The Museum of Mysteries

by Steve Berry

  “My brother is for hire to the highest bidder. And this political season, Madame St. Benedict seems to be the one with the deepest pockets. He’s been working with her for some time. The media has wondered how she’s managed to counter Casimir’s dirty tricks? Her gains in the polls are all thanks to Denton.”

  The election had been all the news for the past few weeks. Despite being in office for almost five years, President Yves Casimir had never connected with the people. Terrorism had crippled the French tourist trade, the economy lagged, immigration remained a continuing problem. Relations with the EU and America were strained. Instead of calming fears or providing hope, Casimir chose an indifferent approach, one that had made him immensely unpopular. His opponent, Lydia St. Benedict, seemed his antithesis. A widow, whose husband had died in a terrorist attack in Nice. She’d been at a hotel with their two children, who were in bed with colds, when her husband had gone out for a walk and never returned. What worked against her was inexperience. Along with the fact that Casimir had a reputation for playing hard ball. The pundits were waiting to see if Madame St. Benedict could beat Casimir at his own game. The election loomed less than a week away, the candidates’ last national debate tomorrow night.

  “Do you think your brother is after Casimir?” I asked.

  Antoine shrugged. “There’s no telling what he’s after, but that Sabbat Box has something to do with it. He came after me for a reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Can you help us out?” I said to Marcher.

  The inspector never hesitated. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I understood. “Unfinished business?”

  “Something like that.”

  I recalled everything that Jac L’Etoile had told me about the powerful hallucinations inside the box. It was clear that Marcher was thinking too. I could almost read his mind. Finally, he glanced my way.

  “A man like Yves Casimir is vulnerable in many different ways. Which means a man like Denton Lussac has a fertile field to plow. I agree with Antoine. This is much bigger than finding an old box.”

  Chapter 11

  We decided to split up.

  Too many possibilities for where Denton might be existed for all of us to stay together. Marcher was going to stake out Denton’s residence and follow him or whoever he could find there. Antoine and I headed to Lydia St. Benedict’s home. Marcher had learned through his police connections that the candidate was there, preparing for the upcoming final debate, her children with their grandmother during the final stretch of the race.

  St. Benedict lived thirty minutes outside of Paris in Barbizon, a small town on the edge of the Fontainebleau forest, once a favorite hunting ground for the kings of France. The trip took an hour in Antoine’s car. Traffic had been bad until we came clear of the suburbs. I’d visited the palace of Fontainebleau several times. For someone like me, with an interest in medieval architecture, the site was a must-see. Its famed château had served as a sovereign residence for over eight hundred years. The Capétiens, Valois, Bourbons, Bonapartes and Orléans all left their mark. Catherine de’ Medici had made smart use of its secret passageways to spy on her husband and his mistress. Before being exiled to Elba, Napoleon abdicated there.

  While finishing my PhD I’d spent several weeks at the Château de Fontainebleau and had come to know not only the buildings, but its forests, environs, and the town. The inn I frequented sat within walking distance to Lydia St. Benedict’s home. I booked two rooms for the night and learned from the desk clerk that St. Benedict was at home. I showered, dressed, and we both ate a light supper of soup and salad at a nearby café. While eating I overheard the people at the next table, who seemed to be from St. Benedict’s campaign retinue. They were upbeat, discussing their candidate’s poll numbers, all of them feeling good about the debate tomorrow night. We left the café around a quarter to nine.

  The walk to St. Benedict’s house took ten minutes.

  It sat among the trees, off the road. Lights burned both downstairs and upstairs. Otherwise the house seemed quiet. One car sat parked in the driveway.

  “Should we ring the bell?” Antoine asked.

  “I’ve always liked the direct approach. But let me do this. We don’t know who else is there.”

  He seemed to understand. “Denton?”

  I nodded. “Better you wait out here. As you said, you’re not the right person to approach him.”

  He nodded.

  I left him in the trees, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. No answer. I waited, but no one came. No butler or maid? Surely St. Benedict employed people. I stepped away from the door and signaled for Antoine to stay put. I then walked around to the side and explored the grounds. The house was typical of the mid-1700s, probably once owned by someone of importance close to the royal family. The walls were a warm, creamy gray stone which I knew was from the Oise quarries about twenty-five miles outside of Paris.

  I rounded the far side and saw an open window on the ground floor. I approached and peeked in at the kitchen. The ancient stone hearth was still intact with a cast iron pot hanging from a hook. Judging from the elaborate stainless steel stove, the hearth was no longer utilized. But clearly a lot of the old charm had survived renovations.

  Still no one around.

  I decided to be bold and climbed inside.

  I crept through the kitchen and explored the rest of the rooms downstairs. A fire burned in the living room hearth—unusual if no one was home. A half full stem of red wine rested on a coffee table. Beside that was a tumbler holding a quarter inch of brown liquor. A sniff told me it was Scotch.

  Indentations on the Regency couch seemed to indicate that two people had been seated there not long before. The dining room loomed empty but the chairs were haphazardly pulled out. Papers were strewn across the top and a laptop was open displaying a frozen image of St. Benedict at a lectern. An indicator showed the video at half over. Everything here seemed like unfinished business.

  I walked down a short corridor to an empty library, then up the stairs. Each of the four bedrooms were empty. Two were children’s rooms. A third, a guest room, seemed in use by a man judging from the clothes and shoes. The last bedroom, at the opposite end of the hall, was the master, which smelled of perfume. Up one more flight of stairs and I found a warren of servants’ rooms and a playroom for children.

  No one there either.

  Back downstairs, I stood in the foyer and absorbed the atmosphere. If there was life in this house I couldn’t hear or see it. I walked through the rooms once more and a thought occurred to me. Old houses like this usually came with a basement and perhaps even a sub-basement. From what I knew of 17th century architecture, most entrances to the sub-levels were off the kitchen. I returned there and found a staircase leading down to a lit, ventilated, truncated basement. There were storage rooms, a wine cellar, even a laundry. Its size was smaller than expected. Typically, a basement stretched across the house’s entire footprint, part of its stone foundation.

  But not here.

  Dead silence enveloped me.

  Then I began to hear sounds.

  Muffled.

  Hard to identify.

  I shut my eyes and listened.

  They came again.

  More distinct.

  I crept close to the perimeter of the exterior walls, nestling my ear to the stone.

  Nothing.

  Had I imagined it?

  I returned upstairs and re-walked the first floor, figuring dimensions, counting footsteps, eye-balling measurements and comparing them to the basement where I’d just been. I ascertained that the space I’d just explored in the basement was under the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room but had not extended under the sun room or the library or the bathroom off of it.

  Interesting.

  Sometimes a degree in medieval architecture came in handy. I knew that châteaus built before 1900 often came with hidden chambers. Sometimes they’d served as private
spaces. Entrances to those secret rooms were often hidden behind false walls, many times inside closets or behind shelving or cabinetry. All of the tropes in books, movies, and novels were true. For the sake of thoroughness I investigated the shelves in the library, but none of them sprang open. I stepped back into the living room and looked around one last time.

  Something felt wrong about this whole place.

  And even though I didn’t know Lydia St. Benedict, I felt compelled to make sure all was well with her.

  My gaze focused on the hearth where the fire had become just burning embers. The fireplace itself was twice normal size—large enough for someone to step into provided they stooped over. I walked back to the library which had the same tall ceilings and oversized fireplace. Remnants of the last fire that had burnt there were cold to the touch, though the scent of smoke and burnt wood lingered. I stepped around the andirons, into the hearth, and ducked inside. The walls were typically scorched. Ashes littered the grate.

  Then I saw them.

  Footprints in the ash.

  One set of a woman’s, the other a man’s.

  I pushed on the right wall. Nothing happened. Nor did the wall at the back of the enclosure give. But the left wall moved. It opened without a sound, easily swinging inward and revealing a stone staircase. A breeze of cool air wafted up without even a hint of a musty odor. No cobwebs anywhere. This was an active passageway. I made my way down the stone staircase to an oak door, complete with an iron ring and hinges, devoid of rust.

  I grabbed the ring and gently pushed.

  It moved inward without a sound.

  Enough for me to see something astonishing.

  Chapter 12

  A dungeon.

  Or more accurate, a sexual dungeon.

  A playroom, if I remembered the correct term.

  The lights were dim, the shadows heavy. Fully equipped too. Shackles on the wall. Iron cage. Racks of whips. Chains. Ropes. Benches. And Lydia St. Benedict, spread-eagle atop a black X, her waist, wrists, and ankles restrained on a St. Andrew’s Cross. Not that I had ever partaken, but I wasn’t ignorant to such things either. Named for the crux decussata, the diagonal cross upon which St. Andrew died, adapted by the erotic world as a device of pain and pleasure.

  St. Benedict was naked, except for a black leather collar. A man stood before her, holding a leather riding crop. And not just any man. The same height, build, and face as Antoine, only a little younger.

  His brother, Denton.

  Who used the crop to tease her breasts. My first instinct was to rush in and stop the violation. But I realized that I was the intruder here. This was a private place and St. Benedict did not appear to be in jeopardy. Quite the contrary. She seemed to enjoy his titillations. What caused me concern was the tripod that stood off to one side that held a silver cellphone, its camera aimed at the scene.

  Troubling.

  But again, who was I to judge?

  On a table I saw the Sabbat Box, a few of its bottles out, but still corked. That raised the most serious warning signs, considering their powerful effects. The doorway where I stood lay in the shadows, about ten meters away from the unfolding sexual antics. Neither of them noticed me. I continued to stare, both embarrassed by my momentary voyeurism and enthralled by the scene. I knew people who enjoyed this sort of thing. That enticing mixture of pain and pleasure, dominance and submission, give and take.

  Lydia St. Benedict’s eyes stayed unfocused and downcast. Denton seemed a portrait of control. Emotionless and powerful. He stopped his taunting and turned. We saw each other at the same time. My first instinct was to drop back and pull the door closed, but I did not move.

  “Come closer,” he said.

  I stepped into the dungeon.

  “This is not what it seems.”

  He stepped toward me and had not asked my name, nor even seemed surprised that I was here. But why would he? If Antoine was right, this was the man who attacked us on the Philosopher’s Walk. So he would know my face.

  He came close and stopped.

  “I’m Denton Lussac.”

  Perhaps diplomacy was the call of the day.

  “Cassiopeia Vitt.”

  His right hand whipped upward in a flash.

  The metal end of the whip caught me on the right temple.

  And the world dissolved to black.

  * * *

  So much for diplomacy.

  My head ached.

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. I tried to raise an arm to examine my scalp but couldn’t move either of my hands. Ties around my wrists held them back. My feet were likewise restrained. Then I realized something filled my mouth.

  Denton stared at me. “Have you ever experienced a ball gag before?”

  I slowly shook my head.

  “Its purpose is most often humiliation. Your mouth is partially forced open and the rubber ball prevents you from effectively swallowing. Spit builds up beneath your tongue and eventually drools out the sides of your mouth. Since your hands are restrained, there’s nothing free to wipe your face with. Incredibly, this simple violation of hygiene can break a person down.”

  His words came matter-of-factly, without a single measure of concern. Thankfully, I’d been in worse situations and, more than that, I refused to let this prick get to me.

  “Pain is an offshoot of humiliation,” he said. “Depending on the size of the ball, the size of your mouth, and how hard the ties are fastened, the ball can force your jaw to open unnaturally wide. Which doesn’t sound like a big deal, but, with time, it can become excruciating. And not all that much time needs to pass either. Adding to the humiliation is that you don’t speak clearly when the ball is removed. It’s quite the toy.”

  He slipped the ball from my mouth.

  I swallowed hard. Though I was at his mercy, bound to one of the iron chairs, I wasn’t helpless. Instead, I was taking in everything around me. Preparing. Planning. Waiting.

  Across the room Lydia St. Benedict lay naked in a cage, asleep it appeared. Such a strange sight to see a candidate for the presidency of France in such a helpless condition. Her image was one of a type-A personality. An alpha female. In total control. But then I realized it all made sense. Her apparent sexual tastes relied on trust, safety, and surrender, overlapped by an element of being in charge. Dominant and submissive. Unequal roles that led to arousal and satisfaction. A risk-aware consensual game, with the submissive being in name only, as the ultimate control rested with the one receiving the pain and pleasure. Not the other way around. Too bad most French voters wouldn’t grasp the truth of the situation. If they saw her now, it would most likely be political suicide.

  And that thought made me angry on her behalf.

  Denton stepped close to St. Benedict and whispered through the cage bars, “Lydia?”

  She opened her eyes and looked around, seemingly confused. “I don’t feel well. What’s wrong with me? Denton? Please, tell me.”

  He opened the cage.

  “Why is my head all fuzzy?”

  She sounded like a small child. Then I realized she was drugged. No question. Probably something from the Sabbat Box. I wondered which of the concoctions he’d used. And I recalled Jac’s warning that mixing the ingredients could be both dangerous and fatal. I stared across at the tripod and noticed that the silver cell phone was gone. The Sabbat Box remained on the table, a few more of its stoppered bottles out.

  St. Benedict staggered as if in a trance. Her head drooped to one side. Denton’s caretaker mask was gone, replaced by cold, calculating eyes and a stiff frame. I pulled on my restraints, itching to place him in the cage she’d just vacated. He’d clearly violated the enormous trust she’d given him.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He glanced back at me. “Winning the election.”

  He helped St. Benedict out of the dungeon and wrapped a blanket around her nakedness. She never turned around, never saw me, and had no idea I was even there.

  My mind raced.


  Denton Lussac was not working for St. Benedict. He was working for her opponent, President Yves Casimir. What better way to tip a close election than through a deep personal slander. Lydia St. Benedict’s sexual proclivities would be, at a minimum, horribly embarrassing. True, the French were liberal in their sexual attitudes. A lot was forgiven. Having an affair or a love child hardly raised an eyebrow. But would the electorate accept that the woman running to be one of the most powerful leaders in the EU was a submissive who allowed—even enjoyed—her partner to physically and mentally dominate her? Not the image any national leader wanted. And in a close election it could provide a few percentage points of swing, making all the difference.

  The oak door closed.

  Then it reopened.

  Denton stepped across and re-inserted the ball gag into my mouth. “I almost forgot.”

  He left.

  Silence reigned.

  I was trapped.

  Chapter 13

  A half hour passed before Denton returned.

  Alone.

  My head still ached. Drool oozed from the sides of my mouth and had for the past few minutes. I studied him. He and Antoine were similar in the face, the same dark hair, powerful features and piercing brown eyes. But from the bumps on his nose and a scar above his eyebrow, I guessed he’d been in his share of fights. Unlike Antoine, this man’s countenance exuded more of a sense of entitlement. I’d seen the look before. That I’m-smarter-than-you-are-and-always-will-be arrogance.

  “There’s no one here, but the three of us. No houses nearby. Stone walls and earth all around you. I’m going to ungag you. But let’s not wake Lydia with any screaming.”

  Like I would. Asshole. I don’t scream.

  He released the ball gag from around my head, grabbed a towel from a rack and wiped my face of the spittle. I swallowed. I never realized how satisfying that simple act could be. My jaw was sore and I worked out the kinks.