The Templars' Last Secret

by Martin Walker

  The count nodded, looking down again at the dead woman. Suddenly he seemed to notice something. “That horn beside her hand,” he said sharply. “Who put it there?”

  “It was here when I arrived. I was going to ask the guy at the gate if he’d seen it, too. Why?”

  The count was already striding back to the small hut, where Jean-Philippe was laying brochures, guidebooks and souvenirs on the counter. There was a smell of coffee in the air. As Bruno followed, he saw a machine steaming away at the back of the kiosk.

  “No, of course I didn’t put it there. Where would I have found it? The horn was lying by her hand when I first saw her,” Jean-Philippe was saying as the count looked fiercely at him.

  “Whoever did it, it’s not funny,” said the count. He pulled a guidebook from the stack, opened it to a page and handed it to Bruno. “Here, look at this. The Venus of Laussel, found just across the way.”

  It was a photo that Bruno remembered seeing in the magazine that carried Horst’s article, one of a plump woman standing with an arm raised, holding the horn close to her ear. It might almost have been a telephone. The woman had no face; the stone above her chest had been eroded. But there was a suggestion of long hair on the opposite side of her head from the horn.

  “It’s the same pose,” the count said. “That couldn’t have happened by chance. Somebody who knows about the Venus of Laussel put that horn by her hand deliberately.”

  And she wasn’t climbing alone, Bruno thought. He looked again at the photo. This Venus was not a statue but an engraving carved into the rock. There was no sense of scale, and Bruno asked what size it was.

  “About half a meter tall. It was found here with several other engravings, all from the same period, about twenty-five thousand years ago,” the count said. There had been another Venus, less well preserved, also holding what could have been a horn. It was called the Venus of Berlin because it had been sold to a German museum in 1912, where it was destroyed during the last war. But there was also an engraving of a much-slimmer young woman, seen from the side, and another of two women joined at the hip, one sitting upright, the other upside down.

  “It’s a real treasure trove,” the count went on. “Alongside the two women was another engraving, la femme à la tête quadrillée, or the Venus with the net, since her head is covered in something that looks like one. If they’d left it all in place it would be one of the most important sites in France, but the collection was broken up, and the main engravings are now in the Bordeaux museum.”

  “Are they sure it was a horn?” Bruno asked, squinting at the guidebook photo. “It could be a big seashell.”

  “It could also be a crescent moon,” the count replied. “There are thirteen vertical stripes on it, which could refer to the lunar calendar, and if these Venus figures are fertility symbols those stripes could be linked to the female menstrual cycle. We don’t know. Some scholars suggest it might be one of the first-known musical instruments, perhaps a hunting horn.”

  “So do you still think the Templar enthusiasts are involved in this?”

  The count shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but the Templar people have been here several times, bringing metal detectors and spades to dig around. They’re a menace, but any serious archaeologist is always welcome, they just have to go through the usual application procedures with the Ministry of Culture and the museum at Les Eyzies. We’ve got two or three who have been approved and are coming this summer, working under Horst’s supervision. We’ve also got a seismic and radio-sounding team starting work to look for caves we haven’t found yet. Clothilde arranged that.”

  “Tell me about these Templar enthusiasts and what they thought they were looking for,” Bruno said, nodding his thanks as Jean-Philippe handed him a paper cup of coffee. “I know they were Crusaders, some kind of religious order in the Holy Land, but that’s about all I do know.”

  The count grinned, looking almost boyish. “Have you ever crossed the Pont Neuf in Paris?”

  Bruno nodded. “Both ways. Left Bank to Right Bank and back again.”

  “Then when you reached the island in the middle of the Seine, you went past the entrance to place Dauphine. Right at that spot was where Jacques de Molay, the last master of the Templars, was burned at the stake in 1314. It’s also where he pronounced his famous curse on Philip IV and the pope and on the royal line of the Capetians. Before the year was out, king and pope were both dead, and the throne of France had passed to the house of Valois. The Templar curse had come true.”

  The king’s excuse for their suppression, the count went on to explain, was the allegation that the Templars had become corrupted, indulging in witchcraft, sodomy and every other sin he and the pope could think of. The king’s real motives were less high-minded; he feared that they were becoming a state within the state, and he wanted their lands and their money. Not long before, he’d embarked on a pogrom against the Jews in France, confiscating their wealth. Having spent that, the Templars offered the next available fortune.

  “There’s even a story,” the count added, “that when the king was guillotined during the Revolution, nearly five centuries later, somebody dipped a handkerchief in the royal blood and called out, ‘Jacques de Molay, you are avenged.’ That was in the place de la Concorde.”

  “So the Templars weren’t wiped out?”

  The count shrugged. “A lot of the Freemason groups of the eighteenth century claimed descent from the Templars. Freemasons were for reform, a constitution, cutting down the power of the Church, all those Enlightenment causes. That’s why several of the leaders of the American Revolution were Freemasons. Did you ever see an American dollar bill? It carries the eye in the pyramid, one of the symbols of the Illuminati, a Freemason sect. Curious, no?”

  Bruno had over the years heard various conspiracy theories about the Freemasons, but this was a new one. He asked, “But why are people still so interested in the Templars?”

  “It’s the legend of lost treasure. The Templars were supposed to be very rich, which is why the king of France suppressed them and took all their property after the Crusaders had been driven out of the Holy Land. I’m no expert, but there’s a very clever medieval scholar named Dumesnil who lives in Sarlat and has written a couple of books about them. I think he teaches at the lycée in Brive.”

  “And what have the Templars to do with your château?”

  “It’s a Templar site. When my ancestor, Gérard de Commarque, went off to the Crusades in the early twelfth century, he entrusted the place to the Templars.”

  “When did your family get it back?”

  “Good question. Ownership became somewhat confused. But there’s no doubt it belonged to us, although the counts of Beynac kept trying to take it over. Charlemagne gave the land around here to my earliest-known ancestor, Bovon de Commarque, for brave deeds in fighting off the Viking raids. You know they sacked Bordeaux and Bergerac and even the Abbey of Paunat, just downstream from St. Denis?”

  Bruno nodded. “Looking for loot, just like King Philip and the Templars.”

  The count laughed. “You don’t call it looting when the king does it.” Thinking of the body, his facial expression hardened. “Sometimes I wonder if we don’t have too much history here in France.”

  “Your family made a lot of it,” said Bruno, trying to keep his voice neutral. As an orphan who had never known his parents, he’d always assumed that his own family had played humble roles in France’s past. At best they had been poor peasants, dying young of disease or famine; at worst, they had been victims, foot soldiers or cannon fodder for the dreams and ambitions of the nobles. Bruno was a good republican, reckoning that despite the horrors of the Terror, the Revolution of 1789 had on the whole been good for France. The count had probably lost some of his forebears to the guillotine and may have felt differently.

  The count looked at him sharply. “Your ancestors also helped make our history, one way or another. And mine at least had the good sense to look for wive
s elsewhere than their fellow aristocrats. That’s probably why our line didn’t die out. And I didn’t inherit this place, you know. I had to buy it back.”

  “And you’re doing well by it,” Bruno said, and meant it. He admired the research and restoration work the count had carried out for three decades. “Where could I find this secretary of the Templar enthusiasts?”

  The count pulled out a mobile phone and read out the name and number. “He’s a pleasant-enough guy, if a bit dull, a retired civil servant who worked for the finance ministry. I imagine the Templars added some interest to his life. And here is that Templar scholar I mentioned, Auguste Dumesnil. I don’t have his phone number, but for his e-mail put a dot between his names and just add @orange.fr.”

  Bruno thanked him, scribbling down the details in his notebook. “Can you think of any other reason than treasure hunting for the dead woman’s presence here?”

  “If she was climbing the cliff to the donjon wall, I doubt she was looking for treasure,” the count replied. “There are easier ways to get into the courtyards, which is where the treasure hunters usually go with their metal detectors. And those who don’t look in the courtyard concentrate on the caves beneath.”

  “So what might she have been looking for in the donjon?”

  “I have no idea,” the count replied, shaking his head. “Since we stabilized the ruins and began the restoration, the donjon has been very thoroughly examined as part of the rebuilding. There’s nothing in the place, apart from the exhibition of photographs of various archaeological finds, and anybody can pay the admission and see those. Over the centuries since the wars of religion, it was thoroughly looted. Even some of the stones were taken for building. Maybe the graffiti was her only purpose and, if so, perhaps she wasn’t climbing up but climbing down from the tower. Let’s go up and take a look.”

  He unlocked the entrance gate to the château, and they climbed up the winding path to the donjon, the fortified keep where the defenders could hold out even if the courtyard had fallen to the attackers. The count’s guided tour revealed nothing of interest, no furniture except for some display cases in an upper room showing the process of restoration. As they came down, Bruno saw J-J’s car crawling carefully down the rutted road, followed by the crime scene truck.

  Looking at his watch and saying he was expected in court, Bruno introduced J-J to the count, led the way to the body and pointed out the graffiti. “When I get back from court, I’ll distribute the photos I’ve taken to the local media,” Bruno said. “Anything else I can do, just let me know.”

  “We’ll stay in touch,” said J-J, looking up at the graffiti and scratching his head. “Any idea what the hell that scrawl could mean?”

  “It could be English or some other language,” said Bruno, shrugging. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t French.”

  “I’ll call you this afternoon, after what I imagine will be a difficult meeting with the prefect about this pedophile business,” J-J said.

  “Why is he involved?” Bruno asked. “It’s a police matter.”

  Prefects were appointed by the president of France to be the representative of the French state in each of the country’s 101 départements. Mainly concerned with ensuring the local governments operated in accord with national policy, prefects also took charge during national disasters and had a special role in coordinating the various arms of the police. Operational matters, however, were usually left to the police officials.

  “He says it’s a question of public confidence in the police.”

  “Are you getting anywhere with it?”

  “Not really. It’s a hell of a case, all happening thirty years ago. The three complainants have histories of mental illness, and their accusations come from what the psychologist treating them calls ‘recovered memories.’ In other words, they never mentioned being abused until this woman began working with them. We’ve tracked down and interviewed every one of the other kids at the home at the time, and not one admits to being mistreated.” He looked up at Bruno. “You were in one of those church orphanages, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but I was at the one in Bergerac. And I was only there for a few years before my aunt was able to take me in to live with her family. I was caned on the backside and had my knuckles rapped with a ruler a few times. But I was never abused sexually and didn’t hear of anything like that while I was at the home. The worst thing that ever happened to me was when the priest said animals didn’t have souls and so would never go to heaven. That broke my little heart. I’d have been about five at the time, and I’ve never felt the same about religion since.”

  J-J nodded. “It’s a lousy situation and I’m in the middle, with all my detectives ready to go on strike if they have to do any more work on a case they think is a bunch of fantasies. But the magistrate in charge seems ready to believe anything this psychologist says and insists we keep up the inquiry. And the prefect’s wife is just the same.”

  “What does Prunier say?” Bruno asked, referring to J-J’s boss, the police commissioner for the region.

  “He’s tried to get the file closed, but the prefect won’t hear of it, even though most of the other inmates at Mussidan don’t believe it ever happened. It’s just these three and one of the ex-nuns, who says there was a discreet policy not to leave a couple of the priests alone with any of the children. She’s not the most reliable witness, since she became an alcoholic after she left the Church.” J-J rolled his eyes. “She’s another one being treated by this same psychologist.”

  “It all sounds pretty thin.”

  “Not to the investigating magistrate it doesn’t. She’s out to make a name for herself and thinking everything this psychologist says is gospel truth. Anyway, that’s my problem. I’ll call you after I see the prefect.”

  Chapter 4

  Bruno reached the courthouse in Sarlat with a few minutes to spare but had to push his way through two small groups of demonstrators confronting each other on the steps. One was waving banners proclaiming membership in the CGT trade union, long linked to the Communists, while others held placards declaring NO SLAVE LABOR and chanting “Keep Sundays free.” The other group, dressed in bakery white with flour smeared on their faces, was chanting “We want to work.” The scene did not look angry to Bruno, and one of the trade union demonstrators, a man with whom he’d played rugby, greeted him and shook his hand. But Bruno reminded himself that you never knew where trouble might start.

  Two of the town policemen kept a path clear for people to enter the courthouse but made no other attempt to interfere. Hugues and his lawyer greeted him with smiles of relief, although Bruno was only there to be a character witness for one of the hardest-working men he knew. Hugues had been born and raised in St. Denis but ran his thriving bakery business in a new development for light industry outside Sarlat. Bruno had known him as a teenager, learning the bakery business as an apprentice at Fauquet’s. When his grandmother died, leaving her house to the family, Hugues had persuaded his father to sell it and invest the money in Hugues’s plan for a bakery of his own. It had been the peak of the property market, just before the crash, and he took over the lease of a sleepy small bakery on the outskirts of Sarlat.

  From the beginning, Hugues had big ambitions. He had enough money to install modern equipment and then pursued his belief that the baking industry was poised for a revolution. The tradition of small artisan bakers serving a static neighborhood clientele was already under threat from the supermarkets selling bread and cakes more cheaply. But Hugues reckoned there was another market to attack. He visited every hotel, restaurant and campsite in the area and offered to deliver them fresh breads and croissants every morning in time for breakfast. The goods would be free for the first week, and if they liked the products, they could sign a contract.

  Supplying the hotels and campsites meant he had to deliver his goods seven days a week, and that was where Hugues ran into trouble. Under French employment law, a bakery was supposed to close at least one day a we
ek to ensure that the employees had a day off. Hugues was proud of his employees and by now had opened a second bakery in Périgueux and was employing sixteen people, all of them earning above minimum wage with a profit-sharing bonus on top. The thirty-five-hour workweek was in force so he organized them on a shift system, which meant that every employee worked only five days each week, although the baking ovens were working flat out each day. In Hugues’s view, he was in full compliance with the labor laws.

  But that was not the view of the Clic-P movement, an alliance of labor unions in the retail and service industries that had launched a nationwide campaign against working on Sundays and late hours. Bruno understood the principle of their campaign, but could not understand why they had picked on Hugues and suspected that the local union leaders simply saw him as an easy target.

  “I can’t believe I’m facing a criminal record for delivering bread on Sundays,” Hugues said. “Nor can the staff.” He pointed to the group of employees outside who had rallied to support him, some still in the white aprons and hairnets they wore in the bakery.

  “Will you really have to close down?” Bruno asked.

  “No, because we have the second bakery. With each one working six days a week I can juggle things so we make bread every day,” he replied. “But delivering to the Sarlat area from Périgueux and then from Périgueux to Sarlat just for one day a week each means I’ll have to hire more delivery people. That drives up costs and I’ve already got to pay off a new bank loan for the second bakery. Not to mention the legal fees. What really annoys me is that the whole thing has become political. The unions are trying to get the left-wing mayors and councils to boycott my products, and the conservatives want to turn me into some kind of martyr. That’s the last thing I want.”

  The case was called. A police tribunal was a relatively informal court meant to try minor offenses before a single judge aided by a legal clerk. Bruno’s role was brief. He was called as a character witness who had known Hugues for ten years. Bruno praised him as a generous and kindly man always prepared to support local causes. At the end of each day, the last delivery of his drivers was to hand over that day’s unsold bread to the Restos du Coeur, which fed the needy, and to other local charities. Hugues’s lawyer then called three of Hugues’s employees, each of them a union member and one of them a Socialist councillor, who praised their employer and his working practices. The problem, the lawyer suggested, was the careless phrasing of the law.