by Kate Mosse
‘Here you are.’
Baillard hooked the piece of grey fabric in the neck of the bottle with the metal points and slowly, carefully, eased it out.
‘Wool,’ he said. ‘Wool was widely used, especially in the colder western territories of the Roman Empire. This is quite thick, so it probably comes from a cloak or an outer garment.’
‘Wouldn’t it have rotted?’
‘That depends on where it has been all this time.’
Baillard sniffed the bottle, in case there was some perfume or liquid inside, then tipped it gently into the palm of his hand. Nothing came. He held it closer to the flame, trying to see inside the narrow neck.
Sandrine watched him pinch the points of the tweezers together and, with a steady hand, thread them into the neck. He released the pressure a little to try to grasp what was inside, then withdrew the tweezers again. Little by little he gained purchase, until finally he managed to draw the tweezers out of the neck of the bottle.
‘Aquí,’ he whispered. ‘There.’
Baillard carefully put the bottle down, then, laying the yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket on the table, he even more delicately, placed the piece of fabric on it.
‘It will be very fragile, in the air after so long confined,’ he said. ‘We must be so careful.’
‘Is it the map?’ she said.
Baillard didn’t answer. ‘This, also, is wool, but of a much lighter weave. Perhaps from an undergarment.’
Gently, corner by corner, he opened the square of fabric out with the tweezers. Sandrine leaned forward to see better. It was a faded white, yellow in places and brown along the main creases, with simple images. Like a child’s drawing.
‘It is what you were waiting for, Monsieur Baillard?’
The old man sighed with relief. ‘I think so,’ he said softly. ‘Look, the sun and her shadow to show direction, trees identified by delicate leaves sketched alongside – oak, ash, pine and beech.’ He paused. ‘And here, a double cross.’
‘But even supposing it is genuine, the landscape will surely have changed beyond recognition after all this time. Will it be any use?’
‘It is true, filha, that rock is quarried, that rivers change their course and that forests are cut down for timber, for houses.’ He smiled. ‘But the mountains, they change their shape less than anything else. The Pyrenees are much as they ever were.’ He pointed with the end of the tweezers. ‘So you see, I rather think that might be the Pic de Vicdessos, outside Tarascon. And can you see there, and there, that sequence of ridges. It is very distinctive, this combination of woodland, outcrop and the cave below.’
‘I suppose so,’ Sandrine said, still looking doubtful.
‘Does anyone else know you have this, Sénher Pelletier?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘No. At least, I showed César the bottle, though he wasn’t very interested.’
‘Would he have told anyone?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He frowned, remembering that Sandrine had told him César was also missing. ‘I hope not.’
Baillard studied the map for a while longer, then looked up. ‘I am greatly in your debt, Sénher Pelletier. We all are.’
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sandrine.
‘Put our plan into action,’ Baillard replied.
Sandrine frowned. ‘But surely we should start looking for the Codex straight away?’
‘Pas a pas,’ he murmured. ‘All in good time. There is everything to be gained by continuing along the path we have set ourselves. The difference is, now we have sight of the map, we can lay our trap in another part of the mountains altogether.’ Baillard hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Do you know how to handle a gun, madomaisèla?’
Sandrine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She stared at Monsieur Baillard, then realised he was utterly serious. ‘I suppose I do. I’ve fired a shotgun. And a pistol once. Why?’
‘It is time you learned properly.’ Baillard turned to Raoul. ‘Do you have your service revolver, Sénher Pelletier?’
‘Yes.’
Sandrine looked at Raoul, then back to Monsieur Baillard. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’ she said, her voice rising. ‘But that’s madness. Someone’s bound to hear us. What if the police are still around? It’s too much of a risk.’
‘You wish to help, do you not?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘In which case,’ he said quietly, ‘it is more of a risk if you cannot defend yourself, should the need arise.’
Sandrine turned cold. ‘But if anyone hears us and sees Raoul, they might – will – turn him in.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t risk it.’
Raoul put his hand on her arm. ‘Monsieur Baillard’s right, you need to be able to use a gun. We’ll be careful. It’s a good time of day for it, most people are indoors, sheltering from the heat. And if anyone does hear us, they’ll more likely than not think it’s a farmer out shooting rabbits. There must be plenty of secluded places around here.’
Sandrine stared at him. ‘Raoul, the police were here in Coustaussa. Today. It’s not any ordinary day. It’s too dangerous. We should wait.’
‘We do not have time to wait,’ Baillard said. ‘There will be no other opportunity.’
‘Why?’ she said quickly. ‘When do you intend to go?’
‘Raoul, at first light,’ he said. ‘I shall follow later in the morning.’
Distress rushed through her. She knew Raoul couldn’t stay, but at the same time she had hoped they would have more than a day together. She looked from one to the other, then gave a sharp nod of her head and stood up.
‘All right, if you both think it’s a risk worth taking. But on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ said Raoul.
Sandrine held out her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Marieta will help.’
Chapter 77
CARCASSONNE
‘May I come in?’
Marianne stared at Lucie. Her blonde hair was immaculate and her red lipstick perfectly applied, but she was a shadow of the bright, vivacious girl she had been. She was also holding a suitcase.
‘Oh Lucie,’ she sighed wearily. ‘I don’t want to argue.’
‘Please, Marianne, I’ve got nowhere else to go.’
Marianne could see Lucie had done her best to disguise the fact she’d been crying. But her eyes were red and swollen and the powder failed to disguise how pale she was. Marianne was still angry, but their years of friendship pulled at her heart strings. With a sigh, she leant forward and took the suitcase from Lucie’s hand and drew her inside.
‘What’s happened now?’ she said.
‘My father’s back.’
‘Oh,’ Marianne said. She put the suitcase down at the foot of the stairs, then linked her arm through Lucie’s. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got apples stewing on the stove.’
‘Wherever did you get apples?’
Marianne didn’t reply. ‘Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment.’
Lucie took off her hat and gloves. ‘They smell delicious.’
Marianne continued to stir, the wooden spoon banging against the metal side of the saucepan.
‘I found a little cooking brandy Marieta had squirrelled away at the back of the larder,’ she said.
Lucie waited patiently while she took the pan off the heat, covered it with muslin cloth, then left it to stand on the dresser.
‘So,’ Marianne said. ‘Your father.’
Lucie nodded. ‘He and six other POWs arrived in Carcassonne yesterday. I’d forgotten what it was like. Tiptoeing around him, trying to second-guess his mood.’
‘What happened?’
‘At lunchtime he went to find some of his old LVF buddies at the Café Edouard. No doubt to boast about how tough he was, how he’d survived being in prison, how he ran rings around the guards.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Well, of course everyone wanted to buy him a drink, and so . . .’ Lucie shrug
ged.
‘Someone said something about Max?’
‘Your neighbour,’ Lucie said, jerking her head in the direction of the house next door. ‘What’s he called?’
‘Fournier.’
‘That’s right. They got talking and Fournier said something about how ashamed my father must be . . .’ Lucie broke off. ‘Well, you can imagine. The next thing, he was storming back into the house, shouting at my mother, demanding to know if it’s true.’
‘Lord,’ Marianne said softly, taking her hand.
‘My mother tried to calm him down, told him I was out, but he was in no mood to listen. She cut her head on the corner of the cupboard, but she stuck up for me.’ She stopped. ‘For once, Marianne, my mother stuck up for me. Told him it was gossip. That I’d hardly left the house for weeks.’ She paused again. ‘When he demanded to know where I was, she said I’d gone to the market.’
‘Did he believe her?’
Lucie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He was so drunk, he could barely stand up. I could hear him banging into the furniture. I stayed in the bathroom, praying he wouldn’t be able to get up the stairs. I knew he’d pass out eventually. Once I heard him snoring, I crept out and my mother told me to go before he woke up.’ She looked at Marianne, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘I packed and came here. I’m sorry.’
‘Are you saying that she’s turned you out for good?’
‘It’s him or me,’ Lucie said. ‘It’s always been that way. What’s she to do?’
‘Oh, Lucie.’
‘I know you don’t want me here, I know you hate me at the moment. But I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘I don’t hate you, you little fool,’ Marianne said, ‘I just . . .’
She stopped. There was no point going over it all again.
‘I did try to telephone to warn you about Captain Authié. I was telling the truth. And I swear I didn’t tell him anything else. He’s going to help me, I know he’ll keep his word.’
Marianne swallowed a sigh, realising Lucie was determined to hold on to the only chance she thought she had. She got up, went to the larder and poured two small glasses of red wine.
‘Still no news about Max then?’ she said.
Lucie shook her head. ‘I have no rights, I’m not his wife or a relation. No one will tell me anything.’ She glanced at Marianne, then let her gaze slide back to her lap. ‘Captain Authié is the only person, the only one who’s offered to help at all. And I have to know how Max is, I have to. That everything’s going to be all right.’
‘It will be,’ Marianne said mechanically, knowing the odds were against it. Every day the news was worse. ‘It might take a little time, but we will find out what’s happening.’
‘That’s the thing,’ Lucie said desperately. ‘I don’t have time.’
‘Of course you do. We’ll find out why Max has been arrested, and then you can at least write to him. I know it’s dreadful waiting, but a few days here or there won’t make any difference.’
Lucie shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘Understand what?’
Lucie drew in her breath. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ Marianne sat back in her chair. ‘I see.’
‘We were careful. I don’t understand how it happened.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, then, ‘Does Max know?’
She shook her head. ‘I wanted him to be the first to know.’ She looked up. ‘We wanted to get married, you know we did, but . . . he didn’t want to put me at risk. He was thinking of me.’
‘Do you think your mother guessed?’
‘I have been dreadfully sick.’
‘Perhaps she was thinking of you after all.’
‘Maybe.’
They heard the kitchen door open and Suzanne came in from the garden. She looked at Lucie with surprise, then put her hand on Marianne’s shoulder.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Lucie’s pregnant,’ Marianne replied.
‘What!’ said Suzanne.
‘Her father’s back and Fournier told him she’d been seen out with Max. She came here to get away from him.’
‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ Lucie said.
Suzanne folded her arms and leant back against the dresser. ‘You can’t stay here. Fournier’s next door and his sister’s always at the window, snooping and passing on information.’
Lucie rubbed her face with her handkerchief. ‘But what am I going to do? No one can know.’
Marianne and Suzanne exchanged glances. Suzanne shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ she said.
Marianne thought for a moment, then she sighed.
‘Lucie, listen. I’ve heard nothing from Sandrine, and that’s unlike her. And she needs to know that someone’s looking for her. I sent a telegram, but we were thinking of going to see if things are all right.’
For a moment, hurt shone in Lucie’s eyes. ‘You were going to go without telling me?’
‘Do you blame us?’ Suzanne said sharply.
‘But I . . .’ she began, then shook her head. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’ She paused. ‘When were you going to go?’
‘As soon as we can,’ Marianne replied. ‘You’d better come with us. You’ll be safer there with Liesl and Marieta until . . .’
For a moment Lucie looked relieved, then her expression changed. ‘But if I leave Carcassonne,’ she said, anxiety mounting in her voice, ‘how will Captain Authié contact me when he gets permission for me to visit Max? I can’t leave.’
‘Lucie, stop,’ Marianne said sharply. ‘You’ve got to get it into your head that you can’t trust Authié. He only made the promise to get you to talk about Sandrine. He’s not on your side. Certainly not on Max’s side.’
‘But I’m not interested in politics,’ Lucie protested. ‘I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want to get on with my life with Max, that’s all.’
‘Those days are gone. The occupation affects everything we do, whether you choose to accept it or not.’
Finally, tears began to roll down Lucie’s cheeks. ‘There must be something.’
‘You need to think of yourself now,’ Marianne said firmly. ‘Of the baby. That’s what Max would want you to do.’
‘How far gone are you?’ said Suzanne in her abrupt way.
‘Three months.’
She did the arithmetic. ‘Due in January.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Haven’t you seen a doctor?’
‘How can I?’ she wailed. ‘I’m not married. They’d want to know who the father is. I can’t.’
‘You don’t show,’ Suzanne said.
‘I haven’t been able to keep anything down for weeks.’
‘All the more reason to get you to the country,’ Marianne said. ‘A few weeks of Marieta’s cooking and you’ll be your old self. We’ll carry on trying to find out what’s happened to Max, without Authié’s help. You mustn’t worry any more.’
Lucie was picking at a thread of cotton on her sleeve, thinking about what to do. Marianne smiled. Lucie had always been the same. Holding any set of views passionately, but just as likely to turn round and do the precise opposite.
‘What do you say?’ she asked.
When Lucie raised her head, Marianne saw her eyes were now dry. ‘Would it help if I could get hold of a car?’ she asked.
Marianne looked at her, then at Suzanne, then burst out laughing.
Chapter 78
COUSTAUSSA
Sandrine and Raoul were in the woods beyond the Andrieu farm, with six empty glass jars, Raoul’s service revolver and some ammunition. Sandrine had tied her hair back off her face and was wearing an old shirt and a pair of slacks of her father’s, held up with a leather belt. Raoul’s hair was short – cut by Sandrine in the bathroom – and he’d shaved off his beard. He looked more like his old self, the face on the poster, but nothing like the man the Couiza police were looking for.
‘Bend your knees and set your fe
et further apart,’ he said. ‘No wider than your shoulders. The first rule of marksmanship is that the position and hold must be firm enough to support the weapon.’ He paused. ‘So, are you comfortable?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Raise your right arm, straight in front of you,’ he said. ‘The gun’s got to point naturally at the target. Otherwise the recoil will knock you off balance.’
‘It feels all right.’
‘Good. Now, close your left eye, focus with your right. Look down the barrel, through the sight. Make yourself breathe, slowly, in and out, get used to the position.’
‘Can I shoot?’
‘Be patient!’ he laughed. ‘This isn’t about firing a shotgun at a rabbit, whatever lessons those country boys might have taught you. It’s about precision, putting the bullet where you want it to go. About being patient.’
‘I am being patient,’ Sandrine protested.
He laughed again. ‘Now slowly, very slowly, squeeze your finger towards you; you’re gently pulling the trigger, not jerking at it. Squeeze it. Keep your eye all the time on the target, don’t look at anything else, just keep the target in your sight. Then, and only then, when you’re ready, shoot.’
Sandrine felt a strange calm go through her. The steady beating of her blood in her ears, an awareness of each of the muscles in her neck, her arm, connected all the way down to the tip of her right index finger on the metal trigger. She ceased to be aware of Raoul or that he was watching her. She exhaled, then, slowly, squeezed. At the last moment, the barrel jumped and the bullet went high.
Frustrated, she let her arm drop. ‘What happened?’ she said, cross with herself.
‘It’s what always happens to start with.’
‘It didn’t used to happen.’
‘A shotgun’s a very different weapon.’
‘I meant Yves’ father’s revolver, a souvenir of the war.’ She paused. ‘The last war, I mean.’
‘Who’s Yves?’
‘Just a boy from the village,’ she said quickly. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘I see.’ Raoul looked at her. ‘The shot must be released and followed through without any change to your firing position. You anticipated the shot, so at the very last second you lost your aim.’