Sepulchre (20 page)
'Well spoken, Leonie,' said Isolde. 'My late husband was much interested in the legends associated with the Domaine de la Cade. His particular passion was the Visigoth period of history, but he and Monsieur Baillard sometimes talked late into the night about all manner of subjects. The Curé from our sister village of Rennes-le-Château also sometimes joined them.'
Isolde waved her slim white hand. 'Oh, perhaps cautious is the wrong word. Reverential, almost. I am not entirely certain what I mean. He had great respect for Monsieur Baillard's age and knowledge, but was also somewhat in awe of his learning.'
Anatole replenished the glasses, then rang the bell for another bottle. 'You say Baillard is a local man?'
Isolde nodded. 'He has furnished lodgings in Rennes-les-Bains, although his main residence is elsewhere. Somewhere in the Sabarthès, I believe. He is an extraordinary man, but a very private one. He is circumspect about his past experiences and his interests are wide-ranging. In addition to local folklore and customs, he is also an expert on the Albigensian Heresy' She gave a light laugh. 'Indeed, Jules remarked once that one might almost believe Monsieur Baillard had been a witness at some of those medieval battles, so vivid were his descriptions.' They all smiled.
Léonie nodded, remembering Monsieur Baillard's tales. Anatole, too, fell silent. A different mood had entered the room, slipping in among the easy conversation when no one was watching. For a while, the only sounds were the ticking of the golden hands of the long-case clock and the spitting of the flames in the hearth.
Léonie found her eyes drawn to the windows. They were shuttered against the evening, yet she was strongly aware of the darkness beyond. It seemed to have a living, breathing presence. It was only the wind whistling around the corners of the building, but it seemed to her as if the night itself was murmuring, conjuring up the ancient spirits of the woods. She glanced at her aunt, beautiful in the soft light, and so still. Does she feel it too?
Isolde's expression was serene, her features impassive. It was impossible for Léonie to tell what she might be thinking. Her eyes did not flicker with the grief of her husband's absence. And there was no suggestion of anxiety or nervousness at what might lie beyond the stone walls of the house.
Isolde announced her intention to write the invitations for Saturday's supper party, and withdrew to the study. Anatole took the squat green bottle of Benedictine from the tray and declared he would remain a while longer and smoke a cigar.
Léonie kissed her brother good night and quitted the drawing room. She walked across the hall, a little unsteady on her feet, with memories of the day in her mind. Of those things that had given her pleasure, and those that had intrigued. How clever it was of Tante Isolde to guess that Anatole's favourite bonbons were Pearls of the Pyrenees. How comfortable, for the most part, the three of them had been in one another's company. She thought of the adventures she might have, and how she would explore the house and, weather permitting, the grounds.
Her hand was already upon the banister rail when she observed that the piano lid stood temptingly open. The black and white keys were bright in the shimmering candlelight, as if they had recently been polished. The rich mahogany surround seemed to glow.
Léonie was not an accomplished pianist, but she was unable to resist the invitation of the untouched keyboard. She played a scale, an arpeggio, then a chord. The piano had a sweet voice, soft and precise, as if it was kept tuned and cared for. She let her fingers go where they wished, sounding out a mournful and antique pattern of notes in a minor key - A, E, C, and D. a single strand of melody echoed briefly in the silence of the hall, then faded. Sorrowful, evocative, pleasing to the ear.
The hours passed. She slept. The house fell, room by room, into silence. One by one the candles were extinguished. Beyond the grey walls, the grounds, the lawns, the lake, the beech wood lay quietly beneath a white moon. All was still.
Meredith's plane touched down at Toulouse Blagnac airport ten minutes ahead of schedule. By four thirty she'd picked up her rental car and was negotiating her way out of the parking lot. In sneakers and blue jeans, with her big over-the-shoulder bag, she looked like a student.
The evening rush hour on the beltway was crazy, like Grand Theft Auto without the weapons. Meredith gripped the wheel tight, nervous about the traffic coming at her from all sides. She turned on the air-con and fixed her eyes on the windshield.
Once she hit the autoroute, things calmed down. She started to feel comfortable enough with the car to turn on the radio. She found a station, Classique, on pre-set and turned the volume up high. The usual. Bach, Mozart, Puccini, even a little Debussy.
The route was pretty straightforward. She headed for Carcassonne, turning off after about thirty minutes to go cross-country, via Mirepoix and Limoux. At Couiza, she took a left towards Arques, then after ten minutes of winding road, turned down to the right. By six, feeling a mixture of anticipation and excitement, she was driving into the town she'd thought about for so long.
Her first impressions of Rennes-les-Bains were encouraging. It was much smaller than she'd expected and the main street - although 'main' was pushing it some - was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, but there was something charming about it. Even the fact that it was completely deserted didn't really bother her.
She drove by an ugly stone building, then pretty gardens set down from the road with a metal sign over the entrance, JARDIN DE PAUL COURRENT, and a sign on the wall LE PONT DE FER. Suddenly her foot hit the floor. The car slid to a halt, just in time to avoid slamming into the back of a blue Peugeot stopped in the road ahead.
It was the last in a short line of cars. Meredith killed the radio, pressed the button to open her window, and leaned out to get a better look. Ahead was a small group of workmen standing beside a yellow road sign: ROUTE BARRÉE.
The driver of the Peugeot got out and walked towards the men, shouting. Meredith waited, then when another couple of drivers got out of their cars too, she did the same, just as the Peugeot guy turned and strode back towards his car. In his late fifties, a little grey around the temples, a little extra weight, but carrying it well. Attractive, with the bearing and demeanour of someone used to getting his own way. What caught Meredith's eye was how he was dressed. Very formal, in black jacket, black pants and tie, polished shoes.
She darted a glance at his licence plate. It ended with II. Local tag. 'Qu'est-ce qui se passe}' she asked, as he drew level. 'Tree's down,' he replied abruptly, paying no attention. Meredith was pissed at him replying in English. Her accent wasn't so bad.
He was clearly impatient to be gone. Meredith stepped forward and put a hand on the door. 'Is there another way round?'
This time, he at least looked at her. Steely blue eyes, very direct. 'Back to Couiza, over the hills via Rennes-le-Château,' he said. 'Take you forty minutes at this time of night. I'd wait. Confusing in the dark.' He glanced at her hand, then back to her face. 'Now, if you'll excuse me?'
Meredith coloured. 'Thank you for your help,' she said, taking a step back. She watched as he reversed up on to the sidewalk, got out, then strode off down the main street. 'Not a guy to fall out with,' she muttered to herself, not sure why she felt so mad at him.
Some of the other drivers were doing awkward three-point turns in the tight street and heading back the direction they'd come. Meredith hesitated. However abrupt the guy had been, she figured his advice was probably good. No sense getting lost in the hills.
She decided to explore the town on foot. She backed her rental car on to the sidewalk and parked beside his blue Peugeot. Meredith wasn't sure if Rennes-les-Bains was actually where her ancestors had come from, or if it was just an accident of timing that the photograph of the soldier from 1914 had been taken here, rather than anyplace else. But it was one of the only leads she'd got. Might as well start finding out tonight.
She reached across the seat for her purse - the idea of having her laptop stolen didn't bear thinking about - and then checked the trunk with her overnight bag in was locked. Once the car was secure, she walked the couple of steps to the main entrance of the Station Thermale et Climatique.
There was a hand-printed notice on the door saying it was now closed for the winter: 1st October through 30th April 2008. Meredith stared at the sign. She'd just assumed it would be open year-round. She hadn't thought to call ahead.
Hands in her pockets, she stood outside awhile. The windows were dark, the building apparently totally empty. Even though she admitted that the search for traces of Lilly Debussy was, in part at any rate, an excuse to get herself down here, she'd had good hopes of the spa. Old records, photographs dating back to the turn of the last century when Rennes-les-Bains was one of the most fashionable resorts in the area.
Now, looking at the shuttered doors of the Station Thermale, even if there was evidence inside of Lilly being sent here to convalesce in the summer of 1900 - or else of her young man in military uniform - she wasn't going to find out.
It was possible she could persuade the Mairie - someone - to let her in, but she wasn't hopeful. Disappointed at herself for not thinking it through, Meredith turned away and walked back to the street.
A footpath ran down the right of the spa buildings, the Allée des Bains de la Reine. She followed it down to the riverbank, pulling her jacket tight around her against the sharp wind that had come up, past a large swimming pool drained of water. An air of neglect hung about the deserted terrace. The chipped blue tiles, the peeling pink-washed deck, the broken white plastic recliners. Hard to believe the pool was used at all.
She moved on. The riverbank also felt abandoned, empty of human life. Like tailgate parties in high school, the morning after the night before, when the fields were muddy and skidded with tyre tracks. The path was lined with metal benches, crooked and dispirited-looking; there was a rusty, rickety metal pergola in the shape of a crown with a wooden bench set beneath. It looked as if it hadn't been used for years. Meredith glanced up and saw a couple of metallic hooks, she guessed to fix some kind of awning to keep the sun off.
Out of force of habit, she dug into her bag and pulled out her camera. She adjusted the setting to deal with the poor light before taking a couple of shots, not convinced they'd come out. She tried to picture Lilly sitting on one of the benches, in a white shirt and black skirt, her face sheltered beneath a wide-brimmed hat, dreaming of Debussy and Paris. She tried to imagine her sepia soldier strolling along the riverbank, maybe with a girl on his arm, but couldn't. The place felt wrong. Everything was derelict, abandoned. The world had moved on.
Feeling somehow sad, nostalgic for an imagined past she'd never known, Meredith walked slowly along the bank. She followed the curved course of the river to a flat concrete bridge that crossed the water. She hesitated before walking over. The opposite bank was wilder, clearly less frequented. It was dumb to wander around a strange town alone, especially with a valuable laptop and camera in her purse. And it's getting dark.
But Meredith felt something tugging at her. A spirit of exploration, she guessed, or adventure. She wanted to get under the skin of the town. The real place, that had been here for hundreds of years, not just the main street with its modern cafés and cars. And if it turned out she did have some sort of personal connection with the town, she didn't want to feel she'd wasted her brief amount of time here. Hooking the strap of her purse over her shoulder and chest, she walked across.
There was a different atmosphere on the far side of the river. Right away, Meredith had the sense of a more enduring landscape, one less influenced by people and fashions. The rough-hewn, jutting hillside seemed to rise straight out of the ground in front of her. The variegated greens and browns and coppers of the bushes and trees taking on the rich hues of dusk. It should have been a landscape that appealed, but something felt wrong about it. Two-dimensional, somehow, as if the true character of the place was concealed beneath a painted exterior.
In the gathering October evening, Meredith carefully picked her way through the overgrown briars and flattened grass and trash blown by the wind. A car went by on the road bridge above, its headlights briefly throwing up a beam of light on the grey wall of rock where the mountains came right down to the town.