‘Carry on, Benoît,’ said Caro, raising her glass. ‘I always wanted a private chef!’
As I pottered about in the kitchen, I could hear them both talking animatedly. They certainly seemed to have hit it off, and I was happy enough to be cooking on my own, without any distractions. I had decided to do rosemary potatoes and green beans as an accompaniment, and began to prepare them, as well as laying the kitchen table. The one in the living room had books and papers on it, and anyway, it was easier to eat in here.
‘Need a hand, Ben?’ Caro shouted from the sitting room, with the glibness of one who had no intention of helping at all. I went through to chat to them for a while, although they were now deep in discussion about the vandalism perpetrated by the Victorians towards ancient churches.
Back in the kitchen, I finished things off, and then called to them.
‘Come on then you two… it’s ready.’
‘Benoît, this is stupendous. I rarely eat proper food like this, and it’s such a treat, I can’t tell you. Thank you so much for asking me.’
I was reminded that the life of a priest could be a solitary one, even if you were a bishop, and resolved to ask him over to eat in the future, perhaps inviting Peter and Merry at the same time.
‘I nearly forgot,’ said the bishop. ‘Have you heard from Adrian Harcourt?’
‘A few days ago… why?’ Not more intrusion from Adrian. Really, I had gone from seeing or hearing from the man once a month, to almost every day.
‘Well, it appears he’s gone missing. He was supposed to attend a meeting about the renovation of the local churches here, and didn’t turn up. One of the wardens phoned his housekeeper, and she went over to see if he was OK. I believe he injured his back some time ago falling off some scaffolding? Anyway, he wasn’t in the house, although his car was there. He doesn’t have any very close neighbours, and his aunt who lives nearby said she hadn’t seen him for days. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Probably some business thing or other, but do let me know if you hear from him, won’t you? And I forgot to say too, there was a man in a white car outside your house when I came in. Gave me a look like he was chewing lemons – a phrase of my grandmother’s. When I used the bathroom an hour ago, I opened the window and he was still there. Did you see him?’
I got up to look outside. I did, of course, know who it was likely to be, but how could I tell the bishop that I was being followed by an Italian who might be the Mafia, because I had good reason to believe that Jesus wasn’t crucified after all, had a family, and was exiled instead? The poor man would probably pass out in shock.
‘There isn’t anyone there now. Probably someone who was lost or something.’
As I made coffee, Caro disappeared and came back with a large box of handmade chocolates that she had bought whilst I was in the butchers. She offered one to the bishop.
‘It’s a good job I don’t come here on a regular basis. I wouldn’t fit in the confessional and there would be plenty to confess to, the main thing being gluttony.’
We all laughed. I had noticed as the evening had worn on that the bishop’s soft Irish accent had become much more pronounced. It suited him, and added to the general attractiveness of the man.
There was a soft rapping at the door.
‘Ah, that will be Declan, my driver. I can’t thank you enough for having me tonight. The food was excellent, and I’ve enjoyed myself so much. Caro, the next time you’re here you must come to Oxford, and I’ll take you both out. Let me know if you hear from Adrian, Benoît?’
He kissed Caro on both cheeks, and I walked with him to the door.
‘God bless, and do take care, won’t you? Call if you need anything – anything at all.’
‘Of course, and you’re very welcome to drop in, any time… we’ve really enjoyed your company. Have a safe trip.’ Once again, he seemed to be concerned for my safety and well-being. It was very odd, and left me feeling uneasy.
* * *
I closed the door, and we both went into the kitchen to clear up, maintaining our usual childhood places, with me washing and Caro wiping.
‘What a charming man. I’d no idea you had such wonderful friends. And that lovely Irish accent? If he wasn’t a priest, I might find myself interested. The world is so short of decent men, you know.’
I pondered on this statement for a moment. It was sad that she had never found a partner to share her life with and have a family. My own desire for this had been fleeting, and was never really part of my ‘grand plan,’ not that I’d ever really had one of those either.
‘What did you make of Harcourt going missing? He’ll probably turn up, but what if he doesn’t? What do you think has happened to him?’
‘No idea, but I hope that he’ll stay away for the foreseeable future.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘The bishop asked me that too. Not a lot really… he had a successful renovation company, not cottages, but castles and cathedrals, and he broke a few vertebrae after some scaffold collapsed. He sold up, is a rich man, does lots of charitable work including helping the Church, and I’m told he still has some business interests.
‘Oh, and one more thing, he paints beautiful Icons. I nearly ordered one, thinking it would be a few hundred quid, but he wanted three thousand pounds! I’d rather buy an old one if I was going to hand over that much. He’s divorced, with no children that he’s ever mentioned. I nearly forgot – I saw him speak briefly with Black Coat when I was sitting outside a café in Oxford. They then went off in different directions. It was only later though, that I realised that the same Black Coat was following me.’
She thought for a moment. ‘The whole thing sounds very odd, and I certainly wouldn’t trust the man like you all seem to have done. Still, I’m glad that he’s disappeared and not you. I mean, we don’t know what pies he has fingers in, and he sounds dodgy to me, but you’re the one who read the parchments and has the journal. Of course, you also have Black Coat, which may have kept any trouble at bay. Maybe he hasn’t disappeared at all, and is just having a break somewhere. Perhaps we’re making too many assumptions.’
Later, in bed, I thought about the bishop. He seemed to have enjoyed the evening and Caro had certainly taken to him, but I was still left with a residue of unease. He had never come to the house before, and even if complaints had been made about my cohabiting with a woman, surely, he could have just rung? On the rare occasions when my mother used to talk about her time with my father in the Resistance during the Second World War, she often spoke of instinct.
‘Instinct est tout Benoît,’ she would say. ‘Instinct is everything, and you would do well to remember this in your life.’
She would look very serious as she said it, and shake her finger at me to emphasise her words. If she was right, then what was my instinct telling me? That the bishop was ‘dodgy,’ as Caro might have put it? And, if he was, why?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By eight the following morning I was showered and dressed. Luckily, I only needed four or five hours sleep a night, which had caused my parents considerable angst when I was young. When Caro came down twenty minutes later, we drank coffee and talked.
‘Do you want to go anywhere today? I’m happy to take you wherever you like.’
‘Not really, Benoît. Let’s stay here and go through some of the photos I took of the village church and look at Harcourt’s diary again.’
I asked her to go and get my copy of the journal from my jacket hanging up in the small lobby by the front door, whilst I switched on my laptop ready to upload the photos.
‘Ben,’ she called. ‘It’s not there. Did you say your jacket? The black one? All the pockets are empty.’
I got up and went through to the lobby to check for myself. I put my hand into the inside pocket, which was where it had been last night. She was right – it
was empty.
‘It was definitely there when we got back from town yesterday, because I remember feeling for it when I took my jacket off and hung it up.’
‘It’s gone, hasn’t it? There were only the two of us here yesterday, and then the bishop in the evening.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You don’t really think he took it? How could he have known about it at all? You only told Adrian, and I thought the bishop didn’t know him very well? I suppose it’s also possible that someone knew that the journal was in that box, but believed it to be junk and of little value. Maybe they bragged or joked about selling it, or maybe just told someone that they had given it, and other things, to the sale?’
‘They’re all possible, I suppose.’ I remembered my unease the previous evening regarding the bishop’s visit and comments when he left. I was also worried for Caro’s safety, especially now the copy journal had been stolen, and told her so. Today was Friday, and my last full day off. Tomorrow I had a few visits to make and a meeting to attend, and on Sunday I had an early mass to take for a priest who was away. Caro’s flight back to France was in the afternoon and I had to make sure she was safe until then.
Rummaging around in the curtains, I pulled out the scans hidden in the hem, and then heard her muttering.
‘Benoît, le paysan.’
‘It’s a good job I am a peasant, isn’t it? At least I still have these copies and the ones in the bank vault.’
Having uploaded the photographs onto both laptops, we made more coffee and sat down at the table to look at them. If this was William de Clare’s local church, and he was from a line of Templar knights still actively involved in keeping secrets, as the journal suggested, then there may well be clues in the church about what the secret was. The Templar connections to many of the churches in this region were well documented, and they were renowned for their squirrelling away of gold, relics, treasures, and documents, as well as the holding of secrets.
Putting the photos in groups, firstly, we looked at the tomb of William de Clare. The inscription was an interesting one and seemed to confirm his status as a ‘knight’ of sorts, with a ‘battle’ on his hands. Making notes, we moved on to the Roman tomb with the lid off, brought at some time in its history into the churchyard. Where was the occupant? Had he been stolen or moved for some reason? It was a massive structure and would most certainly have held someone of considerable status or wealth.
‘Ben, do you remember when I said that I had noticed something, but the man in the car was watching us? Well, if you look here you can see a small Templar-style cross. It’s clear enough, but in a dip in the stone, so you don’t see it unless you are at a certain angle. There are several of them. Obviously, they wouldn’t have been on the tomb when it was first made, but it’s possible that the Templars may have had something to do with the moving of it or its occupant. And one more thing, on the inside near the top you can just make out ‘HIC SITUS EST.’ That’s very common in Roman tombs. It simply means ‘He lies here.’ The name of the person is usually above it, but it looks like that’s been chiselled off.’
* * *
Moving into the church, I took quite a few photos of the Hel Eye of Fire symbols, the square with the four triangles inside. The goddess of the underworld and overseer of the dead, meaning that nothing can be hidden and that truth will always be seen – to those that are looking for it, anyway.
‘In numerology, the square is 22: the master builder, and representative of immense and unlimited power; great ascendancy, a bridge between humanity and the divine, and symbolically, of the cross. I’ve often wondered if the origins of 22 as a master builder came from ancient Egypt.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, they were often referred to as the race of master builders, and used numbers amongst many other things to understand the world around them. Anyway, back to Hel…
‘It’s all very neat and tidy, since 2 + 2 = 4, the four sides of a square, and four tringles inside it, four symbolising truth. In runic symbolism, commonly used by the Norse tribes, the 22nd rune, Ing or Ingwaz, is representative of the square, as well as the Holy Grail, which is particularly interesting when in a church. It all sounds like a rather clever puzzle. The triangles inside the square also symbolise the trinity or, in more humanistic terms, a man, a woman, and their offspring – a child.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I moved a bit closer to study the photos carefully.
‘The graffiti on the door is really interesting too – look at this. At first, I thought it was LH, but when I looked at it carefully, I decided it was LII. Roman numerals. Fifty-two in English. I wracked my brains and came up with a couple of things. Firstly, in numerology, the number seven, which is what they add up to, is symbolic of the seeker of truth, spiritual awakening, the occult, and alchemy. But then I thought of the Bible, and Psalm 52. I might not believe in God but I was taught at the same school as you, and know it well enough. Devilish tongues, deceit, and evil, if I remember correctly.’
‘When did you do all of this?’
‘Last night. I couldn’t sleep for an hour or two.
‘And there’s “Then their eyes were opened” Luke 24:31. That’s a number one in numerological terms. And Ilan, also on the door, which is Hebrew for tree of life or oak tree. In many beliefs systems, the tree of life symbolises immortality, truth, fertility, mother earth with the roots, and father sun with its branches and leaves… very pagan.
‘It’s the same with the pairs of ones, on the door and in the font. In many faiths and beliefs, it represents duality: man and woman, yin and yang, light and dark, truth and lies, good and bad, not forgetting the Cathars, with their dualistic faith. There are various quotes, biblical and others, saying something like “A man and woman though two in number are made one in marriage.” It’s a good fit to the symbolism, especially in a church. There are quite a few mentions in the Gospel of Thomas too, about one becoming two, and two becoming one.’
‘That’s true, and some of it looks so deliberate, doesn’t it? Like this one on the door? Tho II. That could be Thomas verse two?’
Let one who seeks not stop seeking until one finds
When one finds one will be troubled
When one is troubled one will marvel
And will reign over all.
It sounded somewhat appropriate to our situation. To keep searching for the truth was such a human trait, and the Gospel of Thomas was a favourite of mine. It never failed to intrigue, inspire, and give me hope, and a copy of it lay permanently on my bedside table.
We looked at more photos of the font, covered entirely in graffiti. Some clearly just initials, and others much more curious, with beautifully etched vines and trees of life, done with considerable skill. There were many more pairs of ones, some set inside a square.
‘The whole thing is intriguing, and needs a lot more research. I keep wondering about who might be responsible for the graffiti? Initials, dates, and things like masons’ marks are very common – most churches have them – but these are much more unusual. It certainly wouldn’t have been just the local peasants having a go when the priest wasn’t looking.’
She moved along a few pictures, showing the many carved stone crosses.
‘There are Templar crosses everywhere. Even though they may not be in their original setting, they can’t be ignored. I’ve never seen so many in one church. It’s just occurred to me but, depending on the reference source, the Templar knights were originally founded in 1118, its first order consisting of eleven men? Plenty of ones there, and a numerological 11 if you add them up.’
‘You’re right. And the relics of Jesus… they’re very early. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were even slightly earlier than the date stated, and someone certainly went to a lot of trouble to bring the whole thing here in the first place. There’s something like it in the Auverg
ne. I took a group of students there once, but it’s nowhere near as good as this one.’
* * *
‘The green man piscina… it’s covered in leaves and vines, but he doesn’t look like any green man I’ve ever seen before. In fact, I’m sure it isn’t a green man at all. It’s a man’s head looking out of a cave with a two-tiered tower on top of it, covered with vines. We’re back to fertility: life blood and blood lines. Jesus supposedly said, “I am the vine.”’
‘I definitely agree about him not being a green man, but what do you make of the indent on his chin? Perhaps there was something attached there at one time, like a beard? Or perhaps whoever the head represents had a cleft chin? It’s really baffling me.’
I watched she as she pondered for a moment. She started to pull at her bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger, just as she had done when she was perturbed as a child. She had been told off for it constantly, but it had never stopped her.
‘That’s it; I’ve got it!’ she shouted, giving herself a somewhat vicious slap on the head in a typically Italian gesture. I had seen it hundreds of times when I had lived there, but she had been particularly brutal, and I momentarily wondered if she had injured herself.
‘What the hell… Caro, are you alright?’
‘What an idiot… it’s so obvious. It’s a carved keyhole. I knew I should know what it was. It seemed so familiar, but was just out of context – and it’s not on the chin at all, but in the mouth. The keyhole is in the sealed open mouth, completely blocking it. Look Benoît, look!’ She was almost shouting by this time, and was very excited.
‘There is a secret, I’m sure of that now, although I’ve no idea who the man actually was. He could be an incumbent, a monk or abbot, a local lord or crusading knight, or even someone who was several of those. He’s saying, “my mouth is sealed.” Or perhaps more than that: “you will need to find the key to the secret.” And there’s a cave under a two-tiered castle or tower. And, under that, water. The water from the piscina translating to a pool of water or cistern of some sort. But where? If we stick to Harcourt’s diary, it could be here, I suppose, or possibly France, which was where he said de Clare was. We need to look at it again.’ She had become quite agitated, and began to pace around the small room.
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