The Sixth Key(49)

‘Don’t you know, Rahn? The dead bread and wine are brought to life magically by the priest who turns them into the living body and blood of Christ. The sacrament is the result of a transformation of matter into spirit and spirit into matter.’

‘Birth and death, the wheel! So, Deodat, where are the transformed bread and wine kept in a church?’

‘What isn’t consumed during the mass is kept in—’ He looked at Rahn. ‘Do you think he wanted us to find the tabernacle?’

Rahn picked up the scent. ‘Where is it?’

‘In the altar, usually, but it’s no doubt locked, and without a key . . .’

‘And yet, what better place could a priest find to hide something?’

‘Yes, but Eva said that the sacristan had the job of cleaning all the items used in the mass, and they are kept in the tabernacle. Surely the abbé knew the sacristan might see it,’ Deodat said. ‘That is, before he committed suicide.’

‘I’d wager the sacristan didn’t jump from the Pic de Bugarach, Deodat. I think he was pushed!’

‘Now you’re the one who is jumping – jumping to conclusions. You know what they say about the ingenious: they are often incapable of analysis because they get caught up in their own cleverness.’

‘And do you have any better ideas?’ Rahn said, suddenly annoyed.

Deodat walked away, tapping his chin. Eventually he turned around. ‘I’m afraid there’s only one way to test this hypothesis: we have to go there and see for ourselves.’

‘Go where?’

‘To the church, to see if you’re right about the tabernacle.’ He put his glasses in his pocket.

‘What? Now?’ Rahn was suddenly faced with the consequences of his own cleverness.

‘If we’re going to break into the tabernacle, it might as well be at night. Besides, it’s easier at night to detect whether you’re being followed. I read that in a detective story. Come on, dear boy, tempus fugit!’

‘But how do you propose to get into the tabernacle without waking the entire township of Bugarach? Really, Deodat, it doesn’t seem very practical to me, and I can see the papers now: “Respected magistrate to appear in his own courthouse after being caught breaking into the tabernacle of Bugarach church”.’

‘Nonsense! I could say I was conducting an examination in relation to a suspicious case, as any magistrate has a right to do.’

Rahn knew that once Deodat had made up his obstinate mind there was no stopping him. And so he watched helplessly as his friend slapped his black wool hat onto his head and put on his coat.

‘I don’t know what’s more fun,’ he said, ‘going off to do some hole-and-corner work in the night like a thief, or watching your face pale when we go in and out of churches.’





16


To Hit the Nail on the Head

‘. . . he dashed into the midst of the flock of sheep and began to spear them with as much courage and fury as if he were fighting his mortal enemies.’

Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote


Rahn drove back to Bugarach. The night was cold and the moon that came out from behind the clouds to light the narrow road was almost full.

He contemplated his mistake. He had allowed himself to be seduced by the mystery and its connection to the Cathar treasure and, in the fever of intellectual abandon, had forgotten the resolve he had made earlier in the day – the consequences of which were now quite plain to him: Deodat was becoming more deeply involved in this dangerous affair; and he was not on his way to a hiding spot in the Pyrenees but on his way to a church at night to break into a tabernacle.

It didn’t help that a part of him was enjoying the hunt. To the contrary, his own excitement made that other part of him, the sensible part, vexed because it knew that such a hunt would not end well for either of them. And his mood was not lightened in any way by their arrival at Bugarach. For if it seemed sad and ominous in the day, it was so many times more foreboding now, with its silent houses and abandoned streets dominated by the old volcano swathed in moon glow. Bugarach was no ordinary church, there was something decidedly pagan and mysterious about it. It recalled to his mind stories of those ancient sibyls who foretold the future by drinking in the sulphurous fumes of volcanoes.

Rahn parked the car discreetly on a dirt shoulder behind some low-lying bushes and together he and Deodat made their quiet way to the church, past the graveyard, which on this cold night looked windblown and secretive. Rahn steeled his heart as he made to open the door and nearly jumped out of his skin when the rusty hinges groaned.

Deodat was in his ear. ‘Could you be louder, Rahn? After all, not everyone in the township heard your announcement: Here is the magistrate of Arques come to steal something from the church, wake up sleepy-heads or you will miss it!’