The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  I took more photos of the tombs outside, both the blanket-covered, medieval one and the open Roman tomb, which looked even more bizarre this morning. Why would anyone open it up like this, put it right by the church door, and leave it there, with the lid propped up on its side? It most blatantly spoke out ‘I’m not here anymore. I’ve gone somewhere else!’ But where? Still puzzled, I quickly drove the rest of the journey home. No one had broken in this time, which was a great relief, but I still pushed both bolts home, which felt even more reassuring. Making tea and a sandwich, I went to sit outside. The sun had gone in and, while still warm, a stiff breeze had come up, and I quickly finished my lunch and went back inside.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I intended to read as much of the journal as I could today, since I only had another two days off and had a lot in my diary for the following week. I went upstairs to collect the new and old journals, and sat at the dining table. The sitting room now seemed quite dark, and I switched on the bright reading lamp that I often used for my translation work.

  February 25th 1789

  Am feeling much better in myself and have been outside a few times. Walked to church and back again, but needed to rest in afternoon to gain strength. C sent word of a visit next week. Again, I am uneasy. Household much engaged today in brewing and baking. I spent evening in study by warm fire and read new book which I had ordered some months ago in London. It is one on ancient history of the Crusades and the Knights of Jerusalem and a rarity indeed. C has offered to borrow it which I may or may not agree to.

  I smiled at this and was reminded of another journal, which I always kept by my bed, that of Parson Woodforde, who wrote in similar times. The humility and character of the man always warmed me and he was a person who, if it were possible, I would love to have met. The journal continued with mostly domestic affairs until an entry in 1791, which caught my attention.

  September 1st 1791

  C called to tell me B has decided that because of the troubles in France he is to give up his duty at R and go on pilgrimage to Spain, and has no intention of return. I am unsure if this is good or bad although we are in no position to stop him as he is an elderly man and can surely end his days as he wishes. Once again, C assures me that all is well, and the secret will be kept. He brought with him a letter from his wife, and a basket of vegetables from his garden which I received thankfully.

  The diary was only written in occasionally over the next couple of years, with little of much interest historically, and no more mention of the secret that he and ‘C’ shared. Near the end of the notebook, however, one entry made me alert again.

  15th April 1794

  Clare tells me that he has been told that B did never go to Spain at all, and has died near the coast in France. Why did he lie? Did Clare know all the time? I have no power over any of this, and my failing health means I shall surely join B in another place soon. I tell Clare that I have had a dream of my end, and that he must do all he can to ensure our secret is kept, both in France and here. He looked at me in that strange way of his and held my hands so tightly that I thought they might be broke. I will play my part, says he, and there is no more I can do. We are but mortal, and our role as protector and keepers of the future of mankind will soon be given over. I am old too, he says, and after we have gone who is to know what will happen then. This is the most I have ever heard him say on the subject, and I viewed him in a different light today.

  1st September 1794

  My heart near broke when I heard today that Clare fell off his horse last night and was drowned in the river. How can this be? He was more sure of himself on a horse than any man I ever knew. I do not believe that this can have been an accident, and I now know that my warnings to him were real, and not the ramblings of an old and decrepit man.

  Throughout the pages of the journal, the writing had become weaker, and the last few entries showed a much shakier hand. His lapse into using full names, instead of initials, gave me reason to think that he was becoming increasingly frail in both mind and body. I was deeply moved by his story, even though I didn’t fully understand it, and felt enormous empathy for both men that I had read about and come to know. I was reminded once again of the frailty of all living things and how easily life was snuffed out. I turned the page and found more writing in another, and entirely different, hand.

  My beloved brother Richard Harcourt died this day 10th September 1794. He was the best of men and I am bereft. He died with his journal closed and held tightly in his hand. His family will keep it for posterity, sealed and closed, as private as was the man himself.

  Isabel Harcourt.

  Clare and Harcourt. It was now late afternoon, and I had been sitting here for the best part of three hours. I had rewritten the whole journal into the notebook, and it was only as I was nearing the end that I had been presented with these names. Of course, I knew another Harcourt… Adrian… and Clare, another name not entirely unknown to me in my studies of the Knights Templar. I jumped up and grabbed my jacket. I needed to get back to the bank and deposit the original journal. I could then give myself time to think about what to do next.

  Picking up both books, I put them in the inside pocket of my jacket. Then I stopped for a moment and thought… what if I was mugged en route? I decided to scan the most important pages, save them, print them, and take photos with my phone, which I had ensured was virtually impossible to get into if I lost it. I suspected that Caro would accuse me of ‘Ben’s OCD.’ She had always used this phrase when we were young, in response to my needing to know where everything and everyone was.

  In later life, she put it down to the frequent and unexplained disappearances of my parents, but right now, I didn’t care what it was called. It felt appropriate to have the most important papers kept together in a wad. This took me about eight minutes in total, and I almost ran out of the house, although not so quickly that I didn’t lock up properly. I was in the bank thirty minutes later, and the same young man brought out my box and looked away whilst I deposited the journal. To give him his due, he said nothing, and business was soon concluded.

  I felt a huge sense of relief at knowing the original journal was safe, and patted my jacket to make sure the new one was still there. As I left, I noticed the same small, tanned man seen in the café earlier that day, standing to one side of the large doors. In a flash, I recognised him as the man that Adrian Harcourt had spoken to in Oxford before going their separate ways. I was being followed, that was for sure, but by whom?

  The Italian had said on the phone that he would attend to my safety, which didn’t bother me too much, since I was certain that I had been followed for much of my time in Italy. I had become used to a shadowy figure watching me from around every corner, and had even tipped my sun hat to him once or twice. The people I had spoken to about it had told me not to worry and, in the end, I assumed that it was something to do with the work I was engaged in. But how could that be anything to do with Adrian? Why had they met, albeit briefly, in the Oxford street?

  Back in the car, I drove along back lanes to the village. Pulling up outside the cottage, there was a red car parked on the road opposite, with someone sitting in it.

  ‘Now what!’ I said aloud. I was hoping for a quiet evening, with perhaps a little Templar research thrown in for good measure.

  I got out, ignoring the car in the hope that it would prove to be nothing to do with me. I began to unlock the front door, now a lengthy process because of the added lock, when I heard my name being called by a very familiar voice.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Benoît… Benoît… hang on a minute. You ran up the path like the hounds of hell were after you!’

  ‘Caro! It’s you. I can’t believe it. What are you doing here? We only spoke on the phone last night.’

  I let us both in before giving her a huge hug. I had no idea what the villagers would make of a priest having a wom
an to stay, but I would surely be made out to be a gigolo of sorts, which I was quite happy about. I could almost see the curtains twitching as I closed the door behind us.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ I said again. ‘Caro, you’re here! What a surprise!’

  ‘Well, I felt so worried about you last night after we spoke that I jumped on the first plane this morning and came over. I flew into Birmingham, which wasn’t too bad, and it only took me just over an hour and a half to drive to your cottage from there.’

  It was now nearly six, and I decided to open a bottle of my favourite vintage prosecco, always kept in the fridge for times of celebration, just like this. Putting it in the freezer for a few minutes, a necessity in my eyes, I hugged her again, putting her bags on the stairs to take up later. She could sleep in my room tonight and I would use the sofa bed in the sitting room. I took the bottle out of the freezer, gently popped the cork, and poured us a glass each.

  ‘Trust you, Ben,’ she said. ‘This is delicious!’

  ‘It’s my favourite. Have you eaten? Would you like to go out to eat? There are a few reasonable restaurants in the town, or we could always go up to Oxford if you want to?’

  ‘I’d rather stay here, if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day, and if I know you there will be a fridge stuffed full of food, so cook me something.’

  ‘I was going to have pasta piselli. Will that do?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘I love it.’

  Pasta piselli was an Italian dish made with tagliatelle, ham, peas, and cream, and was a favourite of mine. We moved through into the kitchen, Caro sitting at the table whilst I began to get out pans and things from the fridge.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? You said you might be in a bit of bother, which if I know you is probably an understatement.’

  I thought for a moment. I wanted to share everything with Caro, who, apart from the bishop, perhaps, was the only person I felt I could totally trust. I was, however, concerned about the implications and risks that any external involvement might bring. Whilst I might not be overly anxious about my own demise, I would never forgive myself if she was harmed in any way. ‘Later. Let’s eat first. I’m starving!’

  As I cooked, we chatted about what she had been doing over the past few weeks, and some people that we both knew.

  ‘Come and stir this lot around,’ I said. We often cooked together in France and assumed our usual positions with ease. Within ten minutes it was ready, and we sat down to eat, like the true gluttons that we were, and in typical Mediterranean style, by lowering our heads to the bowls and shovelling it in. It wasn’t the cleanest type of food, and soon there were splashes on the table as well as us, but we carried on until both bowls were empty. Quantities of bread mopped up the last of the sauce and I leant back, rubbed my full stomach, and groaned.

  ‘I think I might just explode – I warn you, it could be messy!’

  We both laughed, and I was reminded of how much we used to laugh as children, often ending up helpless, weak, and sometimes collapsed on the floor, much to the exasperation of both of our sets of parents. We didn’t end up on the floor of my kitchen this time, but I was glad she was here, and told her so.

  ‘Come on, let’s go through and sit down properly. We can do the dishes in the morning.’

  Picking up our glasses, we went through to the sitting room and I lit the fire. Remembering the few bits of paper torn from the pad last night, I went to fetch them and threw them in. The other notebook was still in my jacket, which was hanging on the hook behind the door. She looked at me keenly, all traces of humour gone.

  ‘So, come on… spit it out.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want to involve you or put you at risk in any way. It’ll probably all just go away anyway, and then I’ll have worried you for nothing.’

  Caro fiddled with her glass, and went quiet for a moment.

  ‘Look, Ben, you mean more to me than anyone. We grew up together, our parents are dead, and our only other relative is Aunt Hortense. She’s so frail now, and when she dies it’s just us. If you’re in trouble and there might be a way in which I could help, even if it’s just by giving you support, then I want to do it. I remember when you were in Italy and that man followed you around all the time. And when you nearly got pushed in front of a train? And I never was convinced that it was an accident when you were run over in London. It wasn’t, and we both know it. What I’m saying is that I’m prepared to take the risk, so come on… confess the whole ghastly lot. It’ll make a change for you to be on the other side of the box, so to speak.’

  ‘OK, but you must understand that what I’m about to tell you must stay only with you. I know I should assume that as a given, and that I can trust you, but I needed to say it anyway – it’s really important. I have reason to believe that I have become unwittingly mixed up in something of great importance and, as expected, a few shady characters seem to be crawling out of the woodwork. As for being followed, I’m sure I am being, right now. He’s a small Italian-looking man in a black coat.’

  I told her the whole story, from finding the old journal in the box of papers, the translations from the Italian, Adrian Harcourt, the bishop, and my various trips to the bank. I also mentioned Peter the vicar, his lovely wife, and the village church and its treasures, but our lighter mood had now completely vanished, as had any effect of the alcohol that we had drunk.

  * * *

  I got up to make coffee and pour us some Calvados over large lumps of ice, which was Caro’s favourite. The smell of apples was wonderful, and the cold, fiery liquor was perfect with the strong shots of black coffee. She looked at me, her face pale with concern and fear.

  ‘I knew it would be something to do with one of your blasted manuscript translations. All that secrecy and cloak and dagger stuff, deliveries, collections in the middle of the night, as well as the assumption that you’ll say nothing to anyone… ever. That implies a threat without one even being stated. It’s downright dangerous! Can’t you stick to the poetry, Benoît?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but no, I can’t. I love doing it, and I don’t want to stop, not even the cloak and dagger stuff – it’s all part of it. It makes me feel alive somehow and, as for the danger, I rarely think about it. I can’t explain it any more than that, except to say that I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, and I do understand the feeling alive bit. Discoveries are always invigorating and exciting, I get that, but I don’t want anything to happen to you. You don’t seem to care, and I put that down to your upbringing and being constantly abandoned by your parents, but I do. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right about the not caring bit. Don’t get me wrong though, I don’t want to die any time soon.’

  She sighed and then spoke again.

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning. The parchments from the Italian… don’t you have any idea who he is? Can I see a copy? I might be an atheist, but I am a history professor, and not entirely inexperienced in such things.’

  I got up to draw back the curtains, rifling around in the linings to find the papers that I had placed there yesterday. Had it only been then? It seemed like an age ago.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Perhaps there’s more of the French peasant in you than I thought… hiding things in the curtains indeed. You’ll be pulling up the floorboards next.’

  ‘Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.’

  I handed over the transcripts, watching as she slowly read them, carefully taking in every word.

  ‘I’m stunned. If these are for real, can you imagine what might happen if they were let loose? Bloody hell, what was the Italian man thinking? Is he from the Vatican, do you think? It seems most likely to me, although surely they would have pulled you into Rome if they needed your help wi
th something as important as this? That’s the preferred scenario as far as I can see. If he’s Mafia or similar, we might as well order your coffin now. I don’t know why I’m joking; this is serious! What are you going to do?’

  ‘What can I do? The way I see it, there are so many people who might be involved. Contacting any one of them might make things worse and expose me to even more trouble. I’ve no idea who the Italian is, and I’m not certain that the Vatican is more benevolent than the Mafia, to be honest. They’ve silenced enough people throughout history, you know that. The journal’s an added complication. It’s a real coincidence that I found it when I did, and, as I said, Adrian Harcourt is very keen to get his hands on it. And did I tell you that the cottage was broken into? They didn’t steal anything, but I’m sure it was the journal they were looking for.’

  I got up again and went to get the copy book that was still in my jacket pocket. I handed it over to Caro, put another couple of logs on the fire, and slowly sipped my drink.

  ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence, Ben. I prefer the term synchronicity. It’s more accurate, but it’s quite bizarre that you found the journal while you were doing the translations. Double trouble. This first bit, where there are a few words missing, what’s that about?’