So Gerutha told him all she knew: of the beggar woman Alethea, of what she had seen, and last of all she produced from her robes the dagger, laying it on the table between them. ‘The real traitor, the real murderer, is still at large in the city.’

‘Hmm.’ Katāros peered disdainfully down at the dirty blade, as if it represented an unwelcome stain in these otherwise spotless surroundings. ‘I understand why you have come to me. And it is admirable that you should wish to help your mistress. But I fear that this beggar’s story and this –’ he prodded a jewelled finger at the fouled hilt of the knife – ‘changes nothing.’

‘But Alethea was so certain. And the timing, the place – it cannot be a coincidence. The man she saw must have been Nikolaos’s murderer.’

‘My dear woman, do you know how many murders take place in this city every month?’

Gerutha sighed and shook her head.

‘On average thirty-five. More than one for every day of the month. Nearly all are committed in the hours of darkness and over a quarter of those occur in the district you have named.’ He gave a light snort and spread his palms. ‘On the one hand I feel foolish stating the obvious – that you should hardly credit the testimony of a woman who, by your own description, is a drunk and a beggar and blind in one eye. On the other, let’s say she did see a man and that he discarded this –’ he glanced down at the dagger between them – ‘object. The chances that he was the man responsible for the murder of the fire-maker are very remote. Very remote, indeed.’

‘It must be worth your time to speak with the woman herself – to hear her testimony. She may provide you with some useful detail. The city may still be at risk—’

‘I think not. The matter is in hand.’

‘Please,’ she said quietly. ‘I know my mistress is innocent. What does it serve the city to hold the wrong person responsible, when those who might harm us all still go free?’

Katāros steepled his fingers, seeming to consider her words at least.

‘She was very clear,’ said Gerutha eagerly, pressing any slight advantage. ‘A beardless man. She saw his face. She said she would never forget it. Never.’

At length Katāros sighed and, plucking a stylus from the table, he started scratching away on a piece of parchment. ‘Alethea, you say?’

‘Oh, bless you! Yes. You’ll find her outside Cornelius’s wine shop on the Street of the Bakers in the coppersmiths’ quarter.’

The painted lips smiled at her. ‘I don’t suppose it will yield anything useful. . . but you may consider it done. Was there anything else?’

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE