Richmodis was striding out.
“Tell me, fairest nose in the West,” he said after a while, “where is he?”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
She stopped and looked at him as if that was the silliest question she had ever heard.
“Where would he be? At my uncle’s.”
A MORNING WALK
Matthias reached the Franciscan monastery punctually at seven. He had to look twice before he recognized Urquhart. The murderer was wearing a black monk’s habit with the hood drawn down over his face and his head bowed. He looked as if he were immersed in his devotions.
Matthias walked over to him casually, stopping beside him as if by chance. “Why the disguise?”
“It seemed a good idea for you to accompany one of the good friars on his morning walk,” he said. “Yesterday you were not very keen for us to be seen together. You may be right.”
“That’s perhaps going a little too far,” Matthias countered. “After all, no one knows who—”
“Not here. Follow me.”
With measured tread the two men walked out and around the corner into one of the city’s liveliest streets. It was full of workshops and rang with the sound of hammering, planing, and tapping, mingled with the rumble of carts, the stamp and roar of oxen, with barks, shouts, and the grunt of pigs, constantly interrupted by the bells from the countless churches and chapels. They were passing the harness makers. Matthias had commissioned a saddle that still wasn’t finished even though he had laid out so much money that he was contemplating a complaint to the guild.
They strolled past open workshops, splendid town houses, and the Münster Inn, which Daniel was frequenting more and more, much to the annoyance of the family. Then a mansion with extensive grounds.
“Your friend,” mocked Matthias.
“Friend?”
“The house of the count of Jülich.”
“William is not my friend,” said Urquhart in bored tones. “I served him for a while and he benefited from it. Now I am serving you.”
“And not without benefit,” said Matthias with a patronizing smile. He took a pear out of his coat pocket and bit into it heartily. “Gerhard is dead. Everyone is talking about an accident. Your witnesses were good.”
“Two of my witnesses were good.”
“But there were only two. Or am I wrong?”
“There were three.”
“There were?” Matthias stroked his lips. “I must be getting old. But three is better, of course.”
“It is not. The third was not part of the plan.”
Matthias stared at the marks of his teeth in the pear. “Tell me.”
“There was a thief,” explained Urquhart. “Presumably stealing the archbishop’s fruit. He saw me push Gerhard off the scaffolding. Too stupid. I had no idea he was stuck in that tree, until he fell out. Presumably from sheer fright.” He sucked the air in through his teeth contemptuously.
“What now?” exclaimed Matthias, somewhat horrified.
“Keep your voice down. We have a witness who can tell the good citizens of Cologne the opposite. That Gerhard did not slip.”
“Who’s going to believe a beggar, a thief?”
“No one, I should imagine.” Urquhart stopped. His eyes glinted at Matthias from under the hood. “But do you want to take the chance?”
“What do you mean, me?” spluttered Matthias. “It’s your fault.”
“No.” Urquhart’s rejoinder was calm. “You can’t know every bird roosting in the branches. Not even I can. But don’t start complaining too soon. There’s more. It is possible—though I wouldn’t swear to it—that Gerhard said something to the man.”
“What? I thought Gerhard was dead! This is getting more and more confusing.”
Urquhart gave a soft smile. “He died. That is not the same as being dead. Dying men can change their wills or curse God, all in the last moment before they pass away. An architect in his death throes, for example, might well mention your name.”
Matthias grasped Urquhart’s arm and stood blocking his way. “I do not find that funny,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you catch the bird?”
“I did attempt to.” Urquhart walked on and Matthias had to get out of his way quickly. Furious, he hurled the remains of his pear at a house door and continued on his walk with his presumed spiritual adviser.
“And what was the result of your—attempt?”
“At some point or other I lost track of him.”
“Then he’s probably been telling his story all over the place.” Matthias groaned. “Half of Cologne will have heard it by now.”
“Yes, he did tell some. They’re dead.”
“What?” Matthias thought he must have misheard. They hadn’t yet reached the pan makers, so the ringing in his ears couldn’t be coming from their constant hammering.
Urquhart shrugged his shoulders. “I did what was necessary.”
“Wait.” Matthias tried to recover his composure. “You mean you’ve killed more people?”
“Of course.”
“Saints preserve us!”
“Leave the saints out of this,” said Urquhart. “What does it matter if I gave Morart a few companions on his road to hell? If I understand you right, you’re more interested in the success of your plan than the welfare of your fellow citizens.”
He went over to a stall selling smoked honey slices and sweet cakes with nuts. There was an appetizing smell. A coin changed hands. Urquhart started chewing and offered Matthias a piece.
“Like some?”
“No, goddammit.”
They walked along in silence. The street was getting crowded with people buying and selling, checking goods, haggling with embroiderers, or simply going about their business. A gang of squealing children came running from the area that echoed with the hammering of the smiths and pan makers. It was one of their favorite games to ask the men, who were all half deaf from the ear-splitting racket, the time, then run away before the inevitable hammer came flying after them.
“You don’t need to worry,” said Urquhart.
“I don’t need to worry!” Matthias gave an angry laugh. “There’s someone running around the town who could ruin everything and you’re calmly eating cake!”
“We’ll find him.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“I need a few men. Naturally I wouldn’t bother you with this if it weren’t so urgent, but I haven’t time to go looking for them myself, as I did for the witnesses. Give me three or four of your servants, the fastest, if you don’t mind my suggesting it.”
“God damn you! Do you at least know who you’re looking for?”
“Yes,” said Urquhart, stuffing the last piece of cake into his mouth. It made Matthias feel sick just to watch him.
“And? What’s he called? What does he look like? Well?”
Urquhart wiped the crumbs from the corners of his mouth. “Short, slim, red hair. Fiery red. Name of Jacob.”
Matthias stopped in his tracks, thunderstruck. The ground seemed to tremble under his feet. “Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered.
In a flash Urquhart’s casual air had given way to alert concentration. “Why?”
“Why?” Matthias shook his head. “Because—no, it’s just not possible!—because less than an hour ago I gave this Jacob a guilder.”
Urquhart’s bushy brows contracted. Now he was the one to be flabbergasted. “You did what?” he asked softly.
“One guilder. Jacob the Fox. He was going through strange contortions outside our house in Rheingasse. It almost looked as if he were trying to—trying to cover up his hair.”
Of course. What else. It was all so obvious.