The King's Return

Joseph thanked him and raised his glass. ‘A good night’s work so far, but for you and me, Thomas, it is not over. Assuming these two are the Alchemists, how do you think we should proceed? Both together or one at a time?’

Judging by her behaviour, the woman would be the more difficult. ‘Gentleman first, Joseph, I fancy.’

‘I agree. Let us see what we can get out of him before we tackle his charming wife. We will sit here and enjoy the Constable’s wine while the prisoners enjoy his hospitality and then we will have a talk with each of them.’

The man who was brought to them an hour later was as unattractive as his wife. His cloak had been discarded and in a ragged green coat, scuffed shoes and black trousers which barely reached his ankles, he could have been a down-at-heel artist or pamphlet writer. His head and face were roughly shaven and his narrow eyes perched either side of a long, hooked nose. He produced a pair of spectacles and peered at his captors with distaste.

‘Are you Monsieur d’Entrevaux?’ began Joseph.

‘I am Henri d’Entrevaux, Doctor of Theology at the Collège de Sorbonne.’ The doctor spoke with a marked French accent but his English was otherwise perfect.

‘And Louise d’Entrevaux is your wife.’ The man nodded. ‘When did you arrive in England?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘Why have you come to London?’

D’Entrevaux bridled. ‘Not that it is any of your concern, but my wife and I have come to visit her brother, Chandle Stoner. That is why we went to his house.’

‘At midnight.’

‘The journey from Dover was arduous.’

‘Why did you run off when the door was opened?’

‘My wife ran. I simply followed her.’

Thomas and Joseph burst out laughing. ‘Do you always follow where your wife leads?’ asked Thomas.

D’Entrevaux ignored the question. ‘I am a citizen of France and unless you have proof that I have committed a crime, I demand to be released immediately.’

‘Are you the Alchemist?’

The reply was disdainful. ‘I am a Doctor of Theology. I believe in God, not magic.’

‘Is your wife the Alchemist?’

‘I suggest you ask her.’ It was a disingenuous, craven reply and it angered Joseph.

‘Take the wretch back to his room and bring the woman,’ he ordered the warder.

‘The man’s a liar and a coward,’ said Thomas, when the prisoner had been led away. ‘The Collège de Sorbonne, however, is a fierce enemy of Protestantism and of England. It is the very place we might have expected to find the Alchemist.’

‘Indeed it is. We’ll see what his wife has to say.’

At first Louise d’Entrevaux had nothing to say. She simply sat in sullen silence, ignoring every question put to her. Eventually Joseph lost patience.

‘As you wish, madam. If you refuse to speak, I shall do so. And you would do well to listen.’

While Joseph described in detail how the names Aurum and Argentum had become known to them and how they had realized that her brother was Argentum, Thomas watched the woman’s face for signs of fear or guilt. There were none. It was only when Joseph revealed that her brother had told them that Lemuel Squire was Aurum and had offered to spy for England in return for his own life, that Thomas saw a flash of anger in her pale eyes. She did not react to the news of Squire’s death by his own hand but when Joseph told her that her brother was also dead, she finally spoke.

‘I thank God. I am pleased that the coward is dead and he was not my brother, he was a half-brother. We shared a father. I hated them both.’

‘Yet Stoner did not betray you and he worked for you.’

Once she had started, Louise d’Entrevaux had much to say. She had used Stoner simply as a financier, she had never trusted him and she had feared that he would one day betray them. He was a man who worked for money, not principle. She had only responded to the message and come to London because she had been ordered to by a senior minister in King Louis’s government. She had been almost sure they were walking into a trap, but the prize was so great that he had insisted on the risk being taken.

‘Who was the minister?’ asked Thomas.

‘That I shall never tell you.’

‘But your husband might.’

‘He might if he knew, but he does not.’

‘Do you not work together?’

She smiled. ‘You will have to ask him.’

‘We have. He said that you do.’

‘I do not believe you. Not that it matters. His death or my own are of no consequence. It is loyalty to the Catholic faith that matters.’

‘Is that how you justify torture and murder?’

‘England is doomed. You are surrounded by enemies – our Irish friends to the west, France, Spain, and Holland to the east. You will lose your navy and your new colonies and there will be a Catholic king on your throne.’ She spat out the words like poisoned darts.

They got nothing more of use from the woman. She would not answer questions about the Dutchman and when asked if she were the Alchemist, said only, ‘There is more than one Alchemist.’