Bright Hair About the Bone (42 page)

Laetitia turned on him a look of pure indulgent affection. “First century
A.D
. pottery style? Eighteen inches tall by about twelve inches across, Greek form, perhaps, but undecorated? The original of the one we see today in the fresco in the church of Sainte-Madeleine? The urn that stands, significantly, I have to believe, on the soil of Burgundy, at the goddess's right hand? That urn?”

CHAPTER 41

T
he answers to all this lie in a very ancient papyrus.” Gunning's voice was urgent. “It was discovered at Akhmin, in Egypt. Goodness knows how it got to Germany, but it fetched up in the Berlin Museum in 1896. My Berlin friend—Klaus, his name is Klaus—was helping to prepare a translation of the Coptic script before the war. The contents were stunning! They had got as far as actually publishing some copies. Unfortunately the stock was caught up in a wartime accident—the cellar the books were stored in was flooded, and all lost. And then the war broke out and everyone had other things on their minds.”

“Stunning?” Letty prompted.

“Oh, yes. Klaus had retained a copy and allowed me to study it. World-shaking?…Yes, I think I'd say that. The text was short—I learned every word. It was a Gospel. A Gospel written by Mary Magdalene, Christ's apostle, herself. Early. Very early. Possibly second century, which makes it one of the founding texts of Christianity. Suppressed by the early Church because its contents were explosive.”

Gunning was speaking swiftly, listening out for the sound of d'Aubec's feet in the corridor.

“It reveals her to be, as I mentioned before, the foremost of the apostles. I wonder if d'Aubec and his crew have any knowledge of this? You know, it's just possible they don't…She's shown to be the person closest to Christ, his chosen one. She knew more of his teachings than any of the male disciples. A question of intelligence, intellect…perception. It's clear that her understanding went much deeper than that of Peter and the rest. She had access to sacred knowledge their minds could not encompass.”

“Not an easy situation, in a time even more oppressively male-dominated than our own?” Letty guessed.

“No. Having listened to Mary delivering a delicate, cerebral, esoteric understanding of Christ's teaching and hearing her answers to such questions as: ‘What is Matter? What is Sin? Lord, do we perceive you through our soul or through our spirit?' the disciples' response is the equivalent of ‘Eh? What was that again?' Andrew turns to the other disciples and says, ‘Will someone explain to me what this woman's been telling us? It's
my
opinion that the Teacher wouldn't speak like this. These ideas are unlike any we've heard before.' And angrily Peter joins in the denunciation: ‘How can it be that the Teacher confided to a
woman
secrets of which we ourselves are ignorant? Are we expected to change our ways, our traditions, and listen to her? Did He really choose her and prefer her to us?'”

He waited for Letty to respond but she was thinking deeply, much disturbed by what she heard. Finally, “Oh, I'm sorry, William. I'm afraid I'm with Andrew on this—‘these ideas are unlike any I've heard before,'” she said.

“You won't be surprised to hear that Mary's response was to burst into tears.”

Letty rallied. “That would be tears of frustration and annoyance, I'd guess! We've all done that in the face of male thick-headedness! It's not a sign of weakness but despair.”

“But she did find support. Levi spoke up for her. ‘Peter, you've always been hot-tempered and now we see you rejecting a woman just as our enemies do. Yet if the Teacher considered her worthy, who are you to deny her? Surely the Teacher knew her very well, for he loved her more than us.'”

“Well, good for Levi. But what am I to make of all this? What is the meaning in all this, William?”

“No less than a passing on to humanity of Christ's central message, his spiritual teaching.” He paused, silenced by the gravity of his conclusion. “Oh, it would take me a day to explain all this…”

A pair of lightly questioning, intelligent grey eyes fixed him until he blushed.

“I'm sorry, Letty! Echoes of Andrew there! The Gospel reveals a path of self-knowledge—gnosis—God in oneself.” He tapped his chest. “We—every man and woman—are the incarnation of God, and those of us who have ears to hear, as Mary constantly says—‘Let them hear!'”

“William, if I can lay hands on a translation of this manuscript I'm prepared to study it closely and write an appreciation for the
Women's Suffrage Weekly,
but I can't see what it has to do with d'Aubec and his schemes, even if the cremated remains of the saint may well be secreted in an earthenware pot on his property.”

“Have you forgotten the fever that went around the world following the discovery of the tomb of a very minor Egyptian king? One day his name was unknown and unpronounceable, the next the word ‘Tut' was on everyone's lips—even reduced to an affectionate nickname. Imagine the effects, worldwide, of a well-directed campaign by newspapers, radio, and film photography to broadcast this local discovery if d'Aubec cared to launch it! And I don't flatter this man with any esoteric sensitivity to a Christian icon. I have no idea what his inner spirituality consists of, but I'm prepared to guess at his readiness to use—and ruthlessly use—the
exoteric
power of what we saw this morning. With devastating consequences.”

In despondent silence their minds ranged over the possibilities for mayhem.

“You don't suppose, do you, William…?” said Letty hesitantly. “No! Of course not! It's an insane notion…”

“Go on, Letty.”

“He might be proposing nothing less than a sea change in religion? A change in focus as significant as…as…oh, a switch in the Earth's magnetic poles? North becomes south overnight and everything is turned to chaos. We've had a change from agricultural societies who worshipped the Mother Goddess to the invasive, Father-God–worshipping, militaristic states, and humankind has suffered the consequences. Could Edmond be planning to start a movement back to the old religion?”

“Possibly. But not all the way, and not straightaway, back to paganism. Wherever you look in France, there are churches (increasingly empty and disregarded these days). The shrines are all there, in place! Many are already dedicated to a Mary—the Mother or the Saint. It would not be a devastating change to bring about—not nearly so life-changing as the utter obliteration of the orthodox faith by the Revolutionaries in the 1790s. And even those rascals had the sense to make the replacement a female entity—the Goddess of Reason.

“I think d'Aubec's icon, his banner, his siren for the soul, is an essence of female authority, an amalgam of three idols the French hold dear—the Mother, the Priestess-Lover, and the Goddess—be she wearing her Celtic or Egyptian or Greek garb. The Triple Goddess. Anselme has hinted as much.” He considered for a moment. “Rather more than hinted. Taken me into his confidence, you might almost say…sounded me out…And you have to agree with him—how many people, disillusioned, bereft, rudderless, and…yes…frightened…would not find such an image appealing? Remember the Angel of Mons! Tell men and women suffering stress what they subconsciously want to hear, reinforce it with colourful pictures and miles of newsprint, and the upshot will be a fervent reanimation of a nation's faith. Give it the endorsement of a charismatic priest of impeccable character, a newsworthy and glamorous standard-bearer…”

“But you'd have to be mad, surely, in this masculine age, to rally to a female banner?”

“What? Mad like the followers of Boadicea? Of Elizabeth? Jeanne d'Arc? Victoria? Men fight all the more determinedly for such a cause. And, anyway, on a personal level—if it were to come to a choice between a ‘rich-haired, deep-bosomed goddess, bringer of seasons and giver of good gifts' and a crazed, egotistical god who behaves like a spiteful child yet demands unquestioning obedience, I know which would have me on my knees! But I'd prefer that mankind learned to do without the prop of all this imagery.”

“That's all very well,” said Letty, “but most men and women, like the disciples, need their external emblems. They need their parables to be able to approach the truth. They need the support of a physical image—a black virgin, a man writhing in torment on a cross, to focus their emotions. They need to stick their fingers in the wound. They need to hear bells and smell candles, worship on a given day, and have their sins forgiven.”

“D'Aubec knows this. He's blending all these elements in the crucible and passing through it a current of twentieth-century technology. Heaven knows what the result may be! Precious metal? Utter dross? Blackened faces all round? Stay away from the flame, Letty!”

Letty managed a laugh. “Well, I enjoyed our canter through the realms of fantasy, William. You've spent too many evenings swapping ideas with Father Anselme.”

She began to move nervously about the room and turned to him to share her anxiety. “We're prisoners here, aren't we, William? In the most correct and hospitable way, he's keeping us here.”

“Oh, yes. I think if we strolled down to the gates in our boots, we'd be politely herded back. If we tried to start the Wolesley, we'd find the engine mysteriously failed to function. If we asked to use the telephone, we'd be told regretfully that there was a fault…perhaps tomorrow when the engineer could attend? When did you realise this?”

“I went to my room to change. My trunk had been fetched. And unpacked. He'd had time to leave a note on the dressing table. ‘Suggest Talbot livery for dinner.' D'Aubec's even telling me what to wear! It was at that moment I heard in my mind the creak of a drawbridge coming up. How long do you think he expects us to stay cooped up in the library?”

“Until the dressing gong sounds, probably. An hour perhaps? I've known worse places to be incarcerated. Settle down, Letty. You're making me nervous, pacing about like a panther. Want to play I Spy?”

She smiled and joined him at the table. “How about a game of cards? A game for two? Piquet? I can just about manage at piquet. But I'm unbeatable at Snap!”

The unwelcome thought flashed through their minds in the same instant, and they stood and stared at each other until Gunning asked, “Remind me, Letty—what did the countess tell you about that last evening Daniel spent here? Can you remember exactly what you told me? I had assumed that she and Daniel passed the time tête-à-tête?”

“That was the impression she gave…‘We played a game or two of
belote
…we danced a tango…' She made quite a show of girlish embarrassment about that revelation. And now I know her better, I'd say that was definitely not in character. She was misdirecting me like a conjurer because she'd made a slip!”

“Yes.
Belote!
All the rage at the moment. Takes two to tango, all right, but for
belote
you need
four.
I wonder who were the other two around the card table that evening? The ones whose presence was never declared to Huleux and the police. The last people to see him alive. How would we find out?”

“We obviously can't just ask a d'Aubec. Tell you what, though!—the housekeeper knows everyone's movements. I don't think anything happens here that she doesn't know about. I'll go and ask her.”

“Are you mad? Why would she tell
you
?”

“Two reasons. As far as the staff are concerned, I'm the future châtelaine and they are not displeased by that notion—when, as far as they are aware, the alternative might be Gabrielle! And the second? I'd rather you didn't ask!”

“Your speciality, Letty? A slight touch of blackmail? I can't imagine that…”

“Madame Lepage's sister's husband, the town pâtissier, has just bought out the baker on the opposite side of the square. Now, I wonder where he came by the sudden influx of cash? If a public-spirited individual were to make a fuss…demand an enquiry?”

Gunning groaned. “They'll stuff you down an oubliette!”

“Listen! There's the dressing gong. I'll wait a minute to let all the guests get up to their rooms, then I'll pop along to her office and see if I can catch her before supper. If d'Aubec wants to know where I am, hiss out of the corner of your mouth, ‘Women's problems, old chap.' I find it paralyses any man.”

         

Letty made her way confidently through a bustle of servants, along to what would have been called, in her home, the butler's pantry. The door was ajar but the room empty. She accosted a scurrying maid. “Madame Lepage? Is she about?”

“Sorry, Miss. She's in the kitchens. There's trouble with the aspic. Shall I tell her she's wanted?”

“No. Don't disturb her. Aspic demands one's full attention.”

Letty ducked inside and looked about her with approval and familiarity.

She'd spent many hours as a child in just such rooms. Lonely, evasive, and quite often forgotten by adults, she'd passed the time cleaning silver, polishing glasses, mending broken crockery, and chattering to the butler. It was snug but well organised. In spite of the season a wood fire crackled in the hearth, dispelling the chill from the vaulted stone walls. A gouty sofa, a polished table, racks of patterned china, and a case of silverware. Everything had its place in such a room, and Letty looked for the desk. And there it was. On it, in solitary state, to her surprise and delight, stood a gold and black telephone. Mme. Lepage's link with her domestic suppliers, of course. She wondered whether the d'Aubecs even remembered it was here. She picked up the earpiece and listened, triumphant to hear a familiar buzzing. She gently replaced it. Later. Above the desk was what she had hoped to find: a shelf of leather-backed books. Ledgers.