The Chaplin Conspiracy

by Stewart Ferris

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’re no threat to the treasure, kid.’

  ‘I have almost half of an archaeology degree,’ he protested.

  ‘So what? It’s not as if you’re gonna fit into any of the tunnels,’ she said. ‘And why are you such a fat piece of shit, anyhow?’

  He ignored the abuse and took a slurp of his sugary drink.

  ‘Don’t you ever think about what you’re doing to yourself? Look at that drink. It’s got enough calories to last a normal person a week. And what’s with those donuts? You have any idea what that crap is doing to your insides? You know sugar is an addictive drug, right? Worse than heroin. The more you eat, the more you crave. It sucks.’

  Charlie was used to tuning out abuse. His size made him a magnet for barbed comments, disgusted looks and well-intentioned lectures about nutrition and moderation. Sometimes the criticism hurt, but he would find solace in a mouthful of donut and the pain would quickly fade beneath the pleasant sensation of a full stomach.

  The directness of Winnifred’s comments penetrated deeper than anyone had previously managed, however. He wasn’t sure if it was something to do with her total lack of fear or her inability to be tactful, or because she had the potential to slit his throat if he pissed her off in any way, but for the remainder of the long journey northwards he thought about his weight situation and wondered for the first time whether it was something he could really change.

  MONDAY 13TH MAY 2013

  The bar had been shut for two hours by the time Charlie’s Volkswagen sprayed light and noise into the sleeping street. Four bodies huddled on the pavement, yawning and shivering. The van stopped and they piled in the back via the sliding door, grateful for the warmth and comfort that had been absent since closing time.

  Charlie was delirious with sleep deprivation. He climbed through to the rear and squeezed into a corner, no longer caring about Winnifred, or who was going to drive, or even that he was in the presence of his paramour. Ratty was the least sleepy of the group. He had overdosed thoroughly on tea, and so volunteered to take the first shift behind the wheel. Ruby, the Patient and Scabies fell silent so fast it was as if their power switch had been turned off, and Charlie was snoring before Ratty had even put the van into gear.

  ‘Golly, how do you do?’ he asked the unfamiliar woman sitting beside him.

  ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she recommended.

  ‘Right, gosh. Delighted to make your wotsits. Erm, are you sure you’re in the correct vehicle?’

  ‘Shut your shitty mouth and drive me to a goddamn hotel before I get in a bad mood.’

  ‘Before?’ asked Ratty. ‘Goodness. One would hate to encounter you when you are experiencing a less genial disposition.’

  ‘Are you taking the fucking piss?’ she asked, her hand starting to twitch close to her waist, just above where her knife was tucked.

  ‘Do I detect from your delectable accent that you are one of our colonial friends?’

  ‘Just drive, dammit. There’s a place on the edge of town. Drop me there before you fuck off with fatso.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a delight to meet you, albeit briefly,’ said Ratty. ‘Such a shame you won’t be joining us in Rennes for our explorations. Are you familiar with that mystery at all?’

  She gave no response.

  Ratty took her indifference to imply ignorance. He happily burbled on. ‘Long story short. Nineteenth century priest fellow finds something in his church, becomes a millionaire, dies in 1917. No one knows where his money came from. We intend to find out, and we have new information that no one else has.’

  Winnifred turned her head rapidly towards her new companion. ‘Tell me more,’ she instructed, lowering her hand away from the hidden knife.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t say anything, but you’re getting out soon and you seem a thoroughly decent sort, so I’m sure it won’t do any harm to tell you that we found evidence that this wealthy priest chappy didn’t die in 1917 after all. We know he faked his death and returned to Rennes fifteen years later, presumably to retrieve his gold. No one has ever been able to find his treasure, but we think we have what it takes now that we’re armed with fresh information. It’s all rather exciting, frankly. Just think, millions of pounds’ worth of shiny bullion waiting for us under the ground, and no one else has the clues and proofs that we have. Anyway, is this the hotel in which you wanted to stay?’

  A razor-thin smile stretched across Winnifred’s face.

  ‘Keep driving,’ she said.

  ***

  The interviews began at dawn. Rocco was exhausted. Despite six hours of sleep on the hard bunk in the police cell, he had been dreaming throughout of tunnelling. He woke up convinced that he had dug his way to freedom, and even felt the aches and pains that went with such a Herculean effort. Reality soon showered down upon him, however, and he found himself being led through a glass door into the office of the local chief of police.

  This was not the sparsely furnished, plain room in which he had expected to be interrogated. There was a sofa made of leather that had worn smooth and soft. Paintings of local landscapes adorned the walls. A bookcase was stuffed with legal textbooks and, curiously, novels. The uniformed interviewer sat on the edge of the desk immediately in front of Rocco, foregoing the sumptuous swivel chair that waited behind it.

  ‘We know it wasn’t you,’ said the gendarme, in excellent English, ‘so before you get defensive and start proclaiming your innocence, don’t bother.’

  Rocco attempted not to look surprised or guilty or confused or any of the other multitude of emotions that swirled within him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, with attempted nonchalance, wondering if this was a tactic on the part of the police to trick him into saying something stupid or even if it was part of a larger conspiracy the aim of which he had no clue.

  ‘Of course, there is the matter of the fingerprints. We found your prints on every one of the fifteen bodies. But we know it wasn’t you.’

  Rocco said nothing this time. The Frenchman was getting weird.

  ‘We also found hair fibres in the tunnel that match your DNA. But we know you’re innocent. You were spotted entering the crime scene on the day of the murders, but there is a reasonable explanation for that, I am sure.’

  This gendarme was toying with him, Rocco realised. There was no way anyone would think he was innocent with so much evidence stacked against him.

  ‘So do you want me to tell you what happened?’

  ‘There is no need. I know what happened.’

  ‘So why am I here?’

  ‘Because, Dr Strauss, you are in very, very deep shit.’

  ‘So are you telling me that I’m not going to be charged with murder, but I’m still in deep trouble?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said the officer. ‘You have violated something that is of far more significance than the fate of a local family.’

  The gendarme looked up and signalled to someone outside his door. A man in a suit entered and helped himself to the swivel chair. Something clanged oddly as he sat down. Rocco looked on in bewilderment as the man unhooked a weighty sword from his belt and laid it flat upon the desk.

  ‘Thank you, officer,’ said the swordsman. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  The policeman nodded and walked out, closing the glass door behind him.

  ‘My name is Henri. You are Dr Rocco Strauss, correct? They told me your name, but they don’t seem to know much else about you. Why don’t you tell me everything I need to know?’

  ‘Can I deduce from the sword that you are not here as a representative of the gendarmerie?’ asked Rocco.

  ‘You can,’ replied the man. ‘But I am asking the questions here. Please tell me about yourself.’

  Rocco’s frame of mind changed in an instant. He was no longer dealing with impartial, indifferent police. This man was a Templar knight. He had read about them: the modern-day Templars were still to be found in this area, supposedly guarding somethi
ng. He had no idea what that was, or how close he may inadvertently have come to finding it, or how pissed off it might have made them. He decided to stick to the publicly available facts about himself.

  ‘I work at ESA in Germany,’ he began. ‘My job is to track asteroids and comets and debris in space, to identify anything that might be a hazard to our planet. I like to do my bit to save the world.’

  ‘So why did you come to Rennes-le-Château?’

  ‘Vacation.’

  ‘I see,’ said the knight. ‘And what type of vacation leaves fingerprints on more than a dozen dead bodies?’

  ‘A really shit one,’ sighed Rocco.

  ***

  The abrupt cessation of movement woke the Patient. Daylight glared through the windows of the van, illuminating the sorry state of its jumbled, slumbering passengers. He looked outside and deduced that they had stopped for fuel, but no one was at the pump.

  Ratty slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The gentle impact woke him up again. ‘Sleep,’ he mumbled. ‘Sleep. Need. Sleep.’ He climbed through to the rear of the van, eyes barely open, and fell into a gap between Scabies and Ruby, waking them both as he did so.

  The Patient nudged Charlie. ‘I think we need fuel, Charlie.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Ratty has been driving for many hours and he needs rest and the vehicle needs fuel.’

  Charlie rubbed his eyes and blinked at the Patient. Then he looked at the front seats. The driver’s seat was empty, but the adjacent seat contained an unwelcome passenger. Winnifred turned her head and grinned at Charlie. His first reaction was confusion. Why was she still in his camper van? Were they still in Cherbourg?

  ‘It’s fine, kid, you don’t need to pretend to be pleased to see me. There’s been a change of plan. I’m coming back to Rennes with you.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Charlie, sensing his vocal cords tensing. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want to do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Won’t there be cops?’

  ‘I’ve been dealing with cops all my life, kid. I know one or two tricks. Anyhow, are you going to put some gas in this thing or not?’

  Charlie stretched and opened the sliding door. Everyone was now awake, besides Ratty. No one knew anything about Winnifred or why she was travelling with them. As he filled his tank with diesel he decided that the less they knew the better, and if she left the van for any reason during the journey he would drive off and abandon her. He went to the shop to pay and on his return Winnifred was gone. Delighted at this unexpected opportunity he started the engine and put the van into gear and had just started moving when he heard the sound of the chemical toilet flushing at the rear of the van before the tight door opened.

  Winnifred emerged and grumpily squeezed past the assortment of tired bodies stretched across the bed and the seats and the floor.

  ‘Guys, everyone, er,’ began Charlie, wondering how he could explain Winnifred’s presence on board, ‘this lady is called Winnifred. She’s a Yank, just like me, but she’s not all bad.’

  Scabies found the gag mildly amusing even if Winnifred didn’t.

  ‘Where are you heading, love?’ asked the drummer.

  ‘Shut the—’ she began, only to find her outburst halted by Charlie’s puffy hand placed across her mouth. Instinctively she reached for the knife at her side, but stopped herself. There were too many people within reach. She could easily be overpowered if they suspected anything. Charlie was right to protect her from herself. She pulled his hand away and winked at him. ‘I was just going to ask you to shut the window,’ she explained. ‘I felt like I was going to have a sneezing fit.’

  Scabies looked at the windows. They were all closed. He decided to quiz her again.

  ‘Winnifred, where are we taking you?’

  ‘All the way,’ she replied. ‘You can take me all the way.’

  ***

  In another part of the police station, Justina was being interviewed in a more traditional manner. In a cramped and plain room, a strange man with a sword strapped to his waist had spent five minutes with her, asking lightweight questions and not seeming to care about her answers, before leaving things to the police. Justina now chatted with a policewoman who, in other circumstances, might have been a friend. They had talked about hair and fashion and celebrities and the latest movies to reach France from Hollywood and the atmosphere of joviality had left Justina occasionally forgetting the reason she was there.

  ‘I am sorry, Justina,’ said Patrice, straightening her jacket and sliding back the sides of her bobbed haircut as they fell across her cheeks, ‘but my boss will kill me if I don’t get down to work. He is such a pig. You know what I mean? So forgive me if I go through some boring questions. Help me by giving me useful answers, and we can get this done in no time. Are you ready?’

  ‘Sure,’ Justina replied, almost enthusiastically. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘OK. Why did you come to Rennes-le-Château?’

  ‘Like everyone. To look for Saunière’s treasure. I’ve read about it, I spent years researching the subject, and I narrowed down its possible locations to just a handful. I was confident I could find it, and I felt I deserved to find it.’

  ‘And the chateau was one of those locations?’

  ‘Yes. I knew there would be tunnelling involved, and I knew I would need to have a few hours of unrestricted access to the castle, so I hired Winnifred to help me.’

  ‘What is her second name?’

  ‘I don’t know. She never told me. She’s an ex- convict. Escaped from several US prisons by digging her way out. I thought she might be useful. Promised to split the gold with her, fifty-fifty. We planned to knock out the family in the castle for a few hours by putting sleeping pills in their food, but without telling me Winnifred used poison instead. They were all dead before I knew what she had done. By then it was too late to help those poor people, so I had to accept it and keep going, but she really scared me from then on. I didn’t trust her any more. Anyhow, we carried on exploring the tunnel that links the castle with the church.

  ‘While we were there Rocco Strauss showed up. He’d broken in to the castle in the course of his own treasure hunt. Winnifred threatened him with a knife and made him drag all the bodies into the empty crypt that we’d found. Then Winnifred disappeared, and it seems she called you guys and told you that me and Rocco were the ones who killed that family. Meanwhile she’s still out there, and any moment now she could be the one to find all that gold that’s hiding somewhere. And it’s not fair because it’s my gold.’

  ‘Why would it be your gold if you haven’t found it yet?’

  ‘Because I’m entitled to it.’

  ‘Right. You think you’re entitled to it. That’s a very unusual claim. Ignoring the fact that it’s a crime in Rennes even to dig a tunnel, the laws regarding discoveries of treasure in France are very strict and are unlikely to align with your attitude towards whatever you may or may not find. So I advise you to forget that sense of entitlement. No one is entitled to Saunière’s wealth, if it exists. Only a direct descendant could possibly lodge such a claim. Oh, I’m sorry, I skipped a question. May I have your second name, please?’

  ‘It was on my driver’s licence. I showed it to the police already.’

  ‘That name was checked out. We know it’s false. Who are you really?’

  Justina had been longing to say it. The name filled her with pride. In this region, she was someone. She smiled.

  ‘Saunière,’ she said. ‘My name is Justina Saunière.’

  ***

  The man with the sword was finding it increasingly difficult to remain calm. Rocco’s account of accidentally stumbling across a mass murder scene, just hours after it had taken place, was utterly unconvincing. He kept pushing for a confession that Rocco knew something about the dead family, especially about the grandfather, and the resulting expression of ignorance was infuriating.

  ‘Why is the grandfather of interest?’ Rocco asked.


  ‘You know the one I mean?’

  ‘Of course. I saw all their faces. It was horrific, especially the young ones. I remember the one who must have been the grandfather. There was only one old man. I took him down to the crypt and laid him to rest with as much dignity as I could manage, bearing in mind I was under duress, tired and dirty, and thinking about how I could make my escape before I became the next victim of that woman.’

  ‘Winnifred?’

  ‘Yes. Not Justina. She’s innocent.’

  ‘I am in a most awkward situation, Dr Strauss. The facts are that people have been killed and all the circumstantial evidence points to you as the killer. But this crime will not go to court.’

  ‘It won’t?’

  ‘I have seen to that. A court case is a public event. We do not like publicity.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My organisation. We have just lost our most senior Templar. The grandfather was the Guardian. It is fortunate that you did not find that which he has dedicated his life to protecting, but your trespass and your murderous crimes must be dealt with by us, not the police. Our authority to investigate and punish is superior to that of the French state. What happens to you is in our hands.’

  ‘Really? You are above the government? That’s a conspiracy I’ve not heard before.’

  ‘Of course you have not. If anyone finds out, we always kill them.’

  ‘But you’ve just told me. So I know about it.’

  ‘Well then I guess this is not going to be your lucky day, Dr Strauss.’

  A woman rapped at the glass door. The Templar appeared frustrated at the interruption, beckoning her in with his hand but making it plain from his face that she was not welcome.

  ‘It’s the other suspect,’ said Patrice. ‘She’s just told me her full name.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of an important interview,’ protested the Templar. ‘I fail to see the relevance, or the necessity, or the urgency of your visit.’

  ‘You will, sir. Justina kept talking about claiming her birth right. Kept saying that Saunière’s treasure belonged to her. Saying she was entitled to it. Then she told me her second name. She’s a Saunière. Justina Saunière.’