The Sixth Key(93)

‘Grimoire of Pope Honorius?’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s a long story.’

‘Five priests?’ he said, looking at the list. ‘Espéraza, Coustassa, Rennes-le-Château, Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet, Rennes-les-Bains . . .’ He seemed to be committing them to memory and Rahn whisked the list away from him. The priest’s demeanour altered suddenly.

‘Rennes-le-Château,’ Rahn said, ‘seems to be at the centre of everything. All those priests knew Saunière personally, except two, who are listed separately, at the top of the list – Abbé Bigou and Abbé Verger.’

‘There is not much more I can tell you, I’m afraid,’ the priest said, brusquely. ‘I suggest you go and have another conversation with Madame Dénarnaud. Perhaps you should ask her why she closed the hatch and left you there to die!’

Rahn was reluctant to leave him, but something told him he would get no further with the man.

Before they went in search of Madame Dénarnaud, they took themselves to the Corfu house to collect their things and were grateful to realise that Madame Corfu was not in. Like many townspeople, she was no doubt bothering the long-suffering mayor about the events of the morning. They found the mute grandmother, however, peeling potatoes in the kitchen. She looked at both of them with fear in her eyes and crossed herself and gestured for them to stay. She left and returned a moment later with a piece of paper, folded over, which she put in Rahn’s pocket.

He left the money for the rooms with her, they said their goodbyes and made their hasty exit. As soon as they left the house and were on their way to Villa Bethany, Eva asked what was on the note. Rahn opened it and what he saw alarmed him. He looked at Eva. The note said:

Sauvez vos âmes!

Eva’s great brown eyes searched his. ‘Save your souls?’

Rahn nodded.

‘Does she mean – because of this morning, or something else?’

‘Who knows?’

When they finally found Madame Dénarnaud, she was not at the villa as they had expected but in the Tour Magdala, sitting on a window seat near a small hearth ablaze with logs. The room was surrounded by empty bookshelves, silent behind their glass doors. She had what looked like a bible in her hands from which she appeared to be reading when they burst in, interrupting her.

‘You certainly took your time,’ she said, looking up calmly.





THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD





34


She Reads to the Dead

‘In fact, the dead live elsewhere, nor is it known where.’ Girolamo Cardano, Somniorum Synesiorum


Venice, 2012

It was All Saints’ Day, and I was walking about the cemetery again after breakfast. The Writer of Letters said he would be busy preparing for the following day’s festival and I was to keep my own company for a couple of hours. I spent some time in the library reading Rahn’s book Lucifer’s Court. A passage near the end caught my attention:

I know a way through the forest that is overshadowed by huge conifer trees . . . the path is called the Thief’s Path . . . I am carrying a Dietrich with me . . .


A ‘Dietrich’ was a skeleton key! I wondered if he had found the missing key after all and what he meant by ‘the Thief’s Path’?

Afterwards, I walked out into the cold day with Rahn’s story on my mind, hugging my coat for warmth. I didn’t really know what to believe at this point but I had to admit I had been swept along by a story that seemed too fantastical to be true. A grimoire written by a pope, black magic among a conventicle of priests, Freemasons, Nazis and a Cathar treasure handed down over the centuries. I smiled. If I wrote it – who would believe it?

The cemetery on the island was quiet this day. There were only a few people scattered about, as the bulk would arrive tomorrow. For some reason, I felt like visiting the French section again and I was surprised to see a woman sitting by that strange grave without a name. She was young, with straight brown hair and large eyes that seemed to pool the stark light. She had some books on her lap and she was reading from one. I was intrigued so I stood nearby. She must have sensed my presence, because she looked up and paused.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I see this grave is remembered, at least by you.’

She seemed embarrassed. ‘Yes.’

‘What are you reading?’

‘Poems mainly. I go from grave to grave. My mother taught me how to do it. She also read to the dead, as did my grandmother before her. You could say it’s a vocation that runs in our family.’ She closed the book and made a slight frown. ‘They are so close at this time one can almost touch them.’