by Lazlo Ferran
“A day with the book and an indication from you, which sections I need to copy, given my interests.”
“Which are?”
“Flying wolf-men and spirit-serpents, I think they are called Warg in this book.”
He laughed quietly. “Ah, the flying wolf-men. I agree to the terms, sir. The book will be here tomorrow, marked with the relevant sections, and to show my good will, I will be here in the morning too. You do not read Latin, I take it?”
“Unfortunately no. If it’s not inconvenient for you, that would be very good of you. Thank you.”
I left, jubilant, and decided not to tell Henry of my victory. I would surprise him with the copies later. I’d decided to splash out on a night of bar-hopping, and ended up at the Moulin Rouge. Drunk as a Lord, I had to get a taxi back to the hotel. A night-porter helped me to my room. I woke late, with a hangover, but years of practice meant I was still at the library by ten. I spent all day photocopying the relevant sections, and after a few questions in the morning, copied some extra sections that the researcher had marked for me. I must have copied over one third of the book by the time I left, with the wad of paper in my bag, and several hundred francs lighter. I had agreed to fax my missing four pages to a number the researcher had given me, and I did so a few days later.
After visiting the family home, which no longer had any family in it, just Rose, to clean myself up, I went to the office for the night and on to Henry’s.
His housekeeper let me in and he seemed a little surprised to see me. For a little while he seemed uncomfortable but as soon as I lay out the more interesting photocopied sheets before him on the dining table he was as happy as a child with a new toy.
“This is fantastic. My dear boy. Oh! Look at this.”
He had the housekeeper make a tray of sandwiches before she left and we settled down for an afternoon of discovery.
Of course there was a lot to read and translate and although Henry went as fast as he could by the end of the afternoon we had only unearthed a few new details.
“Look here,” Henry said. “It says that from the original Cathar monk who started Ordo Lupus have descended several families of Knights, some members of the Knights Templar too, and their descendants all ‘have the sight’. I don’t know what that means. They can ‘see’ the Warg perhaps? Like you? It says that only alternate generations have the sight though, and that they are all interred in coffers in a sacred place – the Crypt of Ordo Lupus, logically enough. Doesn’t say where that is though.”
Later on I was peering over his shoulder, looking at an engraving when suddenly he grabbed my arm.
“Ah. Now this is interesting. Listen to this. ‘It is said that the Serpents constrict the fabric of the world making evil things happen to people and living off the souls of the dead, but every sixty years the fabric of space is rent and for a year the snakes have to survive by actually killing and taking on physical form’. Only the Lupus Angelus, or ‘Wolf-angels’ can kill the Serpents then.”
“Wow! I like that. Wolf-angels. Do you think it means that these Lupus Angelus can only kill the Serpents or Warg during this period as well? I mean as well as being the only ones who can kill the Serpents at all?”
“I think ... yes, I think it means that only the Lupus Angelus can kill the Serpents, but do you remember the special weapon or magical weapon? I think this is needed to do the killing.”
Before I left, there was only one other passage which Henry translated which was of interest.
“Here you go dear boy. I have been working on this passage for quite a while. This is probably what you have been looking for. It says that there were two magical weapons brought out of Montségur by the two monks; doesn’t say what they are though. It also says that the building which houses the Crypt was built shortly after and a long way off. So the final siege of Montségur was in 1244 and you need to find somewhere built in the next 50 years or so, I would think.”
“Me? Why just me? Aren’t we in this together?”
“Yes dear boy, but think of me as the support team. I am too old to go traipsing around looking for secret crypts and coffers.”
I left Henry’s flat well after midnight and as I walked towards my car a strange feeling came over me again. I felt a presence like that on the night Annie was taken. I began to walk faster as shivers ran down my spine. The air seemed colder around me, although it may have been my imagination playing tricks on me. As I reached the car and turned the key in the door time seemed to slow, almost to a stop. I thought I would never make it into the car. After I finally managed to start the car, hands shaking and in a sweat, I drove off and the feeling receded. I couldn’t help looking in the rear-view mirror although I could see nothing in the street behind me.
I opened Le Monde, two days later over a coffee in the afternoon, to another surprise. “Young man mysteriously murdered in Lyon during early evening of Tuesday. Is this again the ‘crusher killer’?” The description of his injuries sounded just like Annie’s. I had an old tatty road-map of France in a drawer and pinned it up on my office wall. Then I took some map pins and stuck them in where the murders had taken place, including Annie’s, with dates taped to them. There was a definite pattern, at least in the recent killings, of movement northwards.
I was pondering this when Henry called. “Remember those markings on the bottom of some of your wolf-statues?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are makers’ marks on the bottom of the statue, aren’t there?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Well, I don’t know if it is relevant, but there is mentioned a master craftsman, possibly a carpenter, called Piere Drang Clenn sometimes written Piere Drang-Clenn or even Piere Drangclenn.”
“Piere Drang Clenn. Piere Drang Clenn. I have never heard that name before. Is Clenn a place or something?”
“Possibly but spellings and names themselves were very fluid in those days. I wouldn’t put much significance on it.”
“It doesn’t match ‘SK’ though.”
“Ah. That is the initials? Then no.”
“Is there anything about the roman numerals’ meaning? Or B’vs or BV?” I was recalling the inscriptions on the bases of some of the wolf-statues I had bought with Rose in Bulgaria and Romania. I hadn’t yet been able to find a meaning for the strange marking.
“Patience dear boy, patiencE.”
“Henry, have you heard of the recent killing in Lyon, just like all the others?”
“I certainly have, and in a street not too far from here. Gave me the willies I can tell you. For a few nights I thought he was coming for me.”
“He?” I asked, my chuckle strangled in my throat by the memory of Annie.
“The Devil. Old Nick.”
“Oh. Don’t worry Henry. Your flesh is too grizzly, like coq au vin.”
“Take care dear boy.”
“Yes, Henry. If you find anything else out let me know.”
Cosette, my secretary, tapped on the door and stepped into my office.
“Hello, Cosette. How are you?” There was a frown on her face which stopped my conversation in its tracks.
“The Gendarmes are here to speak with you Monsieur.”
“Downstairs?”
“Oui Monsieur.”
“Shit. Tell them I will be down in two minutes.”
I looked in the mirror, above the sink in the corner of the room, at my disorderly face and quickly applied some shaving cream. Within three minutes I had shaved, washed my face, brushed my hair and put on a clean-ish shirt, and was descending the stairs calmly to speak to the Gendarmes.
I reached out a hand after introducing myself but it wasn’t taken.
“Monsieur, I ’av to ask youer to accompany me to the Gendarmerie.” The officer spoke in very heavily accented English so he clearly knew I was English already.
“Now?”
“Oui.”
“What for, if you don’t mind me asking?” The French police are far m
ore like the military than the English police and it wasn’t good to be rude to them, or even curt. I vaguely hoped it was something about Annie. Perhaps they had caught her killer.
“I cannot tell youer ’ere.”
As we reached their car, one of the two officers accompanying him put a hand firmly on my shoulder, ostensibly to guide me through the door, but it felt threatening.
Sitting at the interview table in a sparse room of the Gendarmerie, I noticed how little it had changed in the years since I last visited. I expected a folder to be laid before me, possibly showing some grim photographs or at least some officious documents, but the same officer who had spoken in my office sat opposite, with just a pencil and a simple form on one sheet of paper. He looked very sad, as if he was about to tell me something really morbid. He had taken off his hat and his bald head shone in the stark light of a single clear bulb while his furry white eyebrows jumped up and down over his long face while he talked.
“Your name, please?”
I told him and he carefully wrote it in the space at the head of the form in heavy script. He continued to fill in the form with my details while I grew more uncomfortable. About half way down the page, a large single box began which continued all the way to the bottom of the page. When he reached this, he paused and then asked, “Where were you on Tuesday night?” That was the night of the murder in Lyon.
“Wait a minute. Am I suspected of something?”
“Not officially, non. We simperly are asking some facts for now, Monsieur. I would be grateful if you could answer.”
Since I had nothing to hide, I told him I had been in Lyon at Henry’s flat.
“Now could you tell me pleeze, from about six in the afternoon, all the events ova your life until you came back to Nevers.”
I soon found out that the long box on the form continued on for the whole length of the reverse side of the form and that there were as many sheets as they wanted, with the long box on both sides, to take all my details. I told them as much as I could remember and then the officer, who I later learned was Loring Parcaud, placed his hands together on the table, almost as if in prayer, and fixed his doleful eyes on me.
“I am not satisfiered wiv your story Monsieur. Are you aware, that there have been murders, not only on Tuesday but also on these dates?” He proceeded to list the dates of the spate of murders. “I would like to know where you were also, on those nightser.”
Now I knew I was a suspect and I felt panic rising inside me. I could not remember where I had been on those nights. I searched for a way out of this dilemna.
“I would need to call the office. My secretary would have a record of appointments for me and some of these may be on those dates.”
His eyebrows rose to their zenith and he gestured for another officer, guarding the door, to bring the one black, Bakelite telephone in the room to the desk in front of me. With the palm of his large hand, Parcaud gestured gracefully that I should use the telephone.
I called the Office and Cosette answered. She went through my business diary for the dates of the murders but there were no appointments at all on those dates. I really was at a loss to think what to do or say next. The officer by the door shifted uneasily on his feet and Parcaud stared at me for a very long time. Then he unclasped his hands and started rolling the pencil between his thumbs and forefingers.
“What I want you to do Monsieur is go home and look for any receipts or travel tickets you can find. Oui? Talk to all your friends, those you ’ave visited and find evidence for where you ’ave been on those particular days.”
I was so relieved that he wasn’t going to arrest me I could have kissed him. I smiled at him but he stared icily back at me. “Thank you,” I said involuntarily, and immediately regretted it.
“One of my officers will driver you ’ome. Pleeze do not leave the area for the next few deys because we will want to asker you more questions.”
“Where do you wish to go Monsieur?” asked the driver in the front of the car. I was tempted to say to the family home North of the town, where I presumed Rose would be settling down to watch television, but I couldn’t face her.
“To my office, please.” I gave him directions.
I was so relieved to be released that evening that I just made myself a cup of tea and went to sleep on the sofa. It was only the next day that I first felt indignant at my arrest and then a burning anger set in. I understood that The Gendarmes must actually suspect me of killing my own daughter! The thought made my throat burn and I wanted to cough. I did as Parcaud had suggested and started to look for evidence of my whereabouts on those days. The problem was that so many days passed routinely, with my drinking and reading medieval literature stuck in my office that they blurred into one. Even Cosette didn’t see or hear me on some days. Many afternoons were spent in the company of just a bottle of ouzo and on many such afternoons the ouzo floated my mind back through the events that had led from Highgate Cemetary to empty afternoons in Nevers.
***
That day in Highgate, North London, started normally enough. We all have a problem to solve when we are young and growing up; how to find a model of the world which allows us to succeed. Often it changes many times. Often it’s inherited from our parents and never changes from birth but simply crystallises and hardens gradually. I was a bright child; everybody said so. My mother said I had a mind like quicksilver. I broke all the rules and I stumbled on my philosophy in a graveyard in North London when I was ten.
If you had known me then you would have said I was a charming boy; witty and polite, with a nice smile and happy to play with almost anybody. This image however, might have hidden the thoughtfulness in my character. My parents were both intelligent, even part of the intelligentsia you might say, and I had been encouraged to think. I would weigh up the risks of a situation in a flash and then act. To all the other kids, many of whom I would have counted as friends, I would appear a ‘man of action’ but they didn’t notice I was also observing them, building up a picture of the world and my picture was about to get sharper.
I was bored in front of the house and not able to find any of my usual friends to play with. I wandered aimlessly under the hot sun, away from our neighbourhood into unfamiliar streets until I saw a sign of dread; Highgate Cemetery.
For just a child’s moment I hesitated, then pushed open the heavy, creaking wrought-iron gate and disappeared into the city of stones within. I wandered wide-eyed through the many jagged lanes of tombs, some towering black marble with gold letters and some low to the ground and dressed in ivy. As the sun lowered behind the trees circling the stones, I found myself staring up at a huge tomb, ringed by a broken black rail-fence and declaring with magisterial elegance the mighty importance of the dead inside. Were dead people like the sleeping, as some of my school-friends said? I wanted to know and put my hands on the cool rails to step through the gap and into the magic space. I pulled my head out and walked around the rectangle, laughing at myself. Of course I couldn’t go in! There might be ghosts and even if I wasn’t eaten alive, or even worse, it was a bad thing to do. I picked up a blade of grass, placed it long-ways between my palms and blew a long raucous crow-note on it.
I ought to go home.
Just then a drop of water splashed coolly on my hand.
Rain.
A few more drops followed and I looked longingly at the hole in the grate of the big tomb. Almost with an emotion, I was finally overcome. I darted inside the fence and crawled through the hole to the dank but dusty space inside. My heart thumped.
I sat down on old rustling leaves, waiting for my eyes to adjust. After a while I could see through the gloom that there really was nothing inside the space at all except me and some stones like those outside, stacked against the walls. The biggest was opposite the small opening and I brushed off the dust and cobwebs to try reading it. I couldn’t. I heard voices outside and felt curiously excited at the thought that I was hidden from them. Just for a moment I thought of myse
lf as a spirit living in the graveyard. I twisted around on my knees to explore further. I heard, rather than felt, a thud and then no more.
My next conscious thought was that it was very dark and I was very cold. The back of my head was sore and some of my hair was stuck to my head. A cold, clammy hand seemed to grip my heart as I felt for the way out. Try as I might I could not find it and I had to make myself sit still and think. I remembered that the hole had been close to the ground and that there had been heavy stones leaning against the walls. Now one of them seemed to have fallen over the hole, lying now at a slight angle from the ground.
Panic overcame me and I cried.
Mum will kill me.
I started calling for help, louder and louder.
I went through alternate moods of cold despair and hope. I often thought I could hear voices inside the tomb and one seemed to whisper something to me in a tongue I could not understand.
Is that a whisper?
What is that?
“Who is that?” I cried.
He, for it was a he, sounded like my father but was whispering like a bear. His voice sounded revolting and cruel. Though I could not understand its words, I had a sense of its intentions:
“I am coming for you. You are mine!”
I will be lost forever because the gates will be locked and my soul will be eaten by ghosts.
But at midnight, as the moon crept overhead, I heard a real female and male voice, lost in some private ritual outside. I tried to cry out and at first nothing came, then I heard my small voice cry, “Help!”
“Okay boy. Wait here,” said the man.
That’s a silly thing to say since the whole problem is that I can’t leave.
“Don’t worry. He will be back soon and everything will be okay,” said the woman’s voice.
Finally the heavy stone was levered aside, and after crawling out, I was lifted into the air by a huge fireman.
“Well my boy. You won’t do that again in a hurry will you?” He patted my shoulder.
Home again, my mother engulfed me as she wept.