Volnay stopped his horse and surveyed the property. Truly, this was Paradise on earth. A place of fragrance, colour and light to bewitch the senses.
He narrowed his eyes for a moment and followed the silvery-blue ribbon of a sunlit stream. He drew closer, and surprised a chaffinch drinking the water. The bird flew off, its damp wings leaving their imprint on the air. Volnay imagined this enchanting place filled with people to his taste. But the figures quickly vanished when he saw Chiara at the centre of them all. He felt a fresh surge of anger and spurred his horse forward.
An elderly man appeared at the top of the steps. He watched Volnay’s approach with benevolent curiosity.
‘Behold my young disciple, galloping out to meet me at this late hour, in search of some good advice. Come down from your horse, my friend, and follow me—you must be quite exhausted.’
They passed under the portico, and a servant led them to a colonnaded terrace, where they were served a sumptuous drink of fragrant mocha beneath a pergola overgrown with wisteria.
‘The Brotherhood wants me dead,’ said Volnay quickly, as soon as they were alone. ‘They wanted to use me in an affair that touches on the king, and La Pompadour.’
The Master folded his hands and frowned. He was tall and thin, and stooped slightly under the burden of the years. His angular features were tanned and leathery, from over-exposure to the sun.
‘What sort of affair?’
Volnay sighed. It was true—the Master was indeed living cut off from the world nowadays.
‘The death of two young women, discovered with the skin of their faces torn away. The first death was an accident. The motive for the second murder remains to be discovered. She was very probably killed by a man she had been blackmailing. She was disfigured so as not to attract suspicion.’
The Master shuddered. His cordial good humour had vanished.
‘What possible interest is that to the Brotherhood?’
‘The two young women were among the king’s mistresses, and the Brotherhood seeks to discredit him. You know the state of the country, and the rumours circulating about the king. Discrediting the monarchy paves the way for its eventual overthrow.’
‘A most undesirable outcome,’ said the Master, with renewed firmness in his voice. ‘We came close to committing an irreparable act once before, when we primed Damiens to kill the king. I for one am glad we thought better of it in time, and that you were able to stop him.’
‘Damiens died in atrocious suffering,’ Volnay reminded him.
The Master stared deep into his eyes.
‘I was wrong, I admit it. Which is why, after that inglorious episode, I retired gradually from the world, leaving Baron Streicher in charge of the Brotherhood.’
‘Baron Streicher—the large man with the luxuriant beard, and the piercing gaze?’
‘The same.’
Volnay bowed his head and contemplated his empty cup. The Master’s sharp eyes were on him still, silently exerting their authority.
‘Is there anything else you wish to ask me?’ he asked after a few moments.
Nervously, Volnay moistened his lips.
‘The Comte de Saint-Germain is mixed up in this business, too, though I cannot say how, exactly.’
The Master frowned.
‘Sanctus Germanus!’ he hissed softly, before quickly pulling himself together.
‘Volnay, listen carefully to what I am about to say. Trust me and ask no questions: keep as far away as possible from the Comte de Saint-Germain!’
The inspector stared at him in astonishment.
‘To return to the Brotherhood,’ the Master continued firmly, ‘we are no longer alone in our stand against absolutism and ignorance. The Freemasons have emerged. Their many lodges are highly active, and the Brotherhood’s ancient lineage gives us no prerogative over them. We would be wise to join their cause.’
‘I doubt Baron Streicher will agree.’
‘Who is working with him?’
‘No one I know, but he uses the services of a disreputable crew of henchmen, ready to kill on his command…’
The Master fidgeted uncomfortably.
‘It must not come to that. I still exert a good deal of authority over them. We will talk to the Freemasons. I’ll send you word of the place and time, and the means of entry. Take care and speak of this to no one, not even your friend the monk. Do I have your word?’
‘Why not the monk?’
The Master was plainly embarrassed. He cleared his throat.
‘Your somewhat erratic friend may be the soul of discretion, but his antics are not to my taste. He is far too unpredictable.’
‘You are wrong to think of him that way,’ Volnay reproached him. ‘I trust the monk as I trust my own self.’
The Master broke into a condescending smile.
‘You are wrong,’ he said. ‘You may be surprised to find you do not know him quite as well as you think.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Volnay impatiently.
‘Only that.’
Volnay frowned, unhappy with this turn in the conversation.
‘There is one thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The Brotherhood decided, on your authority, to form closer ties with the Freemasons, and their leadership in London. Why has it not done so?’
The Master sighed.
‘The Brotherhood is the oldest secret society in the world. It dates back to the civilization of ancient Sumer, five thousand years ago, the source of every structure in our modern society: the state, the army, the administration, commerce, justice—’
‘Slavery, the subjugation of the people,’ added Volnay without a pause.
The Master raised his eyebrows. He was visibly irritated.
‘Well,’ he said drily, ‘we seek to alter radically the face of this world, as you know. But we are prevented from closer union with the Freemasons by our choice of the means to that end.’
‘The monarchy prevents the progress of society, and ideas, but must it be brought down by violence?’ asked Volnay. ‘And inevitably we must ask: to be replaced by what? The Brotherhood of the Serpent is seen as the custodian of higher wisdom and knowledge handed down from the first Masters, at the dawn of time…’
‘And that is the crux of the problem for Baron Streicher and his friends. Their sense of superiority prevents them from rallying to the Freemasons’ cause, where all the lodges are equal, though London exerts a moral authority of a kind. Truth be told, Baron Streicher sees himself as the legitimate ruler of all mankind!’
A heavy silence ensued.
The racket of carriage wheels woke Volnay in the dead of night. Driven by curiosity, he rose and peered out of the window, in time to see a figure in a black cloak and hat. Footmen hurried to open the doors and escort him inside.
‘You, here, Sanctus Germanus!’ declared the Master. ‘The storm is gathering! But come inside, refresh yourself and take something to eat.’
An impenetrable smile lit the visitor’s face and the Comte de Saint-Germain’s stentorious voice rang out mockingly:
‘Is there a living soul on this earth that has seen me eat or drink?’
A door creaked, and the two men disappeared. The footmen busied themselves in the entrance; then silence fell once more. Volnay stole out into the passageway. His bedroom was on the upper floor; no one would see him. He stood motionless in the darkness, at the top of the stairs. Voices rose to him from time to time, like the rumour of a distant storm. A moment later, a door opened and footsteps rang out across the tiled hallway. A shadow passed. He recognized the elegant silhouette of the Comte de Saint-Germain.
‘Take care!’ he said firmly. ‘If you persist in your mistaken course, you will be in grave danger.’
‘Your words do not scare me,’ said the Master, his features set in stone. ‘You think you can frighten me, but I have been careless of my own safety for a long time now.’
The comte nodded. He stood in the doorway, and turned one last time. His face
radiated the serene wisdom of a thousand past lives.
‘Take care!’ he repeated. ‘Your willing charm is not enough.’
The doors opened, and Volnay shivered in the rush of cold air. For a moment, he determined to hurry downstairs and ask his host the meaning of all this noise, and the meaning of the comte’s attitude and threats. But he had witnessed something he would never have seen had he not behaved like a vulgar spy. It was difficult, in such circumstances, to go downstairs and join his host.
Regretfully, he returned to his room, but was unable to sleep. He felt a sense of dark foreboding. He tossed and turned in his bed, fell asleep shortly before sunrise, and woke to the sound of silence.
Volnay sat straight up in bed. The pale, early-morning light filtered through the shutters, but the house was utterly still. He tried to quell his anxiety and go back to sleep, but to no avail. A furtive rustling alerted him. He listened out but was unable to locate its source. He got out of bed and began to dress. Was it a stifled noise from downstairs? Softly, he lifted the door latch. The staircase lay in semi-darkness. Volnay took the back stairs, used by the servants, and found himself outside the door leading to the kitchens. Still there was no sound. He held his breath, and pushed open the door. He saw the cook, seated at the table, and his spirits rose. Then the blood froze in his veins. Her pose was grotesque, her limbs twisted and seemingly disconnected. A scarf of blood circled her neck. Nearby, on the floor, lay the body of her husband, his throat also cut. And over there, the body of a servant…
Volnay’s hand reached for his belt. He stifled a gasp. Icy sweat seeped through his skin. He had left all his weaponry upstairs in the bedroom. His gaze swept the room, searching for a knife. He found a good-sized cleaver, used for chopping game, grasped it and felt its satisfying weight. Handled effectively, it would do some damage. The door to the servant’s hall stood wide open. He heard footsteps and returned to his hiding place on the back stairs.
‘Down there, they all went that way,’ said a guttural voice. ‘Only the Master and his guest to deal with now.’
‘Do it straightaway, before they’re awake, and post the men on the two staircases, to block any chance of escape.’
‘Leave it to me.’
The assassin left. Volnay thought quickly, struggling to calm the wild beating of his heart. He must save the Master at all costs. He bounded up the stairs; he had very little time, but it would be suicide to take on a band of armed men without his weapons. He lost precious seconds fetching his sword and pistol from his room. He heard the attackers gathering below. He raced to the Master’s bedroom. Awakened by the noise, he was sitting straight up in bed, his nightcap tied firmly under his chin, as Volnay entered.
‘You?’
He stared at Volnay, aghast.
‘Whatever’s happening?’
‘There’s a group of armed men downstairs,’ said Volnay hurriedly. ‘They have killed the rest of the household. They’re coming up here to slit our throats.’
He tried to barricade the door with a small chest of drawers as he spoke.
‘There are men blocking both stairs,’ he panted. ‘We must use the window.’
Volnay saw in alarm that the Master had made no effort to get out of bed.
‘The comte…’ he breathed wearily. ‘I should have listened to him.’
His features hardened. He stared at Volnay with a look of fierce determination.
‘Jump out of the window, take a horse from the stables and fly! Quickly!’
Volnay froze in despair. The men were beating on the door. Shouts rang out along the passage.
‘I won’t leave you.’
‘Too late, my friend.’
The Master’s voice was calm. He tore off his nightcap and added:
‘I have been ready for this for a long time!’
The door crashed inwards and two men fell into the room, tumbling over the chest of drawers. Volnay went into action straightaway, driving his sword through one ragged doublet, then another. A swarthy face, criss-crossed with fine scars and partly hidden beneath a broad hat, appeared in the door frame. The man wore a foot soldier’s buffalo-skin doublet to protect against sword thrusts. He brandished a long rapier, and used it to good effect, repelling Volnay speedily across the room while three more of his kind poured in behind.
The last to enter was plainly the executioner-in-chief, the man who had received the order to post his troops on the stairs before the final assault. He had a pointed, ferret-like face and wore a gold ring in one ear. Above taut, leathery cheeks, his yellow eyes flickered like candle flames guttering in a draught. Volnay recognized him: he was a member of the Brotherhood. The assailant’s sinister face broke into a bestial grin. He pointed a finger at the inspector and hissed:
‘He who betrays the Brotherhood dies by the Brotherhood!’
And before he had even finished speaking the words, he threw his dagger straight at Volnay, who deflected it in mid-air with his sword, in a desperate reflex. Another attacker seized the moment to deliver a fatal blow, but Volnay’s sword sprang to block the blade, as if of its own accord, and drove it aside. He felt a trickle of hot blood run down his neck. As if through a fog, he saw the Master offer this throat to the sacrifice.
‘No!’
Volnay howled, and his cry accompanied the Master to his death. A hideous gurgling followed. The inspector was seized with a wild rage. He raced forward, delivered two or three blows, scored a couple of hits, and felt the tip of a blade slice his scalp. He fought on for a moment, in a blood-soaked mist, making the most of the narrow space between the bed and the wall to avoid a mass assault. Fleetingly, he caught the eye of the weasel-faced thug. The man was smiling. He had drawn his pistol, and pointed it straight at Volnay. The inspector uttered a loud cry, turned, and threw himself against the window.
The wooden frame shattered under his weight with a deafening crash, and he plunged into the void in a hail of glass. It was not far to fall. He crashed to the ground, but rolled nimbly to one side. He had lost his sword as he fell, but recovered it and turned around. One of his attackers had jumped too, but landed badly. Volnay ran him through where he lay without a second thought. A metallic wasp buzzed close to his ear. The weasel-faced man swore, and yelled out in exasperation:
‘The prey will not hold still, dammit!’
He was being hunted like an animal. A delicate mist floated over the fields as he ran. Beyond the dappled meadows and hills, the dark, dense mass of the forest rose in the distance. The landscape was more rugged now. An expanse of fallow fields stretched before him, hatched with shadow.
The forest loomed on the horizon, and Volnay heard the sound of galloping hooves at his back. His lungs were on fire, but he redoubled his pace in desperation, never once turning to look back. The thunder of hooves sounded in his ears as he reached the cover of the first trees. He had not used his pistol, until now. He planted one foot firmly on the ground and turned. His first assailant was upon him. Calmly, he took aim, and fired. Desperately, the two riders approaching fast reined in their horses. Volnay raced through the clumps of trees. He reached the undergrowth and ran deep into the forest, over a carpet of moss.
The further he ran, the darker it became. The foliage became thicker and thicker. The atmosphere was close, and stifling. The silence was broken only by the moan of the wind. He leapt over a small stream in one bound, running further and further from civilization. The smell of damp wood and mould filled the air. There was an unreal quality to the silence.
Volnay had no idea how long he spent roaming the forest, pushing ever deeper into its heart. He lost all sense of direction, even of time. Above him, squirrels leapt from branch to branch. The sun beat down on the thick canopy of leaves, but did not pierce the darkness beneath. He sank down and leant his back against the trunk of a tree, to rest and tend to his wounds.
His mind floated like pollen on the wind. Chiara was there, smooth and white-skinned in the darkness. Volnay closed his eyes and pictu
red the young Italian’s dazzling, unrivalled beauty, her dark eyes gazing deep into his, and the thought filled him with happiness. He felt his arms around her waist, and his heart beating against her bosom. A first, sweet surrender. The first of many…
Night fell, and the ivory gates of his dreams shut tight. A gentle breeze blew in his ears. The undergrowth rustled, and night creatures emerged from the thickets. The whole forest seemed alive with whispers. He heard the ripple of water, and found a spring at the bottom of a small hollow. Cautiously, he climbed down to slake his aching thirst. Kneeling beside the trickle of water to wash his wounds, he heard a rustling among the leaves and strained his ear to listen.
At first, he had been terrified by the silence. Everything lay still, as if a great predator stalked the forest depths, so that the very trees held their breath. Then he heard more rustling, and a shadow loomed beside him. Slowly, he turned his head. He saw a branch pushed to one side, across the clearing, and the swift gleam of a pair of eyes. A lithe form stepped from the undergrowth and stood motionless, watching him.
Volnay’s eyes widened in terror. A wolf. The creature stared at him with its golden eyes. Slowly, his heart beating wildly, he rose to his feet. Branches cracked, he heard the dull sound of paws pounding the forest floor, and silence fell once again. The creature had vanished.
Volnay waited for the furious pulse at his temples to subside, then plunged his hand into the spring and rubbed the cool water over his face. Cautiously, he continued on his way, but night was falling, awakening ancient fears that drove him to seek the light and emerge from the shelter of the trees. Just then, he thought he heard the sound of muffled, regular blows. Volnay nodded to himself; he knew what they signified. He walked in their direction, with hope in his heart. Drawing nearer to the sound, he found traces of human existence. The woodcutters had scarred the forest, leaving trails of sap, oozing like blood. All at once, he came upon their camp. Small fires glowed, and a cluster of finely sharpened axes stood planted in the ground. He hurried towards them and asked his way. The men eyed him suspiciously, but a handsome coin dampened their curiosity.
Casanova and the Faceless Woman Page 28