by Kate Mosse
‘You found this, though, I believe?’
He lifted his left hand and placed it on the table, like a young girl showing off an engagement ring, and she saw to her astonishment he was wearing the stone ring. She smiled. It was so familiar, even though she’d held it for a few seconds at most.
She swallowed hard. ‘May I?’
Baillard removed it from his thumb. Alice took it and turned it over between her fingers, again discomforted by the intensity of his gaze.
‘Does it belong to you?’ she heard herself asking, although she feared he would say yes and all that that might mean.
He paused. ‘No,’ he said in the end, ‘although I had one like it once.’
‘Then who did this belong to?’
‘You do not know?’ he said.
For a split second, Alice thought she did. Then the spark of understanding disappeared and her mind was clouded once more.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said uncertainly, shaking her head, ‘but it lacks this, I think.’ She pulled the labyrinth disc from her pocket. ‘It was with the family tree at my aunt’s house.’ She handed it to him. ‘Did you send it to her?’
Baillard did not answer. ‘Grace was a charming woman, well educated and intelligent. During the course of our first conversation we discovered we had several interests in common, several experiences in common.’
What is it for?’ she asked, refusing to be deflected.
‘It’s called a merel. Once there were many. Now, only this one remains.’
She watched in amazement as Baillard inserted the disc into the gap in the body of the ring. ‘Aquì. There.’ He smiled and put the ring back on his thumb.
‘Is that decorative only or does it serve some purpose?’
He smiled, as if she had passed some sort of test. ‘It is the key that is needed,’ he said softly.
‘Needed for what?’
Again, Baillard did not answer. ‘Alaïs comes to you sometimes when you are sleeping, does she not?’
She was taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. She didn’t know how to react.
We carry the past within us, in our bones, in our blood,’ he said. ‘Alaïs has been with you all of your life, watching over you. You share many qualities with her. She had great courage, a quiet determination, as do you. Alaïs was loyal and steadfast as, I suspect, are you.’ He stopped and smiled at her again. ‘She, too, had dreams. Of the old days, of the beginning. Those dreams revealed her destiny to her, although she was reluctant to accept it, as yours now light your way.’
Alice felt as if the words were coming at her from a long distance, as if they were nothing to do with her or Baillard or anybody, but had always existed in time and space.
‘My dreams have always been about her,’ she said, not knowing where her words were taking her. ‘About the fire, the mountain, the book. This mountain?’ He nodded. ‘I feel she’s trying to tell me something. Her face has grown clearer these past few days, but I still can’t hear her speak.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t understand what she wants of me.’
‘Or you of her, perhaps,’ he said lightly. Baillard poured the wine and handed a glass to Alice.
Despite the earliness of the hour, she took several mouthfuls, feeling the liquid warming her as it slid down her throat.
‘Monsieur Baillard, I need to know what happened to Alaïs. Until I do, nothing will make sense. You know, don’t you?’
A look of infinite sadness came over him.
‘She did survive,’ she said slowly, fearing to hear the answer. ‘After Carcassonne . . . they didn’t . . . she wasn’t captured?’
He placed his hands flat on the table. Thin and speckled brown with age, Alice thought they resembled the claws of a bird.
‘Alaïs did not die before her time,’ he said carefully.
‘That doesn’t tell me . . .’ she started to say.
Baillard held up his hand. ‘At the Pic de Soularac events were set in motion that will give you - give us — the answers we seek. Only through understanding the present, the truth of the past will be known. You seek your friend, oc?’
Again, Alice was caught out by the way Baillard jumped from one subject to another.
‘How do you know about Shelagh?’ she said.
‘I know about the excavation and what happened there. Now your friend has disappeared. You are trying to find her.’
Deciding there was no point trying to work out how or what he knew, Alice replied.
‘She left the site house a couple of days ago. No one’s seen her since. I know her disappearance is connected with the discovery of the labyrinth.’ She hesitated. ‘In fact, I think I know who might be behind it all. At first, I thought Shelagh might have stolen the ring.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘Yves Biau took it and sent it to his grandmother, Jeanne Giraud.’
Alice’s eyes widened as another part of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘Yves and your friend work for a woman called Madame de l’Oradore.’ He paused. ‘Fortunately, Yves had second thoughts. Your friend too, perhaps.’
Alice nodded. ‘Biau passed me a telephone number. Then I discovered Shelagh had called the same number. I found out the address and when I didn’t get any answer, I thought I should go and see if she was there. It turned out to be the house of Madame de l’Oradore. In Chartres.’
‘You went to Chartres?’ Baillard said, his eyes bright. ‘Tell me. Tell me. What did you see?’
He listened in silence until Alice had finished telling him about everything she’d seen and overheard.
‘But this young man, Will, he did not show you the chamber?’
Alice shook her head. ‘After a while, I started to think that maybe it didn’t really exist.’
‘It exists,’ he said.
‘I left my rucksack behind. It had all my notes about the labyrinth in it, the photograph of you with my aunt. It will lead her straight to me.’ She paused. ‘That’s why Will went back to get it for me.’
‘And now you fear something has happened to him also?’
‘I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Half the time, I’m frightened for him. The rest of the time, I think he’s probably all tied up in it as well.’
‘Why did you feel you could trust him in the first instance?’ Alice looked up, alerted by the change in his tone. His usually benign gentle expression had vanished. ‘Do you feel you owe him something?’
‘Owe him something?’ Alice repeated, surprised by his choice of words. ‘No, not that. I barely know him. But, I liked him, I suppose. I felt comfortable in his company. I felt . . .’
‘Que?’ What?
‘It was more the other way round. It sounds crazy, but it was as if he felt he owed me. Like he was making up to me for something.’
Without warning, Baillard pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He was clearly in a state of some confusion.
Alice waited, not understanding what was going on. At last, he turned to face her.
‘I will tell you Alaïs’ story,’ he said. ‘And through the knowing of it, we will perhaps find the courage to face what lies ahead. But know this, Madomaisèla Tanner. Once you have heard it, you will have no choice but to follow the path to its end.’
Alice frowned. ‘It sounds like a warning.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Far from it. But we must not lose sight of your friend. From what you overheard, we must assume her safety is guaranteed until this evening at least.’
‘But I don’t know where the meeting’s supposed to take place,’ she said. ‘François-Baptiste didn’t say. Only tomorrow night at nine-thirty.’
‘I can guess,’ Baillard said calmly. ‘By dusk we will be there, waiting for them.’ He glanced out of the open window at the rising sun. ‘That gives us some time to talk.’
‘But what if you’re wrong?’
Baillard shrugged. ‘We must hope I am not.’
Alice was quiet for a moment. ‘I just want to know the truth,’ she
said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded.
He smiled. ‘Ieu tanben,’ he said. Me too.
CHAPTER 65
Will was aware of being dragged down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, then along the concrete corridor through the two doors. His head was hanging forward. The smell of incense was less strong, although it still hung, like a memory, in the hushed subterranean gloom.
At first, Will thought they were taking him to the chamber and that they would kill him. A memory of the block of stone at the foot of the tomb, the blood on the floor, flashed into his mind. But, then he was being bumped over a step. He felt the fresh air of early morning on his face and he realised he was outside, in some sort of alley that ran along the back of rue du Cheval Blanc. There were the early morning smells of burned coffee beans and rubbish, the sounds of the garbage truck not far off. Will realised this was how they must have got Tavernier’s body away from the house and down to the river.
A spasm of fear went through him and he struggled a little, only to register that his arms and legs were tied. Will heard the sound of a car boot being opened. He was half lifted, half thrown into the back. It wasn’t the usual sort of thing. He was in some sort of large box. It smelled of plastic.
As he rolled awkwardly on to his side, his head connected with the back of the container and Will felt the skin around the wound split open. Blood started to trickle down his temple, irritating, stinging. He couldn’t move his hands to wipe it away.
Now Will remembered standing outside the door of the study. Then the blinding crack of pain as François-Baptiste brought the gun down on the side of his head; his knees giving way under him; Marie-Cécile’s imperious voice once again demanding to know what was going on.
A calloused hand grasped his arm. Will felt his sleeve being pushed up and then the sharp point of a needle piercing his skin. Like before. Then, the sound of catches being snapped into place and some sort of covering, a tarpaulin perhaps, being pulled over his prison.
The drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetising the pain. Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything, he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let her down.
He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will tried to keep Alice’s face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.
But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.
In Carcassonne, Paul Authié stood on his balcony looking out over the river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O‘Donnell as bait to get to François-Baptiste de l’Oradore, but instinctively he rejected the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know he’d been set up.
Authié put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. The only option was to confront François-Baptiste himself — alone – and tell him he’d bring O’Donnell and the book to Marie-Cécile at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.
He regretted he’d not retrieved the ring, although he still believed Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authié had no doubt the old man was out there somewhere, watching.
Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O’Donnell had mentioned gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn’t understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at keeping out of his reach. She’d got away from Domingo and Braissart in the cemetery. They’d lost the car for several hours yesterday and when they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.
Authié closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.
In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to Friday mass. Authié glanced at his watch. He would go to confession. With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to fulfil God’s purpose.
Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.
The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows. Will’s teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the hill.
Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.
He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking. His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder, but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.
Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.
Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation. The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes, turning everything to white.
He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in the heat.
Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden struts of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness of grass.
As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling sound in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.
CHAPTER 66
The Commissioner of the Police Judiciaire of the Haute-Pyrenées strode into Inspector Noubel’s office in Foix and slammed the door shut behind him.
‘This had better be good, Noubel.’
‘Thank you for coming, sir. I wouldn’t have disturbed your lunch if I thought it could wait.’
He grunted. ‘You’ve identified Biau’s killers?’
‘Cyrille Braissart and Javier Domingo,’ confirmed Noubel, waving a fax that had come through minutes earlier. ‘Two positive IDs. One shortly before the accident in Foix on Monday night, the second immediately afterwards. The car was found abandoned on the Spain-Andorra border yesterday.’ Noubel paused to wipe the sweat from his nose and forehead. ‘They work for Paul Authié, sir.’
The Commissioner lowered his massive frame on to the edge of the desk.
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’ve heard the allegations against Authié? That he’s a member of the Noublesso Véritable?’
He nodded.
‘I spoke to the police in Chartres this afternoon – following up the Shelagh O’Donnell link – and they confirmed they’re investigating the links between the organisation and a murder that took place earlier in the week.’
What’s that got to do with Authié?’
‘The body was recovered quickly due to an anonymous tip-off.’
‘Any proof it was Authié?’
‘No,’ Noubel admitted, ‘but there is evidence he met with a journalist, who’s also disappeared. The police in Chartres think there’s a link.’
Seeing the look of scepticism on
his boss’s face, Noubel rushed on.
‘The excavation at the Pic de Soularac was funded by Madame de l’Oradore. Well hidden, but it’s her money behind it. Brayling, the director of the dig, is pushing the idea that O‘Donnell has disappeared, having stolen artefacts from the site. But it’s not what her friends think.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure Authié has her, either on Madame de l’Oradore’s orders or on his own account.’
The fan in his office was broken and Noubel was perspiring heavily. He could feel rings of sweat mushrooming under his arms.
‘It’s very thin, Noubel.’
‘Madame de l’Oradore was in Carcassonne from Tuesday to Thursday, sir. She met twice with Authié. I believe she went with him to the Pic de Soularac.’
‘There’s no crime in that, Noubel.’
“When I came in this morning I found this message waiting for me, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s when I decided we’d got enough to ask for this meeting.’
Noubel hit the play button on his voicemail. Jeanne Giraud’s voice filled the room. The Commissionaire listened, his expression growing grimmer by the second.
‘Who is she?’ he said when Noubel had played the message a second time.
‘Yves Biau’s grandmother.’
‘And Audric Baillard?’
‘An author and friend. He accompanied her to the hospital in Foix.’
The Commissioner put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Noubel could see he was calculating the potential damage if they went after Authié and failed.
‘And you’re a hundred per cent certain you’ve got enough to link Domingo and Braissart to both Biau and Authié?’
‘The descriptions fit, sir.’
‘They fit half of the Ariege,’ he growled.
‘O’Donnell’s been missing for three days, sir.’
The Commissionaire sighed and heaved himself off the desk.
What do you want to do, Noubel?’
‘I want to pull in Braissart and Domingo, sir.’
He nodded.
‘Also, I need a search warrant. Authié’s got several properties, including a derelict farm in the Sabarthès Mountains, registered in his ex-wife’s name. If O’Donnell’s being held locally, chances are it’s there.’
