‘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?’