by Simon Raven
‘A lot of perhapses.’
‘All of them quite sane and rational when compared with your apparent belief, that it was Louis Comminges come from Pau. Why are you so anxious to believe in the impossible, Jacquiz?’
‘I’m not anxious to. But…perhaps it’s a reaction against a lifetime of donnish logic and routine… I find myself somehow convinced by the priest. By his tone. And I find something very significant in Van Hoek’s…anticipation of the theme. Van Hoek’s picture is so powerful in its way that I feel that what he prophesied must have happened. Why are you anxious not to believe this tale, Marigold?’
‘I believe it all right…but not the priest’s interpretation. I believe it can all be explained quite naturally.’
‘But you used to be far the more superstitious of the pair of us. It was you had the experience when we entered the Cathedral.’
‘I know. I’m prone to superstition. I did have a beastly experience when we went into that church. For that very reason,’ Marigold said, ‘I am determined to cling to reason, to face the demons down with common sense. I want to stay sane, Jacquiz.’
‘So did our priest,’ said Jacquiz with a sombre chuckle. ‘So he insisted that after Constance had been buried in the family vault it should be sealed forever. At first, he says, they made a crude job of bricking it up, then, later on, he raised money to have a pukkha arrangement done – the one we saw in the Virgin’s Chapel yesterday. “And this I did, not only that she might not come forth, but that her husband might not come to her. For such lusts as these, once consummated as this had been, do lend the dead the will and the desire to come to each other in their hellish congress, and also, if they be not closely mewed up, to go forth and couple with those yet quick upon the earth, thereby befouling and perverting them too and ever increasing the tribes of the living dead. I went also to Pau, once more to adjure the body and spirit of this Louis (of which there is now record carven there), and to cause his stone to be strengthened and widened and most deeply and firmly sunken, that nevermore, whether by his own might or by the help of his familiars, should he be able to rise and rove. And all this I did with monies raised from the good burghers of Saint Bertrand-de-Comminges, who had taken heed of Constance Comminges her shameful and hideous passing.” ’
‘A family matter, one would have thought, paying the special undertaker’s bills.’
‘The family had left. Poppa Comminges, his sister, and his now very pregnant young wife went away…“to live, and to prosper, as they say, in the city of Arles. For not all men thought as I did (and sware before the Praefect), that the wench was slain by her dead husband so that (having parted with her treasure to his people) she might be with him among the living dead. Some men thought that Master Comminges had slain her for her baubles, of which there hath been much chatter but no man knoweth the real nature thereof; and though this could not be proven, yet did Master Comminges, knowing how he was by some men regarded, decide to remove elsewhere.” ’
‘Thank God at least “some men” had a bit of sense,’ Marigold said.
‘I’m not going to make an issue of it, sweetheart. We’ve heard the priest’s story and we must both interpret it in our own way. But there is one more thing of interest. “…Albeit, as I recorded heretofore, that the family Comminges are said to wax fat in Arles, in a fair, tall house near to the Priory of the Knights of Malta, it cometh to my ken that two fine men-children, of which the young trollope hath lately been delivered, were stricken by sore misfortune, being crushed by a cross-stone which fell as they played in the ruin of the antique theatre. So true it is that any gain which is founded on evil practice (for howsomever men may opine that the true facts fadge, it remaineth that Mistress Constance her treasure was won from her by means that was all thing evil) – that any gain, I say, which is the fruit of wickedness, will bring other fruits to ripeness with it that shall poison to the death…” You see?’ said Jacquiz. ‘If, as we obviously hope, the “baubles” or the “treasure” which Poppa Comminges somehow got from Constance was indeed the necklace, the Roses of Picardie, then it is in absolute accord with the legend that the Comminges should prosper in Arles and yet lose “two fine men-children” in an ugly accident.’
‘The Roses up to their old tricks again? Dispensing power, money, reputation – and spilling blood all over the place as well?’
‘Right.’
‘So now we go; said Marigold, ‘to Arles.’
‘Right.’
‘And what do we look for there?’
‘For a start, a fair, tall house near the Priory of the Knights of Malta.’
‘A pleasant destination,’ said Marigold. ‘Do we leave today?’
‘Yes. A night in Albi, or somewhere round there, en route. But first we must return this book to the Abbé.’
Jacquiz started the Rolls and they sailed up the hill to Saint Bertrand.
‘Rather a long order,’ said Ivor to Len in the Chamber of Manuscripts. ‘To find someone who’ll take the blame for stealing those MSS, and thus keep bright the good name of the College… Why should anyone be willing to take the blame?’
‘If we pay them good,’ said Len.
‘What with?’
‘My loot. And there’s the Georgics still to sell.’
‘But then what would you have?’
‘You,’ said Len. ‘You re-elected a Fellow, which is how I like you.’
‘But how would you live?’
‘Not the good life, that’s for sure. But I’d manage.’
‘No,’ said Ivor. ‘I can’t accept such a sacrifice. I want you to have the good life, Len, and to hang on to that edition of the Georgics for the sheer pleasure of it for as long as possible. We must find another way.’
‘A long order, Ive, like you say. But you know what? I think I might, just might, have an answer. What I’ve got in mind – it’s as bent as a bad penny, Ive, but it might just slip down the slot and set the pretty birdie singing…’
The Rolls stopped outside the gabled house near the Porte Lyrisson.
‘Buck up,’ said Jacquiz as he handed the Abbé Valcabriers’ scrapbook to Marigold: ‘I’m rather blocking the road.’
Marigold scampered across to a solid wooden door. As there was no bell or knocker, she rapped with her fist. Very soon the door opened.
‘Excusez-moi,’ she began, and then stopped, silenced by the beauty of the acolyte who stood before her.
‘You – you were in Pau,’ she cried: ‘the gardener.’
The boy put the index finger of his left hand over her lips and with his right hand took the book from her. Then he closed the door.
PART EIGHT
The Cloister of Saint Trophîme
‘Lagadigadéu! La Tarasco!’ sang Balbo Blakeney. ‘Lagadigadéu! La Tarasco du Castel!’
‘What’s all that in aid of?’ said Jones, S.
‘I was hoping to summon the Tarasque.’
The two men gazed down into the great river from the ramparts of the Castle of Tarascon. The Tarasque did not appear. A thin whisper of autumn sighed through the pines from the North.
‘The Tarasque was commanded by Saint Martha to stay below the waters till the end of time. Or so you said at Paestum. Why were you so drunk last night, Balbo?’
‘Little lapse. Sorry. Please forgive.’
‘I’ll forgive. I just wanted to know why. I thought that you didn’t seem to be needing the hard stuff – or not so much of it…during these last few days.’
‘I didn’t. Driving up from Paestum to Santo Stefano I felt fine. And that night at Santo Stefano. Marvellous, that was. Langoustine on the terrace, and your talk about being a cricket pro in the days when amateurs went out to bat through a special gate of their own. A vanished world And then, thinking of that world…I started to get sad. Cambridge in the forties and fifties. That poor sod Clovis du Touquet coming to a May Ball. Still some zest in science then.’
‘What was that?’
‘Science. I still took a
n interest…about the time you were walking in to bat from the non-amateur gate.’
‘No. Not science. The May Ball…somebody coming to it.’
‘Clovis du Touquet. The one I told you about who was… smashed to death. In any case, a vanished figure from one’s youth. Sad. That night at Santo Stefano I got sad.’
‘But you didn’t get drunk. It was last night you got drunk.’
‘The Santo Stefano sadness wasn’t real sadness. It was a delicious melancholy. Poetic self-indulgence. But the next morning…as we started the run up to Menton…the delicious melancholy turned sour on me, as it is apt to, and started to hurt. “Last day,” it said to me, oh, very sharp and concrete now, no more vague evocations of misty autumn mornings at Cambridge, a straight, fierce, personal pain: nag, nag, nag, “your last day out with Sydney, tonight you’ll be in Menton and tomorrow you’ll drive on to Tarascon and possibly Arles,” and what the hell to do you think you’re going to find in either? So when we got to Menton –’
‘– You got arseholes drunk. Pretty feeble, I’d say. Flat out on the quay, like a sailor. Good thing I came to look for you.’
‘Sorry, Sydney.’
‘Why didn’t you say what was bothering you?’
‘Too embarrassed.’
‘You’re saying it now.’
‘With a certain type of hangover a man will say anything. He’ll even try to call up the Tarasque.’
‘It’s four in the afternoon. You can’t still have a hangover.’
‘It’s about four in the afternoon that this sort of hangover begins. Lagadigadéu! La Tarasco!’ Balbo shouted from the rampart. ‘About as much chance of missing the Tarasque,’ he grumbled, ‘as there is of finding the clue we need to carry on.’
‘You were very persuasive in Paestum.’
‘It was all improvised. You knew that. To keep the show going. But the show’s over, isn’t it? I’ll come quietly, Sydney. Back to beastly London to talk about these rats.’
Yes, thought Jones, S: he still has the sign. In fact it’s particularly clear this afternoon. They’ll be glad to see him. Pleased with me for bringing him in without any fuss.
‘I dare say,’ he said carefully, ‘that we’ll be seeing quite a lot of one another…in these next few weeks.’
‘As far as that goes, good. But it won’t be the same – will it, Sydney? – as, well, being on the trail together?’
‘No, Balbo. It won’t be the same. For a start, we’ll have to turn the car in now and fly home…since we’re going.’
‘A clue in Tarascon. Where, for God’s sake? Whatever was I thinking of? A clue in Arles? In a bull’s pizzle.’
‘Come on, Balbo. The show’s over, as you say. It was an intriguing idea…to hunt back through time until you heard the news you wanted. I wish we could go on hunting. There may be a voice somewhere, for all I know, still telling the news out loud and clear, but I think we’ve lost the wavelength.’
‘Too bloody true, sport,’ said Balbo, badly imitating Syd. ‘So what now?’
Both men turned and started down a narrow stone stair.
‘Pop into Saint Martha’s Church,’ said Sydney, ‘her what tamed the Tarasque. Her tomb’s in the Crypt. Fine work, the book says.’
‘Yes. I expect it will open again about now. But I meant – what later, Sydney?’
‘Drive on to Arles this evening. Hand the car in at the Avis office tomorrow morning. Book two seats on the next plane from Montpellier to London.’
They crossed a courtyard surrounded by walls so high that Balbo imagined he was a rat crossing the bottom of a dried-out well.
‘Decent dinner in Arles tonight, anyway,’ he said. ‘I shan’t get drunk again. There’s a good little restaurant down by the bullring.’
They walked through a grey tunnel and came out into the October afternoon.
‘Funny,’ said Jones, S: ‘October here feels rather like England.’
Across the road an old woman was opening up the Église Sainte-Marthe.
‘Seventeenth-century Genoese work this tomb of the saint is going to be. They seem to have left it rather late,’ said Jones, S, ‘before getting round to doing her the honours. After all she’d done for the place. There’s gratitude for you.’
‘At least they did get round to it in the end.’
‘South door, this. Romanesque.’
‘Sydney. Oh, Sydney, Sydney,’ blabbered Balbo: ‘look, look at that notice on the wall.’
‘Any further word from Jones?’ said Theta to Q.
‘No. I’m beginning to get worried.’
‘Why? His progress is westward, homeward…’
‘That’s just it.’ Q went to the window and looked along Jermyn Street towards the back of Fortnum’s. Caviar, he thought, fresh foie gras, gulls’ eggs (when in season), lobster mousse. Having with some effort regained his self-control, ‘That’s just it,’ he repeated. ‘I’m worried he’ll want to move East again. Or stay where he is.’
‘Why on earth? His last report as relayed to me by you stated that they were en route for Tarascon – and that he thought Blakeney’s personal search was finished.’
‘Not finished, Foutu. Dead scent.’
‘As far as we are concerned, finished.’
Smoked salmon, thought Q, game pie.
He slammed the window shut and turned back into the room.
‘Tarascon,’ he said to the serene, almost Buddhaesque Theta, ‘was to be the next place and the last where they might find a further clue to help them in this hunt of Blakeney’s. Jones was going to take two days on the trip from Paestum to Tarascon – much too long, but I gave my consent because they were moving in the right direction and he said that Blakeney must not be hurried.’
‘Quite right.’
‘But the point is that even if they take their full two days from Paestum to Tarascon they should have been in the latter by last night or this morning.’
‘This morning.’
‘All right. This morning. It is now eight o’clock in the evening. Why have we not yet heard that they are coming on to England?’
‘They will still be looking for their clue. In this context, I think that Tarascon designates an area rather than just the town.’
‘I dare say. But Jones was very clear about what would happen. There would be no clue, he said; there couldn’t conceivably be. They would just take a turn round Tarascon and another turn, perhaps, round Arles, more or less for the sake of it, and that would be that. Now they have had plenty of time, my dear Theta, to take turns round half Provence. But still no word. You and I are still here, at eight o’clock in the evening, because we are both hoping that Jones will come through and assure us that tomorrow they are flying home. That is what we are waiting for, that is what should have happened. Why has it not?’
‘Perhaps he thinks it’s too late to get us.’
‘It is never too late to get the duty officer.’
‘The duty officer has no powers to instruct him.’
‘He should not need instruction. He should merely be announcing that he is coming home as already instructed. Since he has not yet been in touch to announce this, it is now safe to assume that he is not going to announce it. He has another footling and time-wasting request.’
‘If he has, there is still plenty of time. We can give them another ten days.’
‘No. No, we can’t.’
‘What do you mean, “We can’t”. I know of no intention to bring forward the date of Falx.’
‘It is a question of Blakeney’s fitness for Falx.’
‘If we have him in ten days, there will be three weeks to make him ready. Time enough,’ said Theta in his thin, tinny voice, with a rapturous smile.
‘On the contrary, if he has ten days more at large before he gets here, he will almost certainly be unfitted for his task altogether,’ purred Q very gently, looking like a stoat.
‘What can you mean?’
‘This morning Lambda and I discussed the
latest sets of figures. Those which deal with the danger levels at the Cathedral were, if anything, rather reassuring. Those that concern Blakeney are quite the reverse.’
‘Can we trust them? I mean….so soon?’
‘Yes. Lambda is quite clear about that. Jones has now been with Blakeney long enough for the figures which Jones sends in to be more than a mere random selection. They are consecutive over a period sufficient to give them validity. And all of a sudden, sir, they are very disturbing.’
‘I thought the main thing was his forehead. The fact that it is unlined.’
‘All we can tell from the forehead, sir, is whether or not he actually has the Sign. A completely smooth forehead means he has it, even the slightest furrow would mean that he had lost it. But we cannot, from the forehead, gauge the strength of its operation, whether it is waxing, waning or remaining constant. For this we need a more complicated calculus.’
Q produced a sheet of figures.
‘Now then, sir. These are the figures which have been sent daily by Jones since he has been in Blakeney’s company. Jones records them very precisely on a system in which he was long and arduously briefed by Lambda. To speak very broadly they provide shorthand descriptions of certain aspects of Blakeney’s behaviour, diction and appearance which have important bearing on the strength, or otherwise, of the Godhead he carries within him. I cannot properly interpret them myself; for an exact and scientific assessment we depend, of course, on Lambda.’
Theta pursed his lips but nodded to Q to proceed.
‘The important point is, sir, that these figures, these symbols of Blakeney’s condition, showed a hideous deterioration some seven days ago followed by an even more spectacular improvement as from three days ago –’
‘– The time when Jones rang in from Paestum?’
‘Right, sir. Now, this very extreme contrast, this huge arc over which the matrical pendulum has so abruptly swung both this way and that, must give us, in Lambda’s view, the gravest cause for anxiety.’ He pointed delicately to the figures at the bottom of the page. ‘Figures like these, the most recent, suddenly quite superb after a long run of very poor ones, constitute a statistical freak and indicate an imminent collapse.’
