The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET

by Scott Mariani

  More interestingly, inside the other car, a silver Peugeot with Paris plates, they’d found prints that matched Roberta Ryder’s. Among the many spent cases found in the grass were eighteen 9mm empties that had come from the same Browning-type pistol as those found in the Mercedes limo and at the scene of the riverside killings.

  Ben Hope might as well have carved his name on a tree.

  36

  The Institut Legrand, near Limoux, southern France Three months earlier

  ‘Oh shit–look, Jules, he’s done it again!’

  Klaus Rheinfeld’s padded cell was covered in blood. As the two male psychiatric nurses entered the small, cube-shaped room, its occupant looked up from his handiwork like a child caught in the act of some forbidden game. His wizened face crinkled into a grin, and they saw that he’d knocked out two more teeth. He’d torn open his pyjama top and used the jagged teeth to reopen the strange wound pattern on his chest.

  ‘Looks like time to increase your dose again,’ muttered the male nurse in charge as Rheinfeld was led out of the cell. ‘Better get the cleaners in here,’ he said to his assistant. ‘Take him to the clinic, give him a shot of diazepam and put him into some clean clothes. Make sure his nails are cut really short, too. He’s got a visitor coming in a couple of hours.’

  ‘That Italian woman again?’

  Rheinfeld’s ears pricked up at the mention of his visitor. ‘Anna!’ he sang. ‘Anna…like Anna. Anna is my friend.’ He spat at the nurses. ‘Hate you’

  Two hours later a much more subdued Klaus Rheinfeld sat in the secure visiting room at the Institut Legrand. It was the room they used for more borderline-risk patients who were allowed to see outside guests from time to time but not trusted to be left alone with them. One plain table, two chairs, bolted to the floor, a male nurse either side of him and a third standing by with a loaded syringe, just in case. Through a two-way mirror on the wall, Dr. Legrand, head of the Institut, was watching.

  Rheinfeld was wearing a fresh pair of pyjamas and a clean gown to replace the ones he’d bloodied earlier. The new gap in his teeth had been cleaned up. His improved mood was due partly to the psychotropic drugs they’d pumped into him, and partly due to the strange calming effect that his new friend and regular visitor, Anna Manzini, had on him. Clasped in his hands was his prize possession, his notebook.

  Anna Manzini was shown in by a male nurse, and the stark, sterile atmosphere of the visiting room became filled with her airy presence and perfume. Rheinfeld’s face lit up with happiness at the sight of her.

  ‘Hello, Klaus.’ She smiled and sat opposite him at the bare table. ‘And how are you today?’

  The male nurses were always amazed at the way this normally difficult and agitated patient would settle down with the attractive, warm Italian woman. She had a way about her, so gentle and calm, never stressing or placing demands on him. For long periods he wouldn’t say a word, just sitting there rocking gently in his chair with his eyes half shut in relaxation and one long, bony hand resting on her arm. At first the nurses had been unhappy about this physical contact, but Anna had asked them to allow it and they’d accepted that it did no harm.

  When he did speak, for much of the time Rheinfeld kept muttering the same things over and over-phrases in garbled Latin and jumbled letters and numbers, obsessively counting his fingers in jerky movements as he did so.

  Sometimes, with a little gentle prompting, Anna could get him to speak more coherently about his interests. In a low voice he would talk about things the nurses couldn’t begin to understand. After a while his conversation would often fade back into an unintelligible mumble and then die away al together. Anna would just smile and let him sit there quietly. These were his most peaceful times, and the nurses considered them a useful part of his treatment programme.

  This fifth visit was no different from the others. Rheinfeld sat serenely clasping Anna’s hand and his notebook and running through the same number sequence in his low, cracked voice, talking in his own weird language. ‘N-6; E-4; I-26; A-11; E-15.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell us, Klaus?’ Anna asked patiently.

  Dr. Legrand stood watching the scene from behind the two-way mirror with a frown on his face. He checked his watch and then strode into the visiting-room through a connecting door. ‘Anna, how wonderful to see you,’ he said, beaming. He turned to the nurses. ‘I think that will do for today. We don’t want to tire the patient.’

  At the sight of Legrand, Rheinfeld screamed and covered his head with his skinny arms. He fell off his chair, and as Anna was getting up to leave he clawed his emaciated body across the floor and clutched at her ankles, protesting loudly. The nurses dragged him away from her, and she watched sadly as they bundled him through a door back towards his room.

  ‘Why is he so afraid of you, Edouard?’ she asked Legrand when they were back out in the corridor.

  ‘I don’t know, Anna.’ Legrand smiled. ‘We have no idea about Klaus’s past. His reaction to me may be the residue of some traumatic event. It’s possible I remind him unconsciously of someone who has hurt him–perhaps an abusive father or some other relative. It’s quite a common phenomenon.’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘I see. That would explain it.’

  ‘Anna, I was thinking…if you’re free tonight, how about dinner? I know a little fish restaurant on the coast. The sea bass is just to die for. I could pick you up around seven?’ He caressed her arm.

  She pulled back from his touch. ‘Please, Edouard. I told you I wasn’t ready…Let’s leave dinner for another time.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, withdrawing his hand. ‘I understand. Please forgive me.’

  Legrand watched from his window as Anna left the building and climbed into her Alfa Romeo. That was the third time she’d knocked him back, he thought. What was wrong with him? Other women didn’t react this way. She didn’t seem to want him to touch her. She continually gave him the cold shoulder, and yet she seemed to have no problem letting that Rheinfeld hold her hand for hours on end.

  He turned away from the window and picked up the phone. ‘Paulette, can you check and tell me if Dr. Delavigne is scheduled for today’s treatment assessment with one of the patients?…Klaus Rheinfeld…He is?…OK, can you call him and let him know that I’ll take over from him…That’s right…Thanks, Paulette.’

  Rheinfeld was back in his padded cell, singing to himself contentedly and thinking of Anna, when he heard the rattle of keys from outside in the corridor and his door swung open.

  ‘Leave me alone with him,’ said a voice that he recognized. Rheinfeld cowered, his eyes bulging with fear, as Dr. Legrand walked into his cell and quietly shut the door behind him.

  Legrand approached, and Rheinfeld backed away as far as he could into the corner. The psychiatrist towered over him, smiling. ‘Hello, Klaus,’ he said in a soft voice.

  Then he drew back his foot and kicked Rheinfeld in the stomach. Rheinfeld doubled up helplessly in pain, winded and gasping.

  Legrand kicked him again, and again. As the blows kept coming, Klaus Rheinfeld could do no more than weep and wish he was dead.

  37

  On the third day Ben felt strong enough to come down and sit outside in the autumnal midday sun. He saw Roberta in the distance, feeding the hens and making a point of avoiding him. He felt bad, knowing he’d hurt her feelings. He sat and sipped the herbal tea that Marie-Claire had prepared for him, and carried on with Fulcanelli’s Journal.

  September 19th, 1926

  I begin to truly regret the faith I had placed in Nicholas Daquin. It is with a heavy heart that I write these words, knowing now what a fool I have been. My one consolation is that I did not reveal to him the complete sum of the knowledge gained from the Cathar artefacts.

  My worst fears were confirmed yesterday. Against all my principles and to my eternal shame, I have employed an investigator, a discreet and trustworthy man by the name of Corot, to follow Nicholas and report his movements to me. It appears
that my young apprentice has for some time now been a member of a Parisian society called the Watchmen. Naturally I knew of the existence of this small circle of intellectuals, philosophers and initiates of esoteric knowledge. I also knew what had attracted Nicholas to them. The Watchmen’s aim is to break away from the strictures of the secretive alchemical tradition. In their monthly meetings in a room above Chacornac’s bookshop they discuss how the fruits of alchemical knowledge could be brought into modern science and used to benefit mankind. To a young man like Nicholas, they must represent the future, the foundation of a new era–and I well understand how torn he must feel between their progressive vision of a new alchemy and what he perceives as the antiquated, guarded, mistrustful approach that I represent.

  Such youthful spirit and candour are not to be despised. But what Corot went on to report to me has given me great cause for concern. Through his association with the Watchmen, Nicholas has made a new friend. I know little of this man, save that his name is Rudolf, that he is a student of the occult and that they call him ‘The Alexandrian after his birthplace in Egypt.

  Corot has observed Nicholas with this Rudolf on several occasions, watching them as they sit in cafés and have long discussions. Yesterday he followed them to an expensive restaurant and was able to eavesdrop on some of their conversation as they sat on the terrace.

  Rudolf plied my young apprentice with glass after glass of champagne, and it is clear he was doing so to loosen his tongue.

  ‘But it’s the truth, you know,’ Rudolf was saying as Corot secretively took notes from a nearby table. ‘If Fulcanelli really believed in the power of this wisdom, he would not try to hinder one of its brightest stars.’ Here he filled Nicholas’s glass to the brim.

  ‘I’m not used to such high living,’ Corot heard Nicholas say.

  ‘One day, you’ll have all the high living you could ever desire,’ said Rudolf.

  Nicholas frowned. ‘It’s not fame and glory that I’m after. I just want to use my knowledge to help people, that’s all. That’s what I can’t understand about the master, why he thinks that’s such a bad thing.’

  ‘Your selflessness is laudable, Nicholas,’ Rudolf said. ‘Perhaps I can help you. I do have some influential contacts.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Nicholas. ‘Though it would mean breaking my oath of secrecy. You know that I’ve often thought about it–but I still can’t make up my mind.’

  ‘You should trust your feelings,’ Rudolf said. ‘What right has your teacher to prevent you from fulfilling your destiny?’

  ‘My destiny…’ Nicholas echoed.

  Rudolf smiled. ‘Men of destiny are a rare and admirable breed,’ he said. ‘If I am right about you, that means I will have had the privilege of meeting two such men in my life.’ He poured out the last of the champagne. ‘There is a man I know, a visionary who shares the same ideals as you. I have told him about you, Nicholas, and he, like me, feels you could play a very important part in creating a wonderful future for mankind. You will meet him one day.’

  Nicholas gulped his glass empty and set it down on the table. He took a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided. I’ll share with you what I know. I want to make a difference.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ Rudolf replied, with a short bow of the head.

  Nicholas leaned forward in his chair. ‘If you only knew how much I’ve ached to talk about this with someone. There are two important secrets, both of which were revealed in an ancient encoded document. My master discovered it in the south, in the ruins of an old castle.’

  ‘He has shown you these secrets, then?’ Rudolf asked eagerly.

  ‘He has shown me one of them. I have witnessed its power. It is truly amazing. I have the know ledge. I know how to use it, and I can show it to you.’

  ‘What about the second secret?’

  ‘Its potential is even more incredible,’ Nicholas said. ‘But there’s a problem. Fulcanelli now refuses to teach it to me.’

  Rudolf placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure you will learn it in time,’ he said with a smile. ‘But meanwhile, why don’t you tell me more about this amazing knowledge of yours? Perhaps we should continue our discussion at my apartment.’

  Ben laid the Journal down. Who was this ‘Alexandrian’? What had Daquin told him? Who was the ‘man of vision’ Rudolf had promised to introduce him to?

  It was probably some other weirdo like Gaston Clément, he thought. He flicked through the next few pages and found that the whole last section of the book had been severely damaged by rot. It was hard to tell how many pages were missing. He strained to read the last entry in the Journal, which he could only just make out. It had been written just before Fulcanelli’s mysterious disappearance.

  23rd December, 1926

  All is lost. My beloved wife Christina is murdered. Daquin’s betrayal has placed our precious know ledge in the hands of the Alexandrian. May God forgive me for having allowed this to happen. I fear for much more than my own life. The evil that these men may do is unimaginable.

  My plans are underway. I will be departing from Paris immediately with Yvette, my dear daughter who is all I have left now, and I leave everything in the hands of my faithful Jacques Clément. I have warned Jacques that he too must take all precautions. For my part, I shall not return.

  So that was it. Somehow, Daquin’s betrayal of Fulcanelli’s trust had led to disaster. It all seemed to centre on this mysterious Rudolf, the ‘Alexandrian.’ Had he murdered Fulcanelli’s wife? More to the point, where had the alchemist gone afterwards? He’d been in such a hurry to get out of Paris that he’d even left his Journal behind.

  ‘What a beautiful day it is,’ said a familiar voice, breaking in on Ben’s reverie. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Hello, Father.’ Ben closed the Journal.

  Pascal sat by him and poured a glass of water from an earthenware jug. ‘You look better today, my friend.’

  ‘Thanks, I feel better.’

  ‘Good.’ Pascal smiled. ‘Yesterday you honoured me greatly with your trust in me, and by telling me your secret–which, naturally, will never go any further.’ He paused. ‘Now it is my turn, for I too have a little secret.’

  ‘I’m sure I can’t possibly offer you the kind of support that you’ve given me,’ said Ben.

  ‘Yet I think my secret will interest you. It concerns you, in a way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You have come looking for me, but in fact your goal was to trace Klaus Rheinfeld? Roberta told me.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Pascal nodded. ‘Let me start from the beginning. If you knew to look for me, you must already know how I came across the poor wretch.’

  ‘It was in an old news item.’

  ‘He seemed to have completely lost his mind,’ Pascal said sadly. ‘When I first saw the terrible cuts he had made on his body, I thought it must be the work of the Devil.’ He automatically made the sign of the cross, touching his forehead, chest and shoulders. ‘And you probably know that I tended to the sick man, and then he was taken away and placed in the institution.’

  ‘Where did they take him?’

  ‘Patience, Benedict, is a great virtue. I am coming to that. Let me continue…What you do not know, what indeed nobody has ever known apart from myself and that poor lunatic, was the nature of the instrument Rheinfeld used to carve those dreadful cuts on himself…here is my secret.’

  His eyes took on a faraway expression as he recalled the memory. ‘It was a terrible night, the night Rheinfeld arrived here. So wild and violent a storm. When I followed him to the woods, just over there,’ he pointed, ‘I saw he had a knife, a dagger of a most peculiar sort. I thought to begin with that he was going to kill me. Instead I watched in horror as the poor fellow turned the blade on himself. I still cannot imagine the state of his mind. Anyhow, he soon collapsed and I carried him back to the house. We did what we could for him that night, though he was out of his wits. I
t was only after the authorities had come for him early the next morning that I remembered the dagger, lying fallen in the woods. I returned there, and found it among the leaves.’

  He paused. ‘The dagger is, I believe, of medieval origin, though perfectly preserved. It is a crucifix of clever construction, the blade concealed inside. It has many markings, strange symbols. The blade also bears an inscription. I was fascinated and shocked to learn that these symbols were the same as the marks Rheinfeld had cut into his body.’

  Ben realized that this must be the gold cross that Clément had mentioned. Fulcanelli’s cross. ‘What happened to it?’ he asked. ‘Did you hand it over to the police?’

  ‘To my shame, no,’ Pascal said. ‘There was no investigation. Nobody questioned that Rheinfeld had inflicted the wounds upon himself. The police did no more than note a few details. So I kept the dagger. I am afraid I have a weakness for old religious artefacts, and it has been one of the prizes of my collection.’

  ‘Will you let me see it?’

  ‘Why, of course.’ Pascal smiled. ‘But let me continue. About five months later, I had an unusual and illustrious visitor. A Vatican bishop, named Usberti, came to see me. He was asking many questions about Rheinfeld, about his madness, about things he might have said to me, about the markings on his body. But what he most wanted to know was whether Rheinfeld was carrying anything when I found him. From what he said, although he made no direct reference to it, I believe he was interested in the dagger. May the Lord forgive me, I told him nothing. It was so beautiful, and like a stupid greedy child I wished to keep it for myself. But I also sensed something that frightened me. Something about this bishop unnerved me. He hid it well, but I knew he was desperately seeking something. He also was most curious to know whether the madman was carrying any papers, documents. He kept mentioning a manuscript. Manuscript– he asked me this again and again.’