt-sleeved in the darkness he stood beside her now, a little heavy footed, as Marthe swept her candelabra around, and Philippa asked him questions. There was nothing else of moment to see: only empty rooms, bare of panels or chests or armoires. Wherever the Dame de Doubtance had kept her secrets, it was not here.
Then she took them up the winding stairs and along a high, open gallery to a door so low that she stooped, unlocking it. The key took a long time to turn and the door, when it swung slowly open, showed them only the foot of a narrow, worn staircase, stretching up into darkness.
Marthe turned and facing Lymond, proffered the candlestick to him. ‘At the top is a curtain and another door, which leads into an anteroom. On the left of that is the Lady’s bedchamber. On the right of the antechamber is her study, her oratory, and a suite of other small rooms. There is a locked door at the far end, where her visitors could enter without Gaultier seeing them.’
‘And on the left?’ Philippa said. ‘Beyond the Dame de Doubtance’s bedchamber?’
‘Nothing,’ said Marthe. ‘There is no other door from that room, and the windows are sealed with bronze shutters.’
‘You aren’t coming?’ said Lymond. In the airless dark, the pointed flame in his hand drew the eyes of all the tongued gargoyles, and painted the gallery rafters in ribbons of satin and charcoal. A fading of river-mist, sunk from the chimneys, lay waist-high below in the courtyard, bearing the dim lotus-heads of the orange trees.
Marthe said, ‘She has not told me to come,’ her voice tranquil. The Dame de Doubtance, to hear her, might not have been three years and more dead in her grave.
It disturbed Jerott. He made a sound of exasperation, and his wife turned on him instantly. ‘If you are unhappy, go back to my room. There is wine in the flask.’
‘Or come with me?’ said Philippa. ‘If Mr Crawford will let us follow him?’
As she spoke, the gallery darkened: Lymond had passed through the low door already. His voice, in a canon of echoes, came to them hollowly from the steep, thin-leaved stairs. ‘I am Hermes, Conductor of Souls. Come if you wish. Come if you dare. All things arise from Space and into Space they return: Space is the beginning and the final end. There isn’t much of it here: watch your head on the newel-post.… I have found the curtain. Jerott, do you remember the curtain? We came this way, the only time that we called on her. And the doorway. I am opening the door …’
Philippa, stepping through from the gallery, was half-way up with her kirtled gown and her candle when Lymond stopped speaking. Jerott, behind her, put his hand on her arm and with a movement unexpectedly lissom swung himself up before her and round the last curve of the staircase.
The curtain Jerott remembered was now pulled fully aside, but the door beyond was only half open. Silhouetted in the light of his own candle, Lymond stood there on the threshold, his hand on the door edge, looking at something unseen on the floor. Jerott said, ‘What? What is it?’
‘An empty room,’ Lymond said. ‘And a sacrifice. Where was the Dame de Doubtance buried?’
‘By the Roman Amphitheatre,’ said Jerott. ‘Apparently. She arranged it herself beforehand.’
‘Not in
In Jerott’s stockrooms, his office and his cabinet was the only order in all the brooding jumble of chambers. Swept, stacked, spartan in their furnishing they bore the last vestiges of the sea-going knight-hospitaller he had once been. And to Philippa, following silently on the heels of her husband, it was painfully clear that this was so because Jerott cared for these rooms himself. Shirt-sleeved in the darkness he stood beside her now, a little heavy footed, as Marthe swept her candelabra around, and Philippa asked him questions. There was nothing else of moment to see: only empty rooms, bare of panels or chests or armoires. Wherever the Dame de Doubtance had kept her secrets, it was not here.
Then she took them up the winding stairs and along a high, open gallery to a door so low that she stooped, unlocking it. The key took a long time to turn and the door, when it swung slowly open, showed them only the foot of a narrow, worn staircase, stretching up into darkness.
Marthe turned and facing Lymond, proffered the candlestick to him. ‘At the top is a curtain and another door, which leads into an anteroom. On the left of that is the Lady’s bedchamber. On the right of the antechamber is her study, her oratory, and a suite of other small rooms. There is a locked door at the far end, where her visitors could enter without Gaultier seeing them.’
‘And on the left?’ Philippa said. ‘Beyond the Dame de Doubtance’s bedchamber?’
‘Nothing,’ said Marthe. ‘There is no other door from that room, and the windows are sealed with bronze shutters.’
‘You aren’t coming?’ said Lymond. In the airless dark, the pointed flame in his hand drew the eyes of all the tongued gargoyles, and painted the gallery rafters in ribbons of satin and charcoal. A fading of river-mist, sunk from the chimneys, lay waist-high below in the courtyard, bearing the dim lotus-heads of the orange trees.
Marthe said, ‘She has not told me to come,’ her voice tranquil. The Dame de Doubtance, to hear her, might not have been three years and more dead in her grave.
It disturbed Jerott. He made a sound of exasperation, and his wife turned on him instantly. ‘If you are unhappy, go back to my room. There is wine in the flask.’
‘Or come with me?’ said Philippa. ‘If Mr Crawford will let us follow him?’
As she spoke, the gallery darkened: Lymond had passed through the low door already. His voice, in a canon of echoes, came to them hollowly from the steep, thin-leaved stairs. ‘I am Hermes, Conductor of Souls. Come if you wish. Come if you dare. All things arise from Space and into Space they return: Space is the beginning and the final end. There isn’t much of it here: watch your head on the newel-post.… I have found the curtain. Jerott, do you remember the curtain? We came this way, the only time that we called on her. And the doorway. I am opening the door …’
Philippa, stepping through from the gallery, was half-way up with her kirtled gown and her candle when Lymond stopped speaking. Jerott, behind her, put his hand on her arm and with a movement unexpectedly lissom swung himself up before her and round the last curve of the staircase.
The curtain Jerott remembered was now pulled fully aside, but the door beyond was only half open. Silhouetted in the light of his own candle, Lymond stood there on the threshold, his hand on the door edge, looking at something unseen on the floor. Jerott said, ‘What? What is it?’
‘An empty room,’ Lymond said. ‘And a sacrifice. Where was the Dame de Doubtance buried?’
‘By the Roman Amphitheatre,’ said Jerott. ‘Apparently. She arranged it herself beforehand.’
‘Not in
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