by Kate Mosse
‘His clothes were . . . were beyond saving. Inspector Noubel said there was nothing in his pockets except for his wallet and keys.’
‘Nothing at all? No carte d’identité, no papers, no telephone? Did he not think that odd?’
‘He said nothing,’ she replied.
‘And his apartment. Did they find anything there? Papers?’
Jeanne shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘I asked one of his friends to draw me up a list of who was at the site on Monday afternoon.’ She handed him a piece of paper with names scribbled on it. ‘It’s not complete.’
He looked down. ‘And this?’ he queried, pointing at the name of a hotel.
Jeanne looked. ‘You wanted to know where the English woman was staying.’ She paused. ‘Or, at least, that’s the information she gave the Inspector.’
‘Dr Alice Tanner,’ he murmured under his breath. After so long, she had come to him. ‘Then that is where I shall send my letter.’
‘I could deliver it for you when I return home.’
‘No,’ he said sharply. Jeanne looked up in surprise. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘You are kind to offer, but . . . I do not think it wise for you to return home. For now, at least.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It will not take them long to discover Yves sent the ring to you, if they do not know already. Please, stay with friends. Go away somewhere, with Claudette, anywhere. It is not safe.’
To his surprise, she did not argue. ‘Ever since we got here you’ve been looking over your shoulder.’
Baillard smiled. He had thought he’d kept his anxiety hidden.
‘What about you, Audric?’
‘It is different for me,’ he said. ‘I have been waiting for this moment for . . . for longer than I can say, Jeanne. It is how it is meant to be, for good or ill.’
For a moment, Jeanne said nothing.
Who is she, Audric?’ she said softly. ‘This English girl? Why does she matter so much to you?’
He smiled, but he could not answer.
‘Where will you go from here?’ she asked in the end.
Baillard caught his breath. An image of his village, as it had once been, came to his mind.
‘Oustâou,’ he replied softly. ‘I will return home. A la perfin.’ At last.
CHAPTER 41
Shelagh had grown accustomed to the dark.
She was being held in a stable or animal pen of some sort. There was a sharp, acrid smell of droppings, urine, straw and a sweet sickly odour, like rancid meat. A strip of white light showed under the door, but she couldn’t tell if it was late afternoon or early morning. She wasn’t even sure what day it was.
The rope around her legs chafed, irritating the raw, broken skin on her ankles. Her wrists were tied together and she was tethered to one of several metal rings attached to the wall.
Shelagh shifted position, trying to get comfortable. Insects were crawling across her hands and face. She was covered in bites. Her wrists were sore where the rope was rubbing and her shoulders were stiff where her arms had been pulled back for so long. Mice or rats scuttled in the straw in the corners of the pen, but she’d become accustomed to them in the same way she’d ceased to notice the pain.
If only she’d rung Alice. Another mistake. Shelagh wondered if Alice had kept trying or given up. If she rang the site house and found she was missing, she’d realise something was wrong, wouldn’t she? What about Yves? Would Brayling have called the police . . . ?
Shelagh felt her eyes well up. More likely they didn’t realise she was missing. Several of her colleagues had announced their intention to take off for a few days until the situation was resolved. Maybe they thought she’d done the same.
She had gone beyond hunger some time back, but she was thirsty. She felt as if she’d swallowed a block of sandpaper. The small amount of water they’d given her had gone and her lips were cracked where she’d licked them, over and over. She tried to remember how long a normal, healthy person could survive without water. A day? A week?
Shelagh heard the scrunch of the gravel. Her heart contracted and adrenalin surged through her, as it did every time she heard a sound outside. Until now, nobody had come in.
She pulled herself up into a sitting position as the padlock was unlocked. There was a heavy clunk as the chain fell, folding up on itself, in spirals of dull chatter, then the sound of the door juddering on its hinges. Shelagh turned her face away as sunlight, aggressively bright, burst into the gloom of the hut and a dark, stocky man ducked under the lintel. He was wearing a jacket, despite the heat, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Instinctively, Shelagh shrank back against the wall, ashamed of the tight knot of fear in her stomach.
The man crossed the hut in two strides. He grabbed the rope and dragged her to her feet. He produced a knife from his pocket.
Shelagh flinched, tried to pull away. ‘Non,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’ She despised the pleading tone of her voice, but couldn’t help it. Terror had stripped her pride away.
He smiled as he brought the blade close to her throat, revealing rotten teeth stained yellow from smoking. He reached behind her and cut through the rope tethering her to the wall, then jerked on the rope, pulling her forward. Weak and disorientated, Shelagh lost her balance and dropped heavily to her knees.
‘I can’t walk. You’ll have to untie me.’ She darted a glance at her feet. ‘Mespieds.’
The man hesitated a moment, then sawed through the thicker bonds on her ankles as if he was carving meat.
‘Lève-toi. Vite!’ He raised his arm as if he was going to hit her, but then jerked on the rope again, dragging her towards him. ‘Vite.’ Her legs were stiff, but she was too scared to disobey. Her ankles were ringed with broken skin, which strained with every step she took, sending pain shooting up her calves.
The ground lurched and pitched beneath her as she stumbled out into the light. The sun was fierce. She felt it burning into her retinas. The air was hot and humid. It seemed to squat over the yard and buildings like a malignant Buddha.
As she walked the short distance from her makeshift prison, one of several disused animal pens she could now see, Shelagh forced herself to look around, realising it might be the only chance she’d get to figure out where they had taken her. And who they were, she added. Despite everything, she wasn’t sure.
It had started back in March. He’d been charming, flattering, and apologetic almost for bothering her. He was working on someone else’s behalf, he’d explained, someone who wished to remain anonymous. All he’d wanted was for her to make one phone call. Information, nothing more. He was prepared to pay a great deal. A little later, the deal changed: half for the information, more on delivery. Looking back, Shelagh wasn’t sure when she’d started to have doubts.
The client didn’t fit the normal profile of the gullible collector willing to pay over the odds, no questions asked. For a start, he sounded young. Usually they were like medieval relic hunters, superstitious, susceptible, stupid, obsessed. He was none of these things. That alone should have been enough to set alarm bells ringing.
In retrospect, it seemed absurd she’d never stopped to ask herself why, if the ring and the book were indeed only of sentimental value, he was prepared to go to such trouble.
Any moral objections Shelagh had about stealing and selling on artefacts had gone years ago. She’d suffered enough at the hands of old-fashioned museums and elitist academic institutions to believe they were more appropriate custodians of the treasures of antiquity than private collectors. She took the money; they got what they wanted. Everybody was happy. It wasn’t her business what happened afterwards.
Looking back, she realised she had been frightened long before the second phone call, certainly weeks before she had invited Alice to come to the Pic de Soularac. Then when Yves Biau had made contact and they had compared stories. . . The knot in her chest tightened.
If something happened to Alice it was her fault.
They reached the farmhouse, a medium-sized building, ringed by derelict outbuildings, a garage and a wine barn. The paint on the shutters and the front door was peeling and the empty black windows gaped. Two cars were parked out front, otherwise it was completely deserted.
All around were unbroken views of mountains and valleys. At least she was still in the Pyrenees. For some reason, that gave her hope.
The door stood open, as if they were expected. It was cool inside although, at first glance, deserted. A layer of dust covered everything. It looked like it had once been a hotel or auberge. There was a reception desk straight ahead, above which was a row of hooks, all empty, that looked as if they once had held keys.
He jerked the rope to keep her moving. This close, he smelled of sweat, cheap aftershave and stale tobacco. Shelagh caught the sound of voices coming from a room to her left. The door was slightly ajar. She swivelled her eyes to try to see something and caught a glimpse of one man standing in front of the window, his back to her. Leather shoes and legs encased in light summer trousers.
She was forced up the stairs to the second floor, then along a corridor and up a confined, narrow staircase leading to an airless attic that occupied nearly the whole top floor of the house. They came to a halt in front of a door built into the eaves.
He shot the bolts and shoved her in the small of her back, sending her flying forward. She landed heavily, hitting her elbow on the ground, as he slammed the door behind him. Despite the pain, Shelagh threw herself at the door, shouting and pummelling the metal casing with her fists, but it had been specially adapted and there was metal flashing around the edges.
In the end, she gave up and turned round to inspect her new home. There was a mattress pushed against the far wall. A blanket was folded neatly on it. Opposite the door there was a small window. Metal bars had been hammered across the inside. Shelagh walked stiffly across the room and saw she was now at the back of the house. The bars were solid and didn’t move at all when she pulled them. It was a sheer drop down anyway.
There was a small hand basin in the corner, with a bucket next to it. She relieved herself and, with difficulty, turned the taps. The pipes spluttered and coughed like a forty-a-day-smoker but, after a couple of false starts, a thin dribble of water appeared. Cupping her filthy hands, Shelagh drank until her insides hurt. Then she washed as best she could, dabbing the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, which were caked in dry blood.
A little later, he brought her something to eat. More than usual.
Why am I here?’
He put the tray down in the middle of the room.
‘Why have you brought me here? Pourquoi je suis là?’
‘Iltele dira.’
Who wants to talk to me?’
He gestured at the food. ‘Mange.’
‘You’ll have to untie me.’ Then she repeated, ‘Who? Tell me.
He pushed the tray forward with his foot. ‘Eat.’
When he’d gone, Shelagh fell upon the food. She ate every scrap, even the core and pips of the apple, then returned to the window. The first rays of the sun burst over the crest of the mountain, turning the world from grey to white.
In the distance, she heard the sound of a car, driving slowly towards the farmhouse.
CHAPTER 42
Karen’s directions were good. An hour after leaving Carcassonne, Alice found herself on the outskirts of Narbonne. She followed signs to Cuxac d’Aude and Capestang along a pretty road bordered on either side by high bamboo and wild grasses leaping in the winds, sheltering fertile green fields. It was very different from the mountains of the Ariège or the garrigue of the Corbières.
It was nearly two o‘clock by the time Alice drove into Sallèles d’Aude. She parked under the lime trees and parasol pines that bordered the Canal du Midi, just down from the lock gates, then wound her way through pretty streets until she arrived at the rue des Burgues.
Grace’s tiny three-storey house was on the corner and gave straight on to the street. A fairytale summer rose, its crimson blooms hanging heavily from the bough, framed the old-fashioned wooden door and large brown shutters. The lock was stiff and Alice had to jiggle the heavy brass key around until she managed to make it turn. She gave a good hard shove and a sharp kick. The door creaked open, scraping over the black and white tiles and free newspapers blocking the door from the inside.
It opened straight into a single downstairs room, the kitchen area to her left and a larger living area to her right. The house felt cold and damp, the maudlin smell of a home long abandoned. The chill air crept around her bare legs like a cat. Alice tried the light switch, but the electricity had been turned off. Picking up the junk mail and circulars and putting it out of the way on the table, she leaned over the sink, opened the window and struggled with the ornate latch to pin back the shutters.
A jug kettle and an old-fashioned cooker with a grill-pan at eye-level were the closest her aunt had come to mod cons. The draining board was empty and the sink was clean, although a couple of sponges, rigid like dry old bones, were wedged behind the taps.
Alice crossed the room and opened the large window in the living room and pushed back the heavy brown shutters. Straight away, the sun flooded in, transforming the room. Leaning out, she breathed in the scent of the roses, relaxing under the touch of the hot summer air for a moment, letting it chase her feelings of discomfort away. She felt like an intruder, poking around someone else’s life without permission.
Two high-backed wooden armchairs were set at an angle to the fireplace. The chimney surround was grey stone, with a few china ornaments arranged on the mantle, coated with dust. The blackened remains of a fire long cold sat in the grate. Alice pushed with her toe and it collapsed, sending a cloud of fine grey ash billowing over everything.
Hanging on the wall beside the fireplace was an oil painting of a stone house with a sloping, red-tiled roof, set among fields of sunflowers and vines. Alice peered at the signature scrawled across the bottom right-hand corner: BAILLARD.
A dining table, four chairs and a sideboard occupied the back of the room. Alice opened the doors and found a set of coasters and mats, decorated with pictures of French cathedrals, a pile of linen napkins and a canteen of silver cutlery, which rattled loudly as she pushed the drawer shut. The best china — serving dishes, cream jug, dessert bowls, and a gravy boat — was tucked away on the shelves underneath.
In the far corner of the room were two doors. The first turned out to be the utility cupboard — ironing board, dustpan and brush, broom, a couple of coat hooks and lots of carrier bags from Géant tucked one inside the other. The second door concealed the stairs.
Her sandals clipped on the wooden treads as she made her way up into the dark. There was a pink-tiled, functional bathroom straight ahead, with a lump of dried-out soap on the basin and a bone-dry flannel hanging on a hook next to the no-nonsense mirror.
Grace’s bedroom was to the left. The single bed was made up with sheets and blankets and a heavy feather eiderdown. On a mahogany bedside cupboard was an ancient bottle of Milk of Magnesia with a white crust around its top, and a biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine by Alison Weir.
The sight of an old-fashioned bookmark marking the page tugged at her heartstrings. She could imagine Grace turning off the light to go to sleep, slipping the bookmark in to save the page. But time had run out. She had died before she had the chance to finish. Feeling uncharacteristically sentimental, Alice put the book to one side. She’d take it with her and give it a home.
In the drawer of the bedside table was a lavender bag, the pink ribbon at its neck bleached with age, as well as a prescription and a box of new handkerchiefs. Several other books filled the ledge beneath. Alice crouched down and tilted her head to one side to read the spines, always unable to resist snooping at what other people had on their shelves. It was much as she would expect. A Mary Stewart or two, a couple of Joanna Trollopes, an old book club edition of Peyton Place and a slim volume about the Ca
thars. The author’s name was printed in capital letters: A S BAILLARD. Alice raised her eyebrows. The same person who had painted the picture downstairs? The name of the translator was printed underneath: j GIRAUD.
Alice turned the book over and read the blurb. A translation of the Gospel of St John into Occitan, as well as several books about Ancient Egypt and an award-winning biography of Jean-François Champollion, the nineteenth-century scholar who’d deciphered the secret of hieroglyphs.
Something sparked in Alice’s brain. The library in Toulouse with the maps and charts and illustrations blinking on the screen in front of her eyes. Egypt again.
The front cover illustration of Baillard’s book was a photograph of a ruined castle, shrouded in purple mist, perched perilously at the top of a sheer rock. Alice recognised it from postcards and guidebooks as Montségur.
She opened it. The pages fell open of their own accord about two-thirds of the way through, where a piece of card had been tucked into the spine. Alice started to read:The fortified citadel of Montségur is set high on the mountain top, nearly an hour’s climb up from the village of Montségur. Often hidden by clouds, three sides of the castle are hewn out of the mountainside itself. It is an extraordinary natural fortress. What remains dates not from the thirteenth century but from more recent wars of occupation. Yet the spirit of place reminds the visitor always of its tragic past.
The legends associated with Montségur — the safe mountain — are legion. Some believe it is a solar temple, others that it was the inspiration for Wagner’s Munsal — vaesche, his Safe or Grail Mountain in his greatest work, Parsival. Others believed it to have been the final resting place of the Graal. It has been suggested that the Cathars were the guardians of the Cup of Christ, together with many other treasures from the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, or perhaps Visigoth gold and other riches from unspecified sources.
Whilst it is believed the fabled Cathar treasure was smuggled away from the besieged citadel in January 1244, shortly before the final defeat, that treasure has never been found. Rumours that this most precious of objects was lost are inaccurate. *
