“Please, call me Jean-Claude. And it has been my pleasure.”
“By the way,” Crow said, “I tried to research the First Face of Janus on the Internet, and I didn’t find one word about them.”
“And you will not,” Delacroix said. “They have the capability to whitewash the Internet, to strip it of any mention of themselves whatsoever. Authors have written about them on the Internet only to find their pieces mysteriously gone the next day. With that kind of power, writers do not dare post them again. And no one writes books about them. If they know what is good for them.”
“Scary stuff,” Crow said.
“It is, indeed. And I would be remiss if I did not warn you of something else. Beware of the Custos Verbi.”
“Yes, I think we’ve been introduced.”
“I see,” Delacroix said. “That is most unfortunate. You do not want to be on their radar.”
“I’m afraid that’s too late,” Rosenfeld said.
Crow could see the worry on Delacroix’s face. “I know we weren’t followed here. I made sure of it.”
“I am not concerned about that,” Delacroix said. “They know very well who I am. I have studied them for decades. They are like a tiger. You can enjoy their awesome power from afar, but do not get too close.”
“So, you’re an expert on the Custos Verbi?” Rosenfeld asked.
“I would not say that. It is hard to be an expert on something you cannot see. I know they have tried to stop the prophecies since Nostradamus’ death.”
“Have they ever been successful?” Crow asked.
“To my knowledge, not really, but we do not know what has not come true. Only what has.”
“What you’re saying is the First Face of Janus only brags about their victories,” Crow said.
“They do not brag, monsieur. They do their job and they do it quietly. It is the Nostradamus enthusiasts who do the bragging.”
“The enthusiasts?”
“Yes, the fellows with the blogs and the books and the videos. They are not real students of the man. They are profiteers. The more sensational Nostradamus is portrayed, the better.”
“Certainly doesn’t hurt your business here,” Crow noted.
“We do fine. The money from the tourists helps fund our research.”
“Research into Nostradamus or the First Face of Janus?”
Delacroix hesitated. “Both, monsieur. Both. Of course, I do not make my research on the First Facers public.”
“Why, then?” Crow asked. “Why do you research them if you’re not going to share that research?”
“Maybe there will come a time when I can make my research known,” Delacroix said. “Much like Nostradamus in his time, what I write must remain coded or secret, but someone needs to be watching the First Face of Janus. For history’s sake.”
“I want to know more about the Custos Verbi,” Crow said.
“What would you like to know?”
“Who are they?”
Delacroix laughed. “If I knew that…” his voice trailed off. “I would say this. They are as secretive as the First Facers.”
“And as cold-blooded?” Crow asked.
A corner of Delacroix’s thin mouth twitched. “Yes.”
“Do you know anyone who can tell us more about the Custos Verbi?” Crow asked.
“I do, but I cannot give you their name until I first check with them. They are not too willing to talk, but given the fact that you possess the quatrains, I may be able to persuade them. Where can I find you?”
“I’ve been giving that some thought,” Crow said. “They may not have followed us here, but they might very well start snooping around if they think we’d come here looking for answers. I don’t think it’s safe to stay in a hotel here. I was thinking we’d go back to Avignon. I know a great little hotel there.”
“That would not be wise,” Delacroix said.
“Why’s that?” Crow asked.
“You said the Custos Verbi didn’t follow you here?”
“Right.”
“They are already here. In Avignon.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Rosenfeld said. “We travel 4,000 miles trying to get away from these people and we end up on their doorstep.”
“In Avignon? What do you mean?” Crow asked.
“Palais des Papes. The Palace of the Popes.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it,” Crow said. “Vaguely. I’ve been to Avignon. As I recall, a pope used to reside there.”
“Several, in fact. I believe the Custos Verbi is also based there,” Delacroix said. “It was the seat of the Catholic Church during much of the fourteenth century. They actually held six papal conclaves there, the last being the election of Antipope Benedict XIII in 1394.”
“Antipope?” Crow asked.
“Yes, it led to what’s known as the Western Schism. Benedict’s predecessor, Gregory XI, had returned the seat of the papacy to Rome. There was a split between those who thought the Church should remain in Rome and those who favored Avignon. In 1377, the move back to Rome became absolute, Benedict’s election to the contrary. Thus the schism. Benedict is referred to by the Catholic Church as Antipope Benedict XIII.”
“Then the palace no longer belonged to the Roman Catholics,” Rosenfeld said.
“For a time. The Council of Constance ended the schism in 1418, which returned possession of the palace to Rome. The Church maintained the palace as an outpost of sorts. They remained very powerful in this region. It is said that when Nostradamus became a problem, the Custos Verbi was headquartered out of the Palace of the Popes because it gave the Vatican plausible deniability, and because it was so close to Nostradamus himself, they could more readily keep an eye on him. Some say the CV still secretly conducts its business from the palace.”
“And you believe that?” Rosenfeld asked.
“I do, but I am no expert on the CV. I know a priest in Avignon. Father Pierre Simonin.” Crow wrote on his pad. “He has spent his life studying the palace,” Delacroix said. “He would know better than I. Personally, I believe they still reside there. Whether you believe it or not, it is better you did not tempt fate. I would not recommend staying anywhere near the Palace of the Popes.”
“Where then?” Crow asked.
“I have a friend. He has a farm just outside of town. He and his family are on holiday. He has asked me to look in on the place while he is gone. You can stay there for a few days.”
“Are you sure he won’t mind?” Rosenfeld asked.
“I am positive. I need to check on the place today. You can follow me out there.”
Crow and Rosenfeld strolled past the modern bronze statue of Nostradamus by François Bouché just steps from the museum’s front door while Delacroix gave them a brief history of the historic town and the great prognosticator’s time there. The bald man with the eye patch watched with his beady good eye from his seat in the statue’s shadow as they turned right down Rue de l’Horloge then passed under the great clock tower. He dialed the number on his phone and held it to his ear.
“Yes,” the baritone voice with the German accent said.
“He is here. In Salon.”
“You are sure it is him?”
“Yes.”
“And you are sure he is the one?”
“He met with the curator at the museum.”
“Interesting. Then it is confirmed,” Otto said. “Do you know where we can find him?”
“No,” the bald man said. “Would you like for me to talk with the curator and find out?”
“That is not your area of expertise. We have people who specialize in that. Stay on your task. We will find him.”
“He is traveling with a companion,” the bald man said. “A woman.”
“A woman,” Otto repeated. “I see. How unfortunate for her.”
Chapter Fifteen
Crow positioned himself in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and followed Jean-Claude Delacroix out of Salon and into the French c
ountryside past the flowing fields of vineyards that seamlessly melted into a rural lane lined with plane trees. The nimble automobile felt good in his hands as passing traffic became sparse and the road grew more twisting and narrow. They turned up a winding gravel driveway that disappeared over a hill. The drive led to a two-story country farmhouse of stone and mortar with ivy growing up the walls. The casement windows with their gentle arches appeared to be original to the house. A faded green doorway was contrasted with a deep red front door. The old place looked as though it belonged in a period movie. Time had tried its best to ravage the house but had only left it more enchanting. The walkway leading up to the front steps was of small, individual stones harvested from the property with moss growing between them. The roof was weathered tile of gray and brown and tuscan red.
“I adore it!” Rosenfeld almost leapt from the car.
Crow ambled behind carrying their shoulder bags. Delacroix unlocked the front door which opened up to a slate floor foyer. The stairs leading to the second floor were about fifteen feet from the front door. The sun cast a shadow across the treads and banister from the bank of windows above the door.
“This is so charming, Jean-Claude,” Rosenfeld gushed, twirling in the foyer.
“I am glad you like it. I thought you would. Eighteenth-century farmhouse. Almost all original.”
Rosenfeld’s wide eyes took it all in.
Crow looked the place over then turned to Delacroix and extended a hand. “We really appreciate it. We have to pay you for this.”
“Nonsense.” Delacroix shook his hand. “When I tell the owners Mr. Benson Crow, famous American author, slept here they will be delighted. You are my guests.”
“Well, at least let us buy you dinner tonight,” Crow said.
“I would love to take you up on your offer, but I am afraid I cannot. I have an important engagement tonight that I must prepare for.”
“No worries,” Rosenfeld said. “I’d love to prepare dinner here if you think the owners won’t mind. We’ll be sure to clean up after ourselves.”
“Perfectly fine,” Delacroix said. “Make yourselves at home. I will call you when I know something about your contact.”
Delacroix excused himself and headed back to town. Sidney Rosenfeld walked around like they’d just bought the place.
“Isn’t this fabulous?”
“Don’t get used to it.” Crow set their bags on the long farm table in the kitchen. “We have work to do. We probably won’t be staying here long.”
“Come on, Crow. This is like something out of a magazine. We’re in a charming farmhouse in the south of France and…” She noticed Crow was in no mood to play along. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? You’re joking, right? The clock is ticking and we’re really no closer to stopping the prophecy than we were when we left the States.”
“The man in Montreal,” she said. “Have you ever stopped to think his finding you there was just a coincidence?”
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Crow said. “Everything happens for a reason. You just have to figure out what that reason is.”
“I see. Synchronicity.” Rosenfeld took a seat at the wooden farm table.
Crow looked at her. “Carl Jung.”
“Yes,” she said. “So, you’re familiar with him.”
“I am.” He pulled up a chair.
“I’m guessing you must be familiar with his theory of unus mundus.”
“One world? Yes,” Crow said. “With the physicist Wolfgang Pauli. Not sure I completely buy their theory. They believed everything is inter-related, including people. Of course, shrinks and scientists love their unknowns wrapped up in little packages of logic. It’s not that easy.”
“But you said you don’t believe in coincidences,” she said.
“Yes, that’s true, but I’m not convinced that one man’s stone causes a ripple in everyone else’s lives. I think of life more like a sock drawer.”
“A sock drawer?” She rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm.
“Yes. If I happen to find two socks that match, then I understand those two items go together. I put them on and I wear them. That’s the purpose. I don’t, however, believe they have anything to do with the other socks in the drawer.”
“What about that orphan sock,” Rosenfeld asked, “that stray sock you can’t seem to find the mate to?”
“You just have to wait until the other sock shows up.”
“If it shows up,” Rosenfeld added.
“It always shows up if you’re patient and you wait long enough. I was sent to Montreal and that book signing for a reason. I was supposed to be there.”
“To get the Nostradamus book?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?”
“I guess I’m still waiting for the other sock.”
“Jung once said, ‘You are a slave of what you need in your soul.’ What do you need in your soul, Crow? Are you trying to scratch an itch or exorcise demons?”
“Both maybe. I don’t know. All I know is when something as odd as this drops in my lap I can’t simply cast it aside like it doesn’t matter. I know it matters. The question is why does it matter?”
“Then you would agree that there has to be some logic to it.”
“Of course.”
“Well, then let’s go over what we know,” Rosenfeld said. “We know the old man in Montreal gave you the book and the quatrains and lost his life in the process. We know you visited Dr. Grumbling and he and his housekeeper lost their lives. Will it be just a coincidence if we’re next to die? Or will it be because we just didn’t grasp the logic and couldn’t leave well enough alone? Are we masters of our own destiny, or are we victims of it?”
“I thought you were all about solving this puzzle. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“I’m here because you dragged me into this,” she said with a tinge of resentment. “I’m here because it’s safer than going home and waiting for them to show up—whoever ‘they’ are—now that your thirst for coincidence has made me a target.”
“Just a second, on the plane you were excited about this trip.”
“I was excited about visiting the home of Nostradamus. We’ve done that. I’m not too excited about dying.”
He pointed to the front door. “You’re welcome to head home right now. You can turn yourself over to the police for protection.”
“And what am I suppose to tell them? That I’m afraid the same people who killed Dr. Grumbling—whose body they can’t find—are the same people after me?”
“Look, I’m sorry I got you into all this, but I don’t think my meeting you is a coincidence either. I think you’re here for a reason, too.”
Rosenfeld looked uneasy. Crow’s cellphone rang.
“Yes.” He paused for moment. “I can’t thank you enough.” Another pause. “Yes, I can find it.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll be there. Thank you so much.” He hung up. “That was Delacroix. He called the Custos Verbi guy from his car. He’s agreed to meet with us.”
“How far are you going to chase this?”
“To the end.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. “To its end or to ours?”
“We’ve been given an opportunity maybe nobody else has been given. Somebody’s trying to tell us something. They’re trying to tell us what the next prophecy will be. You heard Delacroix. We find the venue of this wedding and we can stop those people from being slaughtered.”
“If that’s really the prophecy,” she said.
“It has to be. Think about it. That old man in Montreal was one of two things. Either he was Custos Verbi and he was trying to tip us off to stop the prophecy, or he was a First Facer.”
“Why did he choose you?”
“I don’t know,” Crow said. “Maybe because he knew his days were numbered, and he knew with me he wouldn’t die in vain.”
“This battle’s been going on for cent
uries,” she said. “You aren’t the first one to try and stop the prophecy. Maybe that man in Montreal did die in vain.” She paused. “And maybe we’re next.”
Chapter Sixteen
The St-Michel Chapel was in the historic center of Salon-de-Provence, just around the corner from the House of Nostradamus. It faced what was the central square of the city in olden times. The wooden doors were accented with a modest semi-circle tympanum above the Agnus Dei relief and the relief of a lamb and a cross. They looked rather primitive even for a thirteenth-century structure. The unremarkable facade was almost lost as just another entrance in the tangle of narrow streets in Salon. Crow opened the door and held it for Rosenfeld.
“Oh, I think I’ll do some shopping,” she said.
“You don’t want to hear what this guy has to say?”
“I’ll wait for your recap.”
“Oh, come on,” he said.
“No, really. I’m good. You go ahead. I’m going to grab some things for dinner.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said.
“OK,” Crow shrugged. “I’ll meet you back at the car.”
She walked a few streets over to an open-air market at Place Morgan where local farmers brought their fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats.
Crow entered the simple but impressive nave. No ambulatory or side-aisle, just a basic center aisle that led to a gold altar with candles and a beautiful old painting as the centerpiece. It felt cooler than the outside like walking into a cave. The slightest sound echoed. Crow looked above him. The intersecting ribs of the vaults were painted white to form a dome and, along with the gilded apse, combined for one of the earliest examples of the Gothic style in Provence.
He surveyed the room. A lone soul sat on the second row of wooden pews in hooded monk’s attire gazing up at a painting by Belgian artist Jean Daret depicting two scenes of importance in the Catholic Church. At the top of the painting was the Annunciation, the announcement by the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary that she had been chosen to give birth to the Son of God. The lower part of the painting characterized St. Ursula in submission to St. Augustine symbolizing an order of nuns called the Company of St. Ursula being placed under the Rule of St. Augustine by Pope Gregory XIII in 1572.
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