The Sixth Key

by Adriana Koulias

  12

  Deodat

  ‘You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson.’

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Red-Headed League’

  Arques, France, 1938

  ‘She wanted you to have it, Rahn,’ Deodat Roche said, puffing on his meerschaum pipe, which was shaped like a lion’s head. ‘She cared a great deal for you, as you know.’

  Rahn sat sprawled on a wicker chair in Deodat’s drawing room before a great fire of oak. The train had arrived that afternoon and he had paid a local to take him to where Deodat lived – a place as far from Berlin as the moon, or so it seemed to Rahn. For here, in Arques, he felt like himself again.

  He looked at the pleasant glow of the hearth that fell on the worn oriental rugs, the mahogany furniture and the dozens and dozens of books lining the walls of the sizeable library. He took in the faint perfume wafting from the rosemary and thyme bunches that hung from the blackened rafters, alongside sausages and ropes of garlic. Nothing had changed.

  Rahn and Deodat sat together in an easy silence, broken momentarily by the housekeeper, a large woman with a severe face and a thick mass of greying hair that she tamed into a knot at the nape of her neck. Yes, a formidable woman was Madame Sabine, who in her prime had been the headmistress of an illustrious girl’s school and whose ability to command, organise and control young and great minds alike had not faded in her waning years. She had a tray of coffee in her hands and a look on her face that would curdle milk. She set the tray down.

  ‘I’ll leave you to pour, but mind, don’t spill it!’ she snapped. Then to Rahn, ‘Bed by ten o’clock! I’ll hold you personally responsible if the magistrate’s arthritis suffers because you’ve kept him up.’ This was followed by a hard stare, which bespoke her expectations, whereupon she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

  When she was quite gone, Deodat rubbed his face and sighed. ‘There goes a demon fallen to Earth to harass me,’ he murmured and poured the coffee, spilling a little on the tray in mischievous defiance. ‘Oh dear!’ he said merrily.

  ‘Why don’t you get rid of her?’ Rahn asked, feeling warm and contented.

  ‘What?’ Deodat shot him a horrified stare. ‘That woman is indispensible! She’s the only one who can find things in the infernal order she’s created. If I leave a book out, and turn around . . . pff! It’s gone in a moment! You have no idea how many things can be irretrievably lost in a house the size of this one! If I were to let her go it would take me the rest of my life to find everything she’s put away, and the old hag knows it too. She holds me by the collar like the Devil in Faust! Besides, the way she talks, one would think me near the end of the line!’

  The truth was Deodat’s age was impossible to tell – he was one of those men who seemed perennially youthful in his body and yet eternally old in his soul, so that what one saw on the surface never seemed to match what one discovered within. Nevertheless, Rahn guessed he must be somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. His hair was not fully grey and his face was as yet unwrinkled, and his quirks of behaviour and speech signalled a fount of energy that far surpassed many men half his age. In fact, Rahn had met him caving, in the circles of Antonin Gadal, that great Cathar historian, and Rahn came to learn that Deodat was a prodigious speleologist, a man who would drop everything to go potholing in godforsaken places. Rahn respected his wisdom and sagacity and his deep knowledge of the Cathars, which long ago had earned him the nickname ‘The Cathar Pope’, and a position as the magistrate of the small town of Arques. This was a profession that suited him well since he was rather addicted to mysteries, be they the confounding disappearance of a neighbour’s calf, or the perplexing theft of an old woman’s heirloom. The truth was that many years ago, Deodat had met Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The two men had hit it off and now Deodat told everyone that Doyle had modelled Sherlock Holmes after him – minus the sleuth’s various addictions to certain intoxicating substances, of course. But Rahn knew this was impossible, for Deodat would have been no more than a child when Doyle’s first story was published. Still, Rahn never contradicted him.

  Deodat’s most striking features were a prominent lower jaw and a fearsome forehead that hung over deep-set blue eyes that were so dark as to be almost black. The profundity of those eyes was disquieting and had undone more than one criminal, simply because one could never be certain what Deodat was really looking at – the body or the soul. In the final analysis it was just that Deodat, like Holmes, was a clever observer, a ‘deducer’ with a keen eye for the slightest detail, and it was under that eye that Rahn now unwrapped the package from the Countess P.

  Inside the box, beneath several layers of newspaper, was an Empire Pendulum Clock. It had sat on the piano on which he had played many a tune for the countess. He realised now that he had never really studied it in detail. The clock stood no taller than two hands and was elaborately worked in bronze ormolu. He sat back to look at it. It was made in the image of a naked man with a lion’s head. The body of the creature had four wings and two serpents entwined around it, and it sat on the globe of the world, which formed the bulk of the clock with its little Roman numerals. The creature held a key in one hand and a sceptre in the other. Upon closer scrutiny, Rahn observed the following words inscribed into the back of the clock:

  This a tomb that has no body in it

  This is a body that has no tomb round it

  But body and tomb are the same

  ‘Ugly, isn’t it?’ Deodat said, as Rahn set the clock down again on a small table. ‘The countess was an unusual woman and she liked unusual things. She had a pertinacity that infuriated me, but I was rather fond of her, as you know. Do you remember the first time we all met?’

  ‘It was at Montsegur on the night of the solstice.’ Rahn smiled to think of it. ‘All four of us were there: me, you, La Dame and the countess; all invited to observe that sunrise. We had to climb that mountain to the fortress in the dark.’

  ‘And the poor countess in those shoes – highly impractical if you ask me!’ Deodat exclaimed.

  ‘The fire we built was so great it lit up the night.’

  ‘And we sat by it eating bread dipped in fish ragout, my favourite dish,’ Deodat said, relishing the memory. ‘We listened to one another reciting poems for hours.’

  ‘And we uncorked a battalion of bottles!’ Rahn added.

  ‘The finest wines of the region.’ Deodat puffed on his pipe, contented. ‘I recall that my first impression of you, dear Rahn, was that you seemed to me just like a troubadour.’

  ‘And I thought you lived up to your nickname!’

  ‘What nonsense! There was never any such thing as a Cathar pope.’ Deodat waved a hand but Rahn sensed he was secretly delighted to hear it.

  ‘What about La Dame? What did you think of him?’ Rahn asked.

  Deodat gave him a look. ‘La Dame might imagine he shares a lineage with Nostradamus, but he hasn’t a mystical bone in his body. The countess, on the other hand, was the last of the great mystics. One of a kind.’ Deodat sighed. ‘A fine woman, a fine woman . . .’ He cleared his throat, obviously touched, and changed the subject. ‘At any rate, she must have left the clock to you for some reason. I believe it is quite old . . . I would say, early nineteenth century. That figure on it is not unusual. They were generally decorated with mythological creatures.’

  ‘I must admit that I never knew what it was,’ Rahn said.

  ‘The Leoncetophaline?’ Deodat’s dark eyes turned to Rahn. ‘They’re found in Mithraic initiation chambers all over Rome!

  He is Arimanus, the demon king guardian of the Underworld.’

  ‘And this inscription on the back of the clock?’

  ‘It’s a variation of an infamous riddle discovered in the sixteenth century on an old Roman tombstone near Bologna. I looked it up when the countess asked me to make certain I had it inscribed on the stone marking her grave. Apparently men have obsessed over its meaning. In fact, a large pamphlet on
it was published in Venice, and later even Jung dedicated a full chapter to it in Mysterium Conjunctionis. But the important point is that no solution to it has ever been found.’

  They both fell into a silent reflection. The Countess P had often talked about death. In fact, it had been her favourite subject.

  Deodat puffed on his pipe and looked at Rahn with a peculiar mixture of vexation and affection that signalled his displeasure. Rahn had been waiting for it. He braced himself.

  ‘Nearly four years, Rahn, without a word!’

  Rahn drank down his coffee. It was hot and bitter. Yes, he had left France rather hastily, it was true, and had never found the right moment to write Deodat a letter of apology because he had not wanted to lie about whom he was working for and what he was doing – this was also true. On the train he had constructed eloquent reasons for his omissions, which now seemed to evaporate from his mind and so he looked at his friend and mentor, therefore, without the slightest notion of what to say. Deodat, being the man he was, saved him the trouble.

  ‘I know what happened!’ he thundered. ‘There have to be some advantages to being a magistrate, we hear all sorts of things. If you had told me, perhaps I could have helped you. But you are stubborn – and petulant!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t want your help!’ Rahn said, demonstrating his obstinacy nicely. ‘It was my scandal! Bad enough I was being thrown out of town like some common criminal without having to advertise it. It was all rather undignified, as you can imagine, and you can’t blame me for trying to salvage whatever scrap of dignity I had left.’

  ‘Oh, let’s forget the whole tiresome thing,’ Deodat grumbled, getting up to pace before the fire, puffing away at his pipe. He took it out to say, ‘The important point is that you’re back, my boy, and, if I’m not mistaken, it isn’t merely to collect a parcel from the countess. So.’ He paused now to stare at Rahn with eagerness. ‘I want straight answers, no dissimulation! Well?’

  Rahn cleared his throat, feeling unbalanced. What should he say? He knew full well that he was a terrible liar, especially where Deodat was concerned.

  Deodat looked at him in his singular fashion. ‘You’ve come by some money by the look of you – new shoes, new coat. I sense a purposefulness in your manner. I think that you’re ready to pick up where you left off, am I correct?’

  Rahn cleared his throat. ‘I’m not here to go potholing, per se . . . I’m afraid,’ he let out.

  ‘Why, in the devil, not?’ Deodat couldn’t hide his disappointment. He looked like a child robbed of a favoured toy by a trusted person. His expression moved from confusion to astonishment and settled finally into a wounded frown.

  ‘I’m on rather a different hunt, though it might just turn out to be the same hunt, actually.’

  The frown lifted a little. ‘What are you hunting for?’

  ‘I’m on an errand from my publisher. As it turns out he’s a collector of books and he’s heard of a very rare grimoire called Le Serpent Rouge. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Le Serpent Rouge?’ The brow wrinkled and he puffed on the pipe vigorously. He was on the scent. ‘Where did your publisher hear about it?’

  ‘From a source in Paris.’

  ‘Interesting . . .’

  ‘Have you heard of it, Deodat?’

  ‘Yes, but only as an alchemical substance – red mercuric oxide, which the Egyptians called Red Serpent. I’ve never heard of a book by that name.’

  Rahn realised he would have to tell Deodat a little more, so he fished in the pocket of his jacket for Monti’s notebook, opened it to the page in question, and handed it to Deodat.

  Deodat peered at it through his thick lenses. ‘What’s this?’ he said, looking up over their rim.

  ‘It belonged to a man called George Monti.’

  ‘George Monti?’

  Rahn was surprised. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, he’s a rather shady fellow. He’s dead now, I believe.’

  ‘Apparently he came to Languedoc before he died in search of the grimoire. The notebook was found afterwards and for the most part it’s completely dull, the usual sort of thing you’d find, until one looks in the back.’

  Deodat took it, pushed back his reading glasses and read it out to himself picking out the important points, ‘Magic ceremonial . . . known as Le Serpent Rouge . . . the last key still missing . . . Otto Rahn, Crusade Against the Grail, page 93 – a skeleton key . . . Abbé knows.’

  Without another word, he got up. Rahn followed him to his library, which was dominated by a great table covered in marginalia. Deodat talked animatedly to himself as he perused his impressive collection. ‘Damn that woman! Her idea of order infuriates me. I know it’s here somewhere. Ah! Joy! Here it is, a translation of Magic Ceremonial . . . let me see . . .’ He found the book and flicked its pages. ‘I think that note in your notebook is a reference taken from a footnote in this book. Here it is, in the part entitled The Grimoire of Pope Honorius . . .’ He lapsed into thought and remained that way for quite some time, turning from one page to another. Rahn took one of the chairs grouped around the vast table and sat down.

  After an interminable time Deodat spoke. ‘I understand it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It seems, dear Rahn, that there are two grimoires of Honorius. The first is written by a Theban called Honorius and the second by a pope, Pope Honorius III to be exact. It’s the latter that is known as Le Serpent Rouge.’

  ‘You surprise me!’ Rahn said. ‘Two authors by the same name who both wrote grimoires, and to top it off one of them a pope, no less. How do you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘I can’t claim that it’s due to any special sagacity, dear boy! It is all right here, in this book. Now, the first grimoire ever written was King Solomon’s Keys, as you know, and every other grimoire seems to have been extrapolated from it. The Theban magician Honorius wrote his book a long time ago – no one knows exactly when. Apparently a number of magicians put the Theban in charge of compiling a grand grimoire of magic, containing all their keys, signs, symbols and seals, along with all the invocations, convocations and conjurations of their art. It looks like they were afraid that Rome was about to destroy all their books in order to keep control over the tenets of magic.’

  ‘Rome?’

  ‘The Roman Catholics, of course! It stands to reason, dear Rahn. Why do you think there are so many banned books in the Vatican archives? Why were so many witches strapped to pyres, not to mention the Templars and Cathars? The Roman caesars, starting with Augustus, took for themselves the title of high priest of all the mysteries, Pontifex Maximus. Later, the Catholic popes appropriated the title and that is why they are known as pontiffs – the bridge between Heaven and Earth. Now let me see here . . . The Theban was charged to make three books. The rules were that the books could only be passed on to males who were Christian and whose character had been confirmed for at least a year. These men were then sworn to keep the contents of the book a secret, and to protect the other initiates who possessed a copy of the book. If no person could be found worthy of the book then the owner, before dying, had to bury it in a hidden place, or ensure that it was placed in the coffin with him. These oaths, dear Rahn, are what led to the book being known as the Sworn Book.’

  ‘So, how does this Theban’s book connect to the pope’s book, apart from the fact that they shared the same name, which in itself is odd?’ Rahn asked.

  ‘Edward Waite says here that the Grimoire of Pope Honorius is really nothing more than a distortion of the Theban’s book. It may be that at some stage a copy of the book fell into the hands of a pope, and was passed down thereafter from pope to pope until hundreds of years later a certain pope called himself Honorius III, broke the oath and mixed those secrets of the Theban magician with Roman Catholic rituals, thereby creating a new grimoire, which he named The Grimoire of Pope Honorius III.’

  ‘So he appropriated the Theban’s book?’

  ‘Yes, and by doing so, he has created a
grimoire for priests, which is diabolical, because it not only brings demonology together with Christology, it also includes ritual sacrifice – on the altar, no less.’

  ‘Wait a minute! Honorius III?’ Rahn said pensively. ‘He was the pope who continued the Cathar persecution after Innocent died.’

  Deodat fell into amazement. ‘I believe you’re right.’

  ‘I feel a strange synchronicity, Deodat!’

  ‘Let’s read on and see, shall we? The 1529 edition is entitled Honorii Papæ, adversus tenebrarum Principem et ejus Angelos Conjurationes ex originale Romæ servato, but it looks like it became known as Le Serpent Rouge, as this Monti fellow has in his note. The note also mentions that a key is missing – that is important.’

  ‘Yes, that was also my estimation. So, what do you make of it?’

  ‘Monti has hit on the truth, dear Rahn. It is well known in certain circles that all the grimoires are incomplete. Now he quotes a page from your own book in which you must mention a skeleton key. Let’s see what you say, shall we?’

  ‘Have you read my book?’

  Deodat paused and raised one brow. ‘I’ve been trying to read it ever since you gave it to me, but it is rather a muddled affair. You see, the crux is always missing from your work because you get lost in the peripherals. The crux needs an analytical mind. I’ve told you before it is not enough to have knowledge, you have to have wisdom!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, to my mind it’s replete with wisdom!’ Rahn retorted, a little hurt.

  Ignoring Rahn’s piqué, Deodat looked through the monumental pile of books on the table until he found a battered French edition. He flicked through the pages. ‘It is very erudite, don’t misunderstand me, but it is so full of marginalia that it makes one dizzy . . . Let’s see: The Caves of Trevrizent close to the fountain called La Salvaesche ... so on . .. so on ... in preceding pages we described why the Cathars built their hermitages and temples in the caves of Sabarthes . . . so on . . . little further on we will learn that according to Spanish ballads a skeleton key is hidden in the enchanted cave of Hercules, which resolves the mystery of the Grail . . . There, you see?’ He paused and took off his glasses to fix Rahn with a meaningful stare. ‘You mention a key that will resolve the mystery of the Grail, and if we add that to what is in the rest of that man’s note, we see that its author has connected the Grimoire of Pope Honorius III, otherwise known as Le Serpent Rouge, to the treasure of the Cathars – through you! It’s an interesting idea. If – among other things – the Cathars had possession of this missing key, it would explain why Pope Innocent set out to persecute them so vehemently, and why Honorius continued to do so after him. The popes may have been after the last missing key that could not be found in any grimoire.’