The Templars' Last Secret

by Martin Walker

  Isabelle, lit by the evening sun, was seated on the grass before the barn, Balzac looking ecstatic as he lay in her lap having his tummy scratched. There was a glass of white wine on a tray beside her and a bottle, nearly half empty, of Château des Eyssards, a dry Bergerac wine he liked. She knew where he kept a spare key for those rare times when he locked the house and felt sufficiently at home to help herself. The thought gave him a little thrill of pleasure.

  “I thought you were going to the wedding dinner,” she said. “But I really wanted to see him.”

  “I just came back to walk him, feed the chickens and change before going out,” Bruno replied, noting wryly that it was Balzac she had wanted to see rather than him. Could he possibly be jealous of his own dog? “It’s good to see the two of you together. And congratulations on your new job.”

  “It’s mostly boring bureaucracy and politics so it’s a relief when something real like this comes up,” she said. “And every time I come back it always makes me wonder why I ever left the Périgord.”

  A younger Bruno would have seized on that to suggest she stay. But he’d been hurt too often by Isabelle on her occasional forays to the region. She always left again. Her career was her priority. Sometimes he thought that Balzac was the only chink in her armor. But Balzac loved her in return. It was only for Isabelle that his dog would not have come to welcome him.

  “You change and go. I’ll walk him and I’ll feed your chickens and I’ll lock up again when I leave. Have a good evening.” She blew him a kiss.

  He went inside and checked his watch. He’d have time for a quick shower. But first he called Clothilde, who was still at Commarque, full of apologies and saying she’d lost track of the time. He told her that Edouard Lespinasse would drop him at the restaurant, and Edouard would then drive on to Commarque to pick them all up, and he’d drive them home later. He’d see her and her other guests at the restaurant. Then he showered and listened to the local radio news while dressing in a clean shirt, khaki slacks and his blazer.

  The first item on the local news was a report on what was described as “an antiterrorist training exercise” involving helicopters and roadblocks, and Commissaire Prunier gave a brief interview saying that any disruption was regretted, but he was confident that the public would understand the need for such training. The second item, which came just as Edouard drove into his driveway, made Bruno pause to listen.

  The pedophile case in Mussidan has taken a new turn, with inquiries now being made into the professional credentials of the psychologist Marie-France Duteiller, who treated the three people bringing the allegations that they had been abused at the orphanage. The director of the clinic where she works announced today that she had been suspended after he consulted her former colleagues at the mental hospital in Paris on her qualifications. Madame Duteiller used the controversial technique of hypnosis to recover the supposedly lost memories of the three accusers who claimed to have been abused. One of them today told our reporter that she was no longer sure of what she recalled.

  It was a thoughtful Bruno who climbed into Edouard’s vehicle for the short drive past St. Cirq to Laugerie Basse. Madame Duteiller was indeed learning what it was like to play by what J-J had called big boys’ rules.

  For Bruno there were few sights more impressive in the Périgord than the great sweep of the Grand Roc, a sheer cliff more than fifty meters high and nearly a kilometer in length, sweeping down the flank of the River Vézère as it flowed toward Les Eyzies. Almost halfway up this limestone wall was a long horizontal slash in the rock, an overhang that had created a gisement, or shelter, up to fifteen meters deep, in which humans had lived for some fifteen thousand years. They had left behind the richest and most impressive relics of the culture of the prehistoric peoples, their arrowheads and spearpoints of flint; their tools and barbed harpoons; their marvelously carved spear-throwers engraved with animals and hunters; their needles and knives, stone saws and scrapers; the awls they made to pierce reindeer hides so they could use sinews to sew garments together.

  He would always be grateful to Horst and Clothilde for the way they had encouraged him to probe a little deeper than the cave paintings of Lascaux and Font de Gaume and to see their creators as humans much like himself, responding with courage and invention to the harsh realities of their day. How would he have survived, Bruno often wondered, with only flint tools and a hunter’s skill to feed and clothe and warm himself and a family in such a desperately challenging environment?

  But looking up at the Grand Roc with the eyes of a modern man, Bruno always smiled to himself at the readiness of the people of the Périgord to learn from their ancestors. Tucked into the long horizontal slice of rock where the cave people had found shelter was a cluster of more modern buildings, taking advantage of the way the rock spared them the need to build rear walls and complete roofs. There were dwellings, a small museum and a ticket office for access to the gisement and enough space for half-a-dozen cars to park. He climbed out at the foot of the steps and sent Edouard on to Commarque.

  It was to one of these buildings built into the rock that he made his way, a local family-run restaurant that had become one of his favorites, serving plain but classic meals at reasonable sums. He and his fellow hunters lunched here weekly, enjoying the menu du jour of soup, pâté, confit de canard, salad and dessert for thirteen euros. In summer, he would eat on the terrace, the towering rock above him and the river flowing below. But this evening was a special occasion, arranged by Clothilde. The rear cave, containing the grave of a prehistoric man who had been buried in an upright crouch, clutching his knees, was very seldom opened to the public. The skeleton had long since been removed to a museum, but the damp chill of the cave and the sense of an ancient death made the place inviting only to archaeologists. The waiters crossed themselves before entering.

  Tonight for Clothilde’s prewedding dinner a long table had been laid inside and a special menu prepared by Madame Jugie, the owner. Bruno kissed her in greeting and left her to welcome the other guests who had arrived, Gilles and Fabiola, Pamela and the baron, Jack Crimson and his daughter, and Bruno’s own guest for the evening, Florence, from the collège. Clothilde and Horst and the other archaeologists had yet to arrive, but Manners and his wife, Lydia, were already enjoying a glass of champagne at the bar with the count and his daughter.

  Then Raquelle, one of the artists who had helped paint the copy of the Lascaux cave that visiting tourists now saw, arrived with Professor Barrymore and the German archaeologists. She explained that Clothilde had insisted on going home to change. Another bottle of champagne was opened and then almost finished when the bride-to-be arrived with her future husband. Clothilde looked stunning in a green silk dress that set off her red hair and had Lydia whispering “Armani” to Florence. Horst looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry, his shirt buttons in the wrong buttonholes, and one of his shoelaces undone. But his guests were indulgent, warmed by the glow of pleasure on his face as he saw his friends assembled and called for more champagne. Bruno felt that he’d been right to arrange once more for the taxi services of Edouard.

  They went through the special door at the back of the restaurant and down the steps into the inner cave, ducking slightly beneath the low roof to take their places at the long table, lit only by candlelight. Clothilde sat at the far end of the table, and Horst stood at the place nearest the steps to give some formal words of welcome, and to tip a drop of champagne from his glass onto the place where the skeleton had been found.

  “A libation to our ancestors,” he declared. “And what better place for a marriage of archaeologists than this wondrous Grand Roc that has revealed to us so much of the life of early humankind. And what a day of discovery we have shared together at Commarque, which I take as a sign from the gods of their approval of our wedding.”

  The candles suddenly flickered and Bruno crossed his fingers under the table. He thought of himself as only occasionally superstitious, but to invoke the gods and assume the
ir benevolence in a cave such as this where the sense of the past was so palpable struck him as playing with fire. And looking around the table at the raised eyebrows and the nervous glances being exchanged and then noticing the discreet gestures that Pamela, Florence and Fabiola were making to touch the wood of their chairs, he knew he was not the only one so alarmed.

  “To Clothilde and Horst and the friendship that has brought us all here together,” he exclaimed, raising his glass. And to his great relief, Madame Jugie chose that moment to descend the steps with a cheerful smile and a tureen of soup. Its scents of garlic and wholesome bouillon drove away his sudden mood of dread and replaced it with hunger and good fellowship.

  Chapter 25

  Bruno had risen at six, drunk two glasses of water with aspirin and then forced himself into a brisk run through the woods with Balzac before taking a shower that he ran first hot and then cold. He fed his chickens, made coffee, boiled an egg and shared his toast with Balzac before driving down to meet J-J.

  “I heard on the news about Madame Duteiller’s suspension,” he began as they set off for the hospital in Sarlat.

  “Then you only know the half of it,” said J-J, jerking his thumb at the backseat where that morning’s Sud Ouest had been opened to an inside page. Bruno reached to pick it up. Philippe Delaron’s story of his interview with Anne-Louise from the scout camp and her account of being beaten by the nun ran under a subheadline that read “I Don’t Believe a Word of It.” She said that in all her years at the orphanage she’d never heard a word about sexual abuse, just the endless physical punishments by the sadistic nun.

  “Do you think this psychologist had any idea what a storm she was raising with this business?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. What I do know is that with the news on the radio and in the paper, her mayor is going to have to file the tax charges against her and probably against her husband as accessory. He was the one who took the cash, and they file a joint tax return, so he’s liable.”

  Bruno nodded, thinking that after what he’d done to Hugues, there was a rough kind of justice in Vaugier facing a stiff fine for tax evasion.

  “So it looks as though the case will now go away?” he asked.

  “Not until I can get some form of official statement that the inquiry is over and that the allegations were groundless. I want to repair what these fanciful tales did to those poor old men who spent years of their lives helping kids. If the magistrate doesn’t have the guts to do it, I’ll make my own statement even if it costs me my job. I’m close enough to retirement as it is.”

  “Have you talked to Prunier about this?” Bruno asked. As overall head of the police in the département, Prunier was J-J’s boss.

  “He always backs me up. The problem is the prefect, or rather his wife. It turns out she’s the daughter of a cabinet minister, so her wish is our prefect’s command.” J-J levered his bulk out of the car and stomped into the hospital.

  Auguste Dumesnil had been moved from intensive care into a room that usually contained two beds. He was alone, lying facedown, reading a book that had been placed on a low table beside the bed. His legs were covered by a sheet and blanket that had been raised on some kind of cradle so the cloth did not touch his flesh.

  The doctor had said he would be moved within the next two days to Bordeaux for a series of skin grafts on his thighs and buttocks. But he might have to undergo a further operation to ensure that he would be able to urinate normally. Bruno swallowed hard when he heard this, and then tried to make sure his face looked normal when he greeted the armed gendarme at the door and was shown into Dumesnil’s room.

  “The doctors tell me you’re doing well, which is good news, and I may have something to help cheer you up even more,” said Bruno. “I was at Commarque yesterday. They’ve found a hidden cave containing a medieval tomb. I’ve got some images on my phone.” He handed it to Dumesnil.

  “Thank you.” He took it gingerly, careful not to move anything but his head and arms. “It’s not very clear, but that’s a tomb of a Crusader, probably a Templar, late thirteenth or early fourteenth century, I’d say. And it looks like marble, which means somebody rich. I presume it hasn’t been opened?”

  “They can’t even get into the cave yet. It was deliberately blocked with a big boulder and sealed. Those photos come from a remote camera that they were able to poke inside.”

  “So with any luck, I might even be there when it’s opened. That’s something to look forward to.”

  “Excuse my interruption, but we only have limited time with you and I need to ask about your attackers,” said J-J.

  “I expected that so I made a tape recording. The cassette is on the cabinet by the bed. I could identify only one of them, Saïd al-Husayni, obviously acting under compulsion. The big one, whose name I think was Mustaf, was twisting his arm to make Saïd translate their questions and my answers. Then Saïd collapsed and I heard him being ill and then another one took over the translation. He had an accent, maybe Dutch or Flemish. I told them everything I knew, which wasn’t much, mainly what I’d already said to Saïd when he came to see me with Leah. Have you confirmed that hers was the body you found?”

  “I’m afraid so. It seems both Leah and al-Husayni were being forced to work for the others.”

  “I’m sorry about that. She was a very promising scholar and I liked her. Never did I dream that something as tame and remote as medieval studies would leave her dead and me hurt like this.”

  “Are you still in great pain?”

  “I wouldn’t call it great, more a constant stinging. They gave me morphine, but I’m afraid of becoming addicted, so I’ve asked them to stop. They say they’re steadily reducing the dose and then they’ll give me other painkillers. Since they told me I wasn’t going to die, I’ve felt much better, but it’s difficult to make sense of it all. I’m hoping you can help me there.”

  “It seems to be Middle Eastern politics, with some Arabs determined for obvious reasons to suppress or destroy this Testament of Iftikhar,” said Bruno. “If it exists.”

  Dumesnil rolled his eyes. “If it exists, indeed. I still have my doubts. And now it hardly seems to matter if the document is genuine or not. It would appear to have assumed a political life of its own.”

  “Was that the only reason why they were torturing you?” J-J asked. “Did they question you about anything else?”

  “No, it was all about the testament. I thought that by telling them everything I knew they wouldn’t hurt me. But they kept wanting more, as if certain that I knew where the testament was, maybe that I even had the original or at least a copy. Perhaps if I had lied, or not told them everything at first, it might have stopped them hurting me, but I think Mustaf took pleasure in it.”

  “Did you hear any other names?” J-J asked.

  “No, and I’m not sure about Mustaf. It was when the phone rang in the other room, and the big one was hitting Saïd when he started to be sick. Someone shouted a question from another room, and I’m sure he said ‘Mustaf,’ well, almost sure, as much as one can be at such a time.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I’m not sure, I was passing out and then coming to. They threw water in my face a couple of times. But I think it was then or soon after that they left in a hurry. I remember trying to shift the chair so I could knock over the candle.”

  “You succeeded,” said Bruno. “It was what saved your life.”

  “I was told that it was the policeman who first arrived who saved my life, with a black woman.”

  “That was Bruno here,” said J-J. “He gave you mouth-to-mouth until the ambulance came.”

  “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”

  “Not in the least, I’m just sorry I didn’t get there sooner, except that men like that would probably have killed you as soon as they saw my uniform.”

  “Have you caught them?”

  “No, but we have Saïd al-Husayni. We’d tracked down where they were hiding and had h
elicopters looking for them, but they left, leaving al-Husayni behind. They shot him before they fled, probably thinking he’d outlived his usefulness. He’s okay, in another hospital. And he’s very worried about you and whether you’re alive.”

  “I am, as you can see, after a fashion. The doctor says I’ll need three months in hospitals and another three months to convalesce before I can walk again and get back to my normal life.”

  “Could you identify any of the men from these photos?” J-J asked, showing Auguste the surveillance photos from the Gare de l’Est. He put them down, one by one, on top of the book Dumesnil had been reading.

  Dumesnil studied them carefully in turn. “This big one was the man I think they called Mustaf. He only took his scarf down from his face during the interrogation, but that nose and mouth are striking. And I think the one standing while Leah is sitting at the café table is the one who spoke with the Dutch accent.”

  “Did they begin torturing you at once?”

  “No, they came in and hit me in the stomach and then slapped my face several times, and al-Husayni and Mustaf began questioning me while the others searched the apartment. It was only when I said I had told them everything that they stripped me and tied me onto the chair.”

  “What did they ask you?”

  “All about the testament, what I knew, where it was, who else might have it, what the link with Commarque was. When I said I knew of no link with Commarque they became angry and started slapping me again. They seemed to think these new excavations with that seismic machine were searching for the testament.”

  “They knew about that?” Bruno asked.

  “They thrust a copy of Sud Ouest into my face with a photo of Horst at the site.”

  “How long was it before they put you into the chair?” J-J interrupted.