by Tony Moyle
After what had seemed like an age, but was in reality less than a full day, she’d already overcome so much adversity out in the wild. Two of her fake nails had broken off, one of her Jimmy Choo’s got stuck in the mud and the incessant rain had made her hair go frizzy. And none of these traumas had forced her to give up. Sanctuary from further horrors came in the form of the Renault 16’s passenger seat where she cowered in the foetal position desperately trying to tune the radio to receive Netflix.
The wild was a more difficult place than she’d anticipated. The nearest supermarket was more than four hundred metres away and Starbucks even further still. You could barely get enough light from the nearest street lamps to read Cosmopolitan, and the small forest she’d chosen as her base appeared to be a notorious dogging spot. Just yesterday she’d had to scream hysterically when she found an elderly couple bent up against the back of her caravan engaged in obscenities that you didn’t even see on Snapchat. If only what she’d witnessed had disappeared from her own memory after ten seconds.
But at least she was safe. As long as she stayed away from human contact she couldn’t catch N1G13. Predominantly, according to reports at least, the virus was being spread person to person so she didn’t even need to worry about catching it from any of the wildlife. Safety, though, was not the same as comfort. She was a typical girlie girl who enjoyed a certain standard of living and this wasn’t it. If she was going to thrive, while civilisation crumbled, she had to learn how to protect herself and survive. And she needed to learn quickly.
*****
Two days after meeting Antoine for a coffee at the Basilique, Ally found herself walking purposefully around the streets of Saint-Paul looking for a house. Other than the occasional modern shopfront and parked car it felt like a stroll back in time. This was part of the old town, three renaissance villages now barely divisible as the space between them had been gobbled up by centuries of development. Gothic architecture featured prominently in the building’s façades, each of which had its own distinct identity. The oldest were built in a time of creativity and personal freedom, a time before any department of housing might place certain demands on where a stonemason might build or how it might look when he’d finished.
The narrow streets manipulated pedestrians in a direction of its choosing, always rewarding the brave traveller with another spectacular church or hidden plaza around the next corner. Although the cold gusts of early winter raced down the alleyways like Formula One racing cars, a cloudless, blue sky overhead gave the day a balanced feel. There was much to take in, but Ally’s eyes sought only one property and it wasn’t difficult to find.
Antoine’s house wasn’t discernible because of the building’s unique style or its prominent position. It simply stood out because the flashing lights of a police car had mounted the cobbles in front of it. Parked with a lot more care next to the police car was an impressive black and claret vintage Bugatti Type 55. The old car’s bodywork gleamed from its daily beauty regime of polish and elbow grease. Its headlamps and grill grinned in anticipation, desperate for someone to jump in, put its roof down and release its engines to roar its echo through the town.
There wasn’t much room for cars in a narrow street designed for a time when only people and horses ever needed access. Antoine’s terracotta-painted house loomed over her. At the doorway two grim-faced policeman were assessing the damage that had recently been inflicted on the building’s front door. At the request of the police Antoine pottered back and forward through the entrance returning with pieces of paper or answers to questions. Of the two officers the short, fat man seemed to be in control while the other seemed more interested in goggling the Bugatti than the scene of forced entry.
As she watched the intense activities through the arched doorway from the vantage point of the cobbled street, she noticed that Antoine’s reaction to what had clearly been a break-in appeared neither angry nor anxious.
“Move along please,” said the chubby policeman, noticing that Ally had been standing there for longer than was natural.
“No need, Officer,” said Antoine, beckoning her over with a hand and a smile. “I was expecting her.”
“Insurance?” added the short, stumpy policeman.
“Something like that,” replied Antoine. “Ms. Oldfield, please come in. My apologies for the mess.”
At this point most normal human beings, having noticed the extenuating circumstances, would offer their deep concern and suggest that now might not be an ideal time for a house call. But Ally was not normal. She was a researcher, and researchers like nothing more than a chance to connect the dots. Something bigger was taking place here. It couldn’t just be a coincidence that a burglary had taken place so soon after a major historical discovery had been made at the very same address.
“What did they take?” said Ally as she entered the house unzipping her big fur coat, the winter equivalent of rolling up her sleeves.
“An interesting question. Most people would start with ‘Are you ok?’ or ‘What’s happened?’ but you’ve already answered those questions, haven’t you?”
“Obviously. I can see you’re alive and appear in a reasonable frame of mind and any idiot can see what has happened. If you follow that thought-process my question was the most appropriate because it’s impossible for me to know the answer without more information.”
“Very good. I appreciate your concern.”
“I didn’t have any.”
“I know,” said Antoine. “I was being ironic. The answer to your question, though, is nothing.”
The hall of the house was a homage to French history. Every piece of furniture, work of art, sculpture and fragile ceramic vase had been purposely collected and carefully presented. The objects in the hall alone would be more than the value of the car outside the front of house if they were ever to be auctioned. But none of these items had been touched. Antoine’s burglars were either blind or extremely picky.
“Nothing!” said Ally in surprise.
“They wanted something, that’s for sure. It’s just not here anymore. Come, let me show you.”
Antoine led her to a small staircase that descended into the basement. It was the very reason for her being there in the first place, but the scene was not the one she’d expected. The door to the basement had been obliterated and all that remained was splinters of wood and mangled iron. The cellar room itself was nothing to write home about. There was a dusty, uneven floor enclosed by solid but precariously built brick walls held together by loose mortar. A cold, dry air, still not acclimatised to its twenty-first-century cousin, circulated around their lungs.
Every single object that lived within its dank and musty walls had been fondled inappropriately. Chairs lay broken, boxes had been emptied and books had been turned inside out and dumped cruelly into discarded piles. Every removable drawer of a fine antique cabinet, which was probably worth more than most people’s houses, was hanging out of the front of it like the tongues of thirsty dogs.
“Were they after the book?” asked Ally, wondering whether these criminals would ever get an invitation from Mensa.
“No. It’s public knowledge that the book is in the museum.”
“And the rest of the house is untouched?” asked Ally.
“Yes. This was the only place they were interested in.”
“Then what were they after?”
“The coffer.”
“What coffer?”
“The one the book was found inside. The antique black oak cabinet.”
“Then where is it?” said Ally, scanning the room once more to see if she’d missed it under piles of broken wood and brick.
“I sold it,” replied Antoine.
“Sold it! Who to?”
“Bernard Baptiste.”
“Him! What did he want with it?”
“That’s why he came here in the first place. Finding the book was an accident. Bernard originally contacted me three weeks ago to say that he believed there was
an ancient artefact in my basement and if he found it, would I sell it to him?”
“But this room has been partitioned off for centuries, at least that’s what Depuis told me. How did he know about it?”
“He wouldn’t say, but when the builders found it I was true to my word. He bought the coffer and its contents, all except the book which I kept. He seemed more than happy for me to have it.”
“But surely he would have known that the book was the most valuable item in there?”
“He was interested in it of course. In fact he started translating the new prophecy as soon as we found it. Wrote it out right there on that once priceless dresser,” said Antoine, pointing at the dishevelled wooden item leaning diagonally against the wall.
“Then why did he want the coffer?” asked Ally as much to herself.
“You said he was a collector of Nostradamus memorabilia, didn’t you?”
“Yes he is, but the coffer would hardly have a strong link to the man himself, it could have belonged to anyone. But there is no such doubt with the book. What else was inside it?”
“I didn’t take much interest,” replied Antoine. “There certainly were some other items and papers inside.”
In Ally’s search for answers both good news and bad collided together like oil and water. Maybe there was more evidence inside the coffer that might lead her to discover the identity of the prophecy’s real author and in turn bring the temperature down on the world’s anxiety. Disappointingly her main rival, the man whose reputation left so much to be desired, might have beaten her to it. She hated being second and she hated being wrong, although none of these internal arguments really helped explain why Antoine had been burgled in the first place.
“If the coffer isn’t here and no one announced its existence, who’s behind the burglary? And why would they want to steal it?”
“No idea. But I think that’s what we need to find out,” said Antoine.
- Chapter 10 -
The Countess
Yesterday, Ally had clung helplessly to the life support of only one thin lead in her search to discover answers. Today she had more questions than she knew what to do with. What else was in the coffer? And how did anyone know about an item that had lived secretly inside Antoine’s basement, and out of people’s memories, for four hundred years? But someone must know, because someone had tried to steal it. Who would want to? And the most important question, the one that vexed her above all others: what did Bernard Baptiste want with the coffer when the most interesting discovery must have been the book he found inside?
As she wrestled with these questions another one dodged in and out doing its best not to be noticed. It was an uncomfortable question and one she couldn’t shift. Was Antoine Palomer to be trusted? She knew almost nothing about him and certainly not enough to dispel mistrust or embrace everything he said as truth. On the surface he might seem courteous, kind and polite, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was genuine. In situations like this one, where a burglary targets a specific item that only a handful of people were even aware of, you had to suspect those that did. If she removed from her enquiries those with solid alibis it only left one person. Antoine Palomer.
But why would he want to burgle his own house when the contents were his rightful property in the first place. Particularly when he’d already willingly sold the item anyway? What possible motive would he have for fabricating a burglary in those circumstances? It made no sense. Unless of course he had nothing to do with it in the first place, and then there weren’t any suspects at all. She knew one indisputable truth from reading crime novels, if there was a crime there was always a criminal. If not, they’d just be called novels. Unless it was a supernatural crime story and it was the ghosts that done it. There was only one person alive who might provide any meaningful answers. Bernard Baptiste had the coffer and perhaps he could shed light on why someone was trying to steal it.
Fortunately for them Bernard was not only a Frenchman, he was also a local one. He lived in the town of Mâcon in the Beaujolais wine region, an hour’s drive north of Lyon. All they had to do was arrange a visit and seek out the answers to their questions. There would be no chance of Bernard refusing to meet her. Their rivalry, for what it was worth, had always been there bubbling away in the background. Both had careers to maintain and when your income came in part from writing books about Nostradamus they were competing for the same readers. Their approach might differ, but both argued their case of being the world’s foremost expert on the subject. This turn of events would just swell Bernard’s sense of superiority and he’d do anything to rub Ally’s nose in it.
Once she was certain there was nothing more to learn from the basement, Antoine led Ally back up the narrow staircase. At the top she had more time to soak up the décor of the grander hallway that separated a number of reception rooms from each other. There was almost nothing on display in this large, uncluttered space which could be dated to later than the mid-nineteen fifties. Other than one. Amongst the sculptures, tapestries and countless portrait paintings of unknown figures, one piece on the wall, immediately opposite the front door, took prominence.
A canvas photograph, as large as any of the eighteenth-century portraits that made up the collection, was hung pride of place in an exquisite gold frame. A beautiful young woman in a splendid flowing dress held the observer’s gaze as her captivating stare stopped people in their tracks as they entered the house. Maybe this was exactly the effect that Antoine intended. It was as if the woman was standing in both welcome and judgement. The black and white photo did nothing to dim the obvious colour of this young woman’s personality that was conjured in the viewer’s mind by a kind smile and piercing eyes. Even Ally, who had little interest in other people, stopped to admire its quality.
“She would have been eighty this year,” said Antoine, after waiting for the initial reaction of the picture to have the desired impact on Ally’s emotions.
“Your wife?” asked Ally more warmly than she was used to.
“Yes. The Countess left us much too early.”
“Countess?”
“It was a nickname really. My illustrious ancestors came from auspicious stock, not that we ever benefited from it much. Most of our wealth was tied up in trust funds to maintain our many charities. The house is really all that remains of their legacy. Whether or not any of them had titles or wealth is pure speculation, but I liked to call her that name. It suited her.” He stopped momentarily to take his own moment with the picture. “Oh how she would have enjoyed this adventure.”
“Adventure! We’re not on one. This is purely about pulling the pieces of history together to find a solution. I’m not interested in anything else.”
“But isn’t that in itself an adventure? Missing treasures, suspicious characters, misinformation and working with others to solve a puzzle. Don’t you remember being a child and doing all that?”
“No,” replied Ally sternly. “Any suggestion of me once being a child is nothing more than a vicious rumour.”
“It’s a shame you think that way. Remembering our childlike wonder is what keeps us young. The passage of age brings enough burdens without cutting yourself off from a time of innocence. The Countess will remain forever young while the rest of us decay into old age.”
“When did she die?” asked Ally, moving quickly away from any spotlight that might fall on her own painful childhood.
“Shortly after this photo was taken. She was barely in her thirties. We were childless when she died so it brought an end to the long line of our family tree.”
There was little sadness evident in Antoine’s response. The events that he spoke of happened almost half a century ago and, although life had gone on without her for the last five decades, it was clear this woman still owned the keys to Antoine’s heart.
The photo had been taken in a garden, probably during summer, Ally thought, as she looked at it once more. In the background of the picture the flowers were in full bloom
and there was a natural light to the photo maybe from the sun high above her. The woman sat on a wicker chair in a rather conservative black dress and equally dark hat. Ally guessed that it was taken on a Sunday, either before or after church. There was only one other point of interest that caught her attention.
“What’s she wearing around her neck?” asked Ally as she moved closer to the photo.
“Do you mean the locket?”
As Ally’s face came as close to the picture as was possible without losing focus, the detail became clearer. Around the Countess’s neck was a pendant on a chain that nestled just above her bosom. It stood out because of its unique style and intricate design.
“It’s the only heirloom left from my distant heritage. She seldom wore it for fear of it being lost or stolen, although I would catch her sometimes looking at it as if waiting for it to pop open. Its value means more to me than any of the priceless items you see around you. After her death I had it removed from the house. I’m thankful for that on a day like today.”
“Is it meant to be an animal of some kind?” said Ally, trying to make it out in the relative gloom of the hall.
“It’s a ram. The body is made from pearls. It’s a most magnificent piece.”
Their rather pleasant reminiscing, for the first time on a subject that didn’t have anything to do with prophecies, was abruptly shattered by an enormous explosion thirty feet away from them. The doors to the house, which had already had a less than satisfactory twelve hours, were completely blown off their hinges. One was left burning in the hallway while the other landed on the bonnet of the police car. Smoke and flames consumed the entrance hall and a large area of the cobbled pavement. Moments later, the cloud of dust was broken by a hailstorm of black and claret metal shrapnel which flew chaotically through the free space around them. The pair were knocked off their feet instantly and thrown against the wall by the force of the blast.
