Sepulchre

by Kate Mosse

  She occupied herself by looking at the photographs and paintings hanging on the wall around the lobby. They were the standard oil paintings to be found in every countryside hotel. Rural views, misty towers, shepherds, mountains, nothing remarkable. The photographs were more interesting, clearly all chosen to reinforce the fin de siècle ambience. Framed portraits in sepia tones, brown and grey. Women with serious expressions, tight-nipped waists and big skirts, hair swept up. Men with moustaches and beards, in formal poses, straight-backed and staring into the lens.

  Meredith ran her eyes over the walls, taking in the general impression rather than the specifics of each shot, until she came to one portrait tucked in right by the curve of the staircase, just above the piano she’d noticed last night. A formal pose in brown and white, the black wooden frame chipped at the corners, she recognised the square in Rennes-les-Bains. She took a step closer. In the centre of the photograph, on an ornate metal chair, sat a man with a black moustache, his dark hair swept back from his forehead and his top hat and cane balanced across his knees. Behind him, to his left, was a beautiful, ethereal-looking woman, slim and elegant in a well-cut dark jacket, high-collared shirt and long skirt. Her black half-veil was lifted off her face, revealing light hair pinned back in an artful chignon. Her slim fingers, sheathed in black, rested lightly upon his shoulder. To the other side was a younger girl, her curly hair arranged beneath a felt hat and dressed in a cropped jacket with brass buttons and velvet trim.

  I’ve seen her before.

  Meredith narrowed her eyes. There was something about the girl’s direct, bold gaze that drew her in, sending an echo slipping through her mind. A shadow of another photograph like it? A painting? The cards maybe? She dragged the heavy piano stool to one side and leaned in, racking her brains, but the memory refused to come. The girl was dazzlingly pretty, with tumbling locks, a pert chin and eyes that stared straight into the heart of the camera.

  Meredith looked back to the man in the middle. There was a clear family resemblance. Brother and sister maybe? They had the same long lashes, the same unswerving focus, the same tilt of the head. The other woman seemed less definite, somehow. Her colouring, her pale hair, her slightly detached air. For all her physical proximity to the others, she seemed insubstantial. There, but not there. As if, at any moment, she might slip from sight altogether. Like Debussy’s Mélisande, Meredith thought, she carried a suggestion of belonging to another time and place.

  Meredith felt her heart lock down. It was the same expression she remembered, looking up into her birth mother’s eyes when she was little. Sometimes Jeanette’s face was gentle, wistful. Sometimes it was angry, distorted. But always, on good or bad days, that same air of distraction, of a shifting mind settling elsewhere, fixed on people no one else could see, hearing words no one else could hear.

  Enough of this.

  Determined not to be disabled by her bad memories, Meredith reached forward and lifted the photograph away from the wall, looking for some kind of confirmation that it was Rennes-les-Bains, a date, any identifying marks.

  The creased brown waxed paper was coming unstuck from the frame, but the words printed on the back in block capitals were clear.

  RENNES-LES-BAINS, OCTOBRE 1891, and then the studio credit, EDITIONS BOUSQUET. Curiosity took the place of her unwelcome emotions.

  Beneath that, three names.

  MADEMOISELLE LÉONIE VERNIER, MONSIEUR ANATOLE VERNIER, MADAME ISOLDE LASCOMBE.

  Meredith felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, remembering the tomb at the far edge of the cemetery in Rennes-les-Bains: FAMILLE LASCOMBE-BOUSQUET. Now, on a photograph hanging on the wall, the two names joined once more.

  She was certain the two younger figures were the Verniers, brother and sister, surely, rather than husband and wife, given the physical similarities between them? The older woman had the air of someone who had seen more. Lived a less sheltered existence. Then, in a shot, Meredith realised where she’d seen the Verniers before. A snapshot of a moment in Paris, settling the check in Le Petit Chablisien in the street in which Debussy had once lived. The composer looking down from the frame, saturnine and discontented. And beside him, his neighbours on the restaurant wall, a photograph of this same man, this same striking girl, although with a different and older woman.

  Meredith kicked herself for not paying more attention at the time. For a moment she even thought about calling the restaurant and asking if they had any information about the family portrait they displayed so prominently. Then the thought of having such a conversation in French, on the telephone, made her dismiss the idea.

  As she stared at the photograph, in her mind’s eye, the other portrait seemed to shimmer behind it, shadows of the girl and the boy, the people they had been once and were now. For a second she knew - thought she knew - how, if not yet why, the stories she had been following might be interlinked.

  She hung the frame back on the wall, thinking she could borrow it later. As she pushed the heavy piano stool back to its original position, she noticed the lid of the instrument was now open. The ivory keys were a little yellow, the edges chipped like old teeth. Late nineteenth century, she reckoned. A Bluthner boudoir grand.

  She pressed middle C. The note echoed clear and loud into the private space. She looked round, guilty, but no one was paying any attention. Too wrapped up in their own affairs. Still standing, as if sitting down would commit herself to something, Meredith played the scale of A minor. Just a couple of low octaves in the left hand. Then the arpeggio with her right. The chill of the keys on her fingertips felt good.

  Like she had come home.

  The stool was a deep mahogany with ornate carved legs and a red velvet cushion stapled to the lid by a line of brass studs. To Meredith, snooping around in other people’s music collections was as interesting as running one’s fingers along a friend’s bookshelves when they stepped out of the room for a moment. The brass hinges creaked as she opened the lid, releasing the distinctive scent of wood, old music and pencil lead.

  Inside was a neat pile of books and loose sheet music. Meredith went through the stack, smiling as she came across sheet music for Debussy’s Clair de lune and La Cathédrale engloutie, in their distinctive pale yellow Durand covers. The regular collections of Beethoven and Mozart sonatas, as well as Bach’s The Well-Tempered Clavier, volumes one and two. European classics, exercises, a little sheet music, a couple of show tunes from Offenbach’s La Vie Parisienne and Gigi.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said a voice at her shoulder. ‘I’m happy to wait.’

  ‘Hal!’

  She let the lid of the stool fall shut with a guilty snap, then turned to see him smiling at her. He looked better this morning, good in fact. The lines of worry, of misery had gone from the corners of his eyes and he wasn’t so pale.

  ‘You sound surprised,’ he said. ‘Did you think I was going to stand you up?’

  ‘No, not at all . . .’ She stopped and grinned. ‘Well, yes, maybe. It crossed my mind.’

  He spread his arms out. ‘As you can see, present and correct and ready to go.’

  They stood, a little awkward, then Hal leaned over the piano stool and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry I was late.’ He gestured at the piano. ‘Are you sure you don’t want—’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Meredith cut across him. ‘Maybe later.’

  They walked together across the tiled floor of the lobby, Meredith aware of the small distance between them and the smell of his soap and aftershave.

  ‘Do you know where you want to start looking for her?’

  ‘Her?’ she said quickly. ‘Who?’

  ‘Lilly Debussy,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘I’m sorry, isn’t that what you said you were hoping to do this morning? A little research?’

  She blushed. ‘Sure, yes. Absolutely.’

  Meredith experienced a rush of embarrassment at jumping to the wrong conclusion. She didn’t want to explain her other reason for being in Rennes-les-Bains - her real
reason, she guessed - it just felt too personal. But how would Hal know what she’d been thinking about at the moment he arrived? He wasn’t a mind-reader.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said again. ‘On the trail of the first Mrs Debussy. If Lilly ever was here, I’m going to find out how, why and when.’

  Hal smiled. ‘Shall we take my car? I’m happy to drive you wherever you want to go.’

  Meredith thought about it. It would leave her freer to take notes and look around properly, check out the map.

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  As they walked out the door and down the steps, Meredith was aware of the eyes of the girl in the photograph on her back.

  CHAPTER 45

  The drive and the grounds looked very different in daylight.

  October sun flooded the gardens, burnishing everything with intense colour. Meredith caught the smell of damp burning bonfires and the perfume of sun on wet leaves through the half-opened car window. A little further away, a more dappled light fell on the deep green bushes and high box hedge. Everything was outlined as if in gold and silver.

  ‘I’m taking the back way, cross-country to Rennes-le-Château. Much quicker than heading into Couiza and out again.’

  The road doubled back and twisted up on itself as it climbed through the wooded hills. There was every shade of green, every shade of brown, every hue of crimson and copper and gold, chestnuts, oaks, bright yellow broom, silver hazel and birch. On the ground, beneath the pines, huge cones lay as if left to mark the way.

  Then a final twist in the road, and suddenly they were out of the woods and into wide expanses of meadows and pasture.

  Meredith felt her spirits lift at the views unfolding before her.

  ‘It’s wonderful. So amazingly beautiful.’

  ‘I remembered something I think will really interest you,’ Hal said. She heard the smile in his voice. ‘When I told my uncle I was going to be out this morning - and why - he reminded me that there are allegations of a connection between Debussy and Rennes-le-Château He was unusually helpful, in fact.’

  Meredith turned to face him. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m assuming you know the basic stories about the place?’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t think so ...’

  ‘It’s the village that sparked all the Holy Blood and the Holy Grail stuff? Da Vinci Code? The Templar Legacy? Ringing any bells? Bloodline of Christ?’

  Meredith pulled a face. ‘Sorry. I’m more a non-fiction girl - biography, history, theory, that kind of stuff. Facts.’

  Hal laughed. ‘OK, quick précis. The story is that Mary Magdalene was in fact married to Jesus and had children by him. After the Crucifixion, she fled, some say to France. Marseille, lots of places along the Mediterranean coast, all lay claim to being where she came ashore. Fast forward nine hundred years, to 1891, when it’s alleged the priest of Rennes-le-Château, Bérenger Saunière, came across parchments demonstrating this bloodline of Christ, going all the way from the present day to the first century AD.’

  Meredith went still. ‘Eighteen ninety-one?’

  Hal nodded. ‘That’s when Saunière began a massive renovation project that was to last for many years - starting with the church, but in the end gardens, graveyard, house, everything.’ He stopped. Meredith felt him glance at her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ she said quickly. ‘Sorry. Go on.’

  ‘The bloodline parchments were supposed to have been hidden inside a Visigoth pillar, way back when. Most locals think the whole thing was a hoax from start to finish. Records contemporaneous with Saunière don’t mention any sort of great mystery associated with Rennes-le-Château, other than a dramatic increase in Saunière’s material circumstances. ’

  ‘He got rich?’

  Hal nodded. ‘The church hierarchy accused him of simony - that is, selling masses for money. His parishioners were more charitable. They thought he had discovered some cache of Visigoth treasure and didn’t begrudge him, since he spent so much of it on the church and his parishioners.’

  ‘When did Saunière die?’ she asked, remembering the dates on Henri Boudet’s memorial in the church in Rennes-les-Bains.

  Hal turned his blue eyes on her. ‘Nineteen seventeen,’ he said, ‘leaving everything to his housekeeper, Marie Denarnaud. It wasn’t until the late 1970s that all the religious conspiracy theories began to surface.’

  She scribbled that information down too. The name Denarnaud had appeared on several tombs in the graveyard.

  ‘What does your uncle think about all the stories?’

  Hal’s face clouded over. ‘That it’s good for business,’ he said, then lapsed into silence.

  Since there was clearly no love lost between him and his uncle, Meredith wondered why Hal was sticking around now the funeral was over. One look at his face suggested he wouldn’t welcome the question, so she left it.

  ‘So, Debussy?’ she prompted in the end.

  Hal seemed to pull his thoughts together. ‘Sorry. There was supposed to have been a secret society formed to act as guardians of the bloodline parchments, the things Saunière may or may not have found in the Visigoth pillar. This organisation was alleged to have had some very famous leaders, figureheads if you like. Newton, for one, Leonardo da Vinci for another. And Debussy.’

  Meredith was so stunned, she burst out laughing.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Hal said, starting to grin. ‘But I’m just giving you the story as my uncle told it.’

  ‘It is totally absurd. Debussy lived for his music. And he was not a clubbable person. Very private, very loyal to a small group of friends. The thought of him running some secret society . . . well, just plain crazy!’ She wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve. ‘What’s the evidence to support this bizarre theory?’

  Hal shrugged. ‘Saunière did entertain many important Parisians and guests at Rennes-le-Château around the turn of the last century - something else that fuelled the conspiracy theories - heads of state, singers. Someone called Emma Calvé? Ring any bells?’

  Meredith thought. ‘French soprano, around at the right sort of time, but I’m pretty certain she never sang a major role for Debussy.’ She pulled out her notebook and wrote down the name. ‘I’ll check it out.’

  ‘So it could fit?’

  ‘Any theory can be made to fit if you try hard enough. Doesn’t make it true.’

  ‘Says the scholar.’

  Meredith could hear the gentle teasing in his voice and liked it. ‘Says the person who’s spent half her life in a library. Real life is never so neat. It’s messy. Stuff overlaps, facts contradict each other. You find one piece of evidence, think it’s all going on. You’ve nailed it. Next thing you know, you come across something else that turns it all on its head.’

  For a while, they drove on in companionable silence, both locked in their own thoughts. They passed a substantial farm and crossed a ridge. Meredith noticed the landscape this side of the hill was different. Not so green. Grey rocks, like teeth, seemed to push out of the rust-coloured earth as if a series of violent earthquakes had forced up the hidden heart of the world. Slashes of red soil, like wounds in the land. It was a less hospitable environment, more forbidding.

  ‘It makes you realise,’ she said, ‘how little the essential landscape has changed. Take the cars and the buildings out of the equation, and you’re left with mountains, gorges, valleys that have been here tens of thousands of years.’

  She felt Hal’s attention sharpen. She was intensely aware of the gentle rise and fall of his breathing in the confined space.

  ‘I couldn’t see it last night. It all seemed too small, too insignificant to have been the centre of anything. But now . . .’ Meredith broke off. ‘Up here, the sheer scale of things is different. It makes it more plausible that Saunière might have found something of value.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying he did or he didn’t, only that it gives substance to the theory.’

  Hal nodded. ‘
Rhedae - the old name for Rennes-le-Château - was at the heart of the Visigoth empire in the south. Fifth, sixth and early seventh centuries.’ He glanced at her, then back to the road. ‘But from your professional standpoint, doesn’t it seem a long time - too long - for something to lie undiscovered? If there was anything genuine to find - Visigoth or even earlier, Roman, I guess - surely it would have come to light before 1891?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Meredith replied. ‘Think of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It’s surprising how some things turn up, while others stay hidden for thousands of years. According to the guidebook, there are the remains of a Visigoth watchtower nearby in the village of Fa and Visigoth crosses in the cemetery at the village of Cassaignes, both discovered pretty recently.’