The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  Isobel could see the walls of the château of Montsegur rising up out of the trees and she paused to catch her breath. She wondered if the good Cathar bishop would be waiting for her with his smiling eyes at the summit.

  After her mother died the twin sisters Rosamunda and Blanche took over her rearing and she had travelled with them whenever they visited the good Bishop Guilhabert de Castres, usually nearing Easter and the Festival of Bema. They said the bishop had lived for twelve years as a hermit in a cave to make penance for the sins of the world. Some said he was given to drink from the cup called the Holy Grail in that cave; the cup from which the Lord Himself had drunk at the Last Supper. There were many tales about him, but Isobel knew him as a teacher. He came to Montsegur now and again to teach and to counsel and to prepare for a momentous occasion he had seen in his visions, which he referred to as an Apocalypse – the end of the world.

  The wind swirled the brambles and bracken now and shook their wiry arms. Ignoring the temper of nature Isobel followed her mistresses up the steep-edged path holding on to the trunks of the boxwood trees that grew all around. Isobel knew that this journey to Montsegur had something to do with the Apocalypse the good bishop was expecting. After all, they had come here to prepare for it and to safeguard the treasure that Rosamunda had carried under her skirt all these years. Yes, the world was darkening and war was once again upon them. That is why the bishop had asked the noble Raymond de Parella to donate Montsegur to the cause, so that it could be made ready for the dark time, when the dragon of the church would come to steal the Holy Grail. She also sensed excitement in those around her for the child she was carrying, the child of the gallant young noble she had married when she was seventeen. She had known her husband only two months before he died at the hands of the inquisitors, and now she would soon have his child. She was afraid.

  Her thinking had taken her to the top of the mountain, tearful and breathless. At the gate built into the great wall she turned around to see the mountains, mist laden and quiet, before her. She wondered if this would be the last time she would see them and was afraid for what would become of her child in a world that was soon to end. The painful thought made a tremble pass through her body and a strange and unwelcome wetness moved downwards over her legs. ‘My child?’ she said, making the sisters turn around to look at her. A terrible cramping pain now seized her and the thoughts for her child and the world came together with the thoughts of God and snapped shut on her mind like two opposing blades making a final cut. When she looked down she saw blood on the earth at her feet and she gave a sob of fear.

  The sisters were at her side, each taking her by an arm and carrying her to Bishop Guilhabert, who was then instructing the children. When the bishop saw her he knew what to do. He took Isobel to the keep and ordered the women to get some hot water. And so it was that upon a bed of straw, Isobel strained for all her life’s worth to give birth to the child. She knew she must be screaming and yet she did not hear anything except her child’s heart beating in her ears. The world was a confusion of sounds and light. The only face she recognised was Bishop Guilhabert’s when he came to her and said, ‘It is a boy, my dear, a beautiful boy. Listen, child, you have done a good thing. He is our master born again . . . he will live!’

  She felt herself smile, but all her strength had gone out from her, leaving her feeling like a naked limb in winter, trembling with the slightest breeze; she was the breeze that shook it and the sun that made it grow and the water that fed it. A voice whispered in her ear that her name Isobel meant ‘Beautiful Isis’. Somehow she knew what this meant.

  For a moment the troubadour Matteu’s face stared down into hers. She heard the voice calling in the distance . . . the blackness came.

  19

  A Key, a List, and a Sign

  ‘However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away.’

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘A Case of Identity’

  Bugarach, 1938

  When Rahn came to his senses he found a face staring down into his. He remembered words . . . something to do with a book, an author and a master . . . but nothing more.

  He sensed he was being spoken to but this was just a distant murmur. He felt a gentle slapping on his cheek. His shoulder ached and his head felt like a bowl of jelly.

  He heard Deodat say, ‘Wake up, Rahn!’ and then someone was trying to lift him to a sitting position. He could see a face. He put two and two together and made five – five beautiful faces.

  What is Louise Brooks doing here? Am I on a film set?

  ‘You were coming at me like a maniac!’ Louise Brooks kindly informed him.

  He thought he sensed a note of humour in her voice.

  What an actress!

  The five faces became one and he held his skull to prevent them from separating again.

  ‘What happened?’ he said to her.

  ‘I’m afraid I had to hit you,’ she answered.

  He muttered, ‘Of course. What did you use, a train?’

  ‘A candlestick, actually.’ The grin was somewhat proud.

  This isn’t Louise Brooks; it’s the abbé’s niece!

  ‘But I didn’t hit you as hard as I could have.’

  He gave a perfunctory nod of his head, which made his temples creak. ‘I’m very glad of that, I’m sure.’ He sat up and was helped to his feet by Deodat while the world spun, a jumble of light and mirrors. They sat him down on a pew and he nursed his wounds, feeling now altogether like the highest grade of fool.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he said to her, taking her in, her helmet haircut and the deep brown eyes that showed no sympathy. She was dressed like a man, in pants, flat shoes and a black beret to match.

  ‘I came to open the tabernacle,’ she said.

  It took a moment for Rahn to reason this through. How had she figured it out?

  ‘When they took my uncle away,’ she continued, ‘I had the pond drained.’

  ‘What pond?’

  ‘The pond in the garden – I had it drained. Actually, we only had to drain it partially because we found it.’

  ‘Found what?’ He delicately touched the throbbing lump on his head.

  ‘I had a hunch about my uncle’s obsession with those fish. I wondered if it wasn’t the fish he was obsessed with at all, but something else in that pond. It did seem to me as if he might have fallen in looking for something. I found this.’ She showed them a key in the shape of a cross. ‘I knew that it belonged to the tabernacle, so I came here to see what might be inside it.’

  Rahn looked at her expressionless face. She was smart and he didn’t know exactly why he was annoyed by it, but he was. Apart from the fact that she had occasioned the dull thumping at his temples, she had a way of making him feel like a pimply-faced schoolboy, standing before a headmistress. ‘So the key was at the bottom of the pond all this time?’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did you find it? It must have been covered in scum and algae.’

  ‘Not at the bottom, it was in a box placed on an inner ledge set into the stonework. It looks like the sacristan never had it on his ring of keys. Monsieur Roche told me how you figured it out, and I am impressed! But what I don’t understand is why my uncle didn’t just write “tabernacle” on that piece of paper if he wanted you to look there.’

  She appeared so vulnerable, so lovely – and yet there was that lump on his head. He winced. No, the girl was vicious, and at the same time, terribly beautiful – a vicious beauty, a beautiful terror. His mind was spinning and he contrived to make it stop.

  ‘So, did you find anything in the tabernacle?’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘That is the interesting part,’ Deodat replied, sounding vexed. ‘There appears to be nothing in it out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Rahn cried, irritated in the extreme. ‘Let me see!’ He got up and made his way to the altar, passing the candlestick that Eva had so discourteously used as a weapon to assault him. Luckily, it wasn’t made of soli
d brass and the brunt of the blow had been taken by his shoulder and arm, which were both aching and no doubt bruised.

  ‘There’s a monstrance and a chalice,’ Deodat said behind him, ‘a little box for the wafers, a spoon and a little bottle of consecrated wine . . . some oil, but nothing else, I’m afraid.’

  Rahn paused a moment to let his head settle. It felt like one of those snow globes with an Eiffel Tower inside it. Someone had shaken the globe, causing the tower to be obscured by snow, and moreover there was a peculiar buzzing sound – as if a bee had found its way into it and was having a hard time finding a way out. He took a candle from the altar and peered inside the tabernacle, trying to concentrate, but his intermittent double vision was disconcerting. He brought the chalice out towards the candle. It was nothing special, made of bronze, as was the monstrance. It was a poor church, after all. He removed the wine bottle and the spoon and a bottle of oil as well as the box of consecrated wafers, which looked to be made from wood. He then inspected the inside of the tabernacle and found something strange: there was a symbol scratched and burnt onto the base of it. He could just make it out. It looked like a double pentagram.

  ‘What’s this, Deodat, do you know?’

  Deodat put on his reading glasses and came over to take a look and said, ‘What in the

  devil? It’s the sign of the lamb – the intelligence of the sun!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This seven-pointed star is found in the Book of the Seven Seals in Saint John’s Apocalypse. At each point there is an eye and a sign which denotes a planetary intelligence: Saturn, Sun, Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus; all together they stand for the Cosmic Christ. I’ve seen it before in the work of Rudolf Steiner; it can be used as a talisman to ward off evil, like the evil eye. The Templars also used it on their secret seal.’

  Eva came to take a look.

  ‘Why would the abbé feel a need to scratch that symbol into a place that is holy anyway?’ Rahn said, unconsciously taking a swipe at the bee which now seemed to be somewhere beyond his line of vision. He searched the tabernacle, checking for a false compartment, and felt something at the top of it: it was a piece of paper stuck with tape. He worked at it carefully until it came away without tearing. It was a list of names and places.

  He showed the others. ‘Do either of you recognise any of these?’

  Jean-Louis Verger – Paris

  Antoine Bigou – Rennes-le-Château

  ~

  A J Grassaud – Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet

  A C Saunière – Rennes-le-Château

  A K Boudet – Rennes-les-Bains A

  A Gélis – Coustassa

  A L Rivière – Espéraza

  ‘Wait a minute! That’s the abbé I told you about,’ Eva said,

  ‘the one who visited my uncle a short while back, the Abbé Grassaud, from Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet.’

  ‘Do you think these might be the priests he was investigating?’ Rahn asked Deodat.

  Eva raised her beautiful brows and turned to Deodat. ‘What is he talking about?’

  ‘Your uncle was investigating a number of priests in this area for the Vatican,’ Deodat informed her. ‘I don’t know exactly why, he talked in generalities about the church and the laws of the state. He seemed anxious to keep things quiet, so I complied. When he asked for me this week I thought he wanted to raise the matter again. Anyway, whatever it is, this list must have been important for him to hide it like that.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the girl said.

  ‘If you’re right and your uncle died trying to get the key to this tabernacle, it must have mattered a great deal to him,’ Rahn said, pointing out the obvious. It had the desired effect: Eva frowned and said nothing more.

  Rahn looked about him. ‘We had better leave. It won’t be long before daybreak and it would be better if we weren’t found here like this.’

  ‘You’re right, dear Rahn, we would have to explain our actions and I think for the time being we should keep what we’ve found to ourselves – no sense in creating a scandal precipitously.’

  Once outside, Rahn felt a great relief wash over him. The gibbous moon had set and the world was a playground of fog and damp vapours and shadows but there were too many thoughts running through his mind for him to notice it.

  ‘Go home, my dear, and rest,’ Deodat said, taking Eva to her car. ‘You will have a lot to do in the coming days, organising your uncle’s funeral . . .’

  She got into the car as if she didn’t have a care in the world and said, through the open window, ‘There’s really not much to do. He arranged everything with his lawyers a long time ago; his body is to be interred somewhere secret, he didn’t want anyone to know where, not even me, and there is to be no funeral, nothing at all.’

  Rahn thought this exceedingly strange but said nothing. He stood beside Deodat and said his goodbyes, watching the taillights of Eva’s car die away on the ribbon of road with a strange wistfulness in his heart. A vicious, terrible beauty!

  He wiped his hands of dust and of the girl too. He had neither the time nor the inclination for girls, for as Sherlock Holmes would say, they were inscrutable – their most trivial actions could mean volumes and their extraordinary conduct could depend on a hairpin.

  It was still dark and very cold when they climbed into the Tourster for the long drive back. Like the miners whose lives depend on it, years of potholing in the Lombrives had developed in Rahn an ability to sense danger and he could smell it now – there was certainly something fishy in this entire business.

  20

  Much Ado About Nothing?

  ‘Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and the imagination.’

  Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’

  The sun was tinting the sky in watered hues by the time they finally arrived back at Deodat’s house at Arques. Madame Sabine was not home. On Thursdays she left early for the markets at Espéraza but she had left them breakfast, a freshly baked brioche and a pot of jam that tasted like heaven. They ate in the kitchen and at the same time tried to reason through their findings.

  ‘It’s strange,’ Deodat said. ‘I wonder what he was investigating and why he went to such lengths to conceal the list?’

  ‘It must have been controversial, perhaps even dangerous; after all, someone wanted it enough to kill the sacristan.’

  ‘But, my dear Rahn, we don’t know that for certain! It is a capital mistake to theorise without all the details because one begins to twist the facts to suit theories, instead of twisting theories to suit facts.’

  ‘You can quote Sherlock Holmes all you want, but if he were here, I’m certain he would connect the sacristan’s death to that list of priests the abbé was investigating.’

  ‘What makes you so certain of that?’

  ‘Well, my theory is this: I think someone wanted that list, someone the abbé had confided in – like he confided in you. That person knew the list was hidden somewhere in the church and when the abbé fell ill he saw his chance. He accosted the only person who might know, the one who had the keys to the church and knew it intimately – the sacristan.’

  ‘And what if he didn’t know anything?’

  ‘In his desperation he may have handed the keys to his assailant, hoping it would suffice. But the die was cast, his tormentor had to kill him or risk being exposed.’

  ‘Yes, but why not go directly to the abbé and make him divulge the location of the list? He was vulnerable, after all.’

  ‘I don’t know, but don’t forget the abbé couldn’t even string a sentence together and had trouble even writing down one word, not to mention the fact that there’s always someone with him because of his condition. Perhaps whoever did it, didn’t want to threaten a priest. I haven’t figured it all out yet.’

  Deodat looked at Rahn and sighed. ‘As I said, you’re simply twisting a few meagre facts to suit your t
heory.’

  ‘You might be right. But all that aside, you have to admit, carving the sign of the lamb into a tabernacle is an unusual thing for a priest to do.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you on that score. Especially considering that it’s an esoteric symbol, something most priests would call heretical, even witchcraft.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘In a way, yes, but it is white magic – a protection from evil.’

  ‘Well, it appears that the abbé was no ordinary priest.’

  ‘No, perhaps not, you might be right,’ Deodat said. ‘My guess is, he was trying to protect the contents of the tabernacle from something.’

  Rahn drank down the last of his coffee. He was pensive but it hurt his head to think. He felt for the lump and winced – it was hot and angry. ‘Perhaps the sign of the lamb means the list is somehow connected to the grimoire I’m looking for.’ He looked at Deodat. ‘I know it’s too much of a coincidence, but maybe it isn’t a coincidence at all, but a design. It might be a bit jumbled but there is some sense in it. Hear me out.

  ‘I was sent to France to meet Pierre Plantard about a grimoire. I then find out that a man called Monti had come here to see a priest about a grimoire. After that I meet a friend of yours who is a priest, and his last word before he dies is connected to grimoires. The inspector, who just happens to turn up to the scene of the abbé’s death, is searching for Le Cagoule, a group connected to Alpha Galates and Pierre Plantard – through whom I found out about the grimoire in the first place. It’s a snake biting its tail. So, if you ask me, there are two common denominators in these strange and seemingly disparate events – a priest and a grimoire.’