‘We believe that a hermit found these caves in the seventh century,’ the man was saying, ‘he saw that they had everything he needed to survive: shelter, water from a spring, vegetation, roots and herbs and quiet from the world. Eventually others joined him. The original grotto is dedicated to Mary Magdalene, who was also a hermit. We Franciscans only came here in the fifteenth century. A long time later, in the eighteenth century, an epidemic struck the town of Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet, so the townsfolk placed themselves under the protection of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of hermits, and there was a miracle.
The epidemic was cut short. The townspeople, full of gratitude, built the chapel inside the large cave.’
‘So that’s why a hermit leads the procession during Ash Wednesday at Bugarach?’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘Saint Anthony is revered in these parts.’
They descended further until they entered a building in which a large vaulted grotto had been converted into a chapel formed out of the existing rock. It was cool, and sparsely lit by votive and altar candles. The monk gestured for Rahn to take off his hat, which he did, reluctantly. The chapel was essentially a cave and so when Rahn made his way down the nave to the altar he felt no anxiety at all; in fact, the fog was lifting and behind it his instincts were becoming sharper. On the left near the steps that led upwards to the sacred space there was a sculpture of Saint Anthony but when Rahn looked to the right he was stopped in his tracks. A stone tablet like a large grave marker stood against the grotto wall. Inscribed into the stone he was surprised to see the Sator Square. Above it the sculpted head of a man screamed in terrible pain, his jaws open wide.
‘Oh!’ the novice said. ‘Do you like it? No one knows how old it is. We think it may even be older than the original hermit who lived here. Some say it is older than a thousand years. The inscription, Sator Arepo Tenet Opera Rotas, means the Great Sower holds in His hand all works – and all works the Great Sower holds in His hand. In other words, God is the sower and He inspires all the creative work of man. Man should not think himself greater than God. In fact even here in this hermitage we have an example of how small we are in the presence of God’s designs. The cavities in this mountain go deep into the Earth and there is another gallery even larger than this whose access, in the grotto of Mary Magdalene, is now forbidden. There was a priest who decided to explore these cavities—’
‘That’s right.’ An old monk entered the chapel now. Rahn guessed he must be somewhere in the vicinity of eighty years. His face was a landscape of wrinkles whose folds had overcome what had once been a cleft chin and nearly buried those squinting eyes whose gaze was suspicious and wary. ‘It was Albert Fonçay,’ he said. ‘He ventured into our network of tunnels . . . they say he was accompanied by a nun, Marie-Bernard Brauge. No one knows what happened to the nun but Albert Fonçay was discovered coming out of the grotto three days later, gravely injured. He had no recall of the events. He lapsed in and out of consciousness and when he woke he could only manage to utter incoherent phrases. He died three weeks after his ordeal, delirious and in terror for his soul. Since then the entrance has been closed. The sub-earthly ethers,’ he said, ‘are dangerous. In the Earth lies the potential for the greatest evil and this tablet is placed here to remind us of this. Now, who are you and what do you want?’
‘I’ve come about Abbé Cros . . .’
‘Eugene?’ he said.
‘I’m afraid he is dead,’ Rahn said.
‘What?’ The old man frowned, squinting.
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘Cros is dead?’ The news having sunk in, he took himself to a pew to sit down. ‘But how?’
‘He drowned yesterday, in the small pond in his garden.’
The old man paused. He told the other monk to leave them alone and when he was sure the young man had gone, he stared upwards at Rahn with unreserved distrust. ‘What was he doing in the pond?’
‘I think he was trying to find something – a key he had hidden there,’ Rahn told him.
‘The key was in the pond?’ The man looked down; many thoughts were apparently crossing his venerable mind.
‘So, you know what it was for?’
‘What?’ he said, coming out of his contemplation.
‘The key?’
‘No . . . I . . . well . . .’ The abbé seemed at a loss.
‘The key opened the tabernacle at Bugarach – in it we found a list of names,’ Rahn said.
‘You have the list? Let me see it!’ Grassaud ordered.
‘Do you know what it’s for, Abbé Grassaud?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Because your name is on it.’
The old man started to wheeze. ‘My name . . . on the list?’
‘Yes, and so is your church, along with a number of other churches and their priests.’
‘A number – how many?’
‘You saw Abbé Cros a week ago, is that so?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘After you left he was somewhat upset,’ Rahn said.
The old man faltered. ‘I don’t know what you are getting at with these questions—’
‘What did you want with him, Abbé?’
‘It was just a visit to an old friend.’ He shrugged it off, but Rahn could see an underlying anxiety.
‘Did he tell you anything about the list?’
‘Go away and leave me alone! I don’t know anything! My advice to you is to go, throw that list out and forget you ever saw it!’
‘But I’m afraid it’s too late for that,’ Rahn said.
‘Too late?’
‘The magistrate of Arques has disappeared, there are two men dead and a policeman involved – an inspector from Paris.’
This must have made an impression on the abbé because he sat back with a look of defeat on his face. ‘An inspector from Paris? What does he want?’
‘He happened to be at Carcassonne when the call came in about the abbé’s unfortunate accident, and now he’s investigating it in connection to a group called La Cagoule. Have you heard of them?’
The old abbé wavered. ‘No.’
Rahn knew he was lying. ‘In fact, I believe the inspector may be arriving here very soon to make further enquiries.’
‘Mon dieu!’ The abbé cupped his bearded chin, like a man faced with an insurmountable conundrum.
‘Do you have any idea why your name might be on that list?’
‘I won’t know until I see it,’ he said, looking up with a duplicitous eye. ‘I have to see who else is on it.’
Rahn took it out and showed it to him and the old man’s eyes widened as he read the names. Rahn put it back in his jacket pocket then and the man looked disappointed, as if he had not extracted everything he could from it.
‘So?’ Rahn said.
There was a moment of the greatest hesitation and then it seemed as if the abbé had come to a decision; he nodded. ‘Yes, I am on that list because I was something of a friend to Bérenger Saunière, the abbé of Rennes-le-Château, who was being investigated by Cros for the Bishop of Carcassonne but that was many years ago; if my mind serves me, it was in 1910. You see, Saunière moved here in 1885 but I met him in 1886. In those days we saw each other from time to time because he was interested in the history of this area and I had a good library in my sacristy. He was a bit of an amateur archaeologist, or so he said, and he showed me some things – artefacts he found when he was renovating his church. There was a goblet from the Knights of Malta, some coins, and various semiprecious things. I only heard later that he had found something else, something he was very secretive about. I don’t know what it was but it must have interested Bishop Billard because he paid for Saunière to go to Paris to have whatever it was appraised.’
‘Was this the same bishop who was investigating him?’
‘Oh no! At that time Abbé Cros was Bishop Billard’s secretary, actually, but later when the new Bishop of Carcassonne, a man called De Beauséjour, was appoi
nted he also worked for him. It was the Bishop De Beauséjour who started investigating Saunière. You see, De Beauséjour was nothing like Billard.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, Billard was of the old school. Look, after the revolution and especially after Napoleon, the government had complete control of the clergy. It could withhold the wages of any priest opposed to the republic and could even prohibit contact between a priest and the Vatican. The government also controlled which priests were selected for positions in episcopal vacancies. Billard and Saunière were both staunchly anti-republican. In fact, speaking out against the government is what got Saunière into hot water on several occasions. The truth is, he was a restless, ambitious man, and Rennes-le-Château was a backwater. He didn’t like living like the rest of us, from hand to mouth, on whatever scraps were thrown to us; preaching to heretics in churches that were falling to bits. He was soon to learn that what kept many of us alive was our healthy friendship with the nobles, who often opened their purses in exchange for a mass here and there. These same nobles also belonged to Masonic Lodges. Bishop Billard condoned these delicate but lucrative relationships . . .’
‘Are you saying Saunière and Billard were involved with Freemasons?’
‘Yes, of course! Many priests were, including myself. But that was before the pope put a stop to it.’
‘So was Saunière being investigated by Cros because of his connection to the Freemasons?’
‘He was being investigated, so they say, because he was selling masses for the dead.’
‘How can you sell masses to the dead?’ Rahn asked.
‘You don’t sell masses to them,’ Grassaud said this as if he wanted to add you imbecile. ‘One pays for a mass to shorten the time of a dead loved one in Purgatory. The nobles paid highly to have masses said for their relatives. As I said, it was what kept many of us alive in those days – what we got for the dead. Ironic, don’t you think?’ He leant forwards. ‘They say Germans have had to learn the meaning of irony the hard way.’
Rahn held back his chagrin, though inwardly he was prickling.
Having secured higher ground, the old man now spoke with a certain arrogance: ‘But the masses were just an excuse because De Beauséjour had an ulterior motive for filing that suit against Saunière.’
‘Another reason besides weeding out corruption?’ Rahn said, making his point.
‘Look, Billard himself had taken money from nobles for things such as the odd appointment of a relative to a certain parish. In truth, in those days there were not many bishops who would have cared less if a mass was said here or there for a loved one . . . no, there was another reason.’
‘What was the other reason?’
‘There was a rumour,’ the other man wheezed, ‘only a rumour mind you.’
‘Rumour of what?’
‘Of treasure . . . This is not so unusual, you know, there’s treasure hidden everywhere in caves and holes and churches all over the south. Some of it may have once belonged to the aristocracy fleeing the revolution; the rest could have belonged to the Visigoths or even the Cathars. Perhaps Saunière found something valuable? I don’t know, perhaps something heretical? I don’t know that either.’
‘You said he took what he found to Paris. Whom did he take it to?’ Rahn said.
‘From what I’ve heard he went to the seminary of Saint-Sulpice, and then somewhere else, to an order named the Society for the Reparation of Souls.’
‘Who are they?’
‘I don’t wish to speak of them!’ he said abruptly. ‘Except to say, you should look into the Abbé Louis Verger, the man on the top of your list, then you will know more. The only other thing I can tell you concerns another priest on the list, Abbé Rivière of Espéraza. Some time before Saunière died, he confessed everything to Rivière. But when Rivière heard his confession he didn’t give Saunière the sacrament until after he was dead.’
‘Is that normal?’ Rahn said.
‘No! I’ve never heard of it before!’ the old man said. ‘Whatever Saunière told him must have upset Rivière so much that he couldn’t bring himself to absolve him. Afterwards he was never the same, poor man – they say he never smiled.’
There was the intonation of the great bell. It woke the bee in Rahn’s head.
Monks began to arrive for the canonical hour and the abbé got up. ‘You will leave now,’ he said, with authority. ‘But before you go I will tell you this – apparently, days before Rivière died, he told a friend that Saunière had sold his soul to the Devil.’
Rahn left the hermitage and returned to the flat area but he found no Mademoiselle Cros waiting for him. She was missing and the contretemps completely baffled his head, causing him to stand there looking around like an abandoned orphan. He called her name but there was no sign of her – she had completely vanished. He decided the only recourse left to him was to walk to Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet. As it turned out, it was a considerable walk and by the time he reached the small township he was both exceedingly annoyed and frightfully concerned, in equal measure.
He found Eva sitting in a small café looking calm and composed, completely oblivious to his vexations and his obvious sufferings. He had blisters on his feet, and the worry had given him palpitations.
She explained that she had found a ride in an auto-car headed for the town and had taken the liberty of ordering herself lunch. She had a hunch he would find her.
What a nerve!
Not at all mollified, he told her of his conversation with Grassaud.
‘So, Saunière sold his soul?’ she said.
‘According to Rivière . . . Now, I have to make a phone call and perhaps you can ask around if there’s anyone headed in the direction of Rennes-le-Château.’
‘Rennes-le-Château?’
‘Saunière’s village.’
He paid for her meal, asked to use the telephone and was directed to the post office where he called La Dame in Paris. The phone rang several times and Rahn was about to hang up when his friend answered, with a voice full of sleep.
‘Are you still in bed? For God’s sake!’
‘Is that you, Rahn?’
Rahn heard a female voice and he imagined his friend lying next to a blonde student or a brunette secretary trying to wake up after a long night of soft battles in the bed. For some reason this vexed him.
‘Time to get up.’
‘What time is it?’
Rahn sighed. ‘The sun’s out.’
‘Perhaps in the south, but in the north the sun’s not out until I pull the blinds.’
‘I have a job for you.’
He yawned. ‘And it couldn’t wait until my first brandy? What is it?’
‘No time to explain now, except to say it’s very important. I want you to find out anything you can about a certain Jean-Louis Verger and the Society for the Reparation of Souls.’
‘Wait a minute, let me write this down.’ Rahn heard him scrounging about for paper and a fountain pen. ‘What’s all this about anyway? Has it got something to do with that book, what was it called?’
The female voice purred his name and La Dame seemed to disappear for a moment.
‘Bastard!’ Rahn said, but he couldn’t help smiling.
‘Sorry, Rahn, here I am . . . what was that name again?’
‘Jean-Louis Verger and the Society for the Reparation of Souls. And, La Dame, this is important, for God’s sake! Will you get me the information as soon as possible?’
‘Dear Rahn, are you all right? You sound terribly odd!’
Rahn took a deep breath of calm. ‘I’ve got more than one lump on my head and I’ve been trying to maintain an outward show of imperturbability amid terrible and chaotic events the likes of which I’d rather not describe, lest I involve you more than I need to – so don’t ask questions. Also, find out what you can about a symbol, an anchor entwined with a snake, would you? It may have something to do with a Masonic order of some kind, or that terrorist group, La Cagoule.’
‘Sounds like you’re in some trouble? What does Deodat think of all this?’
‘I can assure you that right now he’s not very happy about it.’
‘So, you’ve done something to put him off side, and now you run to me! Meanwhile, you have all the adventures while I sit in the Bibliothèque Nationale looking up information. Somehow it doesn’t seem fair!’
‘What happened to your love for the boring life? Your creature comforts?’
‘Well, these creatures of comfort do have their advantages.’
There was a squeal.
Rahn rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘I assure you, you’ve made the right decision. This adventure is not fun; it is rather a terrible exercise which, should you learn of it someday, you will be very happy to have missed. Why don’t you take your lady friend with you to the library to keep you company?’
‘I’m afraid she’s not the . . . literary type, if you catch my meaning.’
‘Say no more, La Dame, please! I’ll call you in the next few hours.’
There was the unmistakeable sound of stretching and another yawn. Finally La Dame said, quoting Don Quixote, ‘I shall not open my lips to make fun of your worship’s doings, but only to honour you as my master and natural lord!’
Rahn sighed. La Dame was his only true friend besides Deodat. This thought filled him with apprehension for the whereabouts of his friend. He put the phone down, and resolving not to lose his spirits, went to find Eva.
25
Rennes-le-Château
‘The devil’s agents may be of flesh and blood, may they not?’
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles
They caught a ride in an old truck full of flour headed for the markets at Espéraza. Inside, Rahn sat nursing his head next to the driver, while Eva sat in silence at the window watching the landscape pass. He knew things were moving fast for her and she was no doubt perplexed. No wonder! There seemed to be no end to the complications and number of deaths: first the sacristan, then Abbé Cros, then the man in the barn. He was worried for Deodat’s safety. There were people obviously willing to kill, but kill for what? Was it Le Serpent Rouge or was it the key to complete it, which seemed to somehow be connected to the treasure of the Cathars? Perhaps as Plantard had said, it didn’t matter anymore if the grimoire existed or not, the mere idea that it existed had become a commodity and they were now caught in the middle. But Deodat’s note was clear: he wanted Rahn to find it, whatever it was, even though he knew they were coming for him . . . But who they were and what they were going to do with him, he couldn’t know.
The Sixth Key Page 18
