by Kate Mosse
‘Try, madomaisèla,’ she said urgently.
Sandrine had never seen Marieta so jittery before. Even when the news came about her father, the older woman had kept her own emotions hidden. So having tried to forget, Sandrine forced herself instead to relive the moment.
She shut her eyes. ‘It was an old-fashioned name. Bailleroux or Brailland, something like that.’
‘Baillard?’ Marieta said quickly. ‘Was it Baillard, madomaisèla?’
Sandrine’s eyes snapped open. ‘Actually, it was. How on earth did you know?’
The housekeeper didn’t answer. ‘You did not tell the police? You did not give them Monsieur Baillard’s name?’
‘How could I? I’ve only just remembered it myself.’
The old woman sighed and sat back in her chair.
‘What’s this about, Marieta? You’re making me nervous with your fierce looks.’
A breeze slipped through the garden, lifting the leaves on the fig tree and setting slats of golden sunlight down on to the table. Sandrine looked at Marieta, forced the housekeeper to meet her eye.
‘Marieta?’
‘It’s so long ago,’ she said, twisting the black material of her skirt between her fingers. ‘My memory could be at fault. But the ghosts, Monsieur Baillard said he could hear . . . and those words, I’m sure . . .’
‘You’ve heard them before?’ Sandrine asked. ‘Or read them? You know where they come from?’
But Marieta was locked in her own thoughts and wasn’t listening. ‘I shall write to him,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Those words. Ask him what to do.’
Sandrine touched her on the arm, making her jump.
‘Who is Monsieur Baillard?’ she said quietly.
The old woman’s expression lightened for a moment. ‘A good man, a good man and a true friend. He knew your father. It was Monsieur Baillard who recommended me for the position here. I came to know him in Rennes-les-Bains, many years ago. He was a regular visitor to the Domaine de la Cade.’
Sandrine’s curiosity deepened. It was odd Marieta hadn’t mentioned Monsieur Baillard before, though she wasn’t one to talk about herself. Sandrine did know plenty of stories about the Domaine de la Cade, stories picked up over many long summers in Coustaussa. How the house had burnt down in mysterious circumstances on 31 October 1897. How the entire estate, abandoned now, was said to be haunted. How the village children wouldn’t go near it, especially at Hallowe’en.
She did the arithmetic in her head. ‘If you knew Monsieur Baillard then,’ she said, ‘he must be incredibly old now.’
Marieta gave a brief smile. ‘No one knows how old he is.’
But before Sandrine could ask anything else, Marieta was getting to her feet. She tucked the chair back under the table and headed back towards the house.
‘Marieta?’ Sandrine called after her. ‘Where does he live, this Monsieur Baillard? In Rennes-les-Bains?’
The old woman didn’t turn round, but continued up the steps, pulling herself along the railings.
‘Marieta! What are you going to ask him?’
The only answer was the rattle of the screen and the snick of the catch as the door closed, leaving Sandrine alone in the garden once more.
She sat back in her chair, hardly knowing what to think. All around her, secrets seemed to swoop and dive like fireflies, bright and dazzling. Unseen, but making their presence felt all the same.
Chapter 30
Leo Authié’s office overlooked the Palais de Justice. It was the control centre from which he had run today’s operation and an indication of the power he now held within the Deuxième Bureau.
A large mahogany desk and chair, wooden filing cabinets rather than functional regulation bullet-grey metal. The antique maps on the wall were originals, not reproductions. One showed the boundaries of Gaul in the fourth century, the point at which France became a Christian country. The second, the shifting boundaries of the Languedoc, from the historical territories of Septimania to the present day. The third illustrated the course of the medieval crusades in the Midi against the Cathar heretics.
Authié was not alone in believing that France’s defeat in June 1940 was a direct consequence of successive administrations turning their backs on traditional Christian values. Too many immigrants, a lack of leadership, a corrosive dilution of what it meant to be French. However, after the shock of the quick and humiliating surrender had passed, Authié realised that in fact the occupation of the north and the collaboration between Vichy and Hitler would suit his purposes.
His hand went to the silver cross on his lapel. God had been with him today, as he had known He would. And it was to the Church that Authié’s loyalties lay, not to the liberals and the socialists whose catastrophic godless government had led France to defeat.
Another prison van drew up at the door of the courthouse opposite. Everything had gone like clockwork. The operation had been a triumph. The threat to Vichy’s authority in Carcassonne had been contained, neutralised, undermined. Already, there were fifty résistants in custody. By the end of the day, they’d have the rest of them. And although he knew some networks would regroup and new units would be formed, Authié believed he’d dealt the insurgents a blow from which they would not fully recover. The bomb had been effective. The wireless and newspapers were blaming the chaos on the partisans. Most local people would be less inclined to shield or support them now. He drew a deep breath. More important, the successful completion of today’s strike against the terrorists meant he was at last free to return his attention to his pursuit of the Codex.
Authié went through the papers on his desk – letters, telegrams, official notifications, congratulations from his divisional commander, all of which he put to one side – until he found the envelope he was looking for. A long, thick fold of high-quality paper embossed with the name of a stationer in Chartres. No censor’s stamp. It was from the head of one of the oldest and most influential Catholic families in France. François Cecil-Baptiste de l’Oradore was an immensely wealthy and knowledgeable investor. A collector of antiques and religious artefacts, he was prepared to pay a great deal for rare objects he wished to acquire. Certainly, he had invested hundreds of thousands of francs excavating in the mountains of the Ariège and the Aude.
When he had been approached to ask if he might be prepared to provide information, Authié had been both flattered and pleased. It was during the course of his work for de l’Oradore that he first heard rumours about a Codex, a text condemned as heretical in the fourth century that appeared to have escaped being destroyed with other non-orthodox writings. De l’Oradore himself had more pressing interests – key amongst them his obsession with the lost Grail books of the Cathars – but Authié had become preoccupied with the Codex. Its continued existence – if the rumours were true – was an affront to God. An evil.
Excavations had been suspended during the war, but as soon as the terms of the Armistice had been agreed and signed, de l’Oradore had reactivated the arrangement. Since then, Authié had provided him with various particular archaeological items, information too, and he had no doubt that his rapid rise through the Deuxième Bureau was due to de l’Oradore’s patronage. He glanced again at the maps on his wall, each a gift for particular services rendered.
Authié hesitated for a moment, then broke the seal on the envelope. The header listed in striking Gothic type all the Catholic charities of which de l’Oradore was patron. The letter was, as he had been expecting, a request for a report into progress in the Ariège. Despite the difficult conditions in the Midi, de l’Oradore expected results – a return on his investment – and although the language was beautiful, the letter was an ultimatum.
Authié wondered how long he could delay before replying. Because he hadn’t been able to give the matter his full attention in recent weeks, there was nothing new to report. His German partners had failed. And although he knew Antoine Déjean was involved, he had failed to find out how exactly. In the end, he’d h
ad no choice but to give permission for him to be interrogated. Not only had Laval not learnt anything, but he’d made a mess of the business and allowed Déjean to escape.
‘Il a tout foiré,’ he swore under his breath.
More aggravating still was that the escape had only come to light because of Raoul Pelletier’s presence at the river. And if Pelletier hadn’t been there at the critical time, Sylvère Laval could have dealt with the girl. That, at least, would have been one less loose end. It was a mess, all of it.
A knock at the door interrupted his reflections.
‘Come.’
A young gendarme appeared, his skin raw from shaving. His heels clicked on the parquet floor as he crossed the office.
‘Un télégramme.’
Authié put the letter down and held out his hand. His eyes scanned the information. His jaw tightened.
‘When did this come in?’
‘I brought it immediately, mon capitaine.’
Authié stood up, sending his chair flying. The gendarme rushed to right it, trying not to watch as Authié screwed up the telegram, put it in the ashtray on the desk and set a match to it.
‘Is Laval on the premises?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Well find out,’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to meet me downstairs. Immediately. And organise a driver and car. Now!’
The boy saluted, skidding on the parquet floor in his rush to be out of the room. Authié picked up the telephone, barked a number at the operator and waited for her to connect him. He listened to the voice at the end of the line for a moment, his face growing darker by the second.
‘We need to meet.’
He held the receiver away from his ear. ‘No, that’s not acceptable. One hour. Usual place.’
Authié banged the receiver back in the cradle. He thought for a moment, then put de l’Oradore’s letter back in the envelope and concealed it in the drawer of his desk, taking out his revolver at the same time. He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then strode out of the room and down the stairs to the main hall.
Everywhere the sound of muffled voices behind doors, the regular tap, tapping of the stenographers and the heels of women’s shoes on the black and white tiles as they delivered messages from one office to another.
Sylvère Laval was waiting for him by the main entrance. He was back in uniform and his black hair had been cropped, revealing white skin round the rim of his cap.
‘Why the hell did you hand Déjean over to Bauer?’
Laval looked confused. ‘They were your orders.’
‘I told you to keep him under guard until I could interrogate him.’
‘I must have misunderstood.’ Laval met his gaze. ‘I was under the impression that because of the demonst—’
Authié raised his hand. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses, Laval. It’s your second failure. I’m meeting Bauer now.’
‘In Carcassonne?’ Laval said quickly.
‘Where else?’
Authié stared at his deputy for a moment, unable to interpret the expression on Laval’s face, then walked towards the glass doors. The heat hit them the moment they were out on the street.
‘What about Pelletier, have you found him?’
‘Not yet, sir. We went to his apartment on the Quai Riquet. He lives with his mother.’ Laval did a winding motion with his hand. ‘Not all there. Kept asking if I’d seen Bruno and—’
‘Where else?’ Authié interrupted.
Laval’s expression hardened. ‘I tried the hospital, the usual cafés in town. No one remembers seeing him at the mainline station, or the tramway or the bus station.’
‘I want him brought in tonight.’
‘Posters with his photograph are being printed now, so—’
‘Tonight, Laval. What about Sanchez?’
‘He was arrested this afternoon,’ he said in a tight voice.
‘Good.’ Then he paused. ‘On second thoughts, has he been charged yet?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’
Authié thought for a moment longer. ‘In which case, have him released.’
Laval’s eyes widened. ‘Sir?’
‘Sanchez is more likely than anyone to know where Pelletier’s gone to ground,’ he said impatiently. ‘They might have arranged to meet. Follow him.’
‘But if we let him go—’
‘Do as you’re told, Laval,’ Authié snapped. ‘If, after twelve hours, he hasn’t led us to Pelletier, he’s not going to. Then you can talk to him. Find out what he knows. But I don’t want him anywhere near the courthouse or the gaol. I don’t want an official record of the interrogation.’ He pointed at Laval. ‘Don’t make a mess of this too.’
Laval’s face remained impassive. ‘No, sir.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’ve traced the car I saw at the river yesterday, sir. The vehicle is registered to a Monsieur Ménard, the garage man on boulevard Omer Sarraut. Ménard belongs to the LVF. He’s currently in a POW camp in Germany, but there’s a daughter with Gaullist sympathies. Goes about with a Jew by the name of Max Blum.’
The driver opened his door. Authié stood with his hand on the roof of the car.
‘Was the Ménard woman driving the vehicle?’
‘I was too far away to see.’
‘She might know who the girl is.’
‘Do you want me to speak to Mademoiselle Ménard, sir?’
‘No, leave her to me. But talk to Blum. It’s possible he saw Pelletier or knows him. Bring him in.’
‘On what grounds, sir?’
Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a Jew, Laval. I’m sure you can find some reason.’
He got into the car and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Rue du cimetière Saint-Michel,’ he ordered.
Chapter 31
‘Let me do it,’ Sandrine repeated, taking the envelope from Marieta’s hands.
The housekeeper was standing in the open door wearing her hat and outdoor shoes. Her housecoat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door.
‘I’ll not have you running errands for me.’
Sandrine pushed the letter into her pocket and was out of the door before Marieta could raise any more objections.
‘Won’t be long,’ she called.
The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, as if the streets were waiting for darkness to fall. A strange, expectant atmosphere. The boulevard Maréchal Pétain was deserted and all the small side streets in the Bastide were empty too. As if everyone had been warned to stay inside.
Sandrine propped her bicycle against the wall and got inside with minutes to spare before the post office shut. Only one counter was open.
‘I’d like this to go tonight,’ she said. ‘It’s urgent.’
The clerk, a middle-aged man with a pinched face, looked up at her over the top of his spectacles.
‘Interzone?’
‘No, Aude.’
He glanced at the address, then held out his hand. ‘Carte d’identité.’
‘Why do you need to see that?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
Sandrine took her identity card from her pocket and pushed it under the glass. He peered at her personal details, looked up at her, then slid the card back.
‘Not a very good likeness,’ he said.
‘How much will it be?’
‘Fifty centimes.’
Sandrine pushed the money under the glass and was given a red stamp in return, which she licked and pressed to the envelope.
‘The box is outside.’
‘It will go tonight?’
‘No reason not to,’ the clerk replied. Then he pulled down his blind, leaving Sandrine staring at the blank glass.
She came out into the rue de la Préfecture, irritated by the peremptory manner of the clerk and by the fact that she’d had to show her carte d’identité. She dropped the letter into the box, then got on her bike.
The street was still empty, but th
e sense of watchfulness had intensified. As if there were eyes hidden behind every shutter, every door, waiting for what would happen when night came. Sandrine pushed off from the pavement. Then, without warning, a man rushed out from a tiny ruelle, right in front of her.
‘Hey, watch what you’re doing!’ she shouted.
She swerved, jerking the handlebars to the left to avoid him. Her front wheel hit the kerb and she half toppled towards the pavement, grazing her knuckles. Furious, she looked up.
‘You idiot . . .’
Then she stopped. Straightened up.
‘You,’ she said.
He was standing very still, his right hand holding the strap of his rucksack, his left clenched by his side. The same dark hair pushed back off his forehead. The same fierce, restless eyes. Tense, as if he might bolt at any moment.
‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she said.
He looked dazed, but this time he answered.
‘Yes.’
‘At the demonstration.’
Now a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Yes.’
‘And yesterday. At Païchérou.’
‘Also me, yes.’
His voice was exactly as she remembered, and the presence of him, the memory of sandalwood and heat.
He looked down at her bike, then her scraped fingers. ‘I should have been watching where I was going.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Sandrine felt his eyes travel her face, as if trying to commit every feature to memory. Then, as though it was all happening to somebody else, she watched him raise his hand and gently touch the bruise on the side of her head. The street, the day, real life, all of it slipped away.
‘It’s not so bad,’ she said, aware her voice sounded high, odd even to her own ears. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’
He stepped back, let his hand fall to his side. She remembered to breathe.
‘I’m Sandrine, by the way,’ she managed to say. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’
He was looking at her, staring as if she was speaking a foreign language, then he laughed.