Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
‘Bon, aux affaires. Inside would be better, I think.’
Authié stood aside to let her through the glass doors that led into the immaculate but impersonal living room. Pale carpets and lampshades, high-backed chairs around a glass table.
‘More wine? Or can I get you something else to drink?’
‘Pastis, if you have it.’
‘Ice? Water?’
‘Ice.’
Marie-Cecile sat in one of the cream leather armchairs angled either side of a small glass coffee table and watched him mix the drinks. The subtle scent of aniseed filled the room.
Authie handed her the drink, before sitting in the chair opposite.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled her thanks. ‘So. Paul. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to run through the precise sequence of events.’
If he was irritated, he didn’t show it. She observed him closely as he talked, but his report was clear and precise, identical in every respect to what he had told her before.
‘And the skeletons themselves? They’ve been taken to Toulouse?’
‘To the forensic anthropology department at the university, yes.’
When do you expect to hear anything?’
His response was to pass her the white A4 envelope from the table. Not above a bit of showmanship, she thought.
‘Already? That’s very quick work.’
‘I called in a favour.’
Marie-Cécile laid it on her lap. ‘Thank you. I’ll read it later,’ she said smoothly. ‘For now, why don’t you summarise for me. You’ve read it, I presume?’
‘It’s only a preliminary report, pending the results of more detailed tests,’ he cautioned.
‘Understood,’ she said, leaning back in the chair.
‘The bones are those of a man and a woman. Estimate, somewhere between seven to nine hundred years old. The male skeleton showed indications of unhealed wounds on his pelvis and top of the femur, suggesting the possibility they were inflicted shortly before death. There was evidence of older, healed fractures on his right arm and collarbone.’
‘Age?’
‘Adult, neither very young nor old. Somewhere between twenty and sixty. They should be able to narrow it down after further tests. The woman the same bracket. The cranial cavity was depressed on one side, which could have been caused either by a blow to the head or by a fall. She had borne at least one child. There was also evidence of a healed fracture in her right foot and an unhealed break in her left ulna, between elbow and wrist.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘He’s not prepared to commit himself at this early stage, although his opinion is it will be hard to isolate one clearly identifiable diagnosis. Given the sort of time period we’re talking about, it’s probable that both died as a combination of their injuries, loss of blood and, possibly, starvation.’
‘He thinks they were still alive when they were entombed in the cave?’
Authié shrugged, although she registered the flicker of interest in his grey eyes. Marie-Cécile took a cigarette from her case and rolled it between her fingers for a moment, while she thought.
‘What about the objects found between the bodies?’ she said, leaning forward for him to light her cigarette.
‘Again, the same caveat, but his estimate is they date from the late twelfth to mid-thirteenth century. The lamp on the altar might be slightly older and is of Arab design, Spain possibly, more likely further afield. The knife was an ordinary eating knife, for meat and fruit. There is evidence of blood on the blade. Tests will confirm if it’s animal or human. The bag was leather, locally sourced and typical of the Languedoc in that period. No clues as to what, if anything, it contained, although there were particles of metal in the lining and slight traces of sheepskin in the stitching.’
Marie-Cécile kept her voice as steady as she could. What else?’
‘The woman who discovered the cave, Dr Tanner, found a large copper and silver buckle. It was trapped beneath the boulder outside the entrance to the cave. He’s also dated this to the same sort of period and believes it to be local or possibly Aragonese. There’s a photograph of it in the envelope.’
Marie-Cécile waved her hand. Tm not interested in a buckle, Paul,’ she said. She breathed a spiral of smoke into the air. ‘I do, however, want to know why you haven’t found the book.’
She saw his long fingers wind round the arms of his chair.
We have no evidence the book was actually there,’ he said calmly. ‘Although the leather pouch is certainly big enough to have contained a book of the size you seek.’
‘And what about the ring? Do you doubt that was there also?’
Again, he did not let her provoke him. ‘On the contrary, I am certain the ring was there.’
‘Well?’
‘It was there, but some time between the cave being discovered and my arrival with the police, it was taken.’
‘But you have no evidence of that either,’ she said, her voice sharp now. ‘Unless I am mistaken, you do not have the ring either.’
Marie-Cécile watched as Authié produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Dr Tanner was most insistent, so much so that she drew this,’ he said, handing it over. ‘It’s crude, I admit, but it’s a pretty good match for the description you gave me. Don’t you think?’
She took the sketch from his hand. The size, shape and proportion were not identical, but close enough to the diagram of the labyrinth ring Marie-Cécile had locked in her safe in Chartres. No one outside the de l’Oradore family had seen it for eight hundred years. It had to be genuine.
‘Quite the artist,’ she murmured. Was this the only drawing she did?’
His grey eyes looked clear into hers without faltering. ‘There are others, but this was the only one worth bothering about.’
Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m afraid, Madame de l’Oradore, I took only this. The others seemed irrelevant.’ Authié shrugged apologetically. ‘Besides, Inspector Noubel, the investigation officer, was already suspicious of my interest.’
‘Next time . . .’ she started to say, then stopped. She extinguished her cigarette, grinding it so hard that tobacco spilled out in a fan. ‘You searched Dr Tanner’s belongings, I presume?’
He nodded. ‘The ring wasn’t there.’
‘It’s small. She could easily have hidden it somewhere.’
‘Technically,’ he agreed, ‘although I don’t think she did. If she stole it, why would she mention it in the first place? Also’ – he leaned over and tapped the paper – ‘if she had got the original in her possession, why bother to make a record of it?’
Marie-Cécile looked at the drawing. ‘It’s surprisingly accurate for something done from memory.’
‘I agree.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Here. In Carcassonne. It appears she has a meeting with a solicitor tomorrow.’
‘Concerning?’
He shrugged. ‘A legacy, something of that sort. She’s due to fly home on Sunday.’
The doubts Marie-Cécile had from the moment she’d heard about the find yesterday were intensifying the more he told her. Something didn’t add up.
‘How did Dr Tanner get her place on the team?’ she said. Was she recommended?’
Authié looked surprised. ‘Dr Tanner wasn’t actually a member of the team,’ he said lightly. ‘I’m sure I mentioned this.’
Her lips tightened. ‘You did not.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said smoothly. ‘I was sure I had. Dr Tanner’s a volunteer. Since most excavations rely on unpaid help, when a request was put in for her to join the team for this week, there seemed no reason to turn it down.’
Who requested it?’
‘Shelagh O’Donnell, I believe,’ he said blandly, ‘the number two on the site.’
‘She’s a friend of Dr O’Donnell?’ she said, struggling to conceal her surprise.
‘Obviously, it crossed my min
‘She’s what?’ she said sharply. ‘When? Who knows about this?’
‘O’Donnell was at the site house last night. She took a phone call, then went out shortly afterwards. No one’s seen her since.’
Marie-Cécile lit another cigarette to steady her nerves. Why was I not told about this before?’
‘I didn’t realise you would be interested in something so peripheral to your main concerns. I apologise.’
‘Have the police been informed?’
‘Not yet. Dr Brayling, the site director, has given everyone a few days’ leave. He thinks it’s possible – probable – that O’Donnell has simply taken off without bothering to let anyone know.’
‘I do not want the police involved,’ she said forcefully. ‘It would be extremely regrettable.’
‘I quite agree, Madame de l’Oradore. Dr Brayling is not a fool. If he believes O‘Donnell has taken something from the site, then it’s hardly in his best interests to involve the authorities.’
‘Do you think O’Donnell stole the ring?’
Authié evaded the question. ‘I think we should find her.’
‘That’s not what I asked. And the book? Do you think she might have taken that too?’
Authié met her gaze straight on. ‘As I said, I remain open-minded about whether or not the book was ever there.’ He paused. ‘If it was, I’m not convinced she could have got it away from the site without being seen. The ring’s a different matter.’
‘Well, someone did,’ she snapped in frustration.
‘As I said, if it was there at all.’
Marie-Cécile sprang to her feet, taking him by surprise, and walked round the table until she was standing in front of him. For the first time, she saw a flash of alarm in his grey eyes. She bent down and pressed her hand flat against his chest.
‘I can feel your heart beating,’ she said softly. ‘Beating very hard. Now why might that be, Paul?’ Holding his gaze, she pressed him back against the chair. ‘I don’t tolerate mistakes. And I don’t like not being kept informed.’ Their eyes locked. ‘You understand me?’
Authié did not answer. She had not intended him to.
‘All you had to do was deliver to me the objects you promised. That’s what I’m paying you for. So, find the English girl, deal with Noubel if necessary, the rest is your business. I don’t want to hear about it.’
‘If I’ve done anything to give you the impression that–’
She put her fingers to his lips and felt him flinch at the physical contact.
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
She released the pressure and stepped away from him, back out on to the balcony. The evening had stripped the colour from everything, leaving the buildings and bridges silhouetted against the darkening sky.
A moment later, Authié came and stood next to her.
‘I don’t doubt you are doing your best, Paul,’ she said quietly. He put his hands next to hers on the railings and, for a second, their fingers touched. ‘There are other members of the Noublesso Viritable in Carcassonne, of course, who would serve just as well. However, given the extent of your involvement so far . . .’
She left the sentence hanging. From the stiffening of his shoulders and back, she knew the warning shot had hit home. She raised her hand to attract her driver, who was waiting below.
‘I would like to visit the Pic de Soularac myself.’
‘You’re staying in Carcassonne?’
She hid her smile. ‘For a few days, yes.’
‘I was under the impression you didn’t wish to enter the chamber until the night of the ceremony — ’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Now I’m here.’ She smiled. ‘I have things to attend to, so if you could pick me up at one o’clock, that will give me time to read your report. I’m at the Hotel de la Cite.’
Marie-Cécile walked back inside, picked up the envelope and put it in her handbag.
‘Bien. A demain, Paul. Sleep well.’
Aware of his eyes on her back watching her walk down the stairs, Marie-Cécile could only admire his self-control. But as she got into the car, she had the satisfaction of hearing a glass hit the wall and shatter in Authie’s apartment two floors above.
The lounge of the hotel was thick with cigar smoke. After-dinner drinkers in summer suits or evening dresses sat enfolded in the deep leather armchairs and the discreet shadows of the high-backed mahogany settles.
Marie-Cécile walked slowly up the sweeping staircase. Black and white photographs looked down on her, reminders of the hotel’s celebrated turn-of-the-century past.
When she reached her room, she changed out of her clothes into her bathrobe. As always, last thing at night, she looked at herself in the mirror, dispassionately, as if scrutinising a work of art. Translucent skin, high cheekbones, the distinctive de l’Oradore profile.
Marie-Cécile smoothed her fingers over her face and neck. She would not allow her beauty to fade with the passing of the years. If all went well, then she would succeed in doing what her grandfather had dreamed of. She would cheat old age. Cheat death.
She frowned. But only if the book and ring could be found. She picked up her phone and dialled. With a renewed sense of purpose, Marie-Cécile lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window, looking out across the gardens while she waited for her call to be answered. Murmured late-night conversations floated up to her from the terrace. Beyond the battlements of the Cite walls, beyond the river, the lights of the Basse Ville sparkled like cheap white and orange Christmas decorations.
‘Francois-Baptiste? C’est mot. Has anyone called in the past twenty-four hours on my private number?’ She listened. ‘No? Has she called you?’ She waited. ‘I’ve just been told of a problem this end.’ She drummed her fingers on her arm while he talked. ‘Have there been any developments with the other matter?’
The reply was not what she wanted to hear. ‘National or just local?’ A pause. ‘Keep me in touch. Call me if anything else comes up, otherwise I’ll be back Thursday night.’
After she’d hung up, Marie-Cécile allowed her thoughts to dwell on the other man in her house. Will was sweet enough, keen to please, but the relationship had run its course. He was too demanding and his adolescent jealousies were starting to get on her nerves. He was always asking questions. She needed no complications at the moment.
Besides, they needed the house to themselves.
She turned on the reading light and got out the report Authié had given her on the skeletons, as well as a dossier on Authié himself from her suitcase, a dossier which had been compiled when he’d been put forward for election to the Noublesso Véritab/e two years ago.
She skimmed the document, although she knew it well enough. There were a couple of accusations of sexual assault when he was a student. Both women had been paid off, she assumed, since no charges were ever brought. There had been allegations of an attack on an Algerian woman during a pro-Islamic rally, although again no charge had been made; evidence of involvement in an anti-Semitic publication at university, as well as allegations of sexual and physical abuse from his ex-wife, which had also come to nothing.
More significant were the regular and increasingly substantial donations to the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits. In the past couple of years his involvement with fundamentalist groups opposed to Vatican II and the modernising of the Catholic Church had also been growing.
To Marie-Cécile’s mind, such evidence of hardline religious commitment sat uneasily with membership of the Noublesso. Authié had pledged his service to the organisation and he had been useful so far. He had arranged the excavation at the Pic de Soularac efficiently and everything appeared to be in hand for wrapping things up just as quickly. The warning of the breach of security in Chartres had come via one of his contacts. His inte
Nonetheless, Marie-Cécile didn’t trust him. He was too ambitious. Set against his successes were the failures of the past forty-eight hours. She did not believe he’d be so stupid as to take either the ring or the book himself, but Authié did not seem the sort of man to let things disappear from under his nose.
She hesitated, then made a second call.
‘I have a job for you. I am interested in a book, approximately twenty centimetres high by ten centimetres wide, leather over board, held together by leather ties. Also, a man’s stone ring, flat face, a thin line around the middle and an engraving on the underside. There might even be a small token, about the size of a one-euro piece, with it.’ She paused. ‘Carcassonne. A flat on the Quai de Paicherou and an office in the rue de Verdun. Both belong to Paul Authié.’
CHAPTER 33
Alice’s hotel was immediately opposite the main gates into the medieval Cite, set in pretty gardens, sunk down out of sight of the road.
She was shown to a comfortable room on the first floor. Alice flung open the windows to let the world in. Smells of meat cooking, garlic and vanilla, cigar smoke floated into the room.
She unpacked quickly and showered, then called Shelagh again, more out of habit than expectation. Still no answer. She shrugged. Nobody could accuse her of not trying.
Armed with the guidebook she’d bought in a service station on the journey from Toulouse, Alice left the hotel and crossed the road towards the Cite. Steep concrete steps led up into a small park bordered on two sides by bushes and tall evergreens and plane trees. A brightly lit nineteenth-century carousel dominated the far end of the gardens, its garish fin-de-siècle ornamentation out of place in the shadow of the sandstone medieval fortifications. Covered with a brown and white striped canopy, with a painted frieze of knights, ladies and white horses around the rim, everything was pink and gold - charging horses, spinning teacups, fairytale carriages. Even the ticket kiosk looked like a booth at a fairground. A bell rang and children squealed as the carousel began to turn, slowly belching out its antique mechanical song.