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observed. 'You could continue to watch us as I, Master Corbett, will continue to watch you!'
    'And secondly?'
    'Discover who killed Poer and Fauvel!' Corbett would have liked the Earl to inform him how he was supposed to achieve this but the Earl turned his back, a sign that the interview was over.
    So now, Corbett, accompanied by an ever-garrulous Ranulf, paced the streets, alleys and runnels of Paris. They had been given some information regarding Poer and Fauvel. About the former it was very sparse: a brief description of the man, the tavern he usually frequented and, after a series of searching, endless questioning and strange glances at his foreign accent, Corbett had finally discovered the tavern Poer had last been seen in. Not that the discovery led to much, the squat, ugly inkeeper had morosely described a man matching Poer's description who had drank and ate there on that particular evening: no, he was alone: no, he left by himself, no one followed him and the only person who had left around the same time was a crippled beggar. Corbett had tried to press the matter further but the fellow just scowled, turned away and spat.
    Corbett had then decided to visit the lodgings of the dead Fauvel. He and Ranulf shouldered their way through the crowds who lined the Seine, waiting for the barges bringing produce in from the outlying farms. They crossed one of the great stone bridges spanning the Seine and walked along the alleys which twisted and turned behind the carved stonework of Notre Dame Cathedral. Ranulf pestered Corbett with questions only to lapse into a sullen silence when his master just refused to answer. Eventually, they found the rue Nesle, a narrow alley with a deep swill-edged sewer running down its middle. The houses of black timber and dirty white plaster crowded together and rose three or four storeys high, each storey leaning over the one below. The windows were wooden shutters with the occasional one of horn and, more rarely, painted glass. Corbett found the building he was looking for and knocked on the stained door. There was a clattering inside, the door swung open and an arrogant, middle-aged woman dressed in an overblown fustian pouted at the English clerk.
    'Qu'est ce que?'
    'Je suis Anglais,' Corbett replied. 'Je cherche…' 'I speak English,' the woman interrupted. 'I am Devon born, my late husband was a wine merchant from Bordeaux. When he died, I turned part of this house into lodgings for English visitors to Paris. I know,' she continued breathlessly, 'you must be here about Master Fauvel, am I right?'
    Corbett smiled. 'Of course, Madame, О would appreciate some information about his death.' He thought the woman might invite them in but she leaned against the door and shrugged.
    There's little 1 can tell you,' she replied and pointed to the muddy street. 'He was found there, stabbed in the throat!'
    'Nothing else?'
    'No,' she said and stared first at Corbett and then at Ranulf who was leering at her. The woman blushed at his frank, admiring smile and looked lost for words.
    'There was nothing,' she stammered, 'except the coins.'
    'What coins?'
    The woman pointed down at the dirt. 'There, a few sous, nothing much, just lying in the dirt.'
    They had fallen out of his purse?'
    'No, out of his hand, almost as if he was going to give them to someone.'
    'Whom?'
    'I don't know,' came the tart reply, 'perhaps some beggar?'
    'Ah,' Corbett let out a long sigh. It was possible, he thought, just possible. He may not know why Fauvel and Poer died or who gave the order but he guessed how and by whom. Corbett turned away muttering his thanks when the woman called out.
    'Monsieur, if you need lodgings?' Corbett smiled and shook his head. He would not return to this house but, judging by the look on Ranulf's face, his servant surely would.
    Corbett returned to the English envoys certain in his knowledge of what had happened to Poer and Fauvel though this was only a surmise, a calculated guess and, even if it