by Marie Laval
The drive took her onto dark country roads to Aix-en-Provence where she joined the motorway to Marignane Airport. It was half past midnight when she parked near the arrival terminal. It was almost empty, so she had no difficulty spotting her sister, sitting on a bench with Peter curled up at her side, his head resting on her shoulder.
Chris hugged her.
‘Thanks for coming to get us,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for being a nuisance, but I didn’t know where else to go.’
Amy looked at her, puzzled. That was new. Chris was usually self-centred and rarely took other people’s lives and feelings into account.
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s great to see you both.’
Behind Chris, Peter blinked, stifled a yawn and straightened up.
‘Hi, Aunt Amy.’
‘Hi sweetie,’ she said as she helped him to his feet. ‘I have a surprise for you. It’s in the car.’
‘What happened to your car?’ Chris asked, pointing to the bonnet of the Clio. In the crude electric light of the car park, the red splodges of paint looked even more garish than usual.
Amy sighed. ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’
Michka leapt out with loud yelps and Amy handed Peter the lead. ‘You can hold her lead while she runs around, and if you want, it’ll be your job to look after her at Bellefontaine.’
‘Cool. I’ve always wanted a dog,’ he beamed.
Half an hour later, Amy checked her rear-view mirror and saw that Peter had fallen asleep with the dog on his lap. She smiled.
‘I think he’ll love it at Bellefontaine. You will too… although there are a few things I need to tell you.’
Chris interrupted. ‘Same here. Listen, you were right about Toby. I ignored the signals for too long. I was stupid. The thing was, I didn’t want to see what he was really like. Not only was he cheating on me with half of Manchester, but he was also mixed up with some pretty unsavoury characters.’
Amy drew in a sharp breath.
‘What do you mean? Has he hurt you or Peter?’
Chris let out a bitter laugh.
‘No, he might be a cheat and a liar and God knows what else, he may have never truly cared for me or his son but he's never laid a finger on either of us. The thing is, two weeks ago, he took us to Santa Cruz, in Tenerife. He said it was a short break holiday. In fact, he took us as cover.’
‘Cover for what?’
‘He and his pals were trafficking drugs. I heard and saw enough on that trip to Tenerife to decide to get away from him. When he left yesterday on yet another trip to Spain, I packed our suitcases, grabbed our passports and booked the flights. I won’t be going back, ever.’
‘What about telling the police?’
‘No way. I don’t want Toby and his mates to come after me.’
‘How much does Peter know?’ Amy asked.
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t tell him about the trafficking, of course, but he’s clever and I’m sure he picked up some details here and there. He knows we won’t be going back home.
‘That’s if you can put us up for a while.’
‘Of course, as long as you need,’ Amy agreed. Now wasn’t the time for lectures or taking big decisions about the future.
‘I hope you’ve worked on your French,’ she added.
‘Moi? Bien sûr.’
The sisters exchanged a smile. Chris rested her head on the window, closed her eyes and fell asleep and Amy let out a sigh. Chris may be tired, scared and emotional right now, but she would have to tell the police about Toby eventually. And she would have to go back home one day, if only to sort out her things and sell her house.
It was almost three in the morning when they reached Bellefontaine. Amy warmed up some milk for Peter and while he sat at the kitchen table drinking it, she helped Chris haul their suitcases up.
‘What on earth do you have in that?’ she asked her sister as she heaved one case up the stairs. Chris didn’t answer.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ her sister whispered a short while later after having put Peter to bed. ‘You must be very happy here.’
‘I am, but … well … there have been a few problems,’ Amy started.
Chris rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn.
‘Really? What kind of problems?’
‘I’ll tell you about it in the morning. First you need to sleep.’
‘Thanks, sis. Thanks for taking us in.’ Chris kissed Amy on the cheek. ‘Good night.’
When her alarm rang at seven, Amy tumbled out of bed and headed straight for the shower. Her eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, her body ached, and her head pounded. That morning, even the steaming hot shower didn't revive her.
She wrapped a towel around her and opened her shutters and window onto another clear blue sky. The shower may not have managed to wake her up, but the fresh, scented breeze did.
She threw on a pair of jeans and a red and white embroidered tunic, towel dried her hair, and slipped her feet into a pair of canvas shoes. Downstairs she opened the shutters and the patio doors to let Michka out and started making breakfast. Soon, coffee was brewing in the percolator and croissants were warming up in the oven. She took a brand new jam jar out of the cupboard.
Going through her daily routine helped her focus on the day ahead. First, breakfast. Then, she would prepare Laurent’s room and make lunch. She would ask Chris to join them as she told him what she had discovered so far – including the revelations about Fabien. It was only fair that her sister knew Bellefontaine may not be the safe haven she had hoped for.
Chris came out onto the terrace as Amy was pouring her second cup of coffee. She stretched in the sunshine before sitting down and helping herself to coffee.
‘This is paradise!’
‘Well, maybe not quite. Is Peter still asleep?’
Chris nodded. ‘Poor kid.’
Tears filled Chris’ blue eyes, her chin started to tremble.
‘Why was I so blind where Toby was concerned? And do you know what – I am quite sure I didn’t even love him. I just didn’t want to be alone like …’
‘Like your old maid of a sister?’ Amy finished with a smile.
‘Sorry. Well. You know me. You may be the old maid, but I’ve always been vain and shallow and deep down I’ve always envied you,’ Chris said.
Surprised, Amy squeezed her sister’s hand. ‘At least it’s over, now. ’
‘I’ll wake Peter up,’ Chris said. ‘He can always have a nap in the afternoon if he’s still tired.’
Laurent arrived before lunch, as promised. He had borrowed the museum’s van and some equipment to carry out his own private investigation into Bellefontaine’s garden.
It was like seeing an old friend again. He was wearing one of his checked shirts, but because of the warm weather his sleeves were rolled up and his collar unbuttoned. Amy kissed his cheek, showed him into the kitchen, and introduced him to Chris and Peter who were setting the table for lunch.
‘Don't talk too fast to her,’ she instructed. ‘Her French is rusty.’
After lunch, Amy sent Peter outside with Michka and asked Laurent and Chris to sit down and listen to what she had to say. With hesitation, she told them everything she knew about the Brunis, the secret ceremonies and the forest temple. She told them about Renaud Coste’s account of his liaison with Magali Bruni and the destruction of the temple. Then she spoke about the ceremony she thought she had dreamt, and all the old stories she had heard about rapes and murders, secret rituals and mutilations.
Lastly and with a choked voice, she mentioned Fabien and how she now believed he was involved in the cult.
‘I don’t believe this is happening for real.’ Chris shook her head. ‘It sounds like a horror story.’
‘Exactly,’ Laurent said, smiling at her in approval, ‘therefore the first thing we must do is to eliminate all the supernatural elements – goddesses’ spirits, will-o’ the-wisps, curses, or spells – and focus on the facts.
‘We know that
a Roman fountain and a temple once stood in the woods. We also know that there are underground passages under the hilltop.’
He turned to Amy.
‘Did you say there were three tunnels on that plan of the castle you saw yesterday?’
Amy nodded. ‘Yes, to the west, north, and east of Manoir Coste. Fabien Coste opened up the west tunnel, the one that is supposed to lead all the way to Bellefontaine – perhaps even to the trap door in the cellar.’
‘I will look at it later. I have some equipment in the van, including a hand-held GPR. That’s a ground-penetrating radar to survey the basement floor.
‘Talking about tunnels, There is something that doesn't add up in your theory about Fabien Coste. If indeed he was involved in the cult - whatever that turns out to be - then why did he take you down to the cellar and show you the entrance to the tunnel? Surely the last thing he'd want would be to reveal its existence - especially to you.'
Amy had thought about that very question earlier.
'Maybe he had no alternative after his mother showed us the plans. If he had gone down on his own, like he wanted to at first, he probably would have reported that the tunnels didn't exist anymore. When I insisted on coming with him, he had to fake the discovery of the tunnel. He could always pretend later that the tunnel was blocked or didn't lead anywhere.'
'Hmm ... I'm still not convinced,' Laurent said, shaking his head. 'But let's go back to the temple for now and get our facts straight. I asked Patricia to look through the Museum archives for information about Bonnieux. She also went to Glanum to do some research there. This is what she found.’
He opened his notebook and flicked through a few pages.
‘The topography of this hilltop is very similar to other Salyen settlements in the region. Here in Bonnieux, we have Manoir Coste, which was probably built on the location of the original hill fort where the chief of the tribe and his men lived. Then we have the old village of bories for the rest of the tribe and a temple somewhere in the forest … what is missing is the sanctuary, the priestesses’ dwelling and the temple.’
He paused.
‘However, from the evidence we unearthed when I was last here, I think we can safely assume that the sanctuary was located here at Bellefontaine. It would explain why underground passages link Manoir Coste, Bellefontaine and the old village, as you saw on that map yesterday. There will also be a tunnel leading to the temple. It’s exactly like the other settlements with their old tunnels linking the different areas of the site.’
Panic constricted Amy’s throat.
‘You see, it’s true. It’s all true …’
Laurent laid a calming hand on her arm.
‘Not necessarily. We still have a lot of digging around to do.’ He pulled a face. ‘Literally and figuratively. We also know that back in the 1810s Renaud Coste was involved with Magali Bruni of Bellefontaine, whom some people in Bonnieux accused of leading evil practices in the temple – basically of being a priestess or cult leader. Renaud later seemed to agree with this and ordered the temple to be destroyed and the cedar forest to be planted.
‘What we have after that is pure gossip. Since the destruction of the temple, a so-called malediction has affected the ducs de Coste, most, or all of whom, suffered fatal accidents.’
Laurent grabbed a pen and wrote down a few notes.
‘I will draw the Coste family tree to establish exactly when and how the ducs died and trace the Bruni family tree too. I can do that by checking the registry office and the local archives at the public library in Apt.’
‘So what do you think about the sect, the ceremonies, the rapes, and murders?’ Chris asked, sounding frightened.
‘Here we are leaving the facts for local folklore. I am not denying that people got murdered or hurt around here, but there could be lots of explanations for it, such as muggings or revenge killings. The same goes for rapes, unfortunately. These things do happen without the involvement of an evil cult.’
He glanced at Amy.
‘I’m sorry if I sound dismissive, but is it be possible you dreamt the ceremony? The mind is a strange processing tool. It can store images, sounds, or information for years. You may have watched a programme or read a book about Roman religion years ago. You may have seen the photo of a salinum and believed it was the same one Fabien Coste had in his bedroom.’
He gave a little embarrassed cough and Amy felt her cheeks heat up. She hadn’t explained why she’d been in Fabien’s bedroom but Laurent and Chris must have drawn their own conclusion.
‘You had a nightmare,’ he resumed after a few seconds of silence, ‘a very vivid nightmare, and you sleepwalked into the forest. It is odd, but not unheard of at all. Sleepwalking can occur when people are under a lot of stress.’
‘There was something else,’ Amy said in a quiet voice, ‘something I haven't told you. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the cult or the burglary...’
‘What is it?’ Laurent asked.
Amy told him about her drink being spiked during the reception at Manoir Coste.
‘What did the police say?’
‘They still don’t know who did it, or why,’ Amy answered. ‘And I don’t think they ever will.’
‘You still don’t know who threatened you?’ Chris asked.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t. The voice was hardly a whisper.’
She shivered, unwilling to tell Chris and Laurent about being poked and touched.
‘Anyway,’ she carried on, ‘where do the crystals fit in? And the nightmares poor Eva Barlow had?’
Laurent shrugged.
‘They don’t. I don’t believe crystals can affect anybody’s mind or body, even less give nightmares. Eva Barlow was probably mentally fragile long before coming here.’
‘And if there is indeed a so-called cult,' he carried on, 'it could be just a group of people seeking to re-enact old ceremonies to get cheap thrills. You only have to search the internet for Roman religion or Roman sects to realise that there is everything and anything out there, ranging from the fairly innocuous to the frankly bizarre, complete with dominatrix priestesses and orgiastic rituals.’
‘So you're saying that there might be some kind of kinky sex club around here?’ Chris grinned.
Laurent glanced at Chris and a bright pink flush crept up his neck, all the way to his cheeks.
‘Well … who knows?’
Serious once more, Chris looked at Amy.
‘You must have been so worried all this time, and yet you never said a word. Every time I phoned, you said everything was fine.
‘Has any of this got anything to do with the red paint on your car?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe it was just a prank, along with the dead crow and the slashed tyres.’
‘What dead crow and slashed tyres? What on earth has been going on here? Poor Amy, you’ve been through so much, and all on your own, and I’ve been so selfish as usual!’
Chris gave her a hug, then burst into tears and ran out into the garden.
Laurent looked at Amy enquiringly.
‘Is she alright?’
‘She will be. She just split up from her boyfriend, having realised he was a cheat and a crook.’
Chris had changed. It was the first time ever she admitted to being wrong or self-centred. Maybe they had a chance to become friends after all.
She turned to Laurent.
‘I’ll show you the engravings I bought in the shop at Lourmarin.’
‘The temple is Gallic – early Salyen, I’d say,’ he remarked. ‘The statues look exactly like the one you found in the garden. The fountain however is unmistakably Roman.’
‘The shopkeeper called it a nympheum.’
‘That’s right. It’s a monumental fountain, like those erected by Roman patrician families on the site of a spring or above a sacred cave. This one is a beauty. There aren’t many like it left. It’s a great shame it was destroyed.’
He raked his fingers in his brown hair.
He turned over a few pages.
‘Do you remember the first stones we found here at Bellefontaine? The engravings were fascinating. One was about “The sacred wood in which flows an eternal spring coming out of a dark cave, where you meet the goddesses.” Then there was that one about the enchantment. How did it go? Ah yes, “The spell that flows with the spring, binding hearts together until death tears them apart.”’
He glanced up and smiled.
‘I can’t help it, I still find it incredibly romantic, in a tragic kind of way.’
‘It’s more a curse than a spell, and there’s nothing romantic about it,’ Amy said.
Romantic was mild and flowery, safe and gentle. What she felt for Fabien was at once dark and fiery, overwhelming and all consuming, filled with uncertainty and pain. It wasn’t romantic to love so much – to hurt so much.
‘There are references to the sacred spring on every single fountain you looked at,’ Laurent went on. ‘“ Pulchra fons, Terracula pervigil” translates into “Beautiful fountain or spring, vigilant spectre forever standing guard.” The inscription on the fountain in Saignon tells us that “The temple lives below ground, its entrance under the spring in the forest.”
‘Then we have the Greek name of the goddess, which predates the Latin since the Greeks arrived in Provence earlier – Ρσκλίσίā, which means “The Good Listener” or “The Wish Granter” and was Bona Dea’s Gallic name – her ancient name.’
He paused to turn a few pages.
‘We also know what kind of ritual took place in that underground temple, thanks to the inscription on the Ménerbes fountain. “ Res divina sacrificium, Hominess pro victimis immolare.” A sacrifice for the goddess. A human sacrifice.’
