by Kate Mosse
Alice sat down in a black leather armchair next to the window and pretended to read.
‘Ms Tanner? Karen Fleury. Good to meet you.’
Alice stood up, immediately liking the look of her. In her mid-thirties, Ms Fleury exuded an air of competence in a sombre black suit and white blouse. Her neat blonde hair was clipped short. She wore a gold cross at her neck.
‘My funeral clothes,’ she said, noticing Alice’s glance. ‘Very hot in this weather.’
‘I can imagine.’
She held back the door for Alice to pass through. ‘Shall we?’
‘How long have you been working out here?’ asked Alice, as they walked down an increasingly shabby network of corridors.
We moved here a couple of years ago. My husband’s French. Loads of English people are moving down here, all needing solicitors to help them, so it’s worked out rather well.’
Karen led her into a small office at the back of the building.
‘It’s great you could come in person,’ she said, gesturing Alice to a chair. ‘I’d assumed we’d conduct most of our business over the phone.’
‘Good timing. Just after I received the letter from you, a friend who’s working outside Foix invited me to come and visit her. It seemed too much of an opportunity to ignore.’ She paused. ‘Besides, given the size and nature of the bequest, it seemed the least I could do to come in person.’
Karen smiled. ‘Well, it makes things easier from my point of view and will also speed things up.’ She pulled a brown file towards her. ‘From what you said on the phone, it didn’t sound as if you knew much about your aunt.’
Alice pulled a face. ‘Actually, I’d never heard of her at all. I’d no idea Dad had any living relatives, let alone a half-sister. I was under the impression my parents were both only children. There certainly weren’t any aunts or uncles around at Christmas or birthdays.’
Karen glanced down at her notes. ‘You lost them some time ago.’
‘They were killed in a car accident when I was seventeen,’ she said. ‘May 1993. Just before I was due to sit my A levels.’
‘Dreadful for you.’
Alice nodded. What more was there to say?
‘You have no brothers or sisters?’
‘I assumed that my parents left it too late. They were both quite old, relatively speaking, when I was born. In their forties.’
Karen nodded. Well, in the circumstances, I think the best thing is for me to simply go through everything I’ve got in the file about your aunt’s estate and the terms of her will. Once we’re done here, you can go and have a look at the house if you’d like to. It’s in a small town about an hour’s drive from here, Sallèles d‘Aude.’
‘That sounds fine.’
‘So what I’ve got here,’ Karen continued, tapping the file, ‘is pretty basic stuff, names and dates and so forth. I’m sure when you visit the house you’ll get a better sense of her personally from her private papers and effects. Once you’ve had a look, you can decide if you’d like us to have the house cleared or if you’d rather do it yourself. How much longer are you here?’
‘Technically until Sunday, although I’m thinking about staying on. There’s nothing desperately urgent I need to get back for.’
Karen nodded as she glanced at her notes.
Well, let’s start and see how we get on. Grace Alice Tanner was your father’s half-sister. She was born in London in 1912, the youngest and only surviving child of five. Two other girls died in infancy and the two boys were killed in World War I. Her mother passed away in’ — she paused, running her finger down the page until she found the date she was looking for — ‘1928 after a long illness and the family broke up. Grace had left home by then and her father moved away from the area and subsequently married again. There was one child from that marriage, your father, who was born the following year. So far as I can tell from the records, there appears to have been little or no contact between Miss Tanner and her father — your grandfather — from that point onwards.’
‘I didn’t know, but do you think it’s likely my father knew he had a half-sister?’
‘I have no idea. My guess would be that he didn’t.’
‘But Grace clearly knew of him?’
‘Yes, although how and when she found out, again I don’t know. More to the point, she knew about you. She revised her will in 1993, after your parents’ deaths, naming you as her sole beneficiary. By that time, she had been living in France for some time.’
Alice frowned. ‘If she knew about me and about what had happened, I don’t understand why she didn’t get in touch.’
Karen shrugged. ‘It’s possible she thought you wouldn’t welcome the contact. Since we don’t know what caused the rift in the family, she might have thought your father had prejudiced you against her. In cases such as this, it’s not uncommon for an assumption to be made — sometimes rightly so — that any overture would be rejected. Once contact is severed it can be hard to repair the damage.’
‘You didn’t draw up the will, I’m assuming?’
Karen smiled. ‘No, it was well before my time. But I talked to the colleague who did. He’s retired now, but he remembers your aunt. She was very matter-of-fact, no fuss or sentimentality. She knew exactly what she wanted, which was for everything to be left to you.’
‘So you don’t know why she came to be living here in the first place?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She paused. ‘From our point of view, it’s all relatively straightforward. So, as I said, I think your best bet is to go to the house and look around. You might find out more about her that way. Given you’re going to be around for a few days more, we can meet later in the week. I’m in court tomorrow and Friday, but I’d be happy to see you on Saturday morning if that is convenient.’ She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Leave a message with my assistant and let me know what you decide.’
‘I’d like to visit her grave while I’m here.’
‘Of course. I’ll get the details. If I remember correctly, the circumstances were unusual.’ Karen stopped at her assistant’s desk on their way out. ‘Dominique, tu peux me trouver le numero du lot de cimetière de Madame Tanner? Le cimetière de la Cité. Merci.’
‘In what way unusual?’ asked Alice.
‘Madame Tanner wasn’t buried in Sallèles d’Aude but here in Carcassonne, in the cemetery outside the Cite walls, in the family tomb of a friend.’ Karen took the printout from her assistant and skimmed the information. ‘That’s right, I remember now. Jeanne Giraud, a local woman, although there didn’t appear to be any evidence the two women even knew each other. Madame Giraud’s address is also here, along with the plot details.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Dominique will show you out,’ she smiled. ‘Let me know how you get on.’
CHAPTER 40
Ariège
Paul Authié had expected Marie-Cécile to use the journey into the Ariège to continue last night’s discussion or else ask him about the report. But apart from the occasional comment, she said nothing.
In the confined space of the car, he was very physically aware of her. Her perfume caught in his nose, the scent of her skin. Today she was wearing a pale brown sleeveless shirt and matching trousers. Sunglasses concealed her eyes and her lips and nails were the same colour, burned red.
Authié shot the cuffs on his shirt, glancing discreetly at his watch. Allowing a couple of hours at the site, then the journey back, they were unlikely to be back in Carcassonne much before the end of the afternoon. It was very frustrating.
‘Any news of O’Donnell?’ she said.
Authié was startled to hear his thoughts voiced aloud. ‘Not so far.’
‘And the policeman?’ she said, turning to face him.
‘There’s no longer a problem.’
‘Since when?’
‘Early this morning.’
‘Did you learn anything more from him?’
Authié shook
his head.
‘So long as nothing can be traced back to you, Paul.’
‘It won’t be.’
She was silent for a moment, then asked: ‘And the English woman?’
‘She arrived in Carcassonne last night. I’ve got someone tailing her.’
‘You don’t think she went to Toulouse in order to deposit the ring or the book there?’
‘Unless she handed it over to someone inside the hotel, then no. She had no visitors. She talked to no one, either in the street or in the library.’
They arrived at the Pic de Soularac just after one o’clock. A wooden palisade had been erected around the car park. The gate was padlocked shut. As arranged, there was no one on duty to witness their arrival.
Authié opened the gate and drove through. The site was unnaturally quiet after the activity of Monday afternoon. An air of abandonment hung about everything. The sides of the tents battened down, the pots and pans and rows of tools neatly labelled.
‘Where’s the entrance?’
Authié pointed up to where the scene of crime tape still flapped in the breeze.
He took a torch from the glove compartment. They climbed up the lower slopes in silence, the oppressive afternoon heat weighing down on them. Authié pointed to the boulder, still lying on its side, like the head of a fallen idol, then led her the final few metres to the cave itself.
‘I would like to go in alone,’ she said as they reached the top.
He was irritated, but didn’t show it. He was confident there was nothing in the chamber for her to find; he’d combed every last centimetre of the cave himself. He handed her the torch.
‘As you wish,’ he said.
Authié watched as she disappeared into the tunnel, the beam of light getting weaker and more distant until it vanished altogether.
He wandered away from the entrance, until he was out of earshot.
Even being close to the chamber made him angry. His hand went to the crucifix at his neck, like a talisman to ward off the evil of the place.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,’ he said, crossing himself. Authié waited until his breathing had returned to normal, before calling his office.
‘What have you got for me?’
A look of satisfaction spread across his face as he listened. At the hotel? Did they speak to one another?’ He listened to the reply. ‘OK. Keep with her and see what she does.’
He smiled and disconnected. Something else to add to his list of questions for O’Donnell.
His secretary had found surprisingly little on Baillard. He had no car, no passport, was not listed at the land registry, no phone, nothing was registered within the system. Even his numéro de securité sociale was missing. Officially, he didn’t seem to exist. He was a man with no past.
It crossed Authié’s mind Baillard might be a disaffected ex-member of the Noublesso Véritable. His age, his background, his interest in Cathar history and knowledge of hieroglyphics linked him to the Labyrinth Trilogy.
Authié knew there was a connection. It was just a matter of finding it. He would destroy the cave now, without a moment’s hesitation, were it not for the fact that he was still not in possession of the books. He was God’s instrument by which the four-thousand-year-old heresy would finally be wiped from the face of the earth. Only when the profane parchments were returned to the chamber would he act. Then he would give everyone and everything to the fire.
The thought that he only had two days in which to find the book spurred him back into action. His grey eyes sharp with conviction, Authié made another call.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Have her ready.’
Audric Baillard was aware of the click of Jeanne’s brown shoes on the grey linoleum as they walked in silence through the hospital in Foix.
Everything else was white. His clothes, the colour of chalk, the uniforms of the technicians, their rubber-soled footwear, the walls, the charts, clipboards. Inspector Noubel, crumpled and dishevelled, stood out in the sterile environment. He looked as if he’d not changed for days.
A trolley was being pushed up the corridor towards them, its wheels creaking painfully in the hushed environment. They stood back to allow it to pass. The nurse acknowledged the courtesy with a slight bob of her head.
Baillard was aware that they were treating Jeanne with particular care. Their sympathy, no doubt genuine, was mixed with concern at how she would cope with the shock. He gave a grim smile. The young always forgot Jeanne’s generation had seen and experienced more than they ever had. War, the Occupation, the Resistance. They had fought and killed and seen their friends die. They were tough. Nothing surprised them except, perhaps, for the dogged resilience of the human spirit.
Noubel came to a halt in front of a large white door. He pushed it open and stood back to let them go in first. Cool air and the sharp smell of disinfectant slid out. Baillard removed his hat and held it to his chest.
The machines were silent now. In the centre of the room was the bed, underneath the window, the shape beneath covered by a sheet that hung crooked over the sides.
‘They did everything they could,’ Noubel muttered.
‘Was my grandson murdered, Inspector?’ asked Jeanne. It was the first time she’d spoken since arriving at the hospital and learning they had arrived too late.
Baillard saw the Inspector’s hands jerk nervously at his side.
‘It’s too early to say, Madame Giraud, however — ’
‘Are you treating it as a suspicious death, Inspector, yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in the same tone of voice. ‘That is all I wanted to know.’
‘If there’s nothing else,’ said Noubel, edging towards the door, ‘I will leave you to pay your respects. I will be with Madame Claudette in the relatives’ room if you need me.’
The door closed with a sharp click. Jeanne took a step closer to the bed. Her face was grey and her mouth tight, but her back and shoulders were as straight as ever.
She turned down the sheet. The stillness of death slipped into the room. Baillard could see how young Yves looked. His skin was very white and smooth, free of lines. The top of his head was covered by bandages. Strands of his black hair peeked out around the edges. His hands, the knuckles red and scratched, were folded on his chest like a boy pharaoh.
Baillard watched Jeanne as she bent down and kissed her grandson on the forehead. Then, with a steady hand she covered his face and turned away.
‘Shall we?’ she said, taking Baillard’s arm.
They walked back into the empty corridor. Baillard glanced to left and right, then led Jeanne to a row of institutional plastic chairs fixed to the wall. The silence was oppressive. Automatically they dropped their voices, even though there was no one around to overhear.
‘I had been concerned about him for some time, Audric,’ she said. ‘I had seen a change in him. He became withdrawn, anxious.’
‘Did you ask him what was wrong?’
She nodded. ‘He claimed there was nothing. Just stress, overwork.’
Audric laid his hand on her arm. ‘He loved you, Jeanne. Perhaps there was nothing. Perhaps there was.’ He paused. ‘If Yves was involved in something wrong, it went against his nature. His conscience was troubled. In the end, when most it mattered, he did the right thing. He sent the ring to you, regardless of the consequences.’
‘Inspector Noubel asked me about the ring. He wanted to know if I had spoken to Yves on Monday.’
What answer did you give?’
‘Truthfully, that I had not.’
Audric sighed with relief.
‘But you think Yves was being paid to pass on information, don’t you, Audric?’ Her voice was hesitant, but firm. ‘Tell me. I would rather hear the truth.’
He raised his hands. ‘How can I speak the truth when I do not know it?’
‘Then tell me what you suspect. Not knowing — ’ she broke off — ‘there is not
hing worse.’
Baillard imagined the moment the boulder fell across the entrance to the cave, trapping them inside. Not knowing what was happening to her. The smell of the box, the roar of the flames, the soldiers shouting as they ran. Half-remembered places and images. Not knowing if she was alive or dead.
‘Esvertat,’ he said softly. ‘It is the not knowing that is unbearable.’ He sighed once again. ‘Very well. I do believe Yves was being paid for providing information, yes — about the Trilogy primarily, but probably other things as well. I imagine it seemed harmless at first — a telephone call here or there, details about where someone might be, who they might talk to — but soon I suspect they started to ask of him more than he wished to give.’
‘You say “they”? Do you know who is responsible then?’
‘Speculation, no more,’ he said quickly. ‘Mankind does not much change, Jeanne. On the surface, we seem different. We evolve, we develop new rules, new standards of living. Each generation asserts modern values and dismisses the old, priding itself on its sophistication, its wisdom. We appear to have little in common with those that have gone before us.’ He tapped his chest. ‘But within these tunics of flesh, the human heart beats the same as it ever did. Greed, desire for power, fear of death, these emotions do not change.’ His voice softened. ‘The things that are fine in life, too, do not change. Love, courage, willingness to lay down one’s life for what one believes in, kindness.’
Will it ever end?’
Baillard hesitated. ‘I pray that it will.’
Above their heads, the clock marked the passing of time. At the far end of the corridor, hushed voices, footsteps, the squeak of rubber soles on the tiled floor, heard briefly, then gone.
‘You will not go to the police?’ said Jeanne eventually.
‘I do not think it wise.’
‘You don’t trust Inspector Noubel?’
‘Benlèu.’ Perhaps. ‘Did the police return Yves’s personal belongings to you? The clothes he was wearing when he was brought in, the contents of his pockets?’
