by Steve Berry
He wondered about her. Bad blood with her husband, her son, and friends of her husband. The source of her guilt was clear, but what she planned to do about it remained cloudy.
She motioned for them to walk. “I want to check Ernst’s house. He owned quite a library. I’d like to see if his books are still there.”
“He have a wife?”
She shook her head. “A loner. Would have made a great hermit.”
They headed down one of the side alleys between more rows of buildings that all seemed built for patrons long dead.
“Do you really believe there’s a treasure hidden around here somewhere?” he asked.
“Hard to say, Cotton. Lars used to say that ninety percent of Saunière’s story is fiction. I’d chastise him for wasting his time on something so foolish. But he always countered with the ten percent of truth. That’s what captivated him and, to a large degree, Mark. Strange things apparently happened here a hundred years ago.”
“You referring to Saunière again?”
She nodded.
“Help me understand.”
“I actually need help with that, too. But I can tell you more of what I know about Bérenger Saunière.”
“I cannot leave a parish where my interests keep me,” Saunière told the bishop as he stood before the older man in the episcopal palace at Carcassonne, twenty miles north of Rennes-le-Château.
He’d avoided the meeting for months with statements from his doctor that he was unable to travel because of illness. But the bishop was persistent, and the last request for an audience had been delivered by a constable who’d been instructed to personally accompany him back.
“Your existence is far grander than mine,” the bishop said. “I wish to have a statement as to the origin of your monetary resources, which seem so sudden and important.”
“Alas, Monseigneur, you ask of me the only thing I am not able to reveal. Deep sinners to whom, with the aid of God, I have shown the way of penitence have given these considerable amounts to me. I do not wish to betray the secrets of the confessional by giving you their names.”
The bishop seemed to consider his argument. It was a good one, and just might work.
“Then let us talk of your lifestyle. That is not protected by the secrets of the confessional.”
He feigned innocence. “My lifestyle is quite modest.”
“That is not what I am told.”
“Your information must be faulty.”
“Let us see.” The bishop parted the cover of a thick book that lay before him. “I had an inventory performed, which was quite interesting.”
Saunière did not like the sound of that. His relationship with the former bishop had been loose and cordial, and he’d enjoyed great freedom. This new bishop was another matter.
“In 1891 you started renovations on the parish church. At that time you replaced the windows, built a porch, installed a new altar and pulpit, and repaired the roof. Cost, approximately twenty-two hundred francs. The following year the exterior walls were tended to and the interior floor replaced. Then came a new confessional, seven hundred francs, statuary and stations of the cross, all hewn in Toulouse by Giscard, thirty-two hundred francs. In 1898 a collecting trunk was added, four hundred francs. Then in 1900 a bas-relief of St. Mary Magdalen, quite elaborate I’m told, was placed before the altar.”
Saunière simply listened. Clearly, the bishop was privy to parish records. The former treasurer had resigned a few years ago, stating that he’d found his duties contrary to his beliefs. Someone had obviously tracked him down.
“I came here in 1902,” the bishop said. “For the past eight years I have tried—in vain, I might add—to have you appear before me to answer my concerns. But during that time, you managed to build the Villa Béthanie adjacent to the church. It is, I am told, of bourgeois construction, a pastiche of styles, all from cut stone. There are stained-glass windows, a dining salon, sitting room, and bedrooms for guests. Quite a few guests, I hear. It is where you entertain.”
The comment was surely designed to elicit a response, but he said nothing.
“Then there is the Tour Magdala, your folly of a library that overlooks the valley. Some of the finest woodwork around, it is reported. This is in addition to your stamp and postcard collections, which are enormous, and even some exotic animals. All costing many thousands of francs.” The bishop closed the book. “Your parish income is no more than two hundred fifty francs per year. How was it possible to amass all this?”
“As I have said, Monseigneur, I have been the recipient of many private donations from souls who want to see my parish prosper.”
“You have been trafficking in masses,” the bishop declared. “Selling the sacraments. Your crime is simony.”
He’d been warned this was the charge to be leveled. “Why do you reproach me? My parish, when I first arrived, was in a lamentable state. It is, after all, the duty of my superiors to ensure for Rennes-le-Château a church worthy of the faithful and a decent dwelling for the pastor. But for a quarter century I have worked and rebuilt and beautified the church without asking a centime from the diocese. It seems to me that I deserve your congratulations rather than accusations.”
“What do you say was spent on all those improvements?”
He decided to answer. “One hundred ninety-three thousand francs.”
The bishop laughed. “Abbé, that would not have bought the furniture, statues, and stained glass. To my calculation you have spent more than seven hundred thousand francs.”
“I am not familiar with accounting practices, so I cannot say what the costs were. All I know is that the people of Rennes love their church.”
“Officials state that you receive one hundred to one hundred fifty postal orders a day. They come from Belgium, Italy, the Rhineland, Switzerland, and all over France. They range from five to forty francs each. You frequent the bank in Couiza, where they are converted to cash. How do you explain that?”
“All my correspondence is handled by my housekeeper. She both opens and answers any inquiries. That question should be directed to her.”
“You are the one who appears at the bank.”
He kept to his story. “You should ask her.”
“Unfortunately, she is not subject to my authority.”
He shrugged.
“Abbé, you are trafficking in masses. It is clear, at least to me, that those envelopes coming to your parish are not notes from well-wishers. But there is something else even more disturbing.”
He stood silent.
“I performed a calculation. Unless you are being paid exorbitant sums per mass—and last I knew, the standard rate among offenders was fifty centimes—you would have to say mass twenty-four hours a day for some three hundred years to accumulate the wealth you have spent. No, Abbé, the trafficking in masses is a front, one you concocted, to mask the true source of your good fortune.”
This man was far smarter than he appeared to be.
“Any response?”
“No, Monseigneur.”
“Then you are hereby relieved of your duties at Rennes and you will report immediately to the parish in Coustouge. In addition, you are suspended, with no right to say the mass or administer the sacraments in church, until further notice.”
“And how long is this suspension to last?” he calmly asked.
“Until the Ecclesiastical Court can hear your appeal, which I am sure you will forthwith file.”
“Saunière did appeal,” Stephanie said, “all the way to the Vatican, but he died in 1917 before being vindicated. What he did, though, was resign from the Church and never left Rennes. He just started saying mass in the Villa Béthanie. The locals loved him, so they boycotted the new abbé. Remember, all the land around the church, including the villa, belonged to Saunière’s mistress—he was clever there—so the Church couldn’t do a thing about it.”
Malone wanted to know, “So how did he pay for all those improvements?”
; She smiled. “That’s a question many have tried to answer, including my husband.”
They navigated another of the winding alleyways, bordered by more melancholy houses, the stones the color of dead wood stripped of bark.
“Ernst lived up ahead,” she said.
They approached an olden building warmed by pastel roses climbing a wrought-iron pergola. Up three stone stairs stood a recessed door. Malone climbed, peered in through glass in the door, and saw no evidence of neglect. “The place looks good.”
“Ernst was obsessive.”
He tested the knob. Locked.
“I’d like to get in there,” she said from the street.
He glanced around. Twenty feet to their left, the lane ended at the outer wall. Beyond loomed a blue sky dotted with billowy clouds. No one was in sight. He turned back and, with his elbow, popped the glass pane. He then reached inside and released the lock.
Stephanie stepped up behind him.
“After you,” he said.
ABBEY DES FONTAINES
2:00 PM
THE SENESCHAL SWUNG THE IRON GRILLE INWARD AND LED THE cortège of mourners through the ancient archway. The entrance into the subterranean Hall of Fathers was located within the abbey walls, at the end of a long passageway where one of the oldest buildings butted rock. Fifteen hundred years ago monks first occupied the caverns beyond, living in the sullen recesses. As more and more penitents arrived, buildings were erected. Abbeys tended to either dramatically grow or dwindle, and this one had erupted with a burst of construction that had lasted centuries, continued by the Knights Templar, who quietly took ownership in the late thirteenth century. The Order’s mother house—maison chèvetaine, as Rule labeled it—had first been located in Jerusalem, then Acre, then Cyprus, finally ending here after the Purge. Eventually, the complex was surrounded with battlement walls and towers and the abbey grew to become one of Europe’s largest, set high among the Pyrénées, secluded by both geography and Rule. Its name came from the nearby river, the falls, and an abundance of groundwater. Abbey des Fontaines: abbey of the fountains.
He made his way down narrow steps chipped from rock. The soles of his canvas sandals were slippery on the moist stone. Where oil torches once provided light, electric sconces now lit the way. Behind him came the thirty-four brothers who’d decided to join him. At the bottom of the stairs, he padded forward until the tunnel opened into a vaulted room. A stone pillar rose from the center, like the trunk of an aging tree.
The brothers slowly gathered around the oak coffin, which had already been brought inside and laid on a stone plinth. Through clouds of incense came melancholy chants.
The seneschal stepped forward and the chanting stopped. “We have come to honor him. Let us pray,” he said in French.
They did, then a hymn was sung.
“Our master led us well. You, who are loyal to his memory, take heart. He would have been proud.”
A few moments of silence passed.
“What lies ahead?” one of the brothers quietly asked.
Caucusing was not proper in the Hall of Fathers, but with apprehension looming he allowed a bending of Rule.
“Uncertainty,” he declared. “Brother de Roquefort is ready to take charge. Those of you who are selected for the conclave will have to work hard to stop him.”
“He will be our downfall,” another brother muttered.
“I agree,” the seneschal said. “He believes that we can somehow avenge seven-hundred-year-old sins. Even if we could, why? We survived.”
“His followers have been pressing hard. Those who oppose him will be punished.”
The seneschal knew that this was why so few had come to the hall. “Our ancestors faced many enemies. In the Holy Land they stood before the Saracens and died with honor. Here, they endured torture from the Inquisition. Our master, de Molay, was burned at the stake. Our job is to stay faithful.” Weak words, he knew, but they had to be said.
“De Roquefort wants to war with our enemies. One of his followers told me that he even intends to take back the shroud.”
He winced. Other radical thinkers had proposed that show of defiance before, but every master had quelled the act. “We must stop him in conclave. Luckily, he cannot control the selection process.”
“He frightens me,” a brother said, and the quiet that followed signaled that the others agreed.
After an hour of prayer the seneschal gave the signal. Four bearers, each dressed in a crimson robe, hoisted the master’s coffin.
He turned and approached two columns of red porphyry between which stood the Door of Gold. The name came not from its composition, but from what was once stored behind it.
Forty-three masters lay in their own locoli, beneath a rock ceiling, polished smooth and painted a deep blue, upon which gold stars spangled in the light. The bodies had long ago turned to dust. Only bones remained, encased within ossuaries each bearing a master’s name and dates of service. To his right were empty niches, one of which would cradle his master’s body for the next year. Only then would a brother return and transfer the bones to an ossuary. The burial practice, which the Order had long employed, belonged to the Jews in the Holy Land at the time of Christ.
The bearers deposited the coffin into the assigned cavity. A deep tranquility filled the semi-darkness.
Thoughts of his friend flashed through the seneschal’s mind. The master was the youngest son of a wealthy Belgian merchant. He’d gravitated to the Church for no clear reason—simply something he felt compelled to do. He’d been recruited by one of the Order’s many journeymen, brothers stationed around the globe, blessed with an eye for recruits. Monastic life had agreed with the master. And though not of high office, in the conclave after his predecessor died the brothers had all cried, “Let him be master.” And so he took the oath. I offer myself to the omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul and so shall I remain in this holy life all my days until my final breath. The seneschal had made the same pledge.
He allowed his thoughts to drift back to the Order’s beginning—the battle cries of war, groans of brothers wounded and dying, the anguished moans born of burying those who’d not survived the conflict. That had been the way of the Templars. First in, last to leave. Raymond de Roquefort longed for that time. But why? That futility had been proven when Church and State turned on the Templars at the time of the Purge, showing no regard for two hundred years of loyal service. Brothers were burned at the stake, others tortured and maimed for life, and all for simple greed. To the modern world, the Knights Templar were legends. A long-ago memory. No one cared if they existed, so righting any injustice seemed hopeless.
The dead must stay dead.
He again glanced around at the stone chests, then dismissed the brothers—save one. His assistant. He needed to speak with him alone. The younger man approached.
“Tell me, Geoffrey,” the seneschal said. “Were you and the master plotting?”
The man’s dark eyes flashed surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Did the master ask you to do something for him recently? Come now, don’t lie to me. He’s gone, and I’m here.” He thought pulling rank would make it easier for him to learn the truth.
“Yes, Seneschal. I mailed two parcels for the master.”
“Tell me of the first.”
“Thick and heavy, like a book. I posted it while I was in Avignon, more than a month ago.”
“The second?”
“Sent Monday, from Perpignan. A letter.”
“Who was the letter sent to?”
“Ernst Scoville in Rennes-le-Château.”
The younger man quickly crossed himself, and the seneschal spied puzzlement and suspicion. “What’s wrong?”
“The master said you would ask those questions.”
The information grabbed his attention.
“He said that when you did, I should tell you the truth. But he also said for you to be warned. Those who have gone down the path
you are about to take have been many, but never has anyone succeeded. He said to wish you well and Godspeed.”
His mentor was a brilliant man who clearly knew far more than he’d ever said.
“He also said that you must finish the quest. It’s your destiny. Whether you realize that or not.”
He’d heard enough. The empty wooden box from the armoire in the master’s chamber was now explained. The book he’d sought inside was gone. The master had sent it away. With a gentle wave of his hand he dismissed the aide. Geoffrey bowed, then hustled toward the Door of Gold.
Something occurred to him. “Wait. You never said where the first package, the book, was sent.”
Geoffrey stopped and turned but said nothing.
“Why don’t you answer?”
“It is not right that we speak of this. Not here. With him so near.” The young man’s gaze darted to the coffin.
“You said he wanted me to know.”
Anxiety swirled in the eyes staring back at him.
“Tell me where the book was sent.” Though he already knew, he needed to hear the words.
“To America. A woman named Stephanie Nelle.”
RENNES-LE-CHTEAU
2:30 PM
MALONE SURVEYED THE INSIDE OF ERNST SCOVILLE’S MODEST house. The décor was an eclectic collection of British antiques, twelfth-century Spanish art, and unremarkable French paintings. He estimated that a thousand books surrounded him, most yellowed paperbacks and aged hardcovers, each shelf fronting an exterior wall and meticulously arranged by subject and size. Old newspapers were stacked by year, in chronological order. The same was true for periodicals. Everything dealt with Rennes, Saunière, French history, the Church, Templars, and Jesus Christ.
“Seems Scoville was a Bible connoisseur,” he said, pointing to rows of analysis.
“He spent his life studying the New Testament. He was Lars’s biblical source.”
“Doesn’t seem anyone has searched this house.”
“It could have been done carefully.”