Sepulchre (23 page)

Thirty minutes later, feeling more like herself, she wrapped herself in a huge white bathrobe, plugged in her cell to recharge and sat down at her laptop. Discovering she couldn't get internet access, she reached over and dialled reception.

'Hi. This is Ms Martin. In the Yellow Room. I need to check mail, but I'm having trouble getting online. I'm wondering if you can give me the password or if you can organise it from your end?' Holding the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, she scribbled down the information. 'OK, that's great, thanks. Got it.'
She hung up, struck by the coincidence of the password as she typed it in - CONSTANTINE and quickly got a connection. She sent her daily email to Mary, letting her know she'd arrived safely and that she'd already found the place where one of the photographs had been taken, and promising to be in touch if there was anything to report. Next, she looked into her checking account and saw with relief that the money from the publisher had at last come through. Finally.

There were a couple of personal emails, including an invitation to the wedding of two of her college friends in Los Angeles, which she declined, and one to a concert conducted by an old school friend, now back in Milwaukee, which she accepted.

She was about to log off when she thought she might as well see if there was anything about the fire at the Domaine de la Cade in October 1897. There wasn't much more than she'd learned already from the hotel brochure.

Next she typed LASCOMBE into the search engine. This did yield a little new information about Jules Lascombe. He appeared to have been some sort of amateur historian, an expert on the Visigoth era and local folklore and superstitions. He'd even had a few books, pamphlets, privately published by a local printing company, Bousquet.

Merediths eyes narrowed. She clicked on a link and information flashed up on the screen. A well-known local family, as well as being the owners of the largest department store in Rennes-les-Bains and a substantial printing business, they were also first cousins of Jules Lascombe and had inherited the Domaine de la Cade on his death.

Meredith scrolled down the page until she found what she was looking for. She clicked, then started to read:

The Bousquet Tarot is a rare deck, not used much outside France. The earliest examples of this deck were printed by the Bousquet publishing company, located outside Rennes-les-Bains in south west France, in the late 1890s.

Said to be based on a far older deck, dating back to the seventeenth century, aspects unique to this deck include the substitution of Maître, Maîtresse, Fils and Fille for the four court cards in each suit and the period clothing and iconography. The artist of the major arcana cards, which are contemporaneous with the first printed deck, is unknown.

Beside her on the desk, the phone rang. Meredith jumped, the sound raucously loud in the silence of the room. Without taking her eyes from the screen, Meredith flung out her hand and grabbed the receiver.
'Yes? Yes, this is she.'

It was the restaurant asking if she still required her table. Meredith glanced at the clock on her laptop and was amazed to find it was eight-forty.

 

'Actually, I think I'll get something sent up instead,' she said, but was swiftly informed that room service stopped at six.

Meredith was torn. She didn't want to stop, not right now, when she was getting somewhere
- although whether it mattered or what it meant was another issue. But she was ravenous. She'd skipped lunch and she was useless on an empty stomach.

Her crazy hallucinations at the river and on the road were evidence enough.

 

I'll be right down,' she said.

 

She saved the page and the links, then logged off.

 

CHAPTER 31

What the hell's wrong with you?' demanded Julian Lawrence. 'What's wrong with me?' Hal shouted. 'What do you mean, what's wrong with me? Apart from having just buried my father? Apart from that, you mean?'

He slammed the door of the Peugeot shut, too hard, then started to walk towards the steps, yanking off his tie and shoving it into his jacket pocket as he went.

'Keep your voice down,' his uncle hissed. 'We don't want another scene. There's been enough of that this evening.' He locked the car and followed his nephew across the staff car park toward the back entrance to the hotel. 'What the devil were you playing at? And in front of the whole town.'

From a distance, they looked like a father and son going in to some sort of formal dinner together. Smart, dressed in black jacket and suit, polished shoes. Only the expressions on their faces and Hal's clenched fists indicated the hatred the two men felt for one another.

'That's it, isn't it?' Hal shouted. All you care about. Reputation. What people might think.' He tapped his head. 'Has the fact that it was your brother - my father - in that box even penetrated your consciousness? I doubt it!'

Lawrence reached out and put his hand on his nephew's shoulder. 'Look, Hal,' in a softer voice. 'I understand you're upset. Everybody understands. It's only natural. But throwing around wild accusations isn't helping. If anything, it's making it worse. It's starting to make people think there is some substance to the allegations.'

Hal tried to shake himself free. His uncle's grip tightened.

 

'The town - the commissariat, the Mairie - everyone's sympathetic for your loss. And your father was well liked. But if you keep on-'

 

Hal glared at him. Are you threatening me?' He jerked his shoulder, shrugging his uncle's hand away. 'Are you?'

 

The shutters came down over Julian Lawrence's eyes. Gone was the look of compassion, familial concern. In its place, irritation and something else. Contempt.

 

'Don't be ridiculous,' he said in a cold voice. 'For Christ's sake, pull yourself together. You're twenty-eight years old, not some spoiled public schoolboy!'

 

He walked into the hotel.

 

'Have a drink, sleep on it,' he said over his shoulder. 'We'll talk in the morning.'

 

Hal strode past him. 'There's nothing more to say,' he said. 'You know what I think. Nothing you can say or do is going to make me change my mind.'

He veered to the right and headed for the bar. His uncle waited a moment, watching him until the glass door had swung shut between them. Then he walked round to the front desk. 'Evening, Eloise. Everything fine?'

'Very quiet tonight.' She smiled up at him with sympathy. 'Funerals are always so difficult, no?'

 

He rolled his eyes. 'You have no idea,' he said. He put his hands on the desk between them. 'Any messages?'

 

'Only one,' she said, handing him a white envelope. 'But everything went all right in the church, ouï?

He nodded grimly. 'As well as could be expected in the circumstances.' He glanced at the handwriting on the envelope. A slow smile broke across his face. It was the information he'd been waiting for about a Visigoth burial chamber discovered in Quillan, which Julian hoped might have some relevance to his excavations at the Domaine de la Cade. The Quillan site was sealed, no inventory had yet been released. 'What time did this come, Eloise?'

'At eight o'clock, Monsieur Lawrence. Delivered by hand.' He drummed his fingers on the counter in a tattoo. 'Excellent. Thank you, Eloise. Have a good evening now. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me.'

'D'accord,' she smiled, but he had already turned away.

 

CHAPTER 32

By a quarter of ten, Meredith was through eating. She walked back into the tiled lobby. Although she was wiped out, there was no point turning in just yet. She'd never sleep and she'd got too much on her mind.

She looked out through the front door to the darkness beyond.

Maybe a walk? The paths were brightly lit, but deserted and quiet. She pulled her red Abercrombie & Fitch cardigan around her slim frame and dismissed the idea. Besides, she'd done nothing but walk these past couple of days.

Anyhow not after earlier.

Meredith pushed the thought away. There was a murmur of noise slipping down the passageway leading to the terrace bar. She wasn't a great fan of bars, but since she didn't want to go straight up to her room and be tempted to climb into bed, it seemed the best option.

Walking past display cases filled with china and porcelain, she pushed open the glass door and walked in. The room looked more like a library than a bar. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with books in glass-fronted cabinets. In the corner there was a set of sliding wooden stairs, highly polished, for reaching the higher shelves.

Leather armchairs were grouped at low round tables, like a gentlemen's country club. The atmosphere was comfortable and relaxed. Two couples, a family group and several men on their own.

There wasn't a free table, so Meredith took a stool at the counter. She put her key and the brochure down and picked up the bar list.

The bartender smiled. 'Cocktails d'un coté, vins de l'autre! Meredith turned the card over, and read the wines by the glass on the reverse, then put the menu down.

'Quelque chose de la région?' she suggested. 'Qu'est-ce que vous recommandez}'

 

'Blanc, rouge, rosé?'

 

'Blanc.'

'Try the Domaine Begude Chardonnay,' said another voice. Surprised by both the English accent and the fact that someone was talking to her at all, Meredith turned to see a guy sitting a couple of stools further down the bar. A smart, well-cut jacket was draped over the two seats between them and his crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black pants and shoes seemed at odds with his utterly defeated air. A mop of thick black hair hung over his face.

'Local vineyard. Cépie, just north of Limoux. Good stuff.' He turned his head and looked at her, as if checking she was listening to him, then went back to staring into the bottom of his glass of red wine. Such blue eyes.

Meredith realised with a jolt that she recognised him. It was the same guy she'd seen earlier in the Place des Deux Rennes, walking behind the casket in the funeral cortège. Somehow, the fact that she knew that about him made her feel awkward. Like she'd been snooping, even though she hadn't meant to.

She looked at him. 'OK,' then back to the bartender. 'S'il vous plaît.' 'Très bien, Madame. Votre chambre?'

 

Meredith showed him the fob of her key, then glanced back at the guy along the bar. 'Thanks for the recommendation.' 'Don't mention it,' he said.

Meredith shifted on her stool, feeling a little awkward, not sure if they were going to have a conversation or not. He made the decision for her, suddenly turning round and offering his hand across the expanse of black leather and wood.

'I'm Hal, by the way,' he said. They shook. 'Meredith. Meredith Martin.'

 

The barman put a paper mat in front of her, then a glass filled with a rich, deep yellow wine. Discreetly, he slipped the check and a pen in front of her too.

 

Acutely aware of Hal watching her, Meredith took a sip. Light, lemony, clean, it was reminiscent of the white wines Mary and Bill served on special occasions or when she came home weekends. 'It's great. Good call.' The barman glanced at Hal. 'Encore un verre, Monsieur?' He nodded. 'Thanks, Georges.' He twisted round so he was half facing her. 'So, Meredith Martin. You're American.'

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he dropped his elbows to the bar and pushed his fingers through his unruly hair. Meredith wondered if he might be a little drunk. 'Sorry, what a ridiculous thing to say.'

'It's OK,' she smiled. 'And yes, I am.'

 

'Just arrived?'

 

'A couple of hours ago.' She took another sip of wine and felt the alcohol hit her stomach. 'What about you?'

'My father. . .' He stopped, a desperate expression on his face. 'My uncle owns the place,' he finished. Meredith figured it was Hal's father's funeral she'd witnessed, and felt even worse for him. She waited until she felt his eyes come back to her.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Not a great day' He drained his glass, then reached out for the refill the barman had placed in front of him. 'Are you here for business or pleasure?'

Meredith felt like she was stuck in some kind of surreal play. She knew why he was so distracted, but couldn't admit it. And Hal, trying to make small talk with a total stranger, missing all his cues. The pauses between comments were all way too long, his train of thought disjointed.

'Both,' she replied. 'I'm a writer.'

 

A journalist?' he said quickly.

 

'No. I'm working on a book. A biography of the composer Claude Debussy.'

 

Meredith saw the spark go out of his eyes and the same hooded look come down again. Not the reaction she was looking for.

 

'It's a beautiful place,' she said quickly, taking in the bar with her gaze. 'Has your uncle been here long?'

 

Hal sighed. Meredith could see his anger in the way he clenched his fists. 'He and my father bought it together in 2003. Spent a fortune doing it up-'

 

Meredith couldn't think of what to say next. He wasn't exactly making it easy.

'Dad only came out here full time back in May. He wanted to get more involved in the day-to-day running of the . . . He . . .' He stopped. Meredith heard the catch in his voice. 'He died in a car crash four weeks ago.' He swallowed hard. 'It was his funeral today.'

In her relief that the information was out in the open Meredith reached over and took Hal's hand before she even realised she'd done it.

 

'I'm sorry.'

 

Meredith saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. They just sat there a while, hand in silent hand, then she gently slid her fingers away under the cover of picking up her glass.

 

'Four weeks? That's quite a time before...

 

He looked at her. 'It wasn't straightforward. Post mortem took a while. The body was only released last week.'

 

Meredith nodded, wondering what the issue had been. Hal sat in silence.

 

'Do you live here?' she asked, trying to get the conversation going again.

Hal shook his head. 'London. Investment banker, although just handed in my notice.' He hesitated. 'I'd had enough anyway. Even before this. I was working fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. Great money, but no time to spend it.'