Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  Channing raised a hand for her to be quiet.

  ‘You’re losing me, Cath,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just that we seem to be straight on at least one thing about this bloody window. Its date.’

  ‘That’s about the only thing we are sure of.’

  ‘What about the letters? Can you make any sense of them?’

  ‘They’re basic Latin, no anagrams, no inversions, thank Christ. It shouldn’t take too long to decipher them. It’s those symbols I’m not sure about.’

  In the top right hand panel there was a hand, severed at the wrist. It was ringed three times. Two panels below was a stone and, below it the word:

  COGITATIO

  Other words were dotted around the window, not in sentences but at random, almost like graffiti which someone had scrawled on the finished artefact. Other words that Channing had written down:

  SACRIFICIUM

  CULTUS

  ARCANA

  ARCANUS

  He shrugged.

  ‘They don’t make much sense on their own,’ he said. ‘Thought. Sacrifice. Worship. Secrets. Hidden.’ He shook his head.

  ‘A secret,’ murmured Cath. ‘Hidden in the window, perhaps?’ She turned to look at him.

  There were more words at the foot of the window.

  OPES

  IMMORTALIS

  Channing looked at the words again, repeating them aloud as he translated them.

  ‘Treasure and Deathless.’ He frowned.

  The frown suddenly changed to a look of realization.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured. ‘A deathless treasure. A secret deathless treasure. Gilles de Rais was an alchemist. One of the things all alchemists sought, along with the secret of turning base metal into gold, was the secret of immortality. Perhaps that’s what these figures and symbols concern.’

  Cath was silent for long moments, her attention focused on the window.

  ‘That still doesn’t solve the biggest mystery of all, does it? How this window came to be in the condition it’s in after just one night.’

  Channing exhaled deeply.

  ‘No, it doesn’t. It also doesn’t explain why an atheist child murderer, a black magician like de Rais would want a stained glass window put in a church in his name.’

  ‘This word here,’ Cath said, pointing at one on a panel which was just above the head of the largest creature. ‘What does it mean?’

  BARON

  ‘It probably refers to de Rais title,’ said Channing. ‘He was Baron of Machecoul and the estate around it.’

  ‘Then why is it in English and not Latin?’

  Her words hung on the air, drifting as lazily as the motes of dust caught in the shafts of sunlight penetrating the gloom.

  ‘The Latin for Baron, the title, is princeps, isn’t it?’ she said, eyes still fixed on the window.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Channing agreed, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘I think I know what it is and I think I know what this window is meant to illustrate,’ she told him.

  He looked at her intently.

  ‘One of the most popular images on stained-glass windows in the fifteenth century was a thing called the Jesse Tree. It was the literal representation of Christ’s family tree, in glass. The figure of Jesse, founder of the House of David, would lie at the bottom and, from him, vines or branches come, each one bearing one of Christ’s ancestors.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘I think this is some kind of parody of a Jesse Tree. If de Rais was a black magician, what better way to show his contempt for God than by having something like this on view in a church?’

  ‘And Baron?’

  ‘I think it’s a name.’

  They both stared at the window, at the name. At the creature with the blazing red eyes.

  Who but someone as warped as de Rais would have chosen to personalize such an abomination? And if he did, why venerate it so?

  ‘A monument, that’s what the window is,’ said Cath. ‘A monument dedicated to this thing which de Rais called Baron.’

  What did it give him to make him worship it the way he did?’ said Channing, his own thoughts now running rampant.

  Cath stepped back.

  She didn’t speak.

  She merely gazed at the face in the glass, her gaze held by those blazing red eyes.

  Forty-Five

  She knew he wouldn’t be sleeping.

  The need for silence and stealth were paramount. Their rooms were separated by just the landing. If he heard her leaving ...

  Catherine Roberts pulled her jacket more tightly around her, stood with her back to the door for a moment, then gently eased it open, moving as quietly as she could.

  The inn was cloaked in silence and every movement, every sound seemed to be amplified in the stillness. She glanced across at the large grandfather clock which stood on the landing close to Channing’s room, its pendulum swinging slowly back and forth.

  2.16 a.m.

  She headed for the stairs and descended, cursing under her breath when one of them creaked protest under her weight. She glanced back towards the door of Channing’s room but there was no movement.

  She reached the bottom of the stairs and crossed the small reception area.

  The front door was locked but not bolted.

  Slowly she turned the key, gritting her teeth when it refused to twist, but finally, with a resounding click, the lock opened.

  Cath paused once more before opening the door and slipping out.

  The chill wind hit her like an invisible fist as she stepped onto the street, ruffling her hair and making her shiver. She pulled up the collar of her jacket, easing the inn door shut behind her and then fumbling for the keys of the Peugeot as she hurried across to it. She slid behind the wheel and started the engine, not caring now if he heard the car. Even if he did he would not think it was her.

  He would not suspect her.

  The engine caught first time and she swung the car out of its parking space, through the village and out towards the road which would take her to the church.

  As the houses slowly seemed to disappear, the countryside took over. So lush and inviting in the daylight, in the blackness of the night it seemed to crowd in on her. She flipped her headlamps on to full beam, the shafts of light cutting through the gloom, illuminating the narrow road which led out of the village.

  Trees growing close to the roadside seemed to stretch skeletal fingers down as if to sweep the car up. A strong wind had risen and Cath could hear it gusting around the car as she drove. The moonless sky was like a blanket of mottled velvet.

  She tried to concentrate on the road as she drove but the image of the window kept creeping into her mind.

  The question still plagued her, all the more so because she hadn’t even the beginnings of an answer. How had the window been uncovered? How could it possibly be in such a perfect state of preservation? As she shifted in her seat she felt something digging into her buttocks and she remembered she still had Lausard’s lighter in her pocket.

  It prompted another question.

  When had the reporter been inside the church? What had made him leave his lighter behind?

  Questions.

  And no answers.

  There were too many questions. Too much to take in. She turned a corner, guiding the car around a bend in the road, knowing that the church was close now.

  Cath felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise.

  Just the cold wind.

  She told herself it was only that.

  As she reached the top of the hill the church was invisible in the valley below, hidden by the darkness.

  She guided the Peugeot down the narrow track which led to the valley floor, gripping the wheel as it bounced over the uneven surface.

  As she drew closer to the church the headlamps picked out the outline of the building. It seemed to grow from the night itself, hewn from the umbra, carved from darkness.

  Something moved clo
se to the door.

  Cath swallowed hard and slowed down, now less than thirty feet from the main door of the church.

  Whatever had passed before the building appeared to be gone. She squinted into the blackness.

  Movement again.

  A rat scuttled away from the church and disappeared into the long grass that grew around. Cath exhaled deeply, angry with herself for being so jumpy but knowing that she had at least some cause to feel uneasy about being at this place alone in the middle of the night.

  She stopped the car, taking a torch from the glove compartment. As she switched the engine off the lights died with it and the only light in the black was her torch. It seemed scarcely adequate for cutting through such stygian gloom but she scrambled out of the Peugeot and walked purposefully towards the building.

  She pushed the door open, the musty smell enveloping her. Even after so many hours spent in the place the odour still made her cough but she passed quickly through the nave and on into the chancel.

  To the window.

  She shone her torch over it, looking once more at the details, marvelling at the skill which had gone into its construction but also feeling uneasy about the reasons for that creation.

  She picked out the words with the torch.

  ARCANA

  ARCANUS

  ‘Hidden secret,’ she murmured under her breath.

  Hidden in these panels, in these abominations which stared back at her in the torchlight.

  Had Lausard seen something of that secret, she wondered, pulling his lighter from her pocket and closing her fist around it?

  She knew that it would take a lot of work before the secret of the window was complete but she knew that the riddle must be solved.

  God alone knew what it was.

  Although she suspected that God had nothing to do with it.

  Not the God she knew.

  She pulled the notebook from her pocket, propped the torch on the altar so that it was illuminating the window, then, slowly, began to write.

  As she did she was aware that her hands were shaking.

  Forty-Six

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND:

  A curtain of cigarette smoke enveloped him as he walked in.

  It hung in the air, not dissipating, merely expanding and thickening like man-made smog.

  The saloon bar of ‘The Standing Stones’ was busy as usual. Both pool tables were occupied, men sat around in one corner playing dominos and there was a game of darts well under way. Hardly anyone looked at Doyle as he let the door bang shut and walked across to the bar.

  He ordered a whiskey and plonked himself on a bar stool, his eyes studying the reflections in the mirror behind the bar.

  As yet, none of the faces looked familiar. He glanced across to the booth where Billy Dolan had been sitting the day before last but it was empty. There were a couple of empty beer glasses on the table but they were quickly whisked away by a barmaid who, having collected some more for washing, returned to her post behind the bar. Doyle smiled at her as she passed him, glad to see the gesture returned. She wore a name tag on her white blouse which he read as she passed.

  Siobhan.

  He smiled again as she moved to the other end of the bar.

  As she disappeared the landlord arrived with Doyle’s drink and put it down in front of him.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble from you today, or you’re out of that fucking door on your ear,’ he said.

  Doyle dug in his pocket, found some change and tossed it onto the bar.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, eyeing the landlord coldly.

  ‘I’m talking about the trouble the last time you were in here.’

  ‘It wasn’t me who started it.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck who started it. I’m just warning you.’ He stalked off to the other end of the bar to serve another customer who’d just entered. Doyle caught the man’s reflection in the mirror but it wasn’t the one he sought.

  Billy. One fucking name wasn’t much to go on if he had to trace the Irishman, Doyle thought, sipping his whiskey. He had a Christian name and a description. It might be enough to run through the RUC files, if the man was even in them. If he had a record of some description then there might be a way of tracing him. If not ... Doyle took another sip of his drink. It was a thin lead but it was all he had.

  Georgie had come up with nothing at the hotel either. No overheard conversations, no conspiratorial whisperings amongst the staff.

  Georgie.

  The image of her floated into his mind for a moment. The remembrance of their passion. They had made love that morning, then she had dressed and left him alone in the room with his thoughts.

  He took a long swallow of the whiskey, driving the visions from his mind.

  He tapped on the bar to attract the attention of Siobhan. Siobhan with the badge on her blouse. On the left breast.

  She came across to him, smiling. She was pretty. About five three, dark hair. Slim. Big-busted.

  ‘Put another Jameson’s in there, will you?’ he said. ‘And have one yourself.’ He held out a five-pound note. She returned a moment later with the drink and his change. ‘What did you have?’

  ‘Just a lemonade. I don’t drink while I’m working,’ she told him.

  ‘What about when you’re not working?’

  ‘Depends who I’m with.’

  ‘How about with me ?’ He fixed her in his gaze. ‘What time do you get off work this afternoon?’

  ‘About three,’ she said. ‘Are you asking me out?’ That delightful smile flickered on her lips again.

  Doyle sipped his drink, regarding her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Three o’clock?’ He nodded and smiled at her, his gaze momentarily distracted by some movement from behind him. The door opened, Doyle watched the newest customer in the mirror.

  Billy Dolan had his collar up and his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He nodded a greeting to the landlord and made for the booth in the corner.

  Doyle watched him sit down, rubbing his hands together as he waited for his drink to be brought across.

  ‘I could meet you outside,’ said Siobhan.

  ‘Maybe another time,’ Doyle told her, smiling.

  Siobhan with the name tag on her blouse watched as he slid off the bar stool and walked across to the booth where Dolan sat. Her smile had been replaced by an expression of annoyance. She bustled off to the far end of the bar to serve someone else.

  ‘Does that offer still stand?’

  Dolan looked up as he heard the voice. He smiled that infectious smile as he saw Doyle standing there, glass in hand.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Dolan wanted to know. When the landlord brought his own Guinness over he ordered a refill for Doyle.

  ‘I wondered if you’d come in,’ said the Englishman. ‘I thought I was going to have to buy my own drinks.’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ Dolan told him.

  ‘Working?’

  Again that infectious grin.

  ‘You could say that. Preparing, more like.’

  Dolan lifted his glass.

  ‘Here’s to the Cause.’

  Doyle did likewise and they both drank.

  ‘What about you?’ Dolan asked. ‘What do you do?’

  Doyle told him about working at the Excelsior.

  ‘When there’s fucking Brits staying there and I have to take food up to them I sometimes spit in it first,’ he lied.

  Dolan grinned.

  ‘What’s the pay like there?’

  ‘It’s shit but they give me a room.’

  Dolan regarded Doyle quietly for a moment and cleared his throat.

  ‘You fancy making some extra cash, Sean?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘A bit of driving. You can drive, can’t you?’

  Doyle nodded.

  ‘It’d have to be on the quiet,’ Dolan told him. ‘Maybe just picking up the odd parcel here and there, sometimes a
person. Think about it.’

  Doyle said that he would.

  ‘I’ve got to be going now,’ Dolan said, finishing his drink, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll see you, maybe.’ He raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. He’d reached the door when he paused and looked back at Doyle.

  ‘Hey, Sean. Are you a football fan?’ he asked, that infectious grin back on his face. ‘If you are there’s a game on Tuesday night at Windsor Park. It should be quite something.’ Then he was gone.

  Doyle looked puzzled for a second but then swallowed what was left in his glass, got to his feet and followed Dolan out of the pub.

  There was no sign of the Irishman.

  Doyle looked quickly right and left and just caught sight of him turning a corner. He set off after his quarry, the .38 snug against his ankle, hidden by his boots.

  He slowed down at the corner, peering around.

  Dolan was about twenty yards ahead of him.

  Doyle saw the blue Sierra pull up alongside him and spotted the driver motion for Dolan to get in, which he did quite willingly, walking round to get in the passenger side.

  Doyle looked at the number-plate, consigning it to memory as the Sierra sped off.

  ‘Shit,’ Doyle said and ran down the street towards a phone box. He punched the digits quickly, waiting for the connection, waiting for the phone to be picked up. When it finally was he asked to speak to Georgie.

  She was a moment or two coming to the phone.

  ‘Georgie, listen to me,’ he said, barely giving her time to acknowledge who he was. ‘We’ve got to trace a car. Quick. Get in touch with the RUC, get them to run it through one of their computers. I need to know who owns it and where he lives. I’m in a call box. I can’t do it from here. Use Donaldson’s name when you call, tell them you’re with the C.T.U. And tell them to hurry. Ring me back at this number when you’ve done it, right?’ He gave her the number of the public phone and then the car number-plate. Then he hung up, stepped outside the box and propped himself against the wall of a house, eyes on the phone box, waiting for the ring.

  Five minutes.

  Ten minutes.

  ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake,’ he muttered, pacing up and down outside the box.

  A young woman pushing a pram rounded the corner and made for the phone box.