Labyrinth

by Kate Mosse

  Alice followed the note to the asterisk to the bottom of the page. Rather than a footnote there was a quotation from the Gospel of St John, chapter eight, verse thirty-two: ‘And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’

  She raised her eyebrows. It didn’t seem to have much relevance to the text at all.

  Alice put Baillard’s book with the others ready to take with her, then crossed to the back bedroom.

  There was an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine, incongruously English in the thick-walled French house. Her mother had had one exactly like it and sat sewing for hours on end, filling the house with the comforting thud and rat-a-tat of the treadle.

  Alice smoothed her hand over the dust-covered surface. It looked to be in good working order. She opened each of the compartments in turn, finding cotton reels, needles, pins, fragments of lace and ribbon, a card of old-fashioned silver poppers and a box of assorted buttons.

  She turned to the oak desk by the window which overlooked a small, enclosed courtyard at the back of the house. The first two drawers were lined with wallpaper but completely empty. The third, surprisingly, was locked, although the key had been left in the keyhole.

  With a combination of force and jiggling of the tiny silver key, Alice managed to pull it open. Sitting at the bottom of the drawer was a shoebox. She lifted it out and placed it on top of the desk.

  Everything was very neat inside. There was a bundle of photographs tied up with string. A single letter lay loose on the top. It was addressed to Mme Tanner in black, spidery script. Postmarked Carcassonne, 16 Mars 2005, the word PRIORITAIRE was stamped across it in red. There was no return address on the back, simply a name printed in the same italic script: Expéditeur Audric S Baillard.

  Alice slid her fingers inside and pulled out a single sheet of thick, cream paper. There was no date or address or explanation, just a poem written in the same hand.

  Bona nuèit, bona nuèit . . .

  Braves amics, pica mièja-nuèit

  Cal finir velhada

  Ejos la flassada

  A faint memory rippled across the surface of her mind like a song long forgotten. The words scratched at the top of the steps in the cave. It was the same language, she’d swear, her unconscious mind making the connection her conscious mind could not.

  Alice leaned back against the bed. March the sixteenth, a couple of days before her aunt’s death. Had she put it in the box herself or had that been left to someone else? Baillard himself?

  Putting the poem to one side, Alice undid the string.

  There were ten photographs in all, all black and white and arranged in chronological order. The month, place and date were printed on the back in capital letters in pencil. The first photograph was a studio portrait of a serious little boy in school uniform, his hair combed flat with a sharp parting. Alice turned it over. FREDERICK WILLIAM TANNER, SEPTEMBER 1937 was written on the back in blue ink. Different handwriting.

  Her heart did a somersault. The same photo of her dad had stood on the mantelpiece at home, next to her parents’ wedding photograph and a portrait of Alice herself at the age of six in a smocked party dress with puffed sleeves. She traced the lines of his face with her fingers. It proved, if nothing else, that Grace was aware of her little brother’s existence, even if they’d never met.

  Alice put it to one side and moved to the next, working her way methodically through the pile. The earliest photograph she found of her aunt herself was surprisingly recent, taken at a summer fete in July 1958.

  There was a distinct family resemblance. Like Alice, Grace was petite with delicate, almost elfin, features, although her hair was straight and grey and cut uncompromisingly short. Grace was looking straight at the camera, her handbag held firmly in front of her like a barrier.

  The final photograph was another shot of Grace, a few years older, standing with an elderly man. Alice creased her brow. He reminded her of someone. She turned the photo slightly, to change the way the light fell on the image.

  They were standing in front of an old stone wall. There was something formal about the pose, as if they didn’t know each other well. From their clothes, it was late spring or summer. Grace was wearing a short-sleeved summer dress, gathered at the waist. Her companion was tall and very thin in a pale summer suit. His face was obscured by the shadow of his panama hat but his speckled, creased hands gave his age away.

  On the wall behind them a French street sign was partially visible. Alice peered at the tiny sign and managed to make out the words rue des Trois Degrès. The caption on the back was in Baillard’s spidery handwriting: AB e GT, junh 1993, Chartres.

  Chartres again. Grace and Audric Baillard, it had to be. And 1993, the year her parents had died.

  Putting that to one side too, Alice took out the only item left in the box, a small, old-fashioned book. The black leather was cracked and held together with a corroded brass zip and the words HOLY BIBLE were embossed in gold on the front.

  After several attempts, Alice managed to get it open. At first glance, it seemed like any other standard King James edition. It was only when she got three-quarters of the way through that she discovered a hole had been cut through the tissue-thin pages to create a shallow, rectangular hiding place, about four inches by three.

  Inside, folded tight, were several sheets of paper, which Alice carefully opened out. A pale stone disc, the size of a one-euro piece, fell out and landed in her lap. It was flat and very thin, made of stone, not metal. Surprised, she balanced it between her fingers. There were two letters engraved on it. NS. Compass points? Somebody’s initials? Some kind of currency?

  Alice turned the disc over. Engraved on the other side was the labyrinth, identical in every respect to the markings on the underside of the ring and on the wall of the cave.

  Common sense told her there would be a perfectly acceptable explanation for the coincidence, although nothing came immediately to mind. She looked with apprehension at the papers that had contained the disc. She was nervous of what she might discover, but she was too curious to leave them unopened.

  You can’t stop now.

  Alice began to unfold the pages. She had to stop herself sighing with relief. It was only a family tree. The first sheet was headed ARBRE GÉNÉALOGIQUE. The ink was faded and hard to read in places, but certain words stood out. Most names were in black, but on the second line one name, ALAÏS PELLETIER-DU MAS (1193–), was written in red ink. Alice couldn’t decipher the name next to it but, on the line below and set slightly to the right, was another name, SAJHË DE SERVIAN, written in green.

  Beside both names was a small, delicate motif picked out in gold. Alice reached for the stone disc and laid it next to the symbol on the page, pattern side up. They were identical.

  One by one, she turned the sheets over until she got to the last page. There she found an entry for Grace, her date of death added in a different colour ink. Below that and to the side were Alice’s parents.

  The final entry was hers. ALICE GRACE (1976-) picked out in red ink. Next to it, the labyrinth symbol.

  With her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms hooped around her legs, Alice lost track of how long she sat in the still, abandoned room. Finally, she understood. The past was reaching out to claim her. Whether she wished it or not.

  CHAPTER 43

  The journey back from Sallèles d’Aude to Carcassonne passed in a blur. When Alice got back, the hotel lobby was crowded with new arrivals, so she retrieved her key herself from its hook, and then went upstairs without anyone noticing.

  As she went to unlock the door, she noticed it was ajar.

  Alice hesitated. She put the shoebox and books down on the ground, then carefully pushed the door open wide.

  “Allo? Hello?’

  She cast her eyes around the room. Everything inside looked as she’d left it. Still feeling apprehensive, Alice stepped over the things on the threshold, and took a cautious step inside. She stopped. There was a smell of vanilla an
d stale tobacco.

  There was a movement behind the door. Her heart leaped into her mouth. She spun round, just in time to register a grey jacket and black hair reflected in the glass, before she was shoved hard in the chest and sent flying back. Her head smashed against the mirrored door of the wardrobe, setting the wire coat hangers on the rail inside rattling like marbles on a tin roof.

  The room went fuzzy around the edges. Everything dancing, out of focus. Alice blinked. She could hear him running away down the corridor. Go. Quick.

  Alice staggered to her feet and went after him. She hurtled down the stairs and into the lobby, where a large party of Italians were blocking her exit. In panic, she cast her eyes around the busy lobby, just in time to see the man disappearing through the side entrance.

  She pushed her way through the forest of people and luggage, clambering over suitcases and luggage, then out after him into the gardens. He was already at the top of the drive. Summoning every last ounce of energy, Alice ran, but he was too fast.

  By the time she reached the main road, there was no sign of him. He’d disappeared into the crowds of tourists on their way down from the Cite. Alice put her hands on her knees, trying to get her breath back. Then she straightened up and felt the back of her head with her fingers. Already a bruise was forming.

  With a last look at the road, Alice turned and walked back to reception. Apologising, she went straight to the front of the queue.

  ‘Pardon, mais vous l’avez vu?’

  The girl on duty looked put out. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished with this gentleman,’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid this can’t wait,’ she said. ‘There was someone in my room. He just ran out. A couple of minutes ago.’

  ‘Really, Madame, if you could just wait a moment — ’

  Alice raised her voice so that everyone could hear. ‘Il y avait quelqu’un dans ma chambre. Un voleur.’

  The crowded reception fell silent. The girl’s eyes widened. She slid from her stool and disappeared. Seconds later, the owner of the hotel appeared and steered Alice away from the main area.

  What seems to be the problem, Madame?’ he said in a low voice.

  Alice explained.

  ‘The door’s not been forced,’ he said, checking the catch, when he accompanied her back upstairs.

  With the proprietor watching from the doorway, Alice checked to see if anything was missing. To her confusion, nothing was. Her passport was still at the bottom of the wardrobe, although it had been moved. The same was true of the contents of her rucksack. Nothing was gone, but it was all in slightly the wrong place. Hardly proof.

  Alice checked the bathroom. At last, she’d found something.

  ‘Monsieur, s’il vous plait,’ she called out. She pointed at the hand basin. ‘Regardez.’

  There was a strong smell of lavender where her soap had been hacked into pieces. Her toothpaste also had been cut open and the contents squeezed out. ‘Voilà. Comme je vous ai dit.’ As I told you.

  He looked concerned, but doubtful. Did Madame want him to call the police? He would ask the other guests if they had noticed anything, of course, but since nothing seemed to be missing. . .? He left the sentence hanging.

  The shock suddenly kicked in. This wasn’t a random burglary. Whoever it was had been looking for something specific, something they believed she had.

  Who knew she was here? Noubel, Paul Authié, Karen Fleury and her staff, Shelagh. To her knowledge, no one else.

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No police. Since nothing’s gone. But I want to move to another room.’ He started to protest that the hotel was full, then stopped when he saw the look on her face.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Twenty minutes later, Alice was installed in a different part of the hotel.

  She was nervous. For the second or third time, she checked the door was locked and the windows fastened. She sat on the bed surrounded by her things, trying to decide what to do. Alice got up, walked around the tiny room, sat down again, got up again. She was still not certain she shouldn’t move to a new hotel.

  What if he comes back tonight?

  An alarm went off. Alice jumped out of her skin, before realising it was only her phone, ringing in her jacket pocket.

  “Allo, oui?’

  It was a relief to hear Stephen’s voice, one of Shelagh’s colleagues from the dig. ‘Hi, Steve. No, sorry. I only just got in. I haven’t had time to check my messages yet. What’s up?’

  As she listened, the colour drained from her face as he told her the dig was being closed down.

  ‘But why? What possible reason did Brayling give?’

  ‘He said it wasn’t up to him.’

  ‘Just because of the skeletons?’

  ‘The police didn’t say.’

  Her heart started to thump. ‘They were there when Brayling announced this?’ she said.

  ‘They were partly there about Shelagh,’ he said, then stopped. ‘I was just wondering, Alice, if you’d heard from her at all since you left.’

  ‘Not a thing since Monday. I tried her several times yesterday, but she’s not returned any of my calls. Why?’

  Alice found herself on her feet as she waited for Stephen to answer.

  ‘She seems to have gone off,’ he said in the end. ‘Brayling’s inclined to put a sinister interpretation on it. He suspects her of stealing something from the site.’

  ‘Shelagh wouldn’t do that,’ she exclaimed. ‘No way. She’s not the sort to . . .’

  But as she was speaking, the thought of Shelagh’s angry white face came back to her. She felt disloyal, but Alice was suddenly less confident.

  ‘Is this what the police think too?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just all a bit odd,’ he said vaguely. ‘One of the policemen at the site on Monday has been killed by a hit-and-run driver in Foix,’ he continued. ‘It was in the paper. It appears Shelagh and he knew each other.’

  Alice sank down on to the bed. ‘Sorry, Steve. I’m finding this hard to take in. Is anybody looking for her? Doing anything at all?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ he said tentatively. ‘I’d do it myself, but I’m heading home first thing tomorrow. No point hanging about.’

  What is it?’

  ‘Before the excavation started, I know Shelagh was staying with friends in Chartres. It did occur to me that she might have gone there, just forgotten to let anyone know.’

  It seemed a long shot to Alice, but it was better than nothing.

  ‘I did call the number. A boy answered and claimed not to have heard of Shelagh, but I’m sure it’s the number she gave me. I had it stored in my phone.’

  Alice picked up a pencil and paper. ‘Give it to me. I’ll have a go,’ she said, poised to write.

  Her hand froze.

  ‘I’m sorry, Steve.’ Her voice sounded hollow, as if she was speaking from a long way away. ‘Run that by me again.’

  ‘It’s 02 68 72 31 26,’ he repeated. ‘And you’ll let me know if you find out anything?’

  It was the number Biau had given her.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she said, barely aware of what she was saying. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  Alice knew she should call Noubel. Tell him about her non-burglary and her encounter with Biau, but she hesitated. She wasn’t sure she could trust Noubel. He’d done nothing to stop Authié.

  She reached into her rucksack and pulled out her road-map of France. The idea’s crazy. It’s an eight-hour drive at least.

  Something was niggling at the back of her mind. She went back to the notes she’d made in the library.

  In the mountain of words about Chartres Cathedral, there had been a passing reference to the Holy Grail. There, too, was a labyrinth. Alice found the paragraph she was looking for. She read it through twice, to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood, then she jerked the chair out from under the desk and sat down with the book by Audric Baillard and opened it at the page m
arked.

  Others believed it to have been the final resting place of the Graal. It has been suggested that the Cathars were the guardians of the Cup of Christ. . .

  The Cathar treasure was smuggled away from Montségur. To the Pic de Soularac? Alice turned to the map at the front of the book. Montségur to the Sabarthès Mountains was not far. What if the treasure was hidden there?

  What connects Chartres and Carcassonne?

  In the distance, she heard the first growls of thunder. The room was now bathed in a strange orange light from the streetlamps outside bouncing off the underside of the night clouds. A wind had blown up, rattling the shutters and sending bits of rubbish scuttling across the car parks.

  As Alice drew the curtains the first heavy drops of rain started to fall, exploding like spots of black ink on the windowsill. She wanted to leave now. But it was late and she didn’t want to risk driving through the storm.

  She locked the windows and doors, set her alarm, then climbed fully clothed into bed to wait for the morning.

  At first, everything was the same. Familiar, peaceful. She was floating in the white weightless world, transparent and silent. Then, like the trap door clattering open beneath the gallows, there was a sudden lurch and she fell down through the open sky towards the wooded mountainside rushing up to meet her.

  She knew where she was. At Montségur, in early summer.

  Alice started to run as soon as her feet hit the ground, stumbling along a steep, rough forest track between two columns of high trees. The trees were dense and tall and towered above her. She grabbed at the branches to slow herself, but her hands went straight through and clumps of tiny leaves came away in her fingers, like hair on a brush, staining the tips green.

  The path sloped away beneath her feet. Alice was aware of the crunch of stone and rock, which had replaced the soft earth, moss and twigs on the track higher up the mountain. Still, there was no sound. No birds singing, no voices calling, nothing but her own ragged breathing.