He pointed his torch into the gap and saw steps going down. They looked even steeper and cruder than the ones in the cave. But at least he’d found the entrance. He leaned in and called Isabelle’s name, but heard no reply.
He sat back and considered. He’d done quite enough rushing into things this evening. He went back to his van and turned off the lights and the engine. He disentangled Balzac from the fishing line and tucked the puppy into the front of his uniform shirt. In the glove compartment he found spare batteries he’d bought in a rare moment of forethought. He took his small hiking rucksack, put in his first-aid kit, a bottle of water and a stretch of nylon rope. He checked his phone but there was no signal in this remote place, so he pulled out a notepad and scribbled down the numbers of the Mairie, J-J and the Baron, saying where he’d gone and at what time, and stuck it under his windscreen wiper. Then he went back into the chapel and squeezed through the hole beneath the altar and down into the darkness.
The light from his torch revealed that he was in some kind of crypt, four rough stone walls probably built at the same time as the chapel above. The floor was made of gravestones, except for one corner where there was a stone-lipped hole with similar steep steps leading down. The steps gave way to a small cave of smooth-walled limestone, too smooth and unbroken to have been made by man.
He was in a kettle, a hollow formed over millennia by underground rivers. The gap he’d come through from the chapel was itself a watercourse. When heavy storms made the underground river surge, the swirling waters must have carved this small cave. He tried to imagine the power of that water, how it had honeycombed these hills and gouged out the caves that prehistoric people had made into showcases for their art. Further down he should find the course of the underground river that led to the Gouffre. Descending carefully, facing the steps, he was now at least a dozen metres below the chapel and the steps still led downward.
He called Isabelle’s name, but no response came, the blackness ahead seeming to soak up every sound. At least now he could see some kind of floor when he took his torch from his mouth and shone it downwards. Whoever had come this way with goat’s head and paint must have used a rucksack, and must have known the route, too.
The floor and walls of the tunnel were smooth but damp, almost as if he were in a giant pipeline. A small rivulet trickled down the centre. The tunnel was at least two metres high and the same in diameter. Its even floor was disturbed only by small stalagmites growing at irregular intervals, where water dripped from tiny fissures in the rock overhead. He called her name again, upstream and downstream, but got no response.
On an impulse, he took Balzac from his chest and put him on the floor. Young as he was, the dog might pick up her scent. The puppy lapped busily at the tiny stream of water, looked around him and cocked his leg against the wall to leave his mark. Bruno shone the light upstream and with nose to the ground Balzac explored a little that way and then turned back past Bruno and began to lope downstream. Bruno followed, counting his paces to keep a rough sense of the distance he’d covered. He knew from the map that it was no more than a kilometre in a straight line between the Gouffre and the chapel. But this tunnel was turning in dog-leg angles, forced to change direction where the water had hit a harder patch of rock.
At the count of three hundred and sixty, he heard the sound of running water, and after another twenty paces he saw a glow of light. He called out Isabelle’s name and with a surge of relief he heard a distant voice, distorted by echoes, but he was sure he caught the last long vowel of his name. He called her name in return and heard what he was sure was an answer.
Although every instinct urged him on, Bruno kept his steady pace and his mental count. By four hundred and fifteen there was a faint glow of light ahead. As he turned a final corner, Balzac darted ahead and they entered a large chamber that was lit by Isabelle’s torch, its light strengthened by its reflection from a large pool of still water that lay between him and Isabelle on the far side, perhaps twenty metres away. Balzac barked a greeting as Bruno’s torch illuminated her.
‘Are you all right?’ he called, his heart beating hard as the anxiety flooded out from his system.
‘I’m fine,’ she called back. ‘When I reached this pool I thought I’d wait for you. I don’t have a stick to probe it but it’s certainly deeper than my arm.’
‘There must be a way across,’ he called back. ‘How else would they have got to the Gouffre?’
He took off his rucksack, shirt and jacket and plunged his arm in. The water was ice-cold but felt as if it were motionless; certainly he could feel neither bottom nor current. He stood up and flashed his torch to each side. The cavern was a large kettle, shaped like a dome. To his right the dome and the lake narrowed into what looked like another tunnel. Isabelle was perched on a thin beach of rock where her tunnel debouched into the cavern.
He walked to the point where it narrowed but it was still too far to jump. There had to be some way across. The sound of running water was coming from within this cavern. Could there be another outflow? Even as the thought formed, he heard Isabelle calling something and looked across to see Balzac scampering towards her on the far side of the lake. How on earth …?
Balzac had been coming from Isabelle’s right, so he walked to his left and the sound of running water was louder. He lay down and put his arm into the lake, close to the cavern wall, and felt the water flowing over his arm. He groped further and touched something like a wall. It must be some kind of dam over which the water of the lake was flowing. The top of the dam was wide, just a centimetre or two below the surface. That was how Balzac had crossed! Bruno went across at a crouch, feeling his way with his fingertips to be sure he did not stumble, and then Isabelle was there with one arm outstretched to embrace him and the other clutching a squirming Balzac.
‘That was easy,’ she said, laughing.
‘Phew! You had me worried,’ he replied, holding her tightly. ‘There’s a vertical tunnel, more like a narrow tube of cave, about four hundred metres back that way, and then it’s a steep climb up narrow steps.’
‘That’s not all we found,’ she said. ‘Look up.’
Bruno’s eyes followed the beam of light from her torch and saw several holes in the walls of the cavern that could be more tunnels.
‘The ones I looked at seemed either to go straight up or to plunge down further than my torch could reach,’ she said. ‘It’s as if this chamber were a giant colander with holes everywhere, different ways for the water to escape when the pressure in here built up. And look what I found here.’
She walked to the far point of the lake shore, where it narrowed, and ducked into a hole Bruno had not seen from the other side of the lake. It opened into a sizeable chamber. Isabelle pointed her torch at a rusty green metal box with white markings. Bruno went across.
‘W and D with a white arrow and .303 Ball × 500,’ he read. Inside were some black candles, smaller than the two he’d found in the punt, and a wrapped package of white candles.
‘It’s a rifle ammunition box from the British army,’ she said. ‘It must be left over from Resistance days. Odd to use it to store candles.’
‘The Baron said his father told him they’d stored arms here during the war. He never said there was anything left.’
‘And then there’s this.’ She played her torch onto a small cavity where an old-fashioned candleholder stood with another stack of candles and a disposable cigarette lighter. ‘I don’t think those lighters were invented before 1945, so somebody has been here more recently. Maybe you should ask the Baron if he knows of any other military gear that was stored here. If somebody has got themselves a box of grenades or a few guns, we’d want to know who. But I was glad to find the candles, in case my torch ran out while I was waiting for you.’
‘Let’s get back. Is your leg OK? There’s a lot of climbing up those steps. ’
‘My leg’s fine, but which way are we going? I presume your van is parked at the chapel, so we should
go that way, unless you think someone is still waiting for me to emerge at the ticket office.’
‘No, they know I have a key. They’ll assume I let you out. And besides, there’s a new place nearby where we should be able to get a good dinner.’
He picked up Balzac and tucked him back into his chest, and then helped Isabelle over the causeway and up the tunnel towards the chapel.
19
Bruno set off down the unfamiliar road past the cemetery to the handful of lights that signalled the tiny hamlet of St Philippon du Bel-Air, the grand and hopeful title given to their new home by the survivors of the plague-struck village by the cemetery. Almost deserted, it had not prospered. Perhaps the Count’s new auberge would restore its fortunes, Bruno thought, as the downhill road through the woods suddenly opened to reveal the lavish lights of the restored château where he hoped to get dinner. As he approached he was aware of two men waving him onwards. Large wrought-iron gates opened electronically. Two helicopters stood by the landing pad and he passed a row of expensive cars before a large bald man in a cheap suit flagged him down.
‘Some of those are government cars,’ said Isabelle, sounding curious. ‘I recognize the plates.’
Bruno stopped and wound down his window to greet the bald man.
‘Are you here on police business?’ the man asked, polite but his tone was cold. There was a bulge in his armpit. Two more men of similar bulk stood behind him, several paces apart.
‘No, we’re hoping to get a meal,’ Bruno replied.
‘In that case, sorry, the hotel is closed for a private party. You can turn here.’
Isabelle leaned across Bruno and looked more closely at the man. ‘Is that you, Mascagny?’ she asked.
‘That’s me, but … ahh, Mademoiselle Perrault. What on earth are you doing here? This is a Defence Ministry event.’
‘As my colleague said, we were just hoping for a meal.’ Isabelle introduced Bruno and Balzac, who was clambering eagerly from her lap. ‘I had no idea anything was taking place here tonight.’
‘It’s a bit of a celebration, some procurement contract,’ he said, obviously relaxing. He leaned a heavy forearm on Bruno’s open window and reached in to shake his hand and then Isabelle’s. ‘That’s a fine-looking pup. You planning to hunt with him?’
‘When he’s trained,’ Bruno said. ‘It’ll take a while.’
The man nodded. ‘Look, if you two are hungry we’ve got some sandwiches back in the security van. Just the usual ham and cheese, not like the banquet they’re getting in there.’
‘No, thanks,’ she said, laughing. ‘A jambon-beurre baguette is not my friend’s idea of dinner. We’ll leave you to it, and see you at the Elysée. Bonne soirée.’
As Bruno turned his car around he saw Isabelle scribbling down the registration numbers from the cars and helicopters. Headlights suddenly appeared around a bend, followed by two large Citroën C6 limousines.
‘Private cars, chauffeur-driven,’ said Isabelle. ‘Ever since the president started using a C6 all the big business guys got rid of their Mercedes and BMWs. This is quite an event. I’m surprised I didn’t know about it.’
‘Mascagny is a security guy?’
‘Yes, with the Defence Ministry. I’ve run into him a few times at Council of Ministers meetings.’
‘Why would you know about the various social events that another Ministry organizes?’
‘They’re usually on the weekly security circular. Mascagny said something about procurement, so maybe it’s a foreign sales event. That would explain it.’
‘But why would they do that here? I never heard of any defence plants around here, not even in the Département.’
‘You’ve got the big Dassault plant at Martignas near Bordeaux and another one down in Biarritz, then there’s Airbus at Toulouse and some research centres in Brive,’ she said. ‘This is less than an hour away by chopper from all of them. I don’t know who owns the hotel, but they knew what they were doing when they restored this place. It looks like it’s just been finished.’
‘It has, opened this year. It’s owned by that Count Vexin I told you about. He’s the one behind that project I’ve got to work on.’
‘Vexin, Vexin, I know that name from somewhere,’ she said. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Les Eyzies. Then you have a choice of restaurants or I can take you back to my place for whatever scratch meal I can put together.’
‘Your place and a scratch meal, please,’ she replied, slipping one hand onto his thigh while the other caressed Balzac. ‘Mascagny was right about one thing. Balzac is a special puppy. And talking of animals, what’s happening to your horse this evening?’
‘I called Fabiola this morning and she’ll take him out when she exercises the others. I do the same for her when she’s busy.’
Isabelle began punching numbers into her mobile phone, the same secure model that Bruno had been given by her boss, the Brigadier, when they found out Bruno’s was being tapped. Bruno barely listened, thinking what was available in his store cupboard and freezer that could be quickly prepared. He had onions and bread and cheese and some good venison stock, so a hearty onion soup would be a good way to start. Isabelle seemed to be reading out the car and helicopter numbers she had noted. He had spaghetti, but he never thought of it as a main course, so he’d make a risotto instead, with some dried cèpe mushrooms and lardons. There was still some mâche in the garden for a salad.
‘Lebanon,’ she said at last. He realized her call was over and she was talking to him. ‘That was the CD plate. One of the choppers is privately owned by some company, they’re checking on that, and the other is a Defence Ministry Gazelle, unmarked.’
‘Significant?’
‘Not to me, but it might mean more to some colleagues. You seem distracted. What are you thinking about?’
‘What to cook for our supper.’
‘Don’t tell me, I want a surprise. I’ll take Balzac for a walk around your property and when it’s ready you can stand on the doorstep with a wooden spoon in hand and call us in. There, I’ve revealed my little family fantasy.’
Her hand squeezed his thigh in reassurance as she said it, stalling the instant retort that family fantasies did not go well with her plan to return to Paris on Sunday.
‘I’m trying to figure out what you mean by that,’ he said.
‘Simple enough. I have this fantasy of staying here with you, marriage, children, family lunches every Sunday. It’s what keeps me sane, even though we both know I’ll never do it. I think you will, at some point, with some woman, and then my fantasy will have to stop. I’m gambling that by then my career will be so fulfilling that I’ll have no regrets.’
Her frankness startled him, not least because she’d said it almost as though the lines were rehearsed, that this was a deeply considered judgement rather than some off-the-cuff remark.
‘You don’t think you could ever find a way to combine them both, career and family?’ he asked.
‘Certainly I could, if you moved to Paris and we lived together there. But then you wouldn’t be Bruno any more. You’d be miserable away from St Denis. And if I moved down here, I wouldn’t be the Isabelle that I hope you’ll always be a little bit in love with. I’d lose whatever it is about me that attracts you. So it wouldn’t work. That’s our fate. But it doesn’t stop me imagining you in an apron making Sunday lunch with little Brunos and Isabelles running around your feet and playing with Balzac.’
‘And what are you doing in this fantasy of yours?’ He couldn’t bear not to ask the question.
‘I’m not in it,’ she said. ‘I’m just watching, disembodied, thinking of might-have-beens and knowing they couldn’t work. That’s one thing you learn: love doesn’t always conquer all. It can’t, no matter how much we count on it and hope for it and remember those fairy tales that always ended saying they lived happily ever after. Life isn’t like that.’
‘You timed that perfectly,’ Bruno said, turning up the l
ong hill to his cottage. ‘We’re home.’
Isabelle asked to be let out to walk Balzac back, and kissed Bruno’s cheek quickly before climbing out. He drove on, parked, and with an effort turned his thoughts to dinner. It took some determination, even though he’d heard before most of what Isabelle had said. It was a theme they could never let go, like scratching repeatedly at a scab although knowing the wound would reopen. What was new was her fantasy of a family life. But it wasn’t going to happen so he thrust the thought aside as he entered his kitchen.
He was just pulling down his glass jar of the short-grain Italian rice that Fabiola insisted he use for risotto when he heard Isabelle’s voice praising Balzac and then came a patter of puppy feet down the hall and into the kitchen in search of the source of the tantalizing smells.
‘Did you find the wine I brought?’ she said from the hall and then bustled in, her cheeks glowing red. She rubbed her hands together and shivered. ‘It’s cold out there now the sun’s gone.’
‘Your wine’s already decanted and on the table, and there’s a fire lit to warm you up but have a sip of this while I finish the soup.’ He handed her a glass of the Bergerac Sec and turned on the grill to toast the bread. Once it was done, he ladled the soup into two individual bowls, put the toast and cheese on top and slid the bowls beneath the grill.
‘Two more minutes,’ he said, walking into the main room where Isabelle now sat, shoes off, her feet toasting before the fire. She had clutched her arms around herself as if trying to hold in the warmth.
‘Would you like a blanket round your shoulders?’
‘No, thanks, but could I borrow that jacket of yours, just till I warm up?’
He brought it back from his wardrobe, draped it around her shoulders and said, ‘I’ll do better than that,’ and embraced her, rubbing his hands energetically over her back and then down her thighs to warm her. The fire was burning strongly and the house was not cold. Maybe she was coming down with some kind of flu. With a final kiss on the brow, which seemed hot and slightly feverish to his lips, he said, ‘We’ll forget about the table and have the soup right here by the fire.’
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