by Lazlo Ferran
“Yes.”
“Anagrams first became popular in the mid-thirteenth Century in France and were popularised by poets such as Guillaume de Machaut and Christine de Pizan. They would often use them to identify themselves, their patron or the poet’s lady. The common people who they were writing for, wanted heroes to identify with, but often, given the adventures they had in poems, it was simply too dangerous for them to reveal their true identity. Monks used the same techniques to conceal their own identities or those of characters in their stories. Theobald of Marly springs to mind and then of course there is Eustace!” She suddenly let out a shrill laugh. I gathered Eustace, whoever he was, gave her some amusement.
All this was delivered while she was writing, head down.
“I am not sure of this one and I have to go. Here.” She handed me the pen and stood up. “You try.”
“I am no good at anagrams.” It was a small lie. I was actually quite good but I wanted her help. Without a knowledge of naming conventions of the period, I stood little chance of deciphering it.
“I have to go Monsieur. I am not very impressed with you but you need help don’t you? You don’t seem to have shaved for days, and I think some terreeble things have happened to you. You can call me if you wish. Good bye.” Then she was walking away rapidly, her flip-flops making a clacking noise as her footsteps receded.
I felt indignant, grateful and amused all at once. There was no point me staying after this strange lady had left. I was out of ideas and my brain wasn’t working properly anyway. I drank the coffee and left. As I was walking away from the café I saw a Gendarme standing on a street corner, looking towards the library and very bored. He didn’t glance at me as I walked quickly in the opposite direction. I needed a base for the night and I decided an even cheaper hotel than my earlier one, was the answer. Looking up a few side streets I found skulking, one Hôtel de Paradis, advertising itself in faded 60’s style lettering on a yellow board. I wasn’t optimistic as I climbed the steps and walked into the dimly lit vestibule. The receptionist was friendly enough though, and the room, at the front on the second floor, was basically clean. It had bars on the window. I wasn’t sure if this was meant to keep the inmates from escaping without paying the bills, or stopping undesirable neighbours from climbing in. I dropped my bag after paying him for the night, and collapsed on the bed. I fell asleep immediately and woke in darkness, my stomach gnawing and my throat parched. For a few blessed moments I couldn’t remember what had happened to Georgina, and then I rolled over to feel for her body. I opened my eye at the absence and then my heart sank as I remembered. I wanted to go back to sleep but couldn’t so, I swung my legs over the edge of the squeaky bed and sat there in the dark for a while feeling glum.
***
“Can I use the telephone please?” I asked at the reception desk. It was late morning and I wanted to call Paul.
“Non. We don’t have one Monsieur. Down the street to the right, one block.”
“Hello. Paul Dubinski here. If you wish to leave a message, speak after the tone.”
I put the phone down and looked for the nearest half-decent café. After a half-dozen coffees, and fish and chips, I felt better and called Paul again.
“You bugger! Where have you been? Rose is out of her mind and half the police in France are looking for you. You’re in real trouble mate.”
“I thought Rose was back in London. She wasn’t at the house when I visited. Actually she left me a little present.”
“Yes. I know about the present. She told me. Sorry mate. She went back to Nevers, and the Gendarmes came looking for you. In fact they had practically staked-out the house. Remember that old cat that used to sit on the wall?”
“The son or the original.”
“Oh well. The son I guess. Well he has gone. Never see him again. Some local copper is hopping mad you have skipped town. He is after you. Apparently you are suspect in some murders. I hear a rumour he is in Paris looking for you.”
“You mean Parcaud?”
“Yes. That’s the man. Very determined he is.”
“How is Rose?”
“Oh, you know. Holding up. What on earth are you up to old boy?”
“Well I can’t tell you much but I guess you know my theory of what happened to Annie.”
“Not that again.”
“Well, I think I may have proof. I know it’s all a bit weird but it’s all that keeps me going these days. I just have to find out.”
“But these deaths. It’s serious. You have to at least talk to the police. Things might get really serious. Something bad might happen to you and even with my contacts I might not be able to help you. It might all be over in a moment. The French police don’t mess about you know.”
“I know Paul. Listen. Can you pass on a message to Rose? Just tell her I am fine and Paul?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do me one other favour?”
“Depends what it is.” He laughed.
“Call my secretary Cosette and ask if there has been any letters for me or unusual phone calls. Anything unusual. If there has, try to get as much information as possible. I don’t want to call as I am sure the office phone will be bugged.”
“Well. Alright but if this goes on much longer you must hand yourself in.”
“Alright. I know. I will. Bye”
With a full stomach and a mind drenched with caffeine, I felt as if I could do anything, or at least anything I could normally do. I decided to call the flip-flop girl, but then, at the last moment, I hesitated. Should I get involved with another young girl? Probably not. I went back to my hotel room and started to go through Georgina’s notebook. I wanted some answers. What I found was pages and pages of observations about Ordo Lupus, but these were all rather remote, as if made by someone who was a secret observer, rather than a participant. The handwriting was of course that of Georgina’s father. Only the last few pages were in her neat, rounded handwriting. Some of it read more like a journal:
February 19, 1947:
Met with the Interfeci again. Of all the Lupus Angelus he is now the most deadly. He has been too effective of late, and killed two serpents. He has one of The Weapons of myth. His end will come. We will engineer it.
In another place the journal said:
Sometimes I think there are too many of the wolf-angels. We are outnumbered.
Further on:
Met under the Great Council in Nice. So many of us there. Some said it was the greatest meeting ever. Hope to gain some kind of elevated position as a result. Shaking the right hands and greasing the right palms.
There were so many pages of symbols, examples of magic writing and cryptic diagrams, that it all started to blur, and I skipped forward to the last few pages in his hand.
1972 July:
In the next few months I intend to confront the Interfeci again. I know now the nature of The Weapon and I think I know its weakness. I will follow him one night when he least expects it and surprise him. The Weapon is too large to conceal, so he cannot carry it always. I do not think he will be a match for me, unless he can get to it. It’s a risk I am prepared to take for the Concilium Putus Visum. They have promised me great wealth if I can do this.
There were some more musings after this, but only two pages, before a large gap, and then Georgina’s hand took over. Apart from noticing the scrawl which read ‘Father died – 14 September 1972’, on the first page of the new section, I didn’t have the stomach to read any of it yet. So here at least was proof that her father worked for some cult that opposed that of my grandfather’s. They seemed bent on destruction of Ordo Lupus or the wolf-angels as they called them. The awful truth that Georgina probably had taken over the quest of her father, nagged at my consciousness, but still I dismissed it. I vaguely wondered about the identity of this Interfeci, but for some reason, the date of 14 September 1972 was now ringing in my ears. I lay back on the bed to consider it. It seemed familiar but I just couldn’t place it. My head sw
um with memories. Then, again I saw the monk.
There he was again, exactly as before, robed and hooded, walking across the inner courtyard of a marble building. Again it was all in slow motion, his sandaled feet making no sound on the marble and again he reached the step down to the path, and raised his hands to his hood. This time I noticed he had something shining on one of his fingers. Perhaps a ring, it seemed to be emitting a powerful, piercing light. This time he did pull back the hood slightly, and I saw a long, slightly hooked nose, that of an old man, but I woke before I saw the rest of his face. Jerking upright on the bed, I was filled with a sense of purpose and a feeling that truth was somehow washing over me. I picked up the black note book, and, holding my breath, turned to the second page in Georgina’s hand. It seemed mostly the incoherent musings of a ten year old girl and I turned the pages quickly. There was a date of 1980 at the top of one page and my eyes immediately were drawn to the paragraph underneath, the writing seeming bolder.
I have discovered the identity of my father’s killer, the Interfeci. I resolve on this day to kill him. I will find a way. I have approached members of my father’s cult, whose name is secret but goes under the alias of The Ordo Loup-garou. I have been initiated as a Sorceress, along with two others, a girl from Nice and one from near Orléans. They said they would help me. It’s so good at last to feel that I belong to something, and something that my father belonged to, too. It connects us. Even from the grave.
I felt a bitter taste in my mouth and I wanted to cry out. So Georgina was, after all some kind of sorceress. I had suspected it, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Perhaps she had just seduced me. Probably she had. I slammed the book shut and threw it against the wall. How could I have been so stupid? No wonder such a beautiful young girl had been interested in me. I was a fool. I rose from the bed, and paced the room, going over events of the last few days. I stopped at the barred window and looked out at the spangled lights of Paris. It had just started to rain. Suddenly my attention was drawn to a faint blue flashing patch of light, a block away. I couldn’t see the source, only its reflection on the side of a building. I was ultra-sensitive to any signs of the Gendarmes these days. I peered into the gloom below the hotel, and what I saw horrified me. There was a group of armed Gendarmes cordoning off the street outside the hotel, and a few seemed to be looking up towards my window. A large crowd of pedestrians, held back by tape, was building up about fifty yards to the right, nearest the main street. So Parcaud had found me. It was time to move. The only way out would be over the roofs. I stuffed the books back into the bag, zipped it up and closed and locked the door.
There was no lift in such a cheap hotel, so I took the stairs up to the top floor and looked for a fire-exit. Nothing of that description met my eyes. Looking up at the ceiling on the narrow top landing, there was a very dirty looking skylight, but no way to reach it. Looking up and down the short corridor I could see nothing that would help. Desperation took over at this point and I listened at one of the doors. Hearing nothing I knocked loudly. There was no reply. Leaning against the door with my shoulder and all my weight, I gave it a good push. It flexed but the lock held. Fortunately the corridor was narrow enough that I could place one of my feet on the wall opposite and then I pushed as hard as I could. The door gave with a cracking of cheap timber and I fell into the room. Seeing nobody in the bed I ran to the window and peered out. There was no balcony or fire-escape but there was a heavy, blackened drain-pipe. I turned the light on and looked around the room for something to stand on. A chair was the only possibility, so I carried it out to the corridor, along with a large towel and climbed on to the chair. Throwing the towel over my head and left hand, and wrapping part around my right fist, I reached up and punched the pain of glass which shattered, showering me with shards. Pulling the towel off my head but still with it around my hand, I pulled the loose triangles of glass from the edge of the frame and jumped down from the chair. An old lady with rollers in her hair and a rolling pin in her hand confronted me.
“Que faites-vous? Êtes-vous un voleur?”
I told her in my best French that I wasn’t a thief and that she should go back in her room and she wouldn’t get hurt. She threatened to call the Gendarmes, which seemed pretty ironic to me.
Throwing my bag through the black gap in the ceiling, I took hold of the frame with both hands and hauled myself up and out into the night air on the roof.
The skylight was in a small, flat area on the roof, flanked by a chimney on one side and an old rusty railing on the other. The railing ended a few feet ahead of me at the top of an equally rusty ladder, which led down onto the slated sloping roof. Putting my arm through the straps of the bag, so that it became like a shoulder-bag and gasping for breath, I climbed down the ladder, which suddenly started to come away from its brackets. I swore under my breath. At the bottom of the ladder, and a few feet above me to the left, I could just make out the crest of the roof, and I clambered up onto it. Sitting astride it I inched forward, my feet clattering on the tiles, and dislodging a few. The roof hadn’t been maintained properly and every part of it seemed ready to slide into the abyss that lurked somewhere to my right beyond the edge of the roof. The edge of the roof was suddenly highlighted by a strong beam from below. I guessed that the women with the roller had called the police and they now knew where I was. It would only be a matter of time before they followed me out of the skylight. My best hope was to stay hidden so that they wouldn’t know which way I had gone. After an interminable length of time I reached the end of the roof, and my stomach leaped into my mouth as my hands clasped the edge of the roof and I peered over. There was a building beyond this one but it was at least a story lower. It looked as if it would be possible to jump from the lower edge of the roof that I was on, so I carefully started to slide down the incline. The slates were wet from rain and my feet kept slipping.
From the corner of my eye I saw lights coming from the location of the skylight and a voice shouted in French, “Stop! Come back or we will shoot!”
As if in slow motion I saw a slate slide from under my foot, and then for some reason the slate wasn’t moving any further away from me. I knew that I was sliding too – towards the edge of the roof. There was nothing to grab hold of! I tried to lay flat and spread my arms out but the bag on my back stopped me, and if it is possible, I am sure I prayed in a split-second. I slowed but I didn’t stop although my heart seemed to, as the edge of the roof came towards me. I felt the very lip of the roof beneath my heels and then I stopped. My feet had landed in the gutter on the edge of the roof. The old lead piping held together just long enough for me to crouch, and jump onto the next roof before it broke away from the roof and fell to the street below. I had landed on a flat roof covered in gravel, and there were other flat roofs ahead of me. I started running, the lights from windows of a high building, opposite, lighting my way. I heard a shot ring out behind me. Instinctively I ducked, but finding myself still alive, I ran on. After some time and out of breath, I came to an intersection, where the road turned ninety degrees to the right and the tops of the row of building I was on intersected in a ‘T’ with those of another row of houses. I turned to the left and kept running. ‘They won’t find me now’, I thought. It was time to get down. I looked for a way down, and found a door set into a column, on top of a house with a nicely tended roof-garden. I forced the door with a trowel and tip-toed down the stairs. When I reached the front door, I lifted the latch and I was out onto the street. I quietly closed the door and disappeared into the shadows. I thought the best thing to do was find a car and get out of Paris. It was getting too hot, with Gendarmes, for my liking.
Chapter Eight
1545, 1544, 823, 2648, 3549, 6693, 2733, 701, 4434, 2494
“It is stifling in the Cathedral roof now. The chinks of light between the leads, that seem to move across the roof tell me that the storm outside is still in progress. I imagine that the clouds have become even thicker and more angry-looking. What looked
like a giant whirlpool of clouds in the sky, I was sure, was connected with the Serpent who sought the same thing as me – the Sword in the Secret Chapel. It had used me. It was I who had led it to this secret place, and now I know that even if I could find the Sword, the one weapon that could kill it, that this is what the Serpent wants. It had not been able to find it for its self, but now it would take it from me. I am dying for a drink and as I wipe a drop of sweat from my forehead, I remember how I had finally learned the location of the Cathedral where the Secret Crypt of Ordo Lupus had been hidden.”
“Bonjour – vous etes bien sur le repondeur de Ayshea Aikborne, historienne. Merci de laisser un message bref et je vous re-contacterai des que possible.”
Roughly translated, the answer phone said, “You have reached the number of Ayshea Aikborne, historian. Please leave your number and a brief message and I will get back to you as soon as possible.” It was eight-thirty in the morning and I had just parked the stolen Renault in which I had spent the night, to call the number on the scrap of paper, that the flip-flop girl had written on. Aikborne did not sound like a native French surname so I guessed she was at least third generation emigrant from England.
Opposite to Georgina.
The morning had started badly. Apart from having to wash in the toilet of a cheap café, where I also downed a fried breakfast of bacon and eggs with two coffees, I had discovered that I had made a big mistake. Parked in a secluded street in the outer suburbs, I had started to go through my notes again. I wanted to get away from Paris but wasn’t sure where to go. I found my notes on Beauvais, but one of the pages was missing. It was a page I had been looking at late the previous evening, just before I opened the little black notebook. It must have become separated from the rest of the notes, and was still probably somewhere on the bed in the hotel. This would give Parcaud a clue as to where I might go. For this reason alone, I needed to be double sure that really was the place to go. I needed to speak to the flip-flop girl, and find out if she had solved the anagram yet. I left a message, saying I would call back in one hour and then I caught a nap in the car. I awoke, feeling like kicking myself for my mistake, and then I called the number again, not expecting much luck.
