The young abbé shrugged. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Abbé, what did Saunière find in that church?’
He looked up. ‘What has that to do with anything?’
‘All I know is, two men are dead in as many days and now this sign in the church—’
‘Two men?’
‘The Abbé Cros and another man.’
‘What connection could there be between the death of the Abbé Cros at Bugarach and this horrible desecration?’ He frowned then and something must have occurred to him, because he looked at both of them and said, ‘Who are you?
Why are you here?’
‘We want to know what Saunière found,’ Eva said.
‘Treasure hunters! I should have known.’
‘Listen,’ Rahn said, ‘some years ago Cros was investigating Saunière and a number of priests here in the Roussillon. He left a list of names. We think the investigation had something to do with what Saunière found here.’
‘I’ll tell you nothing at all!’ The abbé crossed his arms, as stubborn as a child.
‘But Abbé, if you don’t help us, a third man may die. A good friend of mine, the magistrate of Arques, and it will be on your head.’
The abbé put a shaking hand to his brow and seemed on the verge of tears. ‘Can I see the list?’
‘In a moment, but first you must tell us what you know.’
‘All I know is what everybody knows, that Saunière found something when the workers moved the Visigoth pillar to replace the altar during the church renovations—’
‘Not the wooden baluster?’ Rahn asked.
‘Look, whatever he found, it made him rich. Pillar, baluster, it makes no difference! I told you before, the villa, the tower, the church – he built all of it and also renovated the presbytery and the gardens. How could a priest afford to do all this with what he earned from selling masses for the dead, which is what he was accused of doing? How much can one make in a village this size, with no more than a hundred people? He couldn’t have made so much money – unless he had made a pact with the Devil.’
Rahn raised his brow.
‘You might think this unbelievable, but I think it is true.’ The abbé looked down into his cooling tea. ‘In fact, this rumour has saved me from boredom, God forgive me! You can imagine, this is not a stimulating place to live, even for a priest, and so when I first arrived here I passed the time sorting through the files left behind by previous abbés, looking for clues. I came across a diary belonging to Abbé Saunière. When I asked Madame Dénarnaud about it, she turned wild. She demanded that I give it to her immediately but I refused and she has behaved rather abominably towards me ever since. The old hag thinks everything that once belonged to Saunière is hers for the taking, just because she inherited everything else. I told her, the diary belongs to the church archives and I refused to part with it. Do you know what she said? She said she would put a curse on me! Some say she and Saunière were lovers but I don’t believe it; I think there was a far more sinister union, which I dare not mention for staining my soul.’
‘Where’s the diary?’ Rahn said, leaning forward slightly.
‘If I show you that, will you show me the list?’
Rahn nodded, wary.
When he was gone, Rahn looked at Eva, expecting to see some shared warmth, some conspiratorial acknowledgement of their intimacy, but there seemed to be no trace of that vulnerable girl of the night before. Her eyes betrayed nothing at all, as if the memory of it had been erased from her mind.
She said, ‘You don’t honestly think it was the madame who did that to the church. The old woman can hardly walk!’
Rahn shook his head and whispered: ‘She’s not as feeble, nor as stupid, as she looks. Yesterday, when you went to fetch her a blanket, while the abbé was out of earshot, she said to me, “Beware of that raven” – referring to the abbé. What happens next? We find a raven hanging on the altar, with its bowels cut out!’
He could say nothing more because the young abbé returned, carrying a small book in his hands and a blush over his cheeks.
‘All is made clear,’ he said, ‘once you know the chronology in this diary. Saunière spent an incredible sum and wrote a timeline for all his renovations from the start, which was 1886, until the finish, 1891. It all begins when he visits Abbé Boudet. Here he says, “The abbé encouraged my desire to commence renovations as soon as possible.”
‘After that he finds something hidden in the church and then removes the altar, whereupon a short time later he begins to work on the foundations of the church. He writes: “Discovered a tomb in the evening. Rain.”
‘He then makes a number of entries. He travels to Carcassonne, to Rennes-les-Bains and to Coustassa. Here, he says, he met with some priests: “Saw the curé of Névian, Gélis and Carrière: saw Cros and Secret—”
‘See? He mentions a priest from Névian, though I don’t know who he was, as well as Abbé Gélis of Coustassa and a certain Carrière. At this time, Abbé Cros was the vicar-general of this diocese. It wasn’t until later, in his near retirement, that he became the abbé of Bugarach.’
‘From vicar-general to just an abbé, do you mean he was demoted?’ Rahn asked.
The other man smiled, weakly. ‘Who can say? At any rate, a certain Pierre Pradel was the secretary-general, I believe the word secret was no doubt an abbreviation for secrétaire.’
‘Unless it means secret,’ Eva pointed out.
‘Yes,’ he said, perhaps surprised that this had not occurred to him. ‘Saunière goes to Paris in 1892 to Saint Sulpice,’ he continued, ‘where he visits with a certain Abbé Bieil and Abbé Hoffat. Then he goes to Lyon, where he meets with Abbé Boulle.
The penitents!
‘When he comes back, he digs about in the graveyard like a fox looking for a carcass and the mayor at the time complains to the Bishop of Carcassonne – who is now one Monsignor Beauséjour – that he is moving the graves about. This is a rumour, but it is substantiated by the fact that soon Saunière erects a fence around the graveyard with an iron gate, to which he alone holds the key. Now, some time afterwards, Abbé Gélis is murdered and the police find a fortune secreted in his house, thirteen thousand gold francs! Where did it come from? Who knows? In the meantime, Saunière travels more and more, only returning to keep an eye on his restoration works: the tower, the belvedere, the Villa Bethany. Next, Monsignor Beauséjour suspends him, because he can’t explain where he got his money but that doesn’t prevent him from celebrating the mass at the Villa Bethany. Did you see the chapel in the annex yesterday?’
‘Yes, when we brought the madame in out of the storm,’ Rahn said.
‘The parishioners were so mesmerised by Saunière that they continued to go to him for mass even after the Bishop of Carcassonne sent another priest to this town. At any rate, getting back to the diary: after his suspension, Saunière continued his renovation work, as if nothing had happened. He constructed his conservatory and here, you see, there is a map of the church and his relocation of tombs, including the cavalry cross. He was a wealthy man until the day he died.’
‘When did he die?’ Eva asked.
‘He had a stroke on the seventeenth of January 1915. The feast day of Saint Sulpice.’
Rahn sat stock-still. ‘He died of a stroke?’
‘Yes.’
‘On that date?’
‘Yes.’
Rahn was thinking that the Countess P, the Abbé Cros and now Saunière had all suffered strokes. A coincidence? He didn’t think so, but that date – the seventeenth of January – again! First he finds that date in Monti’s notebook; then he discovers Verger had been sentenced to death on that date; and now he learns that Saunière had also died on that same date.
‘In the church register,’ the priest continued, showing him the page whose topmost part was torn away, ‘Abbé Bigou, Saunière’s predecessor, writes the following line twelve times.’ He showed them.
Jesus of Galilee is not her
e.
Rahn paused. Bigou was the only priest they knew nothing about on the list.
‘Jesus of Galilee is not here . . . in Rennes-le-Château?’ Rahn asked.
‘Why would he write that?’ Eva leant in to look.
‘Perhaps it means the Devil lives here, because of whatever Marie Blanchefort gave him. You see, the page has been torn out and interpolated in the register on the date of her death.’
‘Which was?’ Rahn said with expectation.
‘The seventeenth of January,’ the priest announced.
Rahn was dumbfounded.
‘Do you know what she gave Abbé Bigou?’ Eva asked.
‘There are rumours that she gave him something on her deathbed but no one knows what it was, however the consensus is that it was some impious treasure which he then hid in the church and which Saunière found during his renovation. Perhaps he never found it and it is still buried somewhere beneath the church, who knows?’
‘We were in the crypt last night,’ Rahn blurted out.
‘You went there? But how did you . . . ?’
‘Through a hatch in the confessional.’ He observed the abbé with a steady eye. ‘We found the crypt under the graveyard. Someone has been using it as a den of black magic.’
‘What? Black magic?’ He blushed and immediately crossed himself.
‘It has been sealed up a long time, by the look of it. That was probably what Saunière was looking for in the cemetery – a way into it. And there’s something else. Someone closed the hatch in the confessional knowing we were down there. We only just managed to escape with our lives. The heavy rain flooded the crypt very quickly. Luckily for us we found a way out through the sacristy.’
‘The sacristy?’
‘Didn’t you know there was a way into the crypt through the closet?’
‘Me? Well . . . no.’ He looked flustered. ‘It must have been Madame Dénarnaud! She must have closed the hatch! She would have known about it from Saunière. Can you show me the list now?’ The man could hardly conceal his interest.
Rahn took it out.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘From the tabernacle at the church of Bugarach.’
The abbé looked at Rahn. ‘The tabernacle?’
‘We think Abbé Cros hid it there to safeguard it. See that priest at the top of the list? He was the priest who murdered the Archbishop of Paris eighty-one years ago. He is alleged to have possessed a copy of the Grimoire of Pope Honorius, after that we don’t know what happened to it.’
‘Grimoire of Pope Honorius?’ he said.
‘Yes, it’s a long story.’
‘Five priests?’ he said, looking at the list. ‘Espéraza, Coustassa, Rennes-le-Château, Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet, Rennes-les-Bains . . .’ He seemed to be committing them to memory and Rahn whisked the list away from him. The priest’s demeanour altered suddenly.
‘Rennes-le-Château,’ Rahn said, ‘seems to be at the centre of everything. All those priests knew Saunière personally, except two, who are listed separately, at the top of the list – Abbé Bigou and Abbé Verger.’
‘There is not much more I can tell you, I’m afraid,’ the priest said, brusquely. ‘I suggest you go and have another conversation with Madame Dénarnaud. Perhaps you should ask her why she closed the hatch and left you there to die!’
Rahn was reluctant to leave him, but something told him he would get no further with the man.
Before they went in search of Madame Dénarnaud, they took themselves to the Corfu house to collect their things and were grateful to realise that Madame Corfu was not in. Like many townspeople, she was no doubt bothering the long-suffering mayor about the events of the morning. They found the mute grandmother, however, peeling potatoes in the kitchen. She looked at both of them with fear in her eyes and crossed herself and gestured for them to stay. She left and returned a moment later with a piece of paper, folded over, which she put in Rahn’s pocket.
He left the money for the rooms with her, they said their goodbyes and made their hasty exit. As soon as they left the house and were on their way to Villa Bethany, Eva asked what was on the note. Rahn opened it and what he saw alarmed him. He looked at Eva. The note said:
Sauvez vos âmes!
Eva’s great brown eyes searched his. ‘Save your souls?’
Rahn nodded.
‘Does she mean – because of this morning, or something else?’
‘Who knows?’
When they finally found Madame Dénarnaud, she was not at the villa as they had expected but in the Tour Magdala, sitting on a window seat near a small hearth ablaze with logs. The room was surrounded by empty bookshelves, silent behind their glass doors. She had what looked like a bible in her hands from which she appeared to be reading when they burst in, interrupting her.
‘You certainly took your time,’ she said, looking up calmly.
THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD
34
She Reads to the Dead
‘In fact, the dead live elsewhere, nor is it known where.’ Girolamo Cardano, Somniorum Synesiorum
Venice, 2012
It was All Saints’ Day, and I was walking about the cemetery again after breakfast. The Writer of Letters said he would be busy preparing for the following day’s festival and I was to keep my own company for a couple of hours. I spent some time in the library reading Rahn’s book Lucifer’s Court. A passage near the end caught my attention:
I know a way through the forest that is overshadowed by huge conifer trees . . . the path is called the Thief’s Path . . . I am carrying a Dietrich with me . . .
A ‘Dietrich’ was a skeleton key! I wondered if he had found the missing key after all and what he meant by ‘the Thief’s Path’?
Afterwards, I walked out into the cold day with Rahn’s story on my mind, hugging my coat for warmth. I didn’t really know what to believe at this point but I had to admit I had been swept along by a story that seemed too fantastical to be true. A grimoire written by a pope, black magic among a conventicle of priests, Freemasons, Nazis and a Cathar treasure handed down over the centuries. I smiled. If I wrote it – who would believe it?
The cemetery on the island was quiet this day. There were only a few people scattered about, as the bulk would arrive tomorrow. For some reason, I felt like visiting the French section again and I was surprised to see a woman sitting by that strange grave without a name. She was young, with straight brown hair and large eyes that seemed to pool the stark light. She had some books on her lap and she was reading from one. I was intrigued so I stood nearby. She must have sensed my presence, because she looked up and paused.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘I see this grave is remembered, at least by you.’
She seemed embarrassed. ‘Yes.’
‘What are you reading?’
‘Poems mainly. I go from grave to grave. My mother taught me how to do it. She also read to the dead, as did my grandmother before her. You could say it’s a vocation that runs in our family.’ She closed the book and made a slight frown. ‘They are so close at this time one can almost touch them.’
‘The dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I thought that the Day of the Dead was the time to visit the graves?’
‘I know, but I prefer coming today, All Saints’ Day. Tomorrow will be so busy and noisy. It’s far more peaceful today.’
‘May I ask why you read to the dead?’
She blinked at me. ‘Why not?’
‘I suppose I don’t know,’ I said, rather stupidly.
‘You’re not from here, are you?’
‘No, I’m sorry, my Italian is a little rusty.’
She smiled and looked down just a little. ‘You’re visiting?’
‘I’m writing a novel. I guess one could call this . . . my research.’
She gave a slight nod of understanding. ‘Many writers were fascinated by Venice. Ezra Pound . . . Henry James, he’s also here. Did you see his grave?�
��
‘Yes.’
‘Do you like it here?’
I looked around. ‘Venice is a beautiful city.’
‘No, I mean, do you like the Island of the Dead?’
I paused. ‘I’ve never been to a more intriguing place.’
‘Are you interested in the dead?’
‘I suppose I must be.’
‘They are in need of communication.’
‘Is that what you’re doing? Communicating with them?’
‘I’m not a medium, if that’s what you mean. I don’t do that!’ she said, hurriedly. ‘Communication with the dead has to be a conscious experience. But it’s usually very difficult because when we speak to them everything is reversed.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You know, here you ask a question and I answer it . . . that’s how we communicate. But across the threshold, when you put a question to the dead, it should be a statement and the answer comes to you as a question.’
‘And so the dead can think?’
‘One’s awareness, one’s consciousness still exists, even without a body. One can still have awareness without it, if one develops it in life. If one does not, one enters a realm of shades.’
‘As the Greeks feared?’
She smiled. ‘Better to be a beggar on Earth, than a king in the realm of shades!’
I nodded. There was something old-fashioned about her, something I couldn’t pinpoint. ‘So what does reading do for them?’
‘It informs them.’
‘But aren’t they all-knowing?’
‘The dead can’t know anything they didn’t know in life, unless . . . well, there are extenuating circumstances, but in the natural course of events if while alive they spent all their time learning only about the material world, they’re lost when they enter the world of the spirit. This is the tragedy, you see? What I do for them gives them comfort; my reading warms the cold they feel and cools the heat. It is a gesture of love.’
The Sixth Key Page 25
