The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  Nothing seemed out of place, except perhaps the pile of books on the dining table. They looked too tidy and were arranged in a straight, neat way that I would never have done. My laptop was still there too, which would surely have been something that an average thief would have taken. The thought of a stranger reading personal things was an unpleasant one, and I had taken the precaution of having three sets of passwords that needed to be entered, as well as encryption, some time ago.

  I was, however, convinced that someone had been in, though there would be little point in calling the police since nothing had been stolen. I remembered the note from Adrian Harcourt earlier. Was he so desperate to see the journal that he would break in? And if he was, why? I didn’t even know what it was about yet, so how could he have such a strong desire to look at it, unless he knew more than he had said?

  I resolved to find out more about him if I could, remembering the bishop’s questions. Clearly, I was missing something but would need to tread carefully and not be too obvious with my enquiries. I locked the door again, this time from the inside, and pulled across the two big bolts top and bottom. No one would get through that lot in a hurry, and the back was unreachable because of the high courtyard wall and the other gardens that were behind it.

  I picked up the phone and dialled the number for Mick, a retiree, who did odd jobs for all the churches around here. I knew him well as he attended one of my services, and after two rings he answered.

  ‘Mick, it’s Father Ben. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was wondering if you could fit me an extra lock on my front door?’

  ‘No problem at all, Father. I’ve done quite a few over the past two weeks. Better safe than sorry. I’ve got to come over your way tomorrow morning, so I could do your lock at about ten if that’s OK?’

  ‘That’s fine… thank you, Mick. I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

  Putting the papers and journal back on the dining table, I went out into the courtyard. The shrubs that I had planted in pots last year were wilting and, mindful of the magnificent vicarage garden, I picked up the can that stood by the outside tap and quickly watered them, as well as the small flower borders left by a previous inhabitant of the cottage. This done, my thoughts strayed to dinner.

  * * *

  Opening the fridge, I took out the sardines bought in Oxford yesterday, intending to fry them and make a strong tomato sauce, with capers, red wine, and garlic. Ten minutes later, it smelt fabulous, and I spooned it over the top of the browned fish. It was a dish that my grandfather used to cook and, accompanied by several thick slices of bread, and a large glass of red wine, it was delicious. Putting the dishes into the sink to deal with later, I went through to the sitting room and sat at the table, which was now almost always used as my desk.

  My problems returned to me, although with good food in my stomach and a glass of wine to hand, I felt slightly less anxious. Firstly, I had to deal with the translation. At that point, the phone rang and I recognised Adrian’s number straight away.

  ‘Hello, Adrian, sorry I missed you when you called over earlier. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Padre, I thought I might be able to help you, actually. I’ve got a bit of spare time on my hands and wondered if you needed any help with that journal you found. I love things like that and am knowledgeable about the area, as you know. Perhaps it’s something we could do together?’

  The one thing that was becoming very clear was the desire to get his hands on the journal. What I didn’t know, was why? As for his having time on his hands, this was clearly a lie. He was always very busy and had far more to do each day than he could get through. He had told me several times that he was busier in his retirement than he ever had been when he was working.

  ‘I’ve got a lot on right now. How about I give you a shout when I have a moment, and we can talk things through? I appreciate your offer of help, but really, it’s just an old journal, and of no importance, I’m sure.’ This wasn’t entirely true, since I thought that perhaps it was indeed of importance and, clearly, he thought so too.

  ‘Father, I don’t think you understand. From what you’ve told me there may be a lot of trouble that comes with the journal. Believe me, I know about these things. You may be in danger. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.’

  Now, I may be a priest and an academic of sorts, but a fool I am not. I recognised a threat like any other man and felt annoyed to be bullied in this way. My hackles rose and I wanted to put an end to this conversation, and the persistence of the man that I was now beginning to dislike.

  ‘Adrian, I appreciate your offer of assistance, really I do, but I must say, I am beginning to feel somewhat harassed, which isn’t going down too well. I’m not an idiot, and clearly you have some agenda going on here. Either tell me what it is, or leave me in peace. And one more thing; if it was you who broke into my house today, be warned. Any more pranks like that and I shall get the police involved – you can bank on it.’

  There was silence for a moment on the other end of the phone.

  ‘I’m so very sorry to have upset you. That wasn’t my intention I can assure you, but truly, you don’t understand. Please call me if you need help. I’m not your enemy, believe me.’

  At this point he hung up, but before I could ponder on our conversation the phone rang again. This time, after a few clicks, I found myself talking to the man who had given me the translation work. Had I done it, he wanted to know? I told him I had. He had a man in the area tomorrow who would call by at exactly eight in the morning to pick it up, and please could I have it ready.

  ‘Listen,’ I started to say. ‘This isn’t like the other work I’ve done for you. Do you have any idea of what you gave me?’

  Surprisingly, he answered in Italian, showing it to be his native tongue, just as I had thought.

  ‘Yes, of course I know. I’m not entirely stupid.’

  I continued the conversation in Italian. I had become fluent whilst living there, although now had little chance to speak it.

  ‘I never thought you were, but really, I’m unsure why you even sent me the parchments. I mean, they’re not that difficult to translate, and Rome has several excellent Latin academics who could have done it for you. If they’re not forgeries, I’m sure you know that they’re of immense importance, and priceless. But that’s not what concerns me. It’s the impact that they might have if they get into the wrong hands. To be honest, I wish I’d never seen them.’

  He replied, again in Italian. ‘They’re not forgeries, Benoît, there can be no question of that. I’ve known of their existence for some years, but getting hold of them took time. You’re right though, I shouldn’t have involved you, but I desperately needed an opinion other than my own. Yours was the only one I knew I could trust. I’m so sorry, forgive me. I know I needn’t tell you this, but please destroy every copy you have immediately. You’ll be paid extra for your trouble. I must go now, but your safety will be considered in the coming months.’

  He hung up, and I sat for a moment with the phone in my hand. Not only did I have the hassle with the journal, but I now had this to contend with too. I doubted that I had heard the last of the matter, but at this moment, didn’t feel unduly worried. I had no idea how he was going to take account of my safety, although clearly, he thought I might be in some danger. If he was right, then who or what from, exactly? If I knew this, then I would be better placed to protect myself. Anyway, surely, they would go after the Italian and the originals, not me and a few photocopies that were useless and proof of nothing?

  * * *

  Going totally against my normal practice, I set aside two scans of the original parchments and made two of the transcriptions that I had done. I repeated this, making copies with my scanner. Putting the others in an envelope, I sealed it ready for collection the following day, then put the rest of the copies in the grate and set them ali
ght with a match. It soon caught, and I watched whilst it burned to the finest ash. I then put a firelighter and some newspaper in, and set this alight too, which should take care of any tiny pieces.

  Once again, I watched as it burned down and then re-laid the fire ready for the next cold evening. Taking my own two copies of the parchments and translations, I put one set in an envelope and sealed it in heavy plastic, kept for sending parcels abroad. Popping it into the grate of the Rayburn, I placed several small logs on top, so that, if opened, the package would be entirely invisible.

  Folding the second set as flat as I could, I tucked them into the layers of the thick, lined curtains that hung from the sitting room window. The hem had been coming down for a while and I hadn’t got around to having them mended. As I did this, I was reminded of one of the stories that my grandfather used to tell me, about when the Nazis had invaded France. All the locals had stitched their cash and anything else of value, including paintings, into their curtain linings and soft furnishings, and much had been kept hidden in this way.

  My house in France had a large safe dating to the First World War, but with the house being empty so much, the nearby bank held the few things I had of any value. It made sense to do the same here, and I decided to put the documents in a safety deposit box in town, moved here from London, where it was previously held. A solicitor had strict instructions to send everything to my cousin Caro, in France, should anything happen to me. She is like a sister, and my will leaves everything to her. Likewise, she, as an unmarried woman of fifty-five, has left her entire estate to me. Thinking of her now, I picked up the phone again and dialled her number. I was about to hang up when she finally answered.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Benoît,’ she said, sounding breathless. ‘Odd you should ring – I was thinking about you earlier, and thought I might make a trip over to see you soon. I was in the garden. Everything’s growing like mad and it’s really hot, so I was watering.’ She paused for a moment to catch her breath. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘To be honest,’ I replied, ‘I’m not sure. I might be in a bit of bother, but I can’t talk about it right now. Tell me more about the garden and what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘Now I’m worried. You know you can tell me anything. Look, I won’t press you now, but I will ask you again.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  We chatted about various things including our last remaining relative, Aunt Hortense, and Caro ended the call by saying she would phone me tomorrow with some flight dates. As a retired history professor, she lived alone in a beautiful old house on the edge of the hilltop village of Rennes-le-Château, a few kilometres from my home at Antugnac. Her spectacular views were of the mountains and valleys, with castles and other villages in full view, and I wholeheartedly wished I was there right now, well away from here and my current problems.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was now nearly ten and I was exhausted. Within half an hour I was in bed, the journal open on my lap, and pen and paper by my side. I reread the first few lines and copied them down before continuing to read the elaborate script.

  January 11th 1789

  Met with C today. He is much fatigued and quite thin with it. His wife is engaged in trying to fatten him up like a goose, which is causing much mirth in the household. After dinner we retreated to the library and spoke of matters which must be heard by us alone. He assured me that nothing has been moved in Rome and there is no need for concern. Work was done in secret and movements between A and R were completed. He assured me that records have been kept safe amidst the turmoil in France, and all is now invisible and we should rest in the knowledge that nothing should come to light until the enlightened seek it.

  None of this was too difficult to read, although a small tear across the bottom of the page slowed me down for a moment.

  January 12th 1789

  No rest last night in thought of meeting C. I am not convinced of the enlightenment of the human race ever, and this sets me low in myself. Feel unwell, and have taken to my bed where I write this. Appetite is lost and the maid worn out and ill-humoured with trailing up and down the stairs with morsels sent from the kitchen to tempt me.

  There were no more entries until the 17th of February and I assumed that this was because of the illness he had spoken about.

  Am finally well enough to go downstairs much to everyone’s relief including my own. The slightest thing makes me tired, even writing this. C visited me today. He has heard from Abbé B at R and is told all is well, and quiet as it should be. This being the case, why am I so filled with unease?

  At this point, I jumped out of bed and went downstairs. I had decided to write the script out as it had been written, in journal format, and wanted to get a new notebook for it. I loved good stationery and had bought a dozen soft, leather-bound ones in Venice whilst on holiday a few years ago. There were some beautiful stationery shops in the narrow lanes, and they were surprisingly cheap. As a man who, apart from food, hates shopping, when I see something I like I buy it in bulk, and am frequently glad that I did. I chose a dark red one from the cupboard that I stored them in. Going back up the stairs, I glanced at the clock, which told me it was now half past midnight. I decided to transcribe the few bits that I had read, and then, once again, try to sleep.

  Back in bed, I did just that. It made the whole thing so much easier to follow and suited my translator’s methodical mind. I then put both books back in the drawer and the sheets of used paper on the side for burning tomorrow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Within minutes of waking up the following morning, there was a sharp rapping on the door, and I dashed downstairs to find the usual black leathered, helmeted courier waiting to collect the envelope. He spoke the two words that I had been told to expect before handing anything over and, within seconds, was back on his bike and roaring down the lane. Mick arrived as I was eating toast and I made him a coffee and talked to him as he worked.

  ‘Done nothing but replace locks recently… there’s no punishment you see, Father Ben. Seems to me that unless you murder someone you can get away with anything. My cousin’s house got broken into last month. Smashed the window and everything whilst she was out at a friend’s. To be fair, there wasn’t much to steal, even the telly’s ten years old. The police took six hours to come out, though, and she was left really shaken. It takes a while to get over that sort of thing, doesn’t it?’

  I agreed that it did, and remembered my own shock and anger yesterday at finding someone had been into the house.

  ‘This new lock should do the trick. Trouble with these old houses is that there’s no end of people that have had the key over the years. You end up with half the county that could get in if they chose to.’

  He was probably right, and promising to visit them soon I handed over a box of chocolates for his wife, who I knew had been unwell. A few minutes later, I was driving to the bank and considering my unorthodox actions further. Should I have destroyed everything? I always had before, so why not this time? What right did I have to keep these and break the trust of the man who had given them to me? But on the other hand, what right did he have to expose me to them? He knew I was a priest. I might have been most affronted or damaged even by what I had read. In truth, though, whilst I could well do without any hassle, my faith seemed irrelevant to the whole episode.

  Deciding to be a priest had made me neither blind nor stupid, and I had come to terms with the various possibilities that surrounded Jesus and his life a long time ago. Living so close to Rennes-le-Château, its considerable history alleging to connect it to an alternative version of Christianity was impossible to entirely ignore. Whatever the truth might be, nothing took away the inexplicable spirit of the man, and I felt no need to rip apart my faith by using science or discovery. I knew that many priests might find this shocking, but that was their problem to wrestle with, not mine. Anyway, this was a discussion that I rarely had
with anyone. My years as a priest had repeatedly shown me what purpose faith had in the lives of human beings and, for the most part, I was content with that.

  My musing came to a stop as I arrived in town, and my attention was taken with finding a parking space. That done, I took the package, tucked it into the large pocket on the inside of my jacket, and walked straight to the bank some two hundred yards further down the road. I was told that the bank manager was busy, but his assistant agreed to see me and within thirty minutes the papers were in the box and locked away. I was glad to escape the stuffy, stale atmosphere and get back out into the street.

  * * *

  It was market day and there were various stalls lined up selling their wares. I didn’t need anything, already having stocked up on food in Oxford, but as usual, I was lured by the smell of fresh bread, and ended up buying a large caraway loaf which was a favourite of mine. I then went to buy a coffee to take with me, and whilst queuing I noticed that a small, tanned man had come into the café behind me. I wondered if he would be disappointed with the espresso in the UK. Living abroad so much had sharpened my ability to spot another foreigner, and he looked decidedly foreign to me, probably southern European.

  I had become like the locals when I was living in Italy, and had nipped into cafés for a quick shot at various times throughout the day. Remembering my conversation with the Italian last night, it crossed my mind that he might be following me. Within minutes, I was on the road back to the cottage and he was promptly forgotten.

  Stopping off at the church in the village, I took more photos, especially of the inscriptions cut deep into the ancient wood of the main door. I couldn’t resist going in to see the relics again, and, once again, was mesmerised by the beauty and calm carved into the face of Jesus. I wondered for a moment about its maker. Surely, he must have experienced such peace himself to replicate it in his wooden carving? Or was that faith too? Had he imagined what utter, blissful peace would look like, and then gone on to create it, with this in his mind? Either way, I was in awe of any craftsman that could do such exquisite work.