Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

‘What did you do?’

‘Dialled the emergency services. An outfit that specialises in conservation and repair carted the books away. Two days later, Gill vanished. Never to be heard of again – until she emailed you.’

Atheldene slid his knife and fork together on the plate. He folded his hands and looked straight at Nick, who sipped his last few mouthfuls of soup in silence. The moment he put his spoon down the waiter appeared and started clearing the dishes. Had he been listening to them? He topped up their wine glasses, though Nick had barely touched his.

‘Did any of the books go missing with her?’

Atheldene gave a good-natured sigh. ‘I’m afraid that was our first thought too. Honi soit qui mal y pense – but the company gets very jumpy at the least whiff of scandal. Bad for business. The old man might have been gaga towards the end, but he was no fool. Had the entire collection catalogued. We went through the collection with a toothcomb. Everything was there.’

‘So you called the police?’

‘You know what Gill was like.’ Atheldene leaned back so that the waiter could serve his main course. A leg of lamb thrust its bone into the air like a tower, surrounded by a moat of gravy and ravelins of boiled potatoes. ‘One of life’s free spirits. At first we assumed she’d turn up with some picaresque story of running away with Gypsies, or a forty-eight-hour bender on the Left Bank with a song of anarchists. But of course I worried. When she still hadn’t turned up after three days I called the police. Who told me it was probably a love affair. I told them that was unlikely, but they just looked at me in that knowing French way.’

‘Did you manage to search her apartment, her office?’

‘Nothing there,’ said Atheldene quickly. He dabbed a spot of gravy from his chin, then looked up. ‘Gill was living at my place. Only until she found somewhere of her own. She was sent here at very short notice, and it’s a bastard finding a flat in Paris.’

There was something defensive in his tone. Nick picked at the fish on his plate. His head felt swollen, as if he’d been injected with novocaine.

‘I went back through the catalogue after you rang. Looked for anything to do with the Master of the Playing Cards. Nothing turned up.’

He rested his hands on the table and fixed Nick with an expectant stare. Nick looked at his plate, resisting.

Atheldene sighed. ‘Look – if you’re serious about finding Gill then let me help you. You said she mentioned the cards in her email.’

‘She sent a message for help,’ said Emily. It was the first time she’d spoken since they arrived. ‘A scan of one of the cards was attached to it. The eight of beasts.’

‘The Paris copy or the Dresden?’

‘Paris,’ said Nick. ‘You’re obviously familiar with them.’

‘Your phone call intrigued me. I went to the library and read up on them – even managed to get the curator to show me a few in the Bibliothèque Nationale. Extraordinary things. But nothing, as far as I can see, that connects to what Gill and I were working on. She didn’t say anything else?’

Nick shook his head.

Atheldene leaned back in his chair. ‘Gill’s an extraordinary girl. I’d give a lot to know she’s safe – or, God forbid, to find her if she’s in any sort of trouble.’

Strassburg

‘This is too dark.’

‘Nobody to spy on us.’ Drach scooped a cobweb from one of the roof beams. A hapless spider dangled from his hand, its legs spinning silk in mid-air.

I peered around the dusty basement. In front of me, about head height, I could see cartwheels, hooves and feet trudging past through the windows that looked out at the street. Those would need covering with clouded glass to allow in light while leaving passers-by oblivious. It was not the place I would have chosen to produce finely detailed work, but Drach seemed delighted by it.

‘And then there is the expense,’ I cautioned. ‘Why pay more for this basement when the house in St Argobast has all the space we need?’

In truth, the upkeep of my little household by the river was costing me more than I had expected – most of the income from my annuity. Meanwhile, the bulk of the loans had already gone on ingredients for the ink, tools for the workshop, copper sheets, coal, papers… The demands on my purse were bottomless. And now Drach insisted we needed a second workshop for the press – which we still did not have.

‘Where do the leather tanners tan their hides?’ Drach demanded.

‘In the tanners’ field outside the walls.’

‘So the stench does not foul up the city. But where do the leather workers and saddlers manufacture their wares?’

‘Here in Strassburg.’

‘To be closer to their customers. We should do the same.’ He pointed up and left, vaguely describing the direction of the cathedral. ‘Here we are within pissing distance of the heart of the city. And where the heart is, there also will our riches be.’

A creak sounded from the stair. It was the landlord, a large man named Andreas Dritzehn, stooping low to clear the beams. On first acquaintance, other men often deferred to him on account of his size and rank; later they found that he craved nothing more than other people’s good opinion and would endure much to avoid offence. Though judging by the size and solidity of his house, he was not so obliging as to pass up opportunities for profit.

‘Is everything satisfactory?’ He had a growth on his throat which made his voice perpetually husky.

‘Perfect.’ Drach spoke before I could say anything. ‘It suits our business exactly.’

It is too dark, too expensive and redundant for our needs, I wanted to say. At least it might have got us a reduction on the rent. But I could not contradict Drach. I stood there awkwardly and said nothing.

Dritzehn peered at us. ‘What did you say your business was?’

‘Copying,’ I said.

Dritzehn waited, hoping for more. I stared Drach into silence and said nothing.

‘So long as you do not light fires or make too much of a smell.’ Dritzehn flapped his hand in front of his nose. ‘My last tenants here were furriers. They had not dried the skins properly and they stank like the dead.’

Outside, dung spattered onto the street from a passing horse. One of the balls rolled into the gutter, tumbled down through the window and landed on the floor.

We crossed the square to Hans Dunne’s goldsmithing shop. I looked up at the cathedral, rising out of its scaffolding like a woman shedding her dress. I marvelled at it. To my mind, the intricacy of the scaffolding, its perfection in its humble purpose, was almost as beautiful as the stonework it supported. When I suggested this to Kaspar, he scoffed.

‘Ropes and poles and ladders? Beauty comes from life: from lust, folly, laughter, misery.’

‘How can misery be beautiful?’

Kaspar pointed out a cripple begging alms by the cathedral door. He had no legs; his right arm had been lost at the elbow. He sat on a low cart which he pushed along using a forked piece of wood lashed to his stump. A seizure had frozen half his face in a slack mask, while the other half was scratched and scarred where he had tried to shave himself.

‘He’s grotesque. Pitiful, not beautiful.’

Kaspar grabbed my shoulder. ‘But you feel alive. Doesn’t he make every limb in your body sing with gratitude simply for existing. How can that not be beautiful?’

It was the sort of strange, unsettling sentiment that Kaspar occasionally voiced when he wanted to be provocative. I had learned to ignore him, and hide my disquiet as best I could.

When we reached the shop, Kaspar bypassed the counter and let us in by the side door. Bolts and locks meant little to him. He possessed almost nothing except his talent, but treated the world as if all was his. He examined a sapphire ring while we waited for Hans to finish with his customer.