He was confused. He tried not to think of what Deodat might be suffering. Perhaps whoever they were, they didn’t want him to find whatever it was and he was placing Deodat’s life in peril just by going around asking questions. On the other hand, if they wanted it, they might kill Deodat if it turned out to be a hoax, or Rahn couldn’t find it. They might cut off a finger or a toe as he had seen in the movies – or do more than that . . .
‘Hey, are the two of you hungry?’ the truck driver said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘In that bag, mademoiselle, behind you there, I have a baguette stuffed with sheep’s kidneys and mustard. You’re welcome to some of it.’
Rahn was nauseated and gestured for Eva to open her window so he could get some air.
The girl answered the driver with a casual voice: ‘Thank you, but we’ve just had a most satisfying lunch.’
‘Mais oui,’ he said around the cigarette which sat in its reserved place at the corner of his mouth. He changed gears with one sinewy, tattooed arm and said, ‘So, you are going to Rennes-le-Château to visit family?’
‘No, we would like to see it for . . . for its historical significance,’ Rahn said.
‘You like history?’ The driver smiled broadly. ‘Well, Rennes-le-Château has history!’ He laughed but said nothing more.
For a few francs he took them over the serpentine dirt road leading to the town but he dropped them off at the bottom of the hill saying, ‘I won’t go further, I will leave you here,’ he said firmly.
Rahn observed the steep walk. ‘Why?’
‘The town smells of death, and if I were you I would not stay there long,’ he said, touching his nose. He turned his truck around with haste and disappeared in a trail of dust.
The sun was still high and Rahn took off his coat as they toiled up the hill without speaking. Eva seemed to be quite fit compared to Rahn’s abused self and walked ahead with a stride that would impress a Teuton. The air was crisp and thin and from this altitude one could see clearly for miles, but Rahn was in no mood for sightseeing. His head felt like it was caught in a vice and he badly needed a comfortable chair and a brandy, but at least for now the snow in the globe of his head had settled and the bee was quiet.
When they reached the top he realised that Rennes-le-Château hardly looked promising. It was a cluster of some forty rundown houses set on an ancient chalky outcrop rising up out of a vast landscape. Rahn guessed there could be no more than two hundred or so souls living on the small piece of land that was dominated by the old ramshackle castle of the Hautpouls.
As they walked into the shade of those frowning buildings Eva threw him an amused glance. ‘Do you think that truck driver is right about this place?’
‘I agree with him. I don’t like it either, there’s something sinister in the air.’
‘Well, I suggest we go to the church; usually in these small towns the main road leads straight to it. The priest will know something about Saunière, no doubt.’
‘No doubt,’ Rahn said, feeling on the back foot.
They passed a woman sweeping the steps outside her door. Her form was large and her eyes were keen. ‘Who are you?’ she said, holding her broom in front of her like a weapon.
Rahn put out both hands, his nerves frayed. ‘I beg your pardon, madame. We didn’t mean to startle you. We’ve come to see the priest.’
‘The priest?’ She raised one brow, deeply suspicious. ‘Why do you want to see him?’
In the corner of a little garden not far from the door sat an ancient woman bent over a bowl. Her gnarled hands shelled peas with lightning speed in an exercise that defied the eyes.
‘Good morning, madame!’ Rahn called over to her, trying to fend off the question.
‘Oh, she can’t answer you, she’s mute,’ the woman said dismissively, leaning on her broom. Apparently, having decided that the two strangers were not dangerous, she now made them her confidantes. ‘She’s my husband’s mother and this is her house. A modest home, but we do let the rooms now and again to visitors – are you visitors?’
The old woman in the corner was staring at Rahn with unreserved intensity, making him falter.
Seeing this exchange, the buxom woman said, ‘Stop that, Maman!’ The madame leant in, her voluminous décolletage straining the buttons of her floral dress. ‘The peasant has no manners. Now, what do you want with the priest?’
‘We were hoping he might tell us something about Marie Blanchefort,’ Eva said out of the blue.
‘Blanchefort? You mean the Hautpouls? Why do you want to know about her?’