Sepulchre (36 page)

For a second, Meredith was tempted to confide in Hal. Tell him all about the Tarot reading in Paris, about her nightmare last night, about the cards sitting, right now, at the bottom of her closet. About the real reason she had come to Rennes-les-Bains. But something held her back. Hal was fighting his own demons right now. She frowned, remembering again the four-week delay between the accident and the funeral.

'What precisely happened to your father, Hal?' she asked, then stopped, thinking she'd gone too far, too fast. 'I'm sorry, it was presumptuous of me to . . .'

Hal traced a pattern on the ground with his foot. 'No, it's fine. His car ran off the road, on the bend coming into Rennes-les-Bains. Went over into the river.' He spoke in a monotone, as if deliberately keeping all emotion from his voice. 'Police couldn't understand it. It was a clear night. It wasn't raining or anything. The worst thing was . . .'

He broke off.

 

'You don't have to tell me if it's too difficult,' she said softly, putting her hand in the small of his back.

'It happened in the early hours of the morning, so the car wasn't discovered until some hours later. He had been trying to get out, so the door was half open. But the animals had got to him first. His body and face were very badly scratched.'

'I'm so sorry'

Meredith glanced back towards the statue on the path, fighting not to link in her mind a tragic accident in 2007 with the older superstitions that seemed to haunt the region. But the connections were hard to ignore.

All systems of divination, like music itself, work through patterns.

'The thing is, I could accept the situation if it was an accident. But they said he'd been drinking, Meredith. And that's the one thing I know he'd never do.' He dropped his voice. 'Never. If I knew for sure what had happened, one way or the other, it would be all right. Not all right, but I mean I could deal with it. But it's the not knowing. Why was he there at all, on that stretch of road, at that time? I just want to know.'

Meredith thought of her birth mother's tearstained face and the blood under her nails. She thought of the sepia photographs and the piece of music and the hollowness inside that had driven her to this corner of France.

'I can't deal with not knowing,' he repeated. 'Do you understand?'

She wrapped her arms around him and drew him close. He responded, putting his arms around her and folding her into him. Meredith fitted perfectly beneath his broad shoulders. She could smell his aftershave and soap, the soft wool of his sweater tickling her nose. Could feel the heat of him, his anger, his rage, then the despair behind both.

'Yes,' she said quietly. 'I understand.' CHAPTER 47

 

Domaine de la Cade

Julian Lawrence waited until the chambermaids had finished the first floor before leaving his study. The trip to Rennes-le-Château and back would take two hours at least. He had plenty of time.

When Hal told him he was going out, and with a girl, Julians first reaction had been relief. They had even talked for a couple of minutes without Hal storming out. Maybe it meant his nephew was going to accept what had happened and get on with his life? Let his doubts go.

As things stood, there were loose ends. Julian had hinted that he'd be willing to buy his nephew out of his inherited share of the Domaine de la Cade, but had not pushed it. He had expected to have to wait until after the funeral, but he could feel himself getting impatient.

Then Hal had let drop that the girl in question was a writer and Julian had started to wonder. Given Hal's behaviour over the past four weeks, he wouldn't put it past the boy to try to get a journalist interested in the story of his father's accident, just for the hell of it.

Julian had checked the register and discovered she was an American, Meredith Martin, and booked in until Friday. He'd no idea if she knew Hal or if his nephew was simply taking advantage of finding someone who might listen to his sob story. Either way, he couldn't risk Hal using the girl to stir up more trouble. He wasn't prepared to let his plans be damaged by rumour and innuendo.

Julian went up the back stairs and along the corridor. With the master key, he let himself into Meredith Martin's room. He took a couple of Polaroids, to make certain he could return the room to the exact state in which he'd found it, then started to search, beginning with the bedside table. He went quickly through the drawers, but found nothing of interest other than two plane tickets, one for Toulouse to Paris Orly on Friday afternoon, the other her return flight to the States on nth November.

He moved to the bureau. Her laptop was plugged in. He opened the lid and booted it up. It was easy. There was no password protection on her operating system and she had been using the hotel's wireless system.

Ten minutes later, Julian had read through her emails - tedious, domestic stuff, nothing relevant - tracked her online trail through recent sites she'd visited, and looked at a few of the stored files. None of it suggested she was a journalist out for a story. Local history, mainly. There were notes about research in England, then very basic stuff- addresses, dates, times -about Paris.

Next, Julian went into her picture files, going through them in date order. The first few were taken in London. There was a folder of shots from Paris - streets scenes, landmarks, even one of a sign showing the opening hours of the Parc Monceau.

The final folder was marked Rennes-les-Bains. He opened it and began to peruse the images. These worried him more. There were several photographs of the riverbank at the entrance to the town to the north, specifically a couple of the road bridge and the tunnel at exactly the place where his brother Seymour's car had left the road.

There were other photographs of the graveyard at the rear of the church. One, taken from the covered porch looking back to the Place des Deux Rennes, enabled him to identify exactly when they had been taken. Julian laced his fingers behind his head. He could just make out, in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture, part of the tablecloth on which the book of condolence had sat.

His brow furrowed. Meredith Martin had been in Rennes-les-Bains last night taking photographs of the funeral and the town. Why?

As Julian copied the folder of images on to his memory stick, he tried to think of what innocent explanation there could be, but came up blank. He exited the programme and shut the computer down, leaving everything just as he'd found it, then moved to the wardrobe. He took a couple more Polaroids, then worked methodically through every pocket, the piles of T-shirts and shoes, finding nothing of interest.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, beneath a pair of boots and a pair of LK Bennett spikes, was a soft black travel bag. Squatting down, Julian undid the zip and looked inside the main compartment. It was empty apart from a pair of socks and a bead bracelet, caught in the stiff lining. He pushed his fingers into every corner, but found nothing. Next he went through the outside pockets. Two large compartments at either end, both empty, then along either side three smaller compartments. He picked up the bag, turned it upside down and shook it. It seemed heavy. He turned the bag over again and pulled at the cardboard base. With a tearing sound of Velcro, the lining came up, to reveal another compartment. He reached in and drew out a square package of black silk. With his thumb and forefinger, he unfolded the four corners.

Julian froze. The face of Justice was staring up at him.

For a split second, he thought he was seeing things, then he realised it was just another reproduction set. He fanned them out to make sure, cutting the deck twice. Printed, laminated, not the original Bousquet Tarot. Stupid that, even for a second, he'd thought it could possibly be.

He stood up, clutching the deck in the palm of his hand, flicking through the cards, increasingly quickly, in case there was something unique, something different about this deck.

There wasn't. It appeared the same as the one he had downstairs in his safe. No additional words, no variation in the images.

Julian forced himself to think. This discovery turned everything on its head, especially coming on the heels of the information coming out of the Visigoth burial site at Quillan. With the grave goods, a slate had been found confirming the existence of other sites in the vicinity of the Domaine de la Cade. He hadn't been able to get through to his contact this morning.

But the immediate question was, why did Meredith Martin have a reproduction set of the Bousquet deck with her? And hidden at the bottom of her bag. It couldn't be coincidence. Presumably, at the very least, she knew about the original deck of cards and their association with the Domaine de la Cade?

What else? Maybe Seymour had said more to Hal than Julian had previously thought? And if Hal had brought her down here, rather than just taking advantage of meeting here, maybe it wasn't to investigate the circumstances of the crash but to do with the cards?

He needed a drink. He was sweating, around the collar, under his arms from the shock of believing that, if only for a moment, that he was holding the original cards in his hands.

Julian wrapped the replica deck back up in the black silk, returned the package to the bag and replaced it at the bottom of the wardrobe. He glanced round the room one last time. Everything looked as it had before. If anything was misplaced, Ms Martin would put it down to the chambermaids. He let himself out into the corridor and walked briskly back towards the service stairs.

The whole operation, from start to finish, had taken less than twenty-five minutes.

 

CHAPTER 48

 

Rennes-le-Château

 

Hal was the first to break away. His blue eyes were bright with anticipation, perhaps surprise too. His face was a little flushed.

 

Meredith also stepped back. The strength of their raw attraction to one another, now the emotion of the moment had passed, left them both a little awkward.

 

'Anyway,' he said, pushing his hands into his pockets.

 

Meredith grinned. 'Anyway

 

Hal turned to wooden gates at right angles to the path and pushed. He frowned, tried again. Meredith could hear the bolts rattling.

 

'It's closed,' he said. 'It's unbelievable, but the museum's closed. I'm sorry. I should have called ahead.'

 

They looked at one another. Then they both burst out laughing.

 

'The spa in Rennes-les-Bains was closed too,' she said. 'Until April thirtieth.'

 

The same lock of unruly hair had fallen forward. Meredith's fingers ached to push it back from his face, but she kept her hands at her sides.

 

At least the church is open,' he said.

 

Meredith joined him, very aware of his physical presence now. He seemed to fill the entire path.

 

He pointed up at the triangular porch above the door.

'That inscription - TERRIBILIS EST LOCUS ISTE - is another reason all the conspiracy theories surrounding Rennes-le-Château took hold,' he said, clearing his throat. 'The phrase actually translates as "this place is awe-inspiring", terribilis in an Old Testament sense rather than "terrible" in a modern sense, but you can imagine how it's been interpreted.'

Meredith did look, but it was the other, partially legible, inscription on the apex that she was concentrating on. IN HOC SIGNO VINCES. Constantine again, the Christian emperor of Byzantium. The same inscription as on Henri Boudet's memorial in Rennes-les-Bains. She pictured Laura's spread of cards on the table. The Emperor was one of the major arcana, near the Magician and La Prêtresse, at the beginning of the deck. And the password she'd typed to access the internet to pick up her mail...

'Who came up with the password for the hotel network?' she asked. Hal looked surprised at the non sequitur, but answered all the same.

 

'My uncle,' he said without hesitation. 'Dad wasn't into computers.' He reached out and took her hand. 'Shall we?'

 

The first thing that struck Meredith as they walked into the church was how very small it was, like it had been built on a three-quarter scale. The perspectives seemed all wrong.

On the wall to the right were handwritten notices, some French, some awkward English. Piped choral music, some kind of mediocre plainsong, filtered in over thin silver speakers suspended in the corners.

'They've sanitised the place,' Hal said in a low voice. 'To counteract all the rumours of mysterious treasure and secret societies, they've tried to inject a Catholic message into everything. Like this, for example.' He tapped one of the signs. 'Look. "Dans cette église, le trésor c'est vous." In this church, the treasure is you.'

But Meredith was staring at the stoup for holy water on the immediate left of the door. The bénitier was balanced on the shoulders of a three-foot-high statue of a devil. The malevolent red face, the twisted body, the unnerving, piercing blue eyes. She'd seen the demon before. At least, an image of him. Lying on the table in Paris as Laura spread out the major arcana at the beginning of the reading.

Le Diable. Card XV of the Bousquet Tarot.

 

'That's Asmodeus,' said Hal. 'The traditional guardian of treasure, keeper of secrets, and builder of the Temple of Solomon.'

Meredith touched the grimacing demon, which felt cold and chalky beneath her fingers. She looked at his hands, clawed and twisted, and couldn't help glancing back through the open door to where the statue of Notre Dame of Lourdes stood immobile upon the pillar.

She gave a small shake of her head and raised her eyes to the frieze above. A tableau of four angels, each making one part of the sign of the cross, and Constantine's words yet again, although this time in French. The colours were faded and chipped, as if the angels were fighting a losing battle.

On the base, two basilisks framed a red inset containing the letters BS.

 

'The initials could stand for Bérenger Saunière,' said Hal. 'Or for Boudet and Saunière, or for

La Blanque and Le Salz, two local rivers that meet at a pool nearby known as le bénitier? 'The two priests knew each other well?' she asked. 'By all accounts, yes. Boudet was a mentor to the younger Saunière. In the early days of Boudet's ministry, when he spent some months in the parish of Durban nearby, he also became friendly with a third priest, Antoine Gélis, who subsequently took over the parish at Coustaussa.' 'I drove by there yesterday,' Meredith said. 'It looked ruined.' 'The castle is. The village is inhabited, though it's tiny. No more than a handful of houses. Gélis died in somewhat strange circumstances. Murdered on Hallowe'en 1897.'