She approached the town of Lucy-sur-Cure, the site of Château du Chastenay, an 11th century château with a mystical past that piqued her curiosity. It had been constructed over a network of underground grottos at the intersection of the two symbolic roads, the Via Agrippa and the Christian pilgrimage route of Saint James’s Way. But the water became too shallow to continue by boat a couple miles short of the Château du Chastenay. She tied the boat up to an empty dock, unloaded the bicycle and slung her bag across her back. She pedaled down the cobblestone streets and spotted symbols of scallop shells indicating Saint James’s Way. Several homes had scallops sculpted over doorways or forged into iron gates. A sign pointed to the hamlet of Beugnon and she turned left.
Her forensic accounting experience had taught her to follow her instincts to solve a problem. When she came to a small gothic chapel, she stopped and read the plaque. In 1494 the monks of the nearby Reigny Abbey attempted to evict the Lord of Arcy, Claude d’Aullenay, from their land in order to retake the mineral springs. However, d’Aullenay made a counteroffer to exchange the village of Lucy-sur-Cure for the springs. The monks accepted, and the hamlet of Beugnon with its chapel came into being.
With the large scallop shell sculpted over the door, it was easy to imagine Knights Templars stopping there for food and shelter. The chapel’s simple architectural elements combined gothic and early Renaissance from Lombardy, Italy, with three external buttresses supporting three ribbed arches and the vaulted nave inside. There was a well-worn baptismal font near the altar crowned with another scallop shell. These were distinctive signs that the chapel had been a coaching inn on the Saint James’s Way.
Louise sat at a wooden pew and took in the calming atmosphere of the medieval structure. Sensing nothing else of interest there, she returned to her bicycle. Just as she started to ride away, two gentlemen came out of an adjacent cottage. One man entered the chapel and the other got into a Peugeot and headed in the direction of the Château du Chastenay. Louise decided to follow his car but lost sight of it when he turned onto Route 6 and sped off. She made a mental note of the license plate in hopes of finding it in the village.
She pedaled two miles along the road bordered by prehistoric cliffs toward Lucy-sur-Cure and the hamlet of Val-Sainte-Marie, where the Château du Chastenay was located. She searched for the Peugeot to no avail until she arrived at Château du Chastenay. Something drew her attention upward where she saw a woman watching her from the window, but then quickly disappeared. Louise left the bike on its kickstand and entered the foyer, the walls of which were adorned by symbols and paintings. She touched the smooth surface of one of the symbols.
“They are hermetically sealed into the walls,” a man said in French. Louise turned and recognized the man in the Peugeot. “These are formulas for the transformation of lead into gold,” he said, indicating the images on the walls. “That symbol represents the Philosopher’s Stone, the mythical alchemical substance capable of turning base metals, such as mercury, into gold. The alchemists living here created the resin providing the airtight conditions to preserve the formulas.”
“That’s amazing,” Louise said. “Actually, I was hoping to take the tour.”
“We are closed.” The man was elegant, around eighty years old with salt-and-pepper hair, classic features, and stately attire. He had a permanent wide-eyed expression that made him appear on constant alert. “But I’d be happy to show you around,” he said, offering his hand. “My name is Gérard.”
Louise shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Gérard. My name is L…Karen.”
“Le Karen, or Karen with a K?”
“Karen with a K,” Louise replied, recovering with humor. “Le slip of the tongue.” The phrase le lapsus de langue worked in French or English.
“Shall we?” He held the door open for her, and they entered the next room. “This chamber is the only one open to the public. It is the Tower of Saint-Jean where you will see several allegorical figures sculpted above the porticos of the sages.”
“There is a scallop symbol,” Louise said.
“Yes, the Château du Chastenay was a known pilgrim refuge on the Saint James’s Way to Santiago de Compostela. The Knights Templar once occupied this château to guard pilgrims on their way along the dangerous roads to Jerusalem. But it mainly served as a commune for medieval alchemists.” He pointed to a series of portraits on wood. “These paintings represent the typical life of the saint on the path to divine wisdom.”
“Was there a reason they congregated here?” Louise asked, recalling the barman Jules’ talk of mystical energy in the area. “Is there something about this region that attracted the alchemists?”
“Good question,” Gérard said. “The château was built over an ancient cave system that seems to have attracted humans from the beginning. It was originally conceived as a Faraday shield.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“The château was constructed as an enclosure to block electric fields to aid in the joining of earthly and celestial forces. These grounds are known to be exposed to powerful telluric currents believed to have beneficial effects such as curing depression or fighting fatigue.” Gérard raised his hands and moved his fingers like leaves blowing in the breeze. “Some can feel vibrations.”
He motioned for her to follow him to the next chamber, which, she gathered, was closed to the public. On the wall hung a portrait captioned as Gibaut d’Arcy, builder of the château.
“Le Château du Chastenay has remained in the same family since 1086 without interruption, something that is very unusual in France. My father inherited it from my grandfather, the Count of Varende, in the 1960s.
“You are Gérard de la Varende?” Louise asked.
“Oui, c’est moi,” he replied.
“Excuse me for not recognizing you. I did some research but never found any photos of you.”
“I don’t like photos.” He resumed the tour. “My father believed that a higher power insisted the manor belonged to him, inspiring him to research his family tree. That’s how he discovered his Burgundy roots permitting him his rightful inheritance. After he took over the château in the 1960s, he completely restored it.”
“Your wife lives here with you?” Louise asked rather clumsily. But she was curious about the woman in the window.
“No, I am divorced.”
“There was a woman in the window when I arrived.”
“A woman in a white nightgown?”
“I’m not sure.”
“When my father recovered the château, he had no doubt that it would be haunted. From the very first night, strange noises echoing throughout the château woke him several times. There were muffled cries, wings flapping, and odd sounds, like the draining of giant siphons. Being an aficionado of the occult, he was accustomed to living with the supernatural. But he never learned the actual source of the muffled cries or the bizarre noises that echo here at night. Visitors are welcome to attend the short presentation about the Templar, Pythagorean, and alchemy symbols found throughout the château. However…” He paused and looked at her ominously with those wide eyes, “we don’t talk about the woman in white.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” He spoke candidly. “We probably don’t talk about her because her identity remains a mystery. But the myth is that a woman discovered a hidden treasure and had her tongue cut out to keep her from talking about it. It is believed that she was a direct descendent of a family of Scottish origin. She was adored by the local peasants, and nothing could make her leave her home, not even her death.” He smiled puckishly. “Perhaps she continues to guard the treasure she discovered.”
Louise was a bit chilled by the idea she might actually have seen a ghost, but she played it cool. “Perhaps a higher power insisted the manor belonged to her,” Louise said.
“Is that why you came here? The paranormal phenomena?”
“Actually, I’m not really sure why I’m here.”
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“Your instincts led you here, did they not?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“We were expecting you.”
“We?”
“My neighbor, Kathy Gibbons, is a renowned hypnotist and claire-voyante. Kathy says the manor overflows with energy. She has felt the distinct presence of a very unhappy Italian woman in an upstairs chamber. Personally, I don’t believe that the manor is haunted. Everyone knows that all old buildings make creaking noises when the wood and the pipes settle.”
“Why were you and Ms. Gibbons expecting me?”
“Ms. Gibbons had a premonition that you would arrive.”
“Moi?” Louise looked around thinking he must be joking.
“Yes, she was quite specific about your appearance and your name would begin with a K or an L.”
The conversation was closing in on her and she wasn’t prepared for it. In a bit of a panic she looked at her watch.
“I’m sorry but I need to leave before it gets dark. Is it okay if I come back tomorrow? I am very interested in seeing the caves.”
“We are counting on it.”
She darted out to her bicycle and bolted down the road. Within fifteen minutes, she was back on the boat. There had been no other boats on her cruise down the river, and now in the dusk, she felt very isolated. But her sense of security increased with every knot as she pressed the throttle forward to accelerate. Suddenly the engine sputtered and chugged to a stop. She could tell from the sound that something had interfered with the fuel line. Still spooked by the conversation with Gérard, Louise acted quickly. Upon closer inspection of the engine, she saw the fuel line had been cut. She recalled seeing a supply box stored near the corkscrew she had used earlier. She rummaged through it and found a spare fuel line. She hurriedly replaced the damaged hose just as she heard another boat rumbling downstream. She was sure the timing was intentional, so she did some of her own strategic timing.
The approaching boat sidled up to her. “Vous êtes en panne d’essence?” the skipper asked. He was average-looking in his forties, stocky with very short hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yes, I must be out of gas,” she replied in French.
The man held up a fuel can. “Permission to come aboard?”
“Yes, thank you.” As he drifted closer, Louise had enough time to finish connecting the replacement fuel line. He coasted alongside her boat and was about to tie up to hers when she went to the helm, turned on the engine, and jammed the throttle forward at full speed. The thrust of her boat forced the man to stumble and fall backward. He got to his feet, jumped to the helm and started after her. But she had gotten enough of a head start that he was soon out of her rearview.
As she pulled up to Clément’s dock her heart was still racing. She parked and gathered her belongings as Clément tied up.
“Alors, ça a été?” Clément asked cheerily. But he picked up on her distressed state. “Quelque chose ne va pas?”
“It’s nothing.” Louise showed him the damaged fuel line. “Luckily, you had a spare, so I replaced it.”
“Who did this?” Clément climbed aboard and assessed the cut fuel line.
“I’ll pay you for the damage.” Louise reached into her bag for more cash.
He looked up and shook his head, “No, Merci.”
“Please, I insist,” she said in reply. The methodical exchange and Clément’s sympathetic attitude were calming her down.
He finished looking over the rest of the boat and changed the subject away from money. “She’s true to her name, Denrée Rare.”
“She is truly a rare commodity,” Louise agreed. She wanted to keep the conversation going to stabilize her state of mind. “I was going to call my boat Denrée Rare. But she already had a name.”
“Oh? What is your boat called?”
“Serendipity.”
“Good name. Don’t change it.”
“That would be bad luck. Your boat brought me good luck.”
“It was our pleasure, Denrée Rare and me.” Clément smiled and handed the cash deposit back to her. “Leave the bicycle onboard and I will return it to my friend,” he added. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Merci beaucoup.” They shook hands and Louise left.
On the drive back, Louise pondered the boating encounter. The fuel line was cut. Or was it? It could have just split and the boat that approached WAS just coming to help her. But, instinctively, she was determined to keep an eye out for anything unusual on this mission in Burgundy. She was no longer on an island, protected under an assumed name.
She was livid and terrified that she might still be the target of outside forces, nefarious entities who wouldn’t mind her conveniently dead, both for what she knew and just plain revenge. The cut line must have been an attempt of some kind, but for what? To kidnap her? To kill her? And who might be pursuing her? The next thought chilled her more than even the ghost she saw. Has the BCCI Black Network finally caught up with her?
T W E N T Y – T W O
January 5, 2002
Louise arrived back at the gîte to freshen up before dinner. When she took off her cap, she saw her blonde roots sprouting noticeably. I could open a salon with what I’ve learned maintaining this look, she thought. After a quick retouch, she rinsed and dried her hair, then put on a knit turtleneck black dress with her Doc Martins and went over to the main house.
“Bonsoir!” Magali said.
“Bonsoir!” Louise said, giving Magali double cheek kisses. She bent down to give Luke two cheek kisses.
“Quatre bisous!” Luke said.
“You forgot, four,” Magali said, pointing to her own cheeks.
Louise gave Luke two more kisses. “Voilà.” Luke giggled and ran to his toys. “That smells divine,” Louise said. She had stayed in five-star hotels that didn’t have this level of cuisine.
“Châteaubriand,” Magali said. “Matthieu’s favorite.”
“Is this a special occasion?”
“We are having a small celebration. Matthieu was able to get a six-month extension on our loan.”
“Congratulations!”
“Merci,” Matthieu said as he entered with a bounce in his step. He gave Louise four emphatic cheek kisses. “You made it back in one piece.”
“Yes…” She refrained from adding barely, and simply admitted her feeling of relief, “It’s great to be back.”
Matthieu seemed genuinely pleased to see Louise. His mood was expansive, and he suddenly realized that their guest had only been in a couple of rooms in the historic dwelling. “Would you like to see the rest of our home?”
“I’d love to.”
“Allez, Luke, on fait le tour.” Matthieu picked up Luke and led Louise into the next room of the split-level house with high-beamed ceilings, terracotta floors, and lime-washed walls. “The earliest parts of the house are thirteenth century, and the main house was built in 1656 of timber and stonework. Over the years, the family has amassed all these furnishings and antiques.” Luke poked at the piano in the large salon furnished with comfy sofas.
“It’s charming.”
Matthieu opened the French doors to views of the sloping vineyard in the last light of the day. The sun had set, but a bluish hue remained over the landscape. Matthieu pointed to a separate structure. “We converted that barn into my house. The bedroom upstairs used to be a hayloft. We won’t go over there. It’s messy.”
“Le bordel,” Luke said.
“Allez, mon petit,” Matthieu said as he picked up Luke. “Where do you learn words like that? We don’t say that.” But he couldn’t help but laugh himself. He led Louise back to the kitchen, where she saw an opportunity to help and started to set the table.
“No, Karen,” Magali protested. “You have done enough of Matthieu’s work.”
“I don’t like being waited on,” Louise said, spying another task. “Shall I slice the bread?”
“That would be fine,” Magali conceded.
Louise placed a c
rusty baguette on the heavy woodblock cutting board and began slicing it on the bias.
“Your technique is formidable,” Matthieu said.
“Merci.”
“However, here is a little trick.” Matthieu gestured for the knife. “May I?” Louise handed him the knife and he moved close to demonstrate. “Instead of cutting back and forth, you start with the tip of the knife on the top of the bread then glide it forward. Let the sharp blade do the work. Plus, it slices without tearing or crushing the crust.” He handed the knife back to Louise. This time, she did not fumble and deftly repeated his technique.
“Yes, that’s much better,” Louise said, genuinely surprised.
“You are a natural at bread slicing,” Matthieu teased, resting a massive hand gently on her shoulder. His touch was comforting. Their eyes met, this time both less guarded, reading into each other’s stormy pasts. A smoldering flame in Matthieu’s right eye hinted of passion. The left eye remained unpromising. Louise’s gaze promised nothing while leaving room for everything.
“À table les enfants!” Magali said.
Luke tried to move his booster seat from the chair next to Matthieu. “Oncle Matthieu, you sit next to your wife.” Everyone laughed as Matthieu placed Luke’s booster seat back on his chair.
“Karen is not Uncle Matthieu’s wife, Luke,” Magali said, winking at Louise. “Yet.”
Louise felt the blush rising inside her and changed the subject by raising her glass. “To the bank!”
“To the bank!” they echoed.
The irony of her own toast was not lost on Louise. “Bon appétit,” she added before cutting into the perfectly presented Châteaubriand. As they enjoyed the meal in silence – always a sign of great cooking – Louise considered that visiting their bank seemed the next logical step in her attempt to connect the dots. There could be a corrupt lender taking advantage of the tribal nature of the residents. She had seen it before with BCCI. It was far too easy for greed to poison the well of good intentions.
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