by Kate Mosse
Straight away he saw her, standing with her back to him in front of a small altar set within an eight-sided apse. Indeed, she was making no attempt to conceal herself. Of the boy, there was no sign.
His chin jutting forward, his eyes darting to left and right, Constant processed up the nave, his stick tapping on the flagstones as his feet fell awkwardly from step to step. There was an empty plinth just inside the door, jagged on the top as if the statue had been torn from it. Familiar plaster saints, set around the walls behind the modest rows of empty pews, marked his passing as he drew nearer to the altar.
‘Mademoiselle Vernier,’ he said sharply, irritated by her inattention.
Still she did not move. Indeed, she seemed unaware of his presence.
Constant stopped and looked down at the pile of cards strewn on the stone floor before the altar. ‘What absurdity is this?’ he said, and stepped into the square.
Now Léonie turned to face him. The hood fell from her face. Constant threw up his diseased hands to shield his eyes from the light. The smile slipped from his lips. He did not understand. He could see the girl’s features, the same direct gaze, the hair now tumbling loose as it had been in the portrait he had stolen from the rue de Berlin, but she was transformed into something other.
As he stood there, captivated and blinded, she began to change. The bones, the sinews, the skull beneath the skin started to push through.
Constant screamed.
Something swooped down upon him and the silence he had not recognised as silence was broken in a cacophony of shrieking and howling. He clamped his hands over his ears, to stop the creatures from entering into his head, but his fingers were pulled away by talons and claws, even though not a mark was laid upon him.
It seemed as if the painted figures had stepped down from the wall, each now transformed into a dark version of their fairer selves. Nails turned to talons, fingers to claws, eyes to fire and ice. Constant buried his head in his chest, dropping his stick as he curled his arms over his face to protect himself. He fell to his knees, gasped for breath as his heart began to lose its rhythm. He tried to move forward, out of the square on the ground, but an invisible force, like an overwhelming wind, kept pushing him back. The howling, the vibrating of the music was getting louder. It seemed to come from outside as well as in, echoing inside his head. Splitting open his mind.
‘No!’ he shouted.
But the voices were increasing in volume and intensity. Uncomprehending, he looked for Léonie. He could no longer see her at all. The light was too bright, the air around shimmering with incandescent smoke.
Then, behind him, or rather from beneath the very surface of his skin, came a different noise. A scraping, like the claws of a wild animal, grating along the surface of his bones. He flinched and jerked, crying out in agony, then fell to the floor in a rushing of air.
And suddenly, crouched on his chest, with a reek of fish and pitch, was a demon, gaunt and twisted, with red leathery skin, a horned brow and strange, penetrating blue eyes. The demon that he knew could not exist. Did not exist. Yet the face of Asmodeus was looking down upon him.
‘No!’ His mouth opened in one final howl, before the devil took him.
Instantly, the air in the sepulchre was still. The whisperings and sighings of the spirits grew fainter until at last, there was silence. The cards lay scattered on the ground. The faces upon the wall became flat and two-dimensional once more, but their expressions and attitudes had shifted subtly. Each bore an unmistakable resemblance to those who had lived - and died - in the Domaine de la Cade. Like Léonie’s paintings.
Outside in the clearing, Constant’s manservant cowered from the wind, the smoke and the light. He heard his master scream, once, then again. The inhuman sound kept him too petrified to move.
Only now, when all had fallen quiet and the lights within the sepulchre had steadied, did he summon the courage to come out of his hiding place. Slowly, he approached the heavy door and found it slightly ajar. His tentative hand encountered no resistance.
‘Monsieur?’
He stepped inside. ‘Monsieur?’ he called again.
A draught, like an exhalation, emptied the sepulchre of smoke in a single, cool breath, leaving the place lit by the lamp on the wall.
He saw the body of his master immediately. He was lying face down on the ground, in front of the altar, a deck of playing cards scattered all about him. The servant rushed forward and rolled his master’s emaciated form on to its back, then recoiled. Across Constant’s face were three deep and red gashes, like the savage marks of a wild animal.
Like claws. Like the marks he had carved on the children they had killed.
The man crossed himself mechanically and leant forward to close his master’s wide, horrified eyes. Then his hand stopped as he noticed the rectangular card lying across Constant’s chest, over his heart. Le Diable.
Had it been there all along?
Uncomprehending, the servant’s hand went to his pocket where he could swear he had placed the card his master had instructed him to leave with the body of Curé Gélis in Coustaussa. The pocket was empty.
Had he dropped it? What other explanation could there be?
There was a moment of recognition, then the manservant staggered back from his master’s body and started to run down the nave, past the unseeing eyes of the statues, out of the sepulchre, away from the grimacing face on the card.
In the valley below, the midnight bell began to toll.
PART XII
The Ruins October 2007
CHAPTER 98
DOMAINE DE LA CADE
WEDNESDAY 31ST OCTOBER 2007
‘Dr O’Donnell,’ Hal shouted again.
It was ten past twelve. For more than fifteen minutes he’d been waiting outside Shelagh O’Donnell’s house. He’d tried knocking. Neither of her neighbours was in, so he’d gone for a walk and come back, started knocking again. Still, nothing.
Hal was certain he was in the right place - he’d checked the address several times - and he didn’t think she could have forgotten. He was trying to keep positive, but it was becoming more of a challenge with every second that passed. Where was she? The traffic was bad this morning, so maybe she’d got held up? Maybe she was in the shower and hadn’t heard him?
The worst-case scenario - and, he had to admit, the most likely - was that Shelagh had thought better of going with him to the police. Her dislike of authority was clear and Hal could easily see her losing what little nerve she had without him and Meredith there to back her up.
He pushed his fingers through his mop of hair, took a step back and looked up at the shuttered windows. The house stood in the middle of a pretty row next to the River Aude, overlooking the water, shielded on one side from the walkway by a fence of green angle-iron and split bamboo canes. It occurred to him that he might be able to see into the garden from the back. He followed the line of the buildings, then doubled back on himself. It was hard to tell which house was which from the back, but he matched the colour wash of the walls - one house was painted pale blue, another a thin yellow - until he was confident he knew which was Shelagh O’Donnell’s property.
There was a low wall at right angles to the hedge. Hal walked closer to get a glimpse of the terrace. Hope sparked in his chest. It looked as if there was someone there.
‘Dr O’Donnell? It’s me, Hal Lawrence.’
There was no answer.
‘Dr O’Donnell? It’s a quarter past twelve.’
She appeared to be lying face down on the small terrace next to the house. It was a sheltered spot and the sun was surprisingly warm for the tail-end of October, but it was hardly sunbathing weather. Perhaps she was reading a book; he couldn’t see. But whatever she was doing, he thought with irritation, she had clearly decided to ignore him - to pretend he wasn’t there. His view was obscured by a pair of unkempt planters.
‘Dr O’Donnell?’
His phone vibrated in his pocket. His mind only half on i
t, he pulled it out and read the message.
‘Found them. Sepulchre now. xx.’
Hal stared blankly at the words on the screen, then his brain flipped into gear and he started to smile, understanding Meredith’s message.
‘At least someone’s having a productive morning,’ he muttered, then went back to the matter in hand. He wasn’t going to let it drop. After all the effort he’d put in to persuading the commissaire to see them this morning, he wasn’t going to let Shelagh duck out.
‘Dr O’Donnell!’ he called out again. ‘I know you’re there.’
He started to wonder. Even if she had changed her mind, it was odd that she was taking no notice at all. He was making enough noise. He hesitated, then pulled himself up and climbed over the wall. There was a heavy stick lying on the terrace, half pushed under the hedge. He picked it up, then noticed there were marks at the top.
Blood, he realised.
He ran across the terrace to where Shelagh O’Donnell was lying motionless. One look was enough to see she’d been hit, and more than once. He checked her pulse. She was still breathing, although she didn’t look great.
Hal pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled for an ambulance with shaking fingers.
‘Maintenant!’ he shouted, after he’d given the address three times. ‘Oui, elle souffle! Mais vite, alors!’
Hal disconnected. He rushed into the house, found a blanket draped over the back of the sofa, ran back outside. He laid it carefully over Shelagh to keep her warm, knowing he shouldn’t attempt to move her, then went back into the house and out the front door into the street. He felt guilty about what he was about to do, but he couldn’t wait around in Rennes-les-Bains for the paramedics. He had to get back.
He hammered on the neighbour’s door. When she answered, he told the startled woman what had happened, asked her to stay with Dr O’Donnell until the ambulance arrived, then bolted to his car before she had a chance to object.
He fired up the engine and put his foot on the accelerator. There was only one person who could be responsible. He had to get back to the Domaine de la Cade. And find Meredith.
Julian Lawrence slammed the car door and charged up the front steps of the hotel.
He shouldn’t have panicked.
There were beads of sweat running down his face and soaking into the collar of his shirt. He stumbled into reception. He needed to get to his study and calm down. Then work out what to do.
‘Monsieur? Monsieur Lawrence?’
He swung round, his vision a little blurred, to see the receptionist waving at him.
‘Monsieur Lawrence,’ Eloise started, then broke off. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he snapped. ‘What is it?’
She recoiled. ‘Your nephew asked me to give you this.’
Julian covered the space in three strides and snatched the paper from Eloise’s outstretched hands. The note was from Hal, curt and to the point, wanting to set up a meeting between them at two o’clock.
Julian screwed the paper in his fist. ‘What time did he leave this?’ he demanded.
‘About ten thirty, Monsieur, just after you went out.’
‘Is my nephew in the hotel now?’
‘I believe he went to Rennes-les-Bains just before noon to collect the visitor who was with him earlier. To my knowledge, he hasn’t yet come back.’
‘Was the American girl with him?’
‘No. She went out into the gardens,’ she replied, glancing at the doors to the terrace.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘At least one hour, Monsieur.’
‘Did she say what she was doing? Where she was going? Did you hear anything between her and my nephew, Eloise? Anything?’
Her growing alarm at his manner showed in her eyes, but she answered calmly.
‘No, Monsieur, although ...’
‘What?’
‘Before she went out to the gardens she asked if she might borrow a - I don’t know the English word - une pelle.’
Julian started. ‘A spade?’
Eloise leapt back in alarm as Julian smacked his hands down on the desk, leaving two damp palm prints on the counter. Ms Martin would hardly ask for a spade if she didn’t intend to dig. And she had waited until she knew he had left the hotel.
‘The cards,’ he muttered. ‘She knows where they are.’
‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a, monsieur?’ said Eloise nervously. ‘Vous semblez—’
Julian didn’t answer, just turned on his heel, strode across the hall and threw open the door to the terrace, sending it slamming back against the wall.
‘What shall I say when your nephew comes back?’ Eloise called after him.
From the small window at the back of reception, she watched him stride away. Not down to the lake, as Madame Martin had done earlier, but in the direction of the woods.
CHAPTER 99
There was an avenue of yew trees straight ahead and the echo of an old path. It seemed to lead nowhere, but as Meredith looked closer, she could see the outline of foundations and a few broken stones on the ground. There was once a building here.
This is the place.
Holding the box containing the deck of cards, she walked slowly towards where the sepulchre had once stood. The grass was damp under her feet, as if it had recently rained. She could feel the abandonment and isolation of the place through the soles of her muddy boots.
Meredith bit back her disappointment. A few blocks, the remains of an outer wall, otherwise just empty space. Grass as far as the eye could see.
Look closer.
Meredith looked into the space. Now she saw that the surface was not entirely flat. With a little imagination, she realised she could just about work out the footprint of the sepulchre. A patch of ground, maybe twenty feet long by ten feet wide, like a sunken garden. Clutching the handles of the box a little tighter, she stepped forward. Only as she was doing so did Meredith realise she’d lifted her foot.
As if stepping over a threshold.
Straight away, the light seemed to change. To grow denser, more opaque. The roaring of the wind in her ears was louder, like a high repeated note or the buzz along telephone wires in the breeze. And she could detect the slightest scent of incense, the heady smell of damp stone and ancient worship hanging in the air.
She put the box down, then straightened up and looked around. Some trick of the air made a soft mist rise from the damp soil. Then pinpricks of light began to appear, one by one, hanging suspended around the periphery of the ruin, as if some invisible hand was lighting a set of tiny candles. As each halo of light connected to the rest, they gave shape to the vanished walls of the sepulchre. Through the veil of thin cloud, Meredith thought she saw the outline of letters on the ground - C-A-D-E. As she stepped forward, the surface beneath her boots felt different too. No longer earth and grass, but hard, cold flagstones.
Meredith knelt down, oblivious to the wet seeping through the knees of her jeans. She took out the deck and shut the lid. Not wishing to spoil the cards, she took off her jacket and laid it, inside out, across the workbox. She shuffled the cards, as Laura had showed her in Paris, then cut the deck into three separate piles with her left hand. She put them back together - middle, top, bottom - and placed the entire deck face down on her makeshift table.
I cannot sleep.
Meredith could not possibly attempt a reading for herself. Every time she read through the notes she’d made, she was more confused by the meanings than before. She just intended to turn the cards - perhaps eight, respecting the relationship of the music with the place - until some pattern emerged.
Until, as Laura promised, the cards told the story.
She drew the first card and smiled to see the familiar features of La Justice. Despite the shuffling and cutting of the cards, it was the same card that had been on the top when she found the deck in the cachette in the dry riverbed.
The second card was La Tour, a card of conflict and threat.
She placed it beside the first, then drew again. The clear blue eyes of Le Pagad looked up at her, one hand pointing to heaven and one to earth, the infinity symbol above his head. It was a slightly menacing figure, neither clearly good, nor clearly bad. As she stared, Meredith started to think she knew his face, although she could not yet recognise him.
Card four made her smile again: Le Mat. Anatole Vernier, in his white suit, boater and walking stick in hand, as painted by his sister. La Prêtresse followed him, Isolde Vernier, beautiful and elegant and sophisticated. Then Les Amoureux, Isolde and Anatole together.
