The Last Scion

by Richard Reed

“Then I will try to speak to him at lunchtime, David.”

  “Thanks, Hélène – I really appreciate it. You don’t happen to have any photos of it, do you?”

  “Sure, I have one on my computer – here, you can look,” she said, turning the monitor round so he could see it. David could see a clear picture of the cave entrance, plus, unusually, two smaller pictures taken at different angles on the right-hand side of the screen.

  “Is there any chance of printing that off for me?”

  “Perhaps, after lunch. It is quieter – I will have more time,” she said, nodding to the queue of people waiting at the caisse.

  Rachel grabbed David’s arm and frogmarched him into the Finds Room. “Are you crazy? Now everyone is going to know what we’re up to.”

  “You were quite happy to ‘tell all’ to Dubois. This could save us a lot of time and trouble.”

  “That was different. He genuinely seemed to have something to offer – he showed us those deposit slips from the bank in Budapest, remember.”

  “Well, for all Hélène knows, we’re just doing a bit of sightseeing now the dig is over. I’ll say something to that effect when she gets back from lunch.”

  The morning seemed to drag, and at 12 o’clock sharp, Hélène closed the museum for the customary two-hour French lunch break. David focused on writing his official report for DRAC, the French archaeological authority, while Rachel took advantage of Hélène’s absence to go through the photos on David’s laptop of their illicit excursion into the crypt.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Hélène returned. She seemed ill at ease, and a little more distant than usual.

  David gave her a few minutes to get settled back at her desk before going over to her. “Any luck?” he asked.

  “Monsieur?”

  “La Grotte du Fournet – did you speak to someone about taking us to see it?”

  “Oui.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid he does not have the time today.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Or tomorrow, or the day after that.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame. Never mind – can you print out that picture for me?”

  Hélène visibly blanched. “Non.”

  “But you said…”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Well, could you at least point it out for us on the map?”

  Hélène hesitated, clearly very uncomfortable at refusing such a seemingly harmless request from someone who had become a close colleague over the preceding months.

  “You did say you knew where it was?” queried David.

  “Oui…”

  “Then I’ll go and get the map.” He went out to the car and returned moments later. “Here we go,” he said opening out the map. “Here’s Rennes-le-Château. So where exactly is La Grotte?”

  Again, Hélène hesitated. “Un moment – I am not familiar with the map.” She hesitantly traced her finger all over the map around Rennes, before unconvincingly settling on a spot close to the road leading up to the village.

  “It is here, David. Definitely here,” she said beaming him an artificial smile.

  “Right – thanks,” said David tersely, and grabbing the map, marched out of the museum.

  “What was all that about?” asked Rachel.

  “You tell me!” said David angrily. “You saw where she was pointing on the map! We pass that spot every day – there’s nothing there, and she damn well knows it! Someone’s got to her – she was quite happy to print me off a picture before she went to lunch.”

  “Shh, for God’s sake keep your voice down! We’re going to be here for a few more weeks yet, tidying up, and we don’t want to alienate her. Obviously someone’s given her orders to keep shtum about it. They probably get fed up with treasure hunters traipsing all over the place – you know how much damage they’ve done. Frankly, it was a daft idea to ask her in the first place – I’m sure Dubois will know.”

  “Well, just in case he doesn’t, let’s ask at the bookshop.”

  They walked the few yards down the hill to the shop where Rachel had bought her book the day before, and went inside. A smattering of tourists were browsing the shelves, and this time an earnest-looking young man was seated at the caisse.

  “Let me do the talking,” hissed Rachel, then turned on her most alluring, wide-eyed smile. “Bonjour,” she said to the man.

  “Bonjour, mam’selle,” he said, with obvious interest.

  “I wonder if you could help us. As you probably know, we’ve been working on the dig, and now it’s finished we want to do some sightseeing.”

  “Of course, I have been following the dig with interest! How can I help?”

  “I understand Saunière used to visit a place called La Grotte du Fournet – could you show us where it is on the map?”

  His face darkened. “I’m afraid not, mademoiselle. It is forbidden,” he said sternly.

  “Forbidden?”

  “Yes – it is on private land. You would be trespassing. It’s the treaure-hunters,” he added, trying to soften the blow. “They cause so much damage.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Rachel, visibly disappointed. “Thanks, anyway.”

  They slowly made their way back up to the museum, to find Dubois waiting for them.

  “Bonjour mes amis,” he said as they approached. “Did you find what you were seeking?”

  “No,” said Rachel shortly. “We were asking for directions.”

  “Directions? You should have asked me.”

  “Well, since you’re offering, perhaps you can tell us how to find La Grotte du Fournet, because no-one else around here seems inclined to help us.”

  “La Grotte du Fournet?” queried Dubois smoothly. “I can explain where it is, but it is hard to find on foot. And it is on private land.”

  “As everyone has been at great pains to tell us,” put in David acidly. “Tell me, if you knew about this place, why didn’t you mention it? You said you wanted to help us, yet you failed to mention the grotto, or the fact that La Tour Magdala directly overlooks it. That’s quite relevant, don’t you think?”

  “M’sieur, I understand your frustration, but you must realise the damage that treasure-hunters have caused here. They will stop at nothing – they have already dug up most of La Grotte, which is a burial site ancien. The people here are wary – tourists are one thing, but they do not want to see their heritage destroyed. I did not feel it would aid your investigation. If you lived here, perhaps you would feel the same way.”

  “Yes, I do understand that,” said Rachel. “But we’re archaeologists – we’re not going to dig up anything without permission.” She blushed as she realised that Dubois, of all people, would know that was a lie.

  He smiled benignly. “It’s not a problem. I will take you there later this afternoon, if you wish.”

  “Really?” said Rachel enthusiastically. “That would be absolutely fantastic.”

  “It’s my pleasure! But no digging – or you will get me into trouble with the mayor. And in the meantime, can I suggest you put that parchment somewhere safe?” he said, turning to David.

  “This place is alarmed, if that’s what you mean,” said David.

  Dubois smiled patiently. “That would not deter the people we are dealing with. Do you have a safe?”

  “The museum has a small safe we sometimes use.”

  “That will do for now, though I suggest that as soon as possible, you place it in a safe deposit box at a bank.”

  “Well, it’s stable now, so I can arrange that, once it’s been photographed. We’ve got a special camera here for copying documents, so I can get that done before we go.”

  “Very well – there is someone I have to see, in any event. Shall we meet back here at, say, four o’clock?”

  When Dubois had left, Rachel turned to David. “I get the impression you don’t really believe any of this,” she said accusingly.

  “I believe we have a 1st century parchmen
t, with a fascinating message that will be of great interest to theologians. And I suppose it’s theoretically possible that a descendant of Mary Magdalene is alive today who can somehow prove her lineage – assuming Mary did actually marry someone. Beyond that, it’s just so much speculation. Uninformed speculation, at that. It’s one thing to draw up rational theories, based on facts you have already uncovered. But this… this is just pure James Bond territory. I mean, we’ve no proof your accident was anything other than just an accident. Do you really think the Church would go around plotting to kill people? I’m a scientist, not a New Age investigator.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes in frustration. “I agree we have no proof of any kind of plot. But that accident was pretty weird. I’m sure that car had been waiting – and I certainly heard it accelerate before it hit me. It doesn’t hurt to take precautions, does it? Even if the Church doesn’t want to get its hands on that parchment, you can be sure plenty of treasure hunters would. You’ve seen what it’s like up here. There’s hardly a patch of ground they haven’t dug up trying to find the gold they’re convinced is buried here. And from my point of view, if I can find the living relative of the Magdalene, can’t you see what a coup that would be? The implications are enormous. Not just for obscure theologians – for everyone. Jesus was married and his offspring are alive today – it would change the world, forever!”

  “Even if she’s alive, even is she has some kind proof that her ancestors came from 1st century Palestine, that doesn’t prove she married Jesus. Look, I realise you’ve got a documentary to get out, and National Geographic is footing the bill, so I’ll go along with this – up to a point. But please don’t ask me to suspend my critical judgement.”

  They grabbed the camera, theodolite, tape measure, sketchpad and notebook, and after donning their walking boots – Dubois had warned they would have to cover some rough ground – they met him back at the Range Rover at the appointed hour.

  It was a short drive out of the village down some increasingly narrow country lanes, until the road abruptly turned into a gravel track. Dubois urged them to keep going, and after another mile or so of off-road driving, he indicated to pull over. An ill-defined path meandered across the hill from the road, and they set about following it through the maquis, a mixture of dense, evergreen shrubs and small trees and bushes, stunted by a combination of poor soil and scorching heat. Eventually this gave way to much wetter ground, where despite the soaring July temperatures, subterranean springs bubbled up through the limestone and ran down the escarpment to join the Couleurs stream far below. On more than one occasion they had to wade through sizeable streams, and after clambering over a number of rocky outcrops they were soon dripping with perspiration, even though it was, by now, late afternoon.

  Eventually they came to the top of a steep cliff – a raw, jagged fault-line descending some 150ft or more into the Couleurs, punctuated by outlying stacks of limestone. In places there was nothing but scree, threatening to send anyone foolhardy enough to venture down there to a certain death. Elsewhere the cliff-face tumbled down in a series of rocky outcrops, allowing dense scrub to cling to the slopes.

  “Where now?” gasped Rachel, trying to quell the feelings of vertigo welling up inside her.

  “We must follow the cliff for a little way, then there is a path down,” said Dubois. “The path is well trodden – it is not as difficult as it may appear. We have done the hard work.”

  They walked on a little way before Dubois turned off down a stony track that led steeply down the cliff at an angle of at least 45 degrees. The path appeared to have been partially cut into the rock-face, and Rachel tried hard to avoid looking at the precipitous drop that fell away just inches beneath her feet. Eventually the path levelled out, following a natural ledge in the gorge, before disappearing into a small patch of undergrowth and stunted trees. Rachel and David plunged in after Dubois, nearly running into the back of him as he stopped abruptly in front of the entrance to a cave.

  “Voilà” he declared dramatically. “La Grotte du Fournet.”

  Dubois let Rachel lead the way inside, clambering up the muddy slope into the dark, dank chamber beyond. She could scarcely contain her excitement, though once inside, she couldn’t but help feel a sense of anti-climax. The cave was nowhere near as large as she had expected. In the foreground was an area of depressed mud, roughly in the shape of a small coffin, around the edges of which a few bunches of flowers had been strewn. There were also several partially burnt candles: clearly local people still came here to pay their respects. Further back, as the cave roof sloped down to meet the damp ground, there was a shallow pit that might have once have contained another grave.

  “So this is it,” mused Rachel. “Was this the original resting place of Mary Magdalene – before she was moved to the crypt?”

  “Perhaps, mam’selle,” said Dubois quietly. Even David seemed sombre.

  Rachel knelt down and laid her hands gently on the bare earth where a coffin had obviously once lain, closing her eyes, as if trying to read an unwritten message through the palms of her hands.

  A shudder ran through her; an inexplicable frisson of awareness. This had been the grave of the Magdalene, of that she had no doubt. But there was something else here, too; something even deeper and stronger; a huge, benign force: a force as full of love and compassion as the presence in the undercroft had been consumed with hatred and violence.

  But there was sadness here, too; a deep, ineffable sadness. She looked up, blinking away the tears. David looked at her, his eyes full of understanding. Whatever it was, whatever his professed beliefs, he had felt it, too.

  She slowly climbed to her feet. “So what did Saunière find here?” she asked at length. “We know the body was moved to the crypt in the 10th century.” Dubois’ eyes flickered with interest. “Was he just commemorating this, her first resting place?”

  “It’s possible,” said David. But they both felt that explanation fell short of the truth. “OK,” he said after a further pause, “Let’s get this place measured up and take some photos before the light starts to go. The sun will be over the top of the cliff in half an hour.”

  Rachel took the camera and started rattling off some shots, while David used the theodolite to get some precise measurements of the height and depth of the cave. Having exhausted the entrance chamber, Rachel set up the tripod and took some more shots at the back of the cave where the shallow grave was situated. As the flash illuminated the back of the cave she caught a faint carving on the wall. Grabbing the torch, she inspected it more closely. “Ichthus,” she breathed. “The sign of the fish.”

  Rachel went back out to the front of the cave where David was packing up his equipment, while Dubois looked on. She caught David’s eye and beckoned. He put down theodolite and followed her into the back of the cave. “It’s an ichthus,” she said. “The Christian fish symbol – something the treasure-hunters wouldn’t have known about, or even cared existed. But we know it was only used in the 1st to 3rd centuries.”

  “Until the bumper sticker was invented, at any rate,” said David cynically. “But I agree, it looks pretty genuine – stuck up here in a remote cave, there’s every possibility it does date from that era. Which makes this place incredibly important.”

  “Let’s try to piece this together,” said Rachel. “If this was the original burial site of the Magdalene, they moved her to a more fitting place in the 10th century when they built the original church at Rennes-le-Château.”

  “That’s plausible,” agreed David.

  “Then, for some reason – perhaps because of the crusade against the Cathars – in the 13th century, her body was moved again to another, more secret hiding place. We also know from Dubois…” she turned round to look quizzically at the Frenchman, who had been watching them intently, “that Mary Magdalene’s direct descendant is alive today. So it’s possible she may know of Mary’s final resting place – assuming we can find her. If not, apart from the parchment, we’re fres
h out of clues – unless there’s anything to be gleaned from the de Blanchefort tombstone.”

  “Since we’re not cryptologists, we may never know the answer to that, I’m afraid,” said David. “Come on, it’s nearly seven o’clock. Let’s start heading back.”

  Chapter 26

  When Rachel and David returned to Rennes-le-Château the following morning, they immediately realised something was wrong – not just because of the gendarmerie car parked outside, but the throng of people milling around the building.

  David hit the brakes, flung open the car door and rushed across to the museum. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” he asked, grabbing the shoulder of a gendarme. The officer turned and looked pointedly at David’s hand on his uniform. “Pardon, monsieur,” said David, hurriedly removing his hand. “Je travail ici – je suis le chef responsable pour les excavations archaeologiques. Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ici, si vous plaît?”

  “You are David Tranter?” the gendarme replied in fair English. David nodded.

  “There has been an incident, m’sieur – it seems that during the night someone broke into the museum.”

  Rachel stared at David in disbelief. “Was anything taken?” she asked.

  “At this stage we cannot be sure, mam’selle. But perhaps you can help us.”

  “Yes – of course. Can we go in?”

  “Please; follow me.”

  They made their way through the throng of bystanders, including, Rachel noted, at least one TV crew. Rennes-le-Château was once more living up to its reputation of making headlines. As they went into the museum, Rachel could initially see nothing out of place, other than a broken window – clearly the intruder’s route into the building. But as they entered the Finds Room, a cold shiver ran through her body. She stood there speechless, hands clutched to her face, staring at the chaos before her – artefacts swept onto the floor, filing cabinets hanging open. The hermetically-sealed box containing the manuscript was nowhere to be seen.

  She swung round to face David. “The manuscript – did you give it to Hélène to put in the safe?”