Magic Lantern

by Des Sheridan

  ‘Do we know their names?’ he asked. Tara responded.

  ‘I remember he said a French name beginning with P, not Pierre though - something odder, but with a famous namesake, I think. I wish I could recall.’

  Tara’s tone was tired but she was speaking in a deliberate manner. Robert registered that for her also the penny was dropping. Namely, that the man on Mont Saint-Michel with the watchers, was the man who had triggered all that had happened to them in recent weeks. He passed her back the photo and she studied it intently.

  ‘Pascal, that’s his name, as in the French philosopher,’ interjected Nico. ‘Pascal de Waverin-Looz. Son of a rich Belgian Eurocrat. Playboy, gangster and - now we know- killer. Mind you, he is - how you say? Squeaky clean to the authorities. The Belgian police won’t dare touch him. Papa is troppo importante. But Pascal was not the first of these people we identify. That was him.’

  Nico’s finger jabbed at the face of a third man, the one Robert didn’t know.

  ‘Jean le Vache, Member of the European Parliament and Walloon ultra-nationalist. A real Mister Clean. How you say in English - butter wouldn’t melt for him? But a politician with dodgy friends it now seems. And the third fellow is Erik Noserau, a thug with a record for GBH and wife beating. Veri criminali - una fermentazione potente.’

  Exactly so, thought Robert, translating Nico’s words - a powerful brew. They would need to be careful from now on.

  Chapter 8

  Arz, France, 22 October 2014, 10:05

  Robert had never been a private guest in a building like it. He had that fly-on-the-wall feeling as the butler - dressed formally in white shirt, butler’s tie, grey waistcoat, black jacket and trousers, white gloves and shiny black brogues - led them through a sequence of rooms, each one more unbelievably grand than its predecessor. There was evidently no alternative route as the building had no service corridor. One room simply opened onto the next, in grand succession. The presence of gold-coloured looped rope, hanging between small moveable, silver posts, defined pathways on the left hand side of each chamber and told Robert that at other times of the day the rooms were open to the public.

  The château had taken Robert by surprise. The riverside view led him to expect a formidable bastion but the landward side had a very elegant façade, displaying great attention to symmetry in the styling of its ornament. It was studded with numerous windows. And a great house it was, without doubt, designed by a Renaissance eye but with its fierce Breton roots breaking through in the harsh granite stonework, the flamboyant ornamental tracery around windows and doors, and dormer windows of such acute gothic elevation as to give it a surreal flavour.

  He recalled when he and Andre had poured enthusiastically over photographs of Ormond Castle. Ormond was a fine house, Elizabethan simplicity expressed in a Renaissance design, whereas Arz was a château - a much grander statement though inspired by the very same Renaissance template.

  After traversing a number of rooms they reached their destination. The Library was relatively modest in size with a few easy chairs, a desk, a quite remarkable stepladder that folded down into a table and an antique rotating pedestal globe. On all sides, and to a great height, were racks of wooden shelving replete with beautifully bound books, their spines an array of rich faded colours. Le Duc d’Arz, Julien Bihan-Malmanche, rose to greet them. He was a man of medium height, with wiry dark hair and a narrow face with slightly sunken cheekbones and sallow skin. The tops of his hands were covered in dark hair. Not a particularly prepossessing figure, thought Robert, except for his eyes, which were a deep shade of mahogany brown. A burgundy velvet waistcoat peered out from under a tweed jacket. Robert noticed the waistcoat carried the Malmanche emblems of three ermine tails diagonally separated from three long-necked black swans.

  The Duc shook hands with them, somewhat diffidently, and introduced, in heavily accented English, his Private Secretary who he said would remain with them. Then he motioned them to take a seat. The resulting arrangement was rather odd as the four chairs were not, and could not be by virtue of the close crush of furniture, aligned to face each other. This meant that the Secretary was out of Tara’s line of view and the Duc was out of Robert’s view. This entailed some swivelling about on their part which was decidedly off-putting. The secretary, who was called Herve, thankfully had good English and did most of the talking, translating for the Duc as the conversation proceeded in a rather stilted manner.

  Robert noticed that the Duc was observing them closely, perhaps to offset the fact that he presumably couldn’t understand them. When he did speak it was directed at the Secretary and in French. He was quietly spoken and modest in manner, but Robert reckoned that there was stubbornness behind the studied understatement. It was clear that he kept the Secretary on a tight leash. The Duc, Robert reckoned, was not a man to delegate much real authority.

  The conversation followed this laborious course as Robert answered the Duc’s inquiries about Rosnaree. The French aristocrat was interested in the discovery but Robert knew that he could have readily found the answers to his questions on the Rosnaree website. The Duc then asked about Tara’s surname. She explained the derivation, from ruadh, the Gaelic word for red. The Duc chuckled at this but offered no further insight. The conversation, Robert assessed, was going nowhere.

  At this point Tara evidently decided to force the issue, for she took the lead to inform the Duc that their visit had a more particular focus regarding a strictly confidential matter. An artefact had been found at Rosnaree and information attached to it had led them to Arz. The artefact was part of a set of four linked objects and they were trying to find the other parts. So far they had found two parts and they believed that the Malmanche family collection might house a third. A smile crossed the Duc’s face at this point and he surprised them both by saying, in well-pronounced English.

  ‘When Mr Grainger telephoned it occurred to me that the Vercingetorix chariot was our only Celtic artefact of significance. That is why we are squeezed into the Library and not my office suite in the converted stables. There I tell you all is very chic and all Wi-Fi! Herve!’

  He waved a hand at the Secretary who got up out of his chair and approached a tapestry, a routine eighteenth-century depiction of a fête à la campagne. It was held up on rings threaded over a long silver bar attached to the wall. He pulled the cord and the tapestry gathered to the left. There, on the wall, was the Triskell piece! Looking quite magnificent against the wooden panelling, it had been kept lovingly and was highly polished, unlike the other Triskell pieces. The golden metal shone brilliantly as did the coloured gems set into the tracery.

  ‘My God, it is absolutely magnificent,’ Tara exclaimed, jumping to her feet to have a closer look. The Duc’s brown eyes danced in evident delight with her response. Who knows, thought Robert, perhaps he does have a softer side.

  ‘Yes,’ interjected the Secretary with enthusiasm. ‘It is a great treasure - the shield of Vercingetorix - but of course only a few people know it exists. It is not listed in the chateau’s catalogues. And we want very much to keep it that way.’

  After admiring the object for a few minutes they resumed their seats and Tara made her pitch. Her object, she announced, was to reunite the four parts of the object - which dated from 500 BC and originated in Ireland – and put them under international protection, brokered by UNESCO, at Rosnaree. She invited the Duc to let her take the object, subject to a legally verified receipt witnessed by his notaire, back to Ireland. Robert was impressed by Tara’s performance. She came across as most professional and, he thought, given her undisclosed personal agenda, surprisingly convincing.

  But the Duc was evidently not minded to play along. He reverted to his tactic of communicating only though the Secretary, who insisted indignantly upon the ascription to Vercingetorix and the Gallic significance of the object. When the exchanges started to simply repeat Robert proposed that it might be helpful to adjourn the discussion, to give both sides time to reflect and se
e if they could identify the bones of a mutually acceptable arrangement. He drove his point home.

  ‘For instance, Monsieur le Duc, it might be that if the object were to be displayed alongside the Rosnaree Hoard – for comparative purposes only and with your preferred provenance acknowledged - then it could be valued accordingly, by the Irish and French Governments and a generous accommodation agreed to lease the object on loan to the Rosnaree collection.’

  It was a long shot but it worked. The Duc and his Secretary exchanged interested looks, and the Secretary agreed that perhaps, in the interests of amitié between nations, such an approach might work provided ownership remained with the Malmanche family. He announced that the Duc wished to reflect upon the matter and invited Robert and Tara to return at three o’clock for further discussions. With this the meeting broke up politely with smiles, albeit a little forced, restored on both sides.

  Chapter 9

  Arz, France, 22 October 2014, 11:25

  Tara and Robert left the château, at the Secretary’s invitation, by a small door adjacent to the library, which he said led down a row of steps to the belvedere at the southern end of the building. It was a ‘must see’ for visitors, Herve insisted, and they should not miss this opportunity to view it. Ushered out, they stood in the sunshine looking down over a beautiful view of the town of Arz and the River Oust, which here had been canalised. The Secretary was right, thought Tara, it was breath-taking. Far down below them they could see a lock on the canal daintily covered with flower boxes. Très jolie as the French would say.

  ‘No offer of a slap-up lunch then, courtesy of the Duc. I think when we resume the meeting we will find the roof needs repairing or some such project. But even if there is something in this it could take months to negotiate,’ Robert said.

  ‘Yes’, Tara replied. ‘But we have to accept the hand we have been dealt. If you want an alternative, I didn’t see anything by way of electronic security. Perhaps we should just send Nico in tonight.’

  Robert guffawed.

  ‘Bloody hell, you learn fast. Yes, I think we should consider deploying Nico. I certainly have no intention of negotiating with those two slippery eels for weeks. Talking of Nico, he won’t be happy at the thought of us hanging about here all day.’

  They had slowly walked the length of the viewing point, and turned to follow a path back obliquely towards the main gate. They had walked but a few paces when Robert suddenly grabbed hold of Tara and pushed her abruptly off the path into a fringing clump of bushes, clamping a hand over her mouth. Tara experienced an immediate and terrifying flashback to when Shay had attacked her. Then Robert’s voice, in a hoarse desperate whisper, filled her ears.

  ‘It’s Pascal – I think - by the gate! Just a glimpse – those boots in the photos, I swear I saw them!’

  He eased his grip, letting her edge forward to steal a glance through the shrubbery. There was no doubt about it. The tall figure of Pascal de Waverin-Looz, dressed in his dark long coat, red silk scarf with a paisley pattern billowing over his shoulders, was striding confidently towards one of the main doors to the chateau, with three others in tow. Tara recognised Jean and Erik from the photos, their presence causing her rapidly-escalating alarm to shoot through the roof. They seemed to be escorting the fourth man. Erik had a hand on his elbow, directing him forward. At the door Pascal turned and the fourth man withdrew a key from his pocket. He opened the door and the party entered the building.

  Robert and Tara emerged from bushes, straight into the path of a pair of matronly French women who looked at them in astonishment. Tara didn’t know what to do but Robert just shrugged his shoulders and smiled at them.

  ‘Pardon mes dames, l’amour, l’amour!’

  Their surprised faces creased into smiles. Next moment Tara felt his firm grip on her elbow and realised he was steering her towards the gate. At the mention of Pascal’s name terror had gripped her, causing her heart to thump at a hell of a pace. How in God’s name had Pascal and his thugs caught up with them? It felt like he could already read the future! Their escape yesterday was pyrrhic - the nightmare was starting all over again! She wanted to bolt and run but Robert, sensing her pull away, restrained her gently, whispering urgently.

  ‘Slow down, Tara, we need to walk out of here normally and not draw attention to ourselves.’

  She curbed her forward lurch, but each crunch of the gravel underfoot grated – as though the very sound might alert Pascal, who would come running – and she counted the seemingly endless paces towards the main gate, where groups of tourists were gathered. She felt certain they must be able to hear her pounding heart’s beat. How could they not, it was so loud? Any moment she fully expected Pascal to appear in front of her, block the path and foil their escape.

  Chapter 10

  Arz, France, 22 October 2014, 11:34

  Once through the gate, relief swept over Robert and he felt they could breathe easy again, at least for now. He led Tara briskly down a cobbled lane to the left, which was enclosed by high stone walls. He was very grateful he had made a recce the previous evening for he knew exactly where he was and where they needed to go. They passed through a small stone arch and then down a row of steps. On their right, flanked by buildings, was a small garden overgrown by gigantic Gunnera Manicata plants, the huge rhubarb-like leaves creating a small forest in the enclosure. Robert hesitated a moment, thinking, then moved over to the entrance.

  ‘Quick, in here, we can hide a while. Our quickest way out of here is if Nico can pick us up.’

  He called Nico on his mobile, but the call went straight through to messaging. Robert swore.

  ‘Shit! He is out of signal range.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We wait three minutes. After that we will just have to move on foot. At least we don’t have to go back to the Hotel.’

  They had checked out that morning, packing their belongings into Nico’s car. Clement had driven away the vehicle they had arrived in. Robert cursed the fact but it had seemed the right move at the time – to break the association with it. They stood in silence, hidden by the foliage, and waited. Robert felt a drop of rain strike his cheek and a steady pitter-patter commenced, slowly at first but then building steadily. Above their heads the outsized leaves protectively directed the rainfall away from them. After what seemed an age, but was only three minutes, Robert tried Nico a second time but again without success. Inwardly he imprecated himself for not anticipating that Nico might move out of range. The arrangement they had was to meet at noon and he hadn’t foreseen that Pascal might arrive ahead of that. Indeed the possibility had never even occurred to him. How the fuck had Pascal found out about Arz? For the second time in a few days their murderous enemies had turned up, snapping at their heels. He was consistently underestimating the opposition and at this rate he wouldn’t give decent odds on he or Tara being alive for much longer. He was such a fool! He should have listened to Nico and carried a weapon. Keeping his recriminations to himself, he said to Tara.

  ‘OK, Tara, we are going to walk out of town and try and contact Nico later. We can’t stay here – it’s too dangerous. And I don’t want to risk going back to the hotel to await Nico. They may be watching it. Pascal probably has his watchers looking for us right now. But stay cool and all will very soon be fine. Time for a canal walk!’

  Stepping out into the continuing downpour, they walked briskly the short distance from the garden down to the road that ran alongside the river and flanked the castle perimeter. Less than forty yards on they drew alongside the great curtain wall of the château, which loomed above them on their left. As they passed the middle tower, a cry pulled their eyes upwards and what happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. At first Robert thought it was a large bird, causing a sudden movement on high and calling out as it swooped. But the airborne object, spinning out from the third tower, spiralled downwards in free fall without any upward correction. Seconds later it hit the middle of the road, some ten yards ahead of them, with a t
hud and something red splashed out, mingling at once with the rainwater on the tarmac. The water took the blood up immediately and dispersed it with astonishing speed, so that a halo of red radiated out from the crumpled form on the road. Through the rain Robert could make out a knee jerked upwards in an impossible position and an arm, hand up stretched, splayed backwards. Tara had seen it too for she froze on the spot.

  Robert gripped her elbow, steering her across the road.

  ‘Keep moving – don’t look! Don’t stop and don’t run!’

  He spoke low and urgently. At that moment a car overtook them and swerved to avoid hitting the fallen mass full on but struck it obliquely nonetheless. As the driver lost control momentarily, the car rode upwards a few feet onto steep crags below the walls, and the vehicle overturned before crashing back down onto the road, spinning on its roof. As they passed the debacle they both stole a glance at the fallen body on the road. It had reshaped itself following the impact with the car and the upstretched hand was now pointing skyward, almost accusingly back up at the dormer window from which it had been hurled in unanticipated flight. The man’s chest, like the surrounding street was also red, but a deeper red punctuated by small ermines and three black swans. A grim thought crossed Robert’s mind as, in the same instant, he realised who it was. No longer would the Duc be worrying about roof repairs. Glancing quickly at the car, he saw the driver, who seemed relatively unscathed, wind down the window in an attempt to extricate himself. We had better get out of here, thought Robert.