Sepulchre

by Kate Mosse

  Just tired, she told herself.

  She felt better the second she stepped inside the spacious and elegant lobby. There was a black and red chequerboard tiled floor and a delicate cream paper of yellow and green flowers on the walls. To the left of the main door, in front of the tall sash windows, was a pair of deep sofas with plumped-up cushions set either side of a stone fireplace. A vast floral display stood in the grate. Everywhere mirrors and glass reflected the light from the chandeliers, gilt frames, and glass wall sconces.

  Straight ahead was a sweeping central staircase, the handrails highly polished and glinting in the diffused light of the glass chandelier, with the front desk to the right, a large polished wooden claw-footed table rather than a counter. The walls were covered in black and white and sepia period photographs. Men in military uniform, Napoleonic rather than World War I at first glance, ladies in puffed sleeves and wide skirts, family portraits, scenes of Rennes-les-Bains in days gone by. Meredith smiled. Plenty to check out over the next few days.

  She stepped up to the front desk.

  ‘Bienvenue, Madame.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Welcome to the Domaine de la Cade. You have a reservation? ’

  ‘Yes, it’s Martin. M-A-R-T-I-N.’

  ‘It is your first time with us?’

  ‘It is.’

  Meredith filled in the form and gave her credit card details, the third she’d used that day. She was handed a map of the hotel and grounds, another of the surrounding area, and an old-fashioned brass key with a red tassel and a disc with the name of her room on it: la Chambre Jaune.

  She suddenly felt a prickling on the back of her neck, as if a person had come up behind her and was standing a little too close. She was aware of the rise and fall of someone’s breath. She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one.

  ‘The Yellow Room is on the first floor, Madame Martin.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Meredith turned back to the clerk.

  ‘I said that your room is on the first floor. The elevator is opposite the concierge,’ the woman continued, indicating a discreet sign. ‘Or, if you wish, take the stairs up and go to the right. Last orders for dinner are at nine thirty. You wish for me to reserve a table?’

  Meredith glanced at her watch. A quarter of eight. ‘That’d be great. Eight thirty?’

  ‘Very good, Madame. The terrace bar - the entrance is through the library - is open until midnight.’

  ‘Great. Thank you.’

  ‘Do you need help with your luggage?’

  ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’

  With a backward glance at the empty lobby, Meredith took the stairs to the impressive first-floor landing. At the top, she looked down and noticed there was a boudoir grand tucked into the shadows beneath the staircase. Nice instrument, by the look of it, although it seemed a weird place to put a piano. The lid was closed.

  As she walked along the passage, she grinned at the fact that all the rooms had names rather than numbers. The Anjou Suite, the Blue Room, Blanche de Castille, Henri IV.

  The hotel reinforcing its historic credentials.

  Her room was pretty much right at the end. With the shimmer of anticipation she always got when going to a new hotel for the first time, she fumbled with the heavy key, pushed the door open with the toe of her sneaker, and then flicked the switch.

  She gave a wide smile.

  There was a huge mahogany bed in the centre of the room. The dresser, closet and two nightstands all matched in the same deep red wood. She opened the doors of the closet and found that the minibar, TV and remote all were hidden inside. On the bureau, glossy magazines, the hotel guide and room service menu and brochures giving the history of the place. On a small wooden book-holder placed on top of the bureau, a selection of old books. Meredith ran her eyes along the spines - the usual thrillers and classics, a guide to some kind of hat museum in Espéraza, a couple of books on local history.

  She crossed the room to the window and opened the shutters, breathing in the heady smell of the damp earth and the night air. The dark lawns stretched away for what seemed like miles. She could just make out an ornamental lake, then a tall hedge separating the formal part of the garden from the woods beyond. She was pleased she was at the back of the hotel, away from the parking lot and the sound of car doors slamming, although there was a terrace below with wooden tables and chairs and patio heaters.

  Meredith unpacked, properly this time rather than leaving everything in the bag as she had in Paris, denims, T-shirts and sweaters in the drawers and her smarter outfits in the closet. She arranged her toothbrush and make-up on the shelves in the bathroom, then tried out the fancy Molton Brown soaps and shampoo in the tub.

  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.

  Meredith’s 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 towards 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, oui?’

  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 remi
niscent 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.