Labyrinth (23 page)

Several of the doors were newly painted. He saw white ceramic house numbers with blue and yellow borders and twists of tiny flowers. The occasional backpacker, clutching maps and water bottles, stopped to ask in halting French for directions to the Cite, but there was little other movement.

Jeanne Giraud lived in a small house backing onto the grassy slopes that led steeply up to the medieval ramparts. At her end of the street, fewer of the dwellings had been refurbished. Some were derelict or boarded up. An old woman and a man sat outside on chairs brought out from their kitchen. Baillard raised his hat and wished them good day as he passed. He knew some of Jeanne’s neighbors by sight, having built up a nodding acquaintance over the years.

Jeanne was sitting outside her front door in the shade, anticipating his arrival. She looked neat and efficient as always, in a plain long-sleeved shirt and a straight dark skirt. Her hair was drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck. She looked like the schoolteacher she had been, until her retirement twenty years ago. In the years they’d known each other, he’d never seen her anything less than perfectly and formally turned out.

Audric smiled, remembering how curious she had been in the early days, always asking questions. Where did he live? What did he do in the long months they did not see each other? Where did he go?

Traveling, he’d told her. Researching and gathering material for his books, visiting friends.

Who, she had asked?

Companions, those with whom he’d studied and shared experiences. He had told her of his friendship with Grace.

A while later, he admitted his home was in a village in the Pyrenees, not far from Montsegur. But he shared very little else about himself and, as the decades slipped by, she had given up asking.

Jeanne was an intuitive and methodical researcher, diligent, conscientious and unsentimental, all invaluable qualities. For the past thirty years or so, she had worked with him on every one of his books, most particularly his last, unfinished work, a biography of a Cathar family in thirteenth-century Carcassonne.

For Jeanne, it had been a piece of detective work. For Audric, it was a labor of love.

Jeanne raised her hand when she saw him coming. “Audric,” she smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

Her took her hands between his. “
Bonjorn
.”

She stood back to look him up and down. “You look well.”

“
Te tanben
,” he answered. You too.

“You’ve made good time.”

He nodded. “The train was punctual.”

Jeanne looked scandalized. “You didn’t walk from the station?”

“It’s not so far,” he smiled. “I admit, I wanted to see how Carcassona had changed since last I was here.”

Baillard followed her into the cool little house. The brown and beige tiles on the floor and walls gave everything a somber, old-fashioned look. A small oval table stood in the center of the room, its battered legs sticking out from underneath a yellow and blue oilskin cloth. There was a bureau in the corner with an old-fashioned typewriter sitting on it, next to French windows that gave on to a small terrace.

Jeanne came out of the pantry with a tray with a jug of water, a bowl of ice, a plate of crisp, peppered biscuits, a bowl of sour green olives and a saucer for the pits. She put the tray carefully down on the table and then reached up to the narrow wooden ledge that ran, at shoulder height, the length of the room. Her hand found a bottle of Guignolet, a bitter cherry liqueur he knew she kept only for his rare visits.

The ice cracked and chinked against the sides as the bright red alcohol trickled over the cubes. For a while they sat in companionable silence, as they had done many times before. An occasional fragment of guide book commentary, belched out in several languages, filtered down from the Cite as the tourist train completed one of its regular circuits of the walls.

Audric carefully put his glass on the table. “So,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

Jeanne pulled her chair closer to the table. “My grandson Yves, as you know, is with the Police Judiciaire,
departement de I’Ariege,
stationed in Foix itself. Yesterday, he was called to an archeological dig in the Sabarthes Mountains, close to the Pic de Soularac, where two skeletons had been found. Yves was surprised his superiors seemed to be treating it as a potential murder scene, even though he said it was clear the skeletons had been there for some considerable time.” She paused. “Of course, Yves did not interview the woman who found the bodies himself, but he was present. Yves knows a little of the work I’ve been doing for you, enough certainly to know the discovery of this cave would be of interest.”

Audric drew in his breath. For so many years he had tried to imagine how he would feel at this moment. He had never lost faith that, at last, the time would come when he would learn the truth of those final hours.

The decades rolled one into the other. He watched the seasons follow their endless cycle; the green of spring slipping into the gold of summer; the burnished palette of autumn vanishing beneath the austere whiteness of the winter; the first thaw of the mountain streams in spring.

Still, no word had come.
E ara
? And now?

“Yves went inside the cave himself?” he asked.

Jeanne nodded.

“What did he see?”

“There was an altar. Behind it, carved into the rock itself, was the symbol of the labyrinth.”

“And the bodies? Where were they?”

“In a grave, no more than a dip in the ground in truth, in front of the altar. There were objects lying between the bodies, although there were too many people for him to get close enough to see properly.”

“How many were there?”

“Two. Two skeletons.”

“But that—” He stopped. “No matter, Jeanne. Please, go on.”

“Underneath the… them, he picked up this.”

Jeanne pushed a small object across the table.

Audric did not move. After so long, he feared to touch it.

“Yves telephoned from the post office in Foix late yesterday afternoon. The line was bad and it was hard to hear, but he said he took the ring because he didn’t trust the people looking for it. He sounded worried.” Jeanne paused. “No, he sounded frightened, Audric. Things weren’t being done right. Usual procedures were not being followed, there were all sorts of people on site who should not have been there. He was whispering, as if he was frightened of being overheard.”

“Who knows he went into the cave?”

“I don’t know. The officers on duty? His commanding officer? Probably others.”

Baillard looked at the ring on the table, then stretched out and picked it up. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted it toward the light. The delicate pattern of the labyrinth carved on the underside was clearly visible.

“Is it his ring?” Jeanne asked.

Audric couldn’t trust himself to answer. He was wondering at the chance that had delivered the ring into his hands. Wondering if it
was
chance.

“Did Yves say where the bodies had been taken?”

She shook her head.

“Could you ask him? And, if he could, a list of all those who were at the site yesterday when the cave was opened.”

“I’ll ask. I’m sure he’ll help if he can.”

Baillard slipped the ring on to his thumb. “Please convey my gratitude to Yves. It must have cost him dear to take this. He has no idea how important his quick thinking may turn out to be.” He smiled. “Did he say what else was discovered with the bodies?”

“A dagger, a small leather bag with nothing inside, a lamp on—”

“
Vueg?”
he said in disbelief. “Empty? But that cannot be.”

“Inspector Noubel, the senior officer, apparently pressed the woman on this point. Yves said she was adamant. She claimed shed touched nothing but the ring.”

“And did your grandson think her truthful?”

“He didn’t say.”

“If… someone else must have taken it,” he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in thought. “What did Yves tell you about this woman?”

“Very little. She is English, in her twenties, a volunteer, not an archeologist. She was staying in Foix at the invitation of a friend, who is the second in charge at the excavation.”

“Did he tell you her name?”

“Taylor, I think he said.” She frowned. “No, not Taylor. Perhaps it was Tanner. Yes, that’s it. Alice Tanner.”

Time stood still.
“Es vertat?”
Can it be true? The name echoed inside his head.
“Es vertat?”
he repeated in a whisper.

Had she taken the book? Recognized it? No, no. He stopped himself. That made no sense. If the book, then why not the ring also?

Baillard placed his hands flat on the table to stop them trembling, then met Jeanne’s gaze.

“Do you think you could ask Yves if he has an address? If he knows where,
Madomaisela
—?” He broke off, unable to continue.

“I can ask,” she replied, then added: “Are you all right, Audric?”

“Tired.” He tried to smile. “Nothing more.”

“I had expected you to be more… pleased. It is—at least, could be— the culmination of your years of work.”

“It is so much to take in.”

“You seem to be shocked by the news rather than excited.”

Baillard imagined how he must look: eyes too bright, face too pale, hands shaking.

T am excited,“ he said. ”And most grateful to Yves and, of course, to you too, but…“ He took a deep breath. ”If perhaps you could telephone Yves now? If I could speak with him in person? Perhaps even meet?“

Jeanne got up from the table and walked into the hall, where the telephone stood on a small table at the foot of the stairs.

Baillard looked out of the window to the slopes that led up to the walls of the Cite. An image of her singing while she worked came into his mind, a vision of the light falling in bright slats between the branches of the trees, casting a dappled light on the water. All around her were the sounds and smells of spring; pinpricks of color in the undergrowth, blues, pinks and yellows, the rich deep earth and the heady scent of the box trees either side of the rocky path. The promise of warmth and summer days to come.

He jumped as Jeanne’s voice called him back from the gentle colors of the past.

“There’s no answer,” she said.

CHAPTER 24

Chartres

In the kitchen of the house in rue du Cheval Blanc in Chartres, Will Franklin drank the milk straight from the plastic bottle, trying to kill the taste of stale brandy on his breath.

The housekeeper had laid the breakfast table early that morning before going off duty. The Italian coffee percolator was on the stove. Will assumed it was for Francois-Baptiste’s benefit, since the housekeeper didn’t usually go to such trouble for him when Marie-Cecile was away. He guessed Francois-Baptiste was also sleeping late since everything was immaculate, not a spoon or knife out of place. Two bowls, two plates, two cups and saucers. Four different types of jams as well as honey stood next to a large bowl. Will lifted the white linen cloth. Beneath it were peaches, nectarines and melon, as well as apples.

Will had no appetite. The previous night, to pass the time until Marie-Cecile appeared, he’d had first one drink, then a second and a third. It was well after midnight when she put in an appearance, by which stage, he had drunk himself into an alcoholic haze. She’d been in a wild mood, keen to make up for their argument. They hadn’t gone to sleep until dawn.

Will’s fingers tightened around the piece of paper in his hand. Marie-Cecile hadn’t even bothered to write the note herself. Once again, it had been left to the housekeeper to inform him she’d gone out of town on business and hoped to be back before the weekend.

Will and Marie-Cecile had met at a party to launch a new art gallery in Chartres back in the spring, through friends of friends of his parents. Will was at the beginning of a six-month sabbatical traveling around Europe; Marie-Cecile was one of the backers of the gallery. She’d hit on him rather than the other way round. Attracted and flattered by the attention, Will had found himself pouring out his life story over a bottle of champagne. They’d left the gallery together and been together ever since.

Technically together, Will thought sourly. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face. He called her this morning, not sure what he wanted to say, but her phone was switched off. He’d had enough of this constant state of flux, never knowing where he stood.

Will stared out of the window at the little courtyard at the back of the house. Like everything else in the house, it was perfectly designed, and precise. Nothing as nature intended. Light gray pebbles, high terra-cotta planters with lemon trees and orange trees along the back, south-facing wall. In the window box, rows of red geraniums, their petals already swollen by the sun, stood tall. Covering the small wrought-iron gate in the wall was ivy, centuries old. Everything spoke of permanence. It would all be here long after Will was gone.

He felt like a man waking from a dream to discover the real world was not as he’d imagined. The smart thing would be to cut his losses, no hard feelings, and move on. However disillusioned he felt about their relationship, Marie-Cecile had been both generous and kind to him and, if he was honest, had kept to her side of the bargain. It was his unrealistic expectations that had let him down. It wasn’t her fault. She’d broken no promises.

Only now could Will see how ironic it was he’d chosen to spend the last three months in precisely the same sort of house he’d grown up in and had fled to Europe to escape. Cultural differences apart, the atmosphere in the house reminded him of his parents’ place back home, elegant and stylish, somewhere designed for entertaining and display rather than as a home. Then, as now, Will had spent much of his time alone, rattling from one immaculate room to another.

The trip was Will’s opportunity to work out what it was he wanted to do with his life. His original plan had been to work his way down through France to Spain, gathering ideas for his writing, getting inspired, but since he’d been in Chartres, he’d barely written a single sentence. His subjects were rebellion, anger and anxiety, the unholy trinity of American life. Back home, he’d found plenty to rage against. Here, he’d been left with nothing to say. The only subject that occupied his mind was Marie-Cecile and it was the one subject off limits.