The Museum of Mysteries

by Steve Berry

  I even knew of a few.

  Things like a portrait, drawn by da Vinci in chalk created from mummies, which bestowed great physical power to anyone who gazed upon it. Greek fire, invented in the 7th century by the Byzantines, that produced a flame water was unable to quench. A collection of evil eye talismans that dated back to ancient times, said to have belonged to witches. And the Spear of Destiny that Charlemagne, Napoleon, and Hitler believed turned an ordinary man into a superhuman leader. When I’d pointed out that there was already such a spear on display at the Hofburg in Vienna, he’d merely smiled and said beware of fakes.

  The L’Etoile family traced its roots back to the 13th century. The name carried a popular familiarity thanks to a branch of the family that came to fame in the early 18th century as perfumers to royalty. L’Etoile fragrances became known worldwide and their shop on the Left Bank in Paris remained one of the most famous perfume destinations in the world.

  And one of my personal favorites.

  Fifty years after the French Revolution one member of the family, Sebastian L’Etoile, settled in Eze, opening a shop to sell his brother’s fragrances. Eventually, he branched out and founded the Museum of Mysteries, mainly as a place to store artifacts brought back from expeditions to Egypt. Sebastian rediscovered a tunnel that extended from the back of the shop into the mountain, closed off long ago by an avalanche, perfect as a repository. So an entrance was created from the shop. A door, with no knob, no knocker, no lock. Just oak panels bound by iron. Which only the curator could open through a complicated puzzle that predated Sebastian L’Etoile’s rediscovery.

  Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and so some research had revealed that, in the 5th century, some of the women of Eze, after being branded witches, had used the tunnel as an escape route down to the sea. Their stories were told through carvings in the walls, which Nicodème had allowed me to see. Goodbye messages. Parting advice. Recipes for spells and potions. Final messages to those they were leaving behind. Seeing them at once both moving and hopeful. Now the old tunnel contained over three hundred rare objects.

  One of them apparently gone.

  Being carted away, through a rainstorm, across the streets of Eze by a thief.

  Hildick-Smith hung a left at a fork in the street, which gave me hope. I knew Eze, every warren of turns and alleyways, every dead end. Clearly my quarry wasn’t as well versed since he’d just chosen one of the inescapable routes, this one ending at a viewing platform where tourists could gaze at the valley below, the towns in the distance, and the endless sea and sky.

  I took the same left and saw Hildick-Smith ahead.

  He stopped running, then casually joined a small group of visitors with umbrellas enjoying the scenic vista. I slowed, caught my breath, and approached. To gain control of the wooden box, Hildick-Smith had drawn a pistol in the shop and held both me and Nicodème at bay. If threatened, he might use his weapon. My instincts told me to shout for the people to clear out so I could deal with the problem. But approaching I suddenly realized something.

  He was gone.

  But how?

  I reached the railing and looked down at the twisty footpath about three meters below. I knew that it led from Eze down to the sea, about a ninety-minute trek. The dubious Philosopher’s Walk. Legend held that the famed German, William Nietzsche, would hike the zigzagging path among the trees every day in summer. The exercise and heat supposedly providing inspiration to organize his thoughts. Beyond its edge was a sheer drop down of several hundred meters. Today, the danger was amplified by steel-gray rain slanting down through the trees.

  I saw Hildick-Smith, clutching the knapsack to his chest, navigating the stone-riddled path. Not running, but definitely hurrying in and out of the trees. I followed suit, doing what he’d obviously done, and hopped the railing, landing on more hard rock.

  Which hurt my bare feet.

  I headed after him, the shock of each stride sliding up through my bones, the pain tearing into my lungs, heart hammering, the sucking of each breath beginning to match the beat of my legs. I could only imagine the condition of the bottom of my soles.

  Ahead, my target disappeared as the twisty path continued its descent. The storm seemed to have scared off all other hikers. At the next bend there was no sign of him. No movement anywhere. Just the hills, the trees, the sea beyond, and the rain overhead.

  He has the elixirs.

  That’s what Nicodème had said as I left.

  What elixirs?

  I’d come to Eze simply to have lunch with an old friend. It was our special thing. About once a month, whenever I was home in France, not traveling. My passion was the rebuilding of a medieval castle using only 13th century materials and technology. I have degrees in medieval architecture, so the design was my own. Every meter of the thick walls and corner towers had been fashioned by hand from the nearby water, stone, earth, sand, and wood. I employed quarriers, blacksmiths, masons, stone hewers, potters, and carpenters who worked year round. The costs were enormous. Luckily my parents left me with more money than I could ever spend. So I’d decided to put some of it to historical use. And I was making progress. About thirty percent of the castle now stood, but it would take another twenty years to finish.

  Which was fine.

  It wasn’t the destination, but the journey that interested me.

  The drive from my home in Givors to Eze was several hours, but it was lovely through the Côte D’Azur region, the Alps rising on one side, the Mediterranean stretching out on the other. My visit today had a dual purpose since Nicodème had told me that he’d acquired some exquisite 15th century tiles that he thought might be perfect for one of the buildings. He’d helped me many times over the years with the castle. I appreciated his interest as his suggestions were always on target.

  “What is this?” I had asked, pointing to the wooden box on the counter before Hildick-Smith arrived. “It looks like something my father would have loved.”

  “He would have. The box itself is medieval, probably 13th century. But what’s inside dates back much further. It’s filled with ancient potions used by healers.”

  “Witches,” I’d whispered.

  The wise women had always interested me—maligned by men who didn’t understand their talents, sexuality, or intelligence. Not witches. Merely observant experts in the healing arts, which had far more to do with chemistry than magic. I’d borrowed a few books from Nicodème’s shelves over the years about the dark arts and its various practitioners. What was the most common charge from the time? As a ghost, they appeared and disappeared.

  Just like Hildick-Smith.

  What was happening here? That wooden box? Elixirs?

  “This could be a most important item,” Nicodème had said to Hildick-Smith, touching the lid of the intriguing box.

  “I heard you acquired it a few years ago. So I came to see if you would sell it to me.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll double what you paid for it.”

  “It is not for sale.”

  A moment later Peter Hildick-Smith drew a gun, took the box, and fled the shop.

  Now he was gone.

  Chapter 2

  I crept ahead.

  Through the years I’ve honed a few instincts, the kind that come from chasing trouble. I’ve always liked trouble. Why? Hard to say. Maybe because it’s so unpredictable. So spontaneous. The knowing, but not knowing. It’s what lies ahead that makes life interesting.

  I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl. Nothing to be gained by always looking at the sour side of things. It probably comes from a rich, affluent upbringing. I wanted for little. My parents were billionaires, but they were no coddlers. My father was tough, my mother tougher. They were also Mormon, converted in middle age, which instilled in them a deep sense of duty and responsibility. They were firm believers and, at the time, there weren’t all that many Latter-Day Saints in northern Spain. Being different was an open invitation to trouble. But my father
had never been afraid of trouble either. He actually seemed to thrive in its presence. So it’s no surprise that I turned out the way I did. By the time he died, the local Mormon ward numbered in the thousands, all thanks to him.

  Thoughts of him always kept me going when trouble arrived.

  Like now.

  I came to the next bend in the Philosopher’s Walk, which inched ever closer to the edge. No railings protected anyone from the drop, which was several hundred meters down among jutting rocks, prickly shrubs, and trees. Not a fall anyone would survive without some serious injury, and not one I was anxious to experience. The woods around me seemed a sodden, gloomy world, pungent with a dark smell of soaked earth. Beyond the trail’s edge, the fuzzy silhouettes of distant mountains stood against the gray sky.

  Movement to the left caught my attention.

  A form sprang from the trees and shoved me to the ground, the weight of a body forcing my face into the wet dirt. I decided to kick and roll, taking my attacker with me, and caught a quick glimpse of the face.

  Hildick-Smith.

  Interesting he’d not used his gun. Instead, he’d opted for hand-to-hand. No nerve? Or something else? An underestimation? Maybe. But enough playtime. I thrust my legs upward and recoiled his body off me, his head ending up on my belly. I shoved him off to the muddy ground, but not before driving a quick jab of my left fist into his windpipe. I sprang to my feet as he gasped, trying to find air to breathe. But I’d been careful. The force had been just enough to get his attention, but not enough to kill him.

  I spat the mud from my mouth and asked, “Was all this necessary?”

  He pushed himself up into a sitting position, his breathing still stabilizing. “I must . . . have . . . that box.”

  Which was nowhere to be seen. “Where is it?”

  He motioned and I saw the knapsack propped near the trunk of a tree. “Over there.”

  My best option for learning what was going on seemed to be conciliatory. He was tall, gangly, maybe mid-thirties, with a thick black mat of hair, wet and not combed in any particular direction. Clearly he wasn’t all that good at stealing, fleeing, or fighting. Nothing about him seemed even remotely dangerous. I stood and retrieved the knapsack, laying it on the ground beside him. Trees overhead shielded us from the majority of the rain.

  “That box doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Not according to my friend, Nicodème.”

  “I tried to buy it from him. It belongs to my family. Your friend, Nicodème, bought it a few years ago in Paris at an auction house once half owned by my family. The box should have never been placed for sale. Someone did that hoping I wouldn’t notice. But I did. It’s how I knew your friend owned it.”

  “And who would do that?”

  “That’s what I am trying to find out.” He motioned to the knapsack. “May I?”

  I recalled the gun from the shop. “Where’s your weapon?”

  “Inside the sack.”

  I bent down, unzipped the top, and fished out the pistol.

  “It’s not loaded,” he said.

  I ejected the magazine and checked the chamber. No rounds anywhere.

  “I just wanted to scare him,” he said.

  I watched as he dug into the sack and came out with a sheaf of papers, the letterhead from the Louvre in Paris. He handed them over. I shielded them from the rain and read.

  France 16th century, TRAVELING SABBAT CABINET WITH VARIOUS SEMI-PRECIOUS STONES SET IN GOLD BEZELS, inscribed in pen: 240588 - and with illegible inscriptions to the rosewood exterior with an etched iron lock and iron handles and hinges. The interior is inlaid with ivory and marquetry in the central compartment. There are a total of 15 compartments, 10 of them containing glass bottles possibly as old as 5th century. The contents of the bottles include oils and dried herbs not as yet identified. Owner François Lussac.

  I knew the name.

  The Lussac château and vineyard dated back to the 15th century. Some of the best cognac came from their label thanks to the sunshine, humidity, and the chalky reddish soil close to the marshes of southern France.

  “François Lussac was my father,” he said.

  “I’m listening.”

  He seemed recovered from the assault and tossed me a semblance of a smile. “Do you have a name?”

  “Cassiopeia Vitt.”

  “I’m Antoine Lussac,” he said. “Not Peter Hildick-Smith. I thought it better to use an alias.”

  “Is your family related to the Lussac family who owns the château in the Cognac Valley?”

  He nodded. “My older brother and I run the vineyard. Are you familiar with our brandy?”

  “I am, and I’m even more familiar with the château. I’ve been studying medieval architecture for years.”

  His eyes lit. “Cassiopeia Vitt. Of course. I’ve read about your castle project and seen pictures. Quite an undertaking. I wish you could have met my father. He was obsessed with ancient buildings and spent a fortune restoring ours. Just like you, everything had to be original and period correct. That’s how we came to own the Sabbat Box.” He pointed at the knapsack. “He found it during an excavation of a cave on our property, about ten years ago.”

  He reached back inside and removed the box, cradling it with great care. I noticed the same inlay of stones—amethysts, moonstones, garnets, and sapphires(from when I first saw it back at the shop.

  He opened the lid.

  As the document from the Louvre had described, inside were compartments, each one holding a thick glass bottle dotted with bubbles and flaws. Another compartment held two small copper funnels, green with age, and another contained some uneven glass pipettes. A crisscross of wood protected each bottle, proved by the fact that during the entire run through Eze and down the mountain everything had remained intact. I examined the inside lid where a leather portfolio held bits of old paper, now decayed.

  “We think there were once formulas recorded there,” he said.

  On the lower front were two iron pulls. I tried them, opening a drawer containing more tools. A small mortar and pestle, a knife, and an iron pan with scorch marks on its underside.

  I closed the drawer. “This is extraordinary.”

  “It is. But don’t uncork any of the bottles. Oddly, the scents are still potent. Five years ago we were doing research on them when the box disappeared. Then, as we now know, it found its way into the auction.” He pointed to one. “I can attest to the fact that this bottle contains fumes with some kind of hallucinogenic properties. I experienced a wild vision when I made the mistake of taking a sniff.”

  Something about the box, the stones on top, the thick glass bottles, the iron corners, even the drawer, gave me pause. As if it were familiar, yet not. The feeling had started back in the shop, before the theft, while it had sat on the counter. There’d been no time to explore those feelings before all the excitement intervened.

  But now—

  A thought raced through my brain.

  Somehow I knew that there should be vellum labels affixed to the bottom of each bottle. How? Why? I had no idea. Only that it was true. I gently touched one of them, then stopped and looked at Antoine. “May I take it out, if I don’t open it?”

  He nodded.

  I had to see if I was right.

  I lifted out the bottle. Underneath was a label. Discolored and deteriorated with age. A word, written in a sepia script, had faded but could still be read.

  Belladonna.

  I replaced the bottle and reached for another.

  Even before I lifted it out I knew that under it would be Diospyros.

  And I was right.

  I removed a third, but before I could peek beneath it I heard the grating sound of stones being ground beneath the soles of shoes and turned to see a man leaping toward me. Antoine shoved the newcomer away, then shouted for me to grab the box and run. Before I could move, a booted foot made contact with my arm. Somehow, I kept hold of the bottle in my
grasp, but I was driven down to the wet ground. I tried to recoil and go on the offensive but another blow found my brow.

  Red hot pain exploded across my skull.

  Then, nothing.

  Chapter 3

  A great hall surrounds me, along with revelers indulging in food and wine, all celebrating the night before the last day of the new year’s celebration. But I’m tired of the merriment and retire to my room.

  “Are you ready for bed, my lady?” my maid asks as I enter the chamber.

  “More than I can say.”

  I sit before the fire in the hearth and the older woman unbraids my hair, then removes my broach. I stand and I’m helped out of my heavy robes and into my night dress. Not some sack of harsh wool that peasants are forced to endure. This is silk. A shimmering red sheer. The maid withdraws to hang the dress and I climb into bed. Beside me on the nightstand sits a cup of honeyed milk. My favorite. The warm, sweet liquid always calms me.

  I lie in the bed, beneath the comforter.

  Sleep comes quickly.

  Perhaps tonight there will be a new message.

  Dreams are the Sorcerer’s tool. A way of him avoiding the perils of travel, to send a message which cannot be ignored. Always, the message glows inside my head. Bright. Vibrant. Alive. With sound and smell. Even sensations. Especially the sensations. And the music. Played on a rebec and an organ, the odd combination of the stringed instrument and pipes one of the Sorceror’s ways to alert my subconscious to pay attention. When the dreams first started I told myself I was a woman worthy of honor and respect. Not an old man’s messenger. But I have come to welcome the visions.

  Light and music appear inside my brain and I am standing by the gates to a fortress. No. The gates of my fortress. Snow falls. I feel the brisk air and the tinkle of the flakes as they dissolve on my skin. A dozen men on horseback are fast approaching. No faces are clear. Just outlines. They keep coming, riding at full gallop, but never really venture any closer.