‘Where is that town?’
‘South of here, a couple of hours away . . . Can I see that list again?’ Deodat said, reaching for it. ‘Cros may have told Grassaud about the list and what it means. At this stage he is our best lead.’
He took a pad and a pencil and set about copying the list. ‘It doesn’t hurt to have more than one copy. Put this copy in your pocket, Rahn, and come with me.’
He followed Deodat to his library where he slipped the other list into the pages of Éliphas Levi’s book. ‘We will leave our friend here to guard the original.’ He replaced the book under E.
‘No one will think to look for it there, except for Madame Sabine, perhaps.’
Rahn sighed. ‘You know, I feel rather strange, like a puppet or a character in someone’s crazy plot.’
‘Your head has taken a good knock, dear Rahn, and I’m not as young as I look. So I suggest before anything else, we should get some sleep. After that, we’ll go to see Abbé Grassaud. What do you say?’
And so it was decided. Rahn went to his room and closed the curtains to block out the early sun. He lay down feeling drained. The bee was quiet now, but his head was thumping in time to his thoughts on secret brotherhoods, magic squares, the names on that list, the symbol of the lamb . . . until he fell into an uneasy sleep.
He dreamt he was in a tomb. It was impenetrably dark, the cold went right to the bones and he was running out of oxygen.
21
Gone
‘– and yet it was dark – all dark – the intense and utter raylessness of the night that endureth for evermore.’ Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Premature Burial’
Rahn woke with a gasp but when he tried to sit up he hit his head on a solid surface. He almost sank into a double blackness but he bit his lip and concentrated on coming out of it. There was a cramp in his right calf but he couldn’t extend his legs. He was on his back in a foetal position. He opened his eyes.Darkness.
He was in an undersized coffin or a tomb!
He panicked.
What has happened?
He tried to calm his nerves and piece together those events prior to this nightmare but they were trapped behind a mist at the back of his head. Where was he? Was this a dream? Would he wake up at any moment? He remembered the church, the altar, the tabernacle . . . the blackness. Was he still in the church? Something occurred to him and he felt in his pocket. The box of matches from behind the altar was still there. That much of it at least was real. He took the matches out and struck one in front of his face. He was in a strangely shaped box made from some sort of metal. He was lying on a number of cold, hard objects that were digging into his back. He realised he could smell gasoline and blew the match out. He listened for sounds. The darkness filled him with panic but the smell of gasoline made him nervous about lighting another match. He then remembered his pocket watch. It took him a moment to retrieve it but he had to chance lighting another match to see it.
Nine o’clock.
But was it morning or night, today or tomorrow? He didn’t know.
He blew out the match again.
It was hot.
He needed air.
He loosened his collar and tried not to let the panic take hold. He pushed up on the lid and it moved slightly allowing a blinding light to enter the box for a moment. He was filled with hope. The lid seemed to be caught on something, a latch perhaps? Maybe he could use those metal shapes that were digging into his back to break the latch, or at least to make enough noise to bring notice to himself – wherever he was. As he contrived to reach behind his back, however, a scream tore into his dark captivity. Startled, he involuntarily jerked his knees against the lid and it flew open.
His eyes were assaulted by the light then but he was breathing fresh air. He sat up carefully and waited for his head to stop taking turns at thumping and spinning and for his eyes to adjust to the glare. He realised where he was. He was sitting in the trunk of the Tourster. The car was in the barn and the door was slightly ajar allowing the sun to slant into his eyes. He took out one leg after the other and flung them over the edge of the trunk where they touched something soft. He looked down and saw a man sprawled out on the ground. The shock of it nearly made him pass out again and he sat still for a time until he was ready to look again. Yes, a man. He got out of the trunk and forced himself to roll the body over. It was lying in a pool of blood mixed with gasoline. An empty fuel can lay nearby. Rahn shivered. It looked like this man had been about to set the car on fire with him in it when someone cut his throat from ear to ear, nearly severing his head. The killer had pulled the man’s tongue through the gash in his throat. Rahn put a hand to his own mouth and fought down a rising revulsion while he searched the man’s pockets. He found an old train ticket and nothing more, no wallet, nothing to identify him.