Citadel (43 page)

Baillard also sat forward. ‘Sénher Pelletier?’

‘No, but I found this.’

Raoul opened his rucksack and pulled out the white handkerchief, grey now from its long journey in the belly of the bag. Baillard’s eyes glinted with unexpected hope. Raoul unwrapped the package and placed an iridescent glass bottle in the older man’s palm.

‘Is it what you were waiting for, Monsieur Baillard?’ said Sandrine eagerly.

Baillard let out a long exhalation of breath. ‘It might be.’

‘Where did you find it?’ Sandrine asked Raoul.

‘In Antoine’s apartment. When he didn’t show up, I went to look for him. It was hidden in the cistern, so I figured it was important. It’s beautiful, probably valuable, but I thought there had to be more than that. There’s something inside’

Baillard turned the object over in his hands. ‘At first glance, this looks as if it could date back to the fourth century of the Christian era. A great deal of evidence of the Roman occupation of this region has come to light. When the land has been ploughed, or in fields where vines were planted and replanted.’

‘I found an old brooch in the ruins of the château-fort,’ Sandrine said, ‘years and years ago. I gave it to my father as a present. He thought it was Roman.’ She smiled. ‘He said we had to give it to the museum. But later, I discovered he’d kept it, the paper wrapping and the ribbon as well.’

‘Humankind has a habit of occupying and reoccupying the same territory over and again. Houses built where once there were temples, shrines to Christian saints on the sites dedicated to the old Roman gods along the routes most travelled.’ Baillard lifted the bottle to the light. ‘Imagine all the many men and women through whose hands this one small object has passed.’

‘Or maybe not so many,’ Sandrine said, ‘if it has been hidden all this time.’

Baillard smiled. ‘True.’

‘Why is it so important?’ Raoul asked.

‘Not of itself, but rather because of what it contains, Sénher Pelletier.’

Sandrine stared at Raoul. ‘Why didn’t you try to get it out?’ she said. ‘I would have done.’

‘I was tempted, but I was worried about damaging it. And I suppose I wanted to carry on thinking I’d be able to give it back to Antoine in person, so . . .’

Baillard nodded. ‘Madomaisèla, do you have a pair of tweezers?’

Sandrine charged inside, her footsteps clattering on the wooden steps, and was back in no time.

‘Here you are.’

Baillard hooked the piece of grey fabric in the neck of the bottle with the metal points and slowly, carefully, eased it out.

‘Wool,’ he said. ‘Wool was widely used, especially in the colder western territories of the Roman Empire. This is quite thick, so it probably comes from a cloak or an outer garment.’

‘Wouldn’t it have rotted?’

‘That depends on where it has been all this time.’

Baillard sniffed the bottle, in case there was some perfume or liquid inside, then tipped it gently into the palm of his hand. Nothing came. He held it closer to the flame, trying to see inside the narrow neck.

Sandrine watched him pinch the points of the tweezers together and, with a steady hand, thread them into the neck. He released the pressure a little to try to grasp what was inside, then withdrew the tweezers again. Little by little he gained purchase, until finally he managed to draw the tweezers out of the neck of the bottle.

‘
Aquí
,’ he whispered. ‘There.’

Baillard carefully put the bottle down, then, laying the yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket on the table, he even more delicately, placed the piece of fabric on it.

‘It will be very fragile, in the air after so long confined,’ he said. ‘We must be so careful.’

‘Is it the map?’ she said.

Baillard didn’t answer. ‘This, also, is wool, but of a much lighter weave. Perhaps from an undergarment.’

Gently, corner by corner, he opened the square of fabric out with the tweezers. Sandrine leaned forward to see better. It was a faded white, yellow in places and brown along the main creases, with simple images. Like a child’s drawing.

‘It is what you were waiting for, Monsieur Baillard?’

The old man sighed with relief. ‘I think so,’ he said softly. ‘Look, the sun and her shadow to show direction, trees identified by delicate leaves sketched alongside – oak, ash, pine and beech.’ He paused. ‘And here, a double cross.’

‘But even supposing it is genuine, the landscape will surely have changed beyond recognition after all this time. Will it be any use?’

‘It is true,
filha
, that rock is quarried, that rivers change their course and that forests are cut down for timber, for houses.’ He smiled. ‘But the mountains, they change their shape less than anything else. The Pyrenees are much as they ever were.’ He pointed with the end of the tweezers. ‘So you see, I rather think that might be the Pic de Vicdessos, outside Tarascon. And can you see there, and there, that sequence of ridges. It is very distinctive, this combination of woodland, outcrop and the cave below.’

‘I suppose so,’ Sandrine said, still looking doubtful.

‘Does anyone else know you have this, Sénher Pelletier?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘No. At least, I showed César the bottle, though he wasn’t very interested.’

‘Would he have told anyone?’

‘I don’t think so.’ He frowned, remembering that Sandrine had told him César was also missing. ‘I hope not.’

Baillard studied the map for a while longer, then looked up. ‘I am greatly in your debt, Sénher Pelletier. We all are.’

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sandrine.

‘Put our plan into action,’ Baillard replied.

Sandrine frowned. ‘But surely we should start looking for the Codex straight away?’

‘
Pas a pas
,’ he murmured. ‘All in good time. There is everything to be gained by continuing along the path we have set ourselves. The difference is, now we have sight of the map, we can lay our trap in another part of the mountains altogether.’ Baillard hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Do you know how to handle a gun, madomaisèla?’

Sandrine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She stared at Monsieur Baillard, then realised he was utterly serious. ‘I suppose I do. I’ve fired a shotgun. And a pistol once. Why?’

‘It is time you learned properly.’ Baillard turned to Raoul. ‘Do you have your service revolver, Sénher Pelletier?’

‘Yes.’

Sandrine looked at Raoul, then back to Monsieur Baillard. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’ she said, her voice rising. ‘But that’s madness. Someone’s bound to hear us. What if the police are still around? It’s too much of a risk.’

‘You wish to help, do you not?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘In which case,’ he said quietly, ‘it is more of a risk if you cannot defend yourself, should the need arise.’

Sandrine turned cold. ‘But if anyone hears us and sees Raoul, they might – will – turn him in.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t risk it.’

Raoul put his hand on her arm. ‘Monsieur Baillard’s right, you need to be able to use a gun. We’ll be careful. It’s a good time of day for it, most people are indoors, sheltering from the heat. And if anyone does hear us, they’ll more likely than not think it’s a farmer out shooting rabbits. There must be plenty of secluded places around here.’

Sandrine stared at him. ‘Raoul, the police were here in Coustaussa. Today. It’s not any ordinary day. It’s too dangerous. We should wait.’

‘We do not have time to wait,’ Baillard said. ‘There will be no other opportunity.’

‘Why?’ she said quickly. ‘When do you intend to go?’

‘Raoul, at first light,’ he said. ‘I shall follow later in the morning.’

Distress rushed through her. She knew Raoul couldn’t stay, but at the same time she had hoped they would have more than a day together. She looked from one to the other, then gave a sharp nod of her head and stood up.

‘All right, if you both think it’s a risk worth taking. But on one condition.’

‘What’s that?’ said Raoul.

Sandrine held out her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Marieta will help.’

Chapter 77

CARCASSONNE

‘
M
ay I come in?’

Marianne stared at Lucie. Her blonde hair was immaculate and her red lipstick perfectly applied, but she was a shadow of the bright, vivacious girl she had been. She was also holding a suitcase.

‘Oh Lucie,’ she sighed wearily. ‘I don’t want to argue.’

‘Please, Marianne, I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

Marianne could see Lucie had done her best to disguise the fact she’d been crying. But her eyes were red and swollen and the powder failed to disguise how pale she was. Marianne was still angry, but their years of friendship pulled at her heart strings. With a sigh, she leant forward and took the suitcase from Lucie’s hand and drew her inside.

‘What’s happened now?’ she said.

‘My father’s back.’

‘Oh,’ Marianne said. She put the suitcase down at the foot of the stairs, then linked her arm through Lucie’s. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got apples stewing on the stove.’

‘Wherever did you get apples?’

Marianne didn’t reply. ‘Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment.’

Lucie took off her hat and gloves. ‘They smell delicious.’

Marianne continued to stir, the wooden spoon banging against the metal side of the saucepan.

‘I found a little cooking brandy Marieta had squirrelled away at the back of the larder,’ she said.

Lucie waited patiently while she took the pan off the heat, covered it with muslin cloth, then left it to stand on the dresser.

‘So,’ Marianne said. ‘Your father.’

Lucie nodded. ‘He and six other POWs arrived in Carcassonne yesterday. I’d forgotten what it was like. Tiptoeing around him, trying to second-guess his mood.’

‘What happened?’

‘At lunchtime he went to find some of his old LVF buddies at the Café Edouard. No doubt to boast about how tough he was, how he’d survived being in prison, how he ran rings around the guards.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Well, of course everyone wanted to buy him a drink, and so . . .’ Lucie shrugged.

‘Someone said something about Max?’

‘Your neighbour,’ Lucie said, jerking her head in the direction of the house next door. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Fournier.’

‘That’s right. They got talking and Fournier said something about how ashamed my father must be . . .’ Lucie broke off. ‘Well, you can imagine. The next thing, he was storming back into the house, shouting at my mother, demanding to know if it’s true.’

‘Lord,’ Marianne said softly, taking her hand.

‘My mother tried to calm him down, told him I was out, but he was in no mood to listen. She cut her head on the corner of the cupboard, but she stuck up for me.’ She stopped. ‘For once, Marianne, my mother stuck up for me. Told him it was gossip. That I’d hardly left the house for weeks.’ She paused again. ‘When he demanded to know where I was, she said I’d gone to the market.’

‘Did he believe her?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He was so drunk, he could barely stand up. I could hear him banging into the furniture. I stayed in the bathroom, praying he wouldn’t be able to get up the stairs. I knew he’d pass out eventually. Once I heard him snoring, I crept out and my mother told me to go before he woke up.’ She looked at Marianne, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘I packed and came here. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you saying that she’s turned you out for good?’

‘It’s him or me,’ Lucie said. ‘It’s always been that way. What’s she to do?’

‘Oh, Lucie.’

‘I know you don’t want me here, I know you hate me at the moment. But I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘I don’t hate you, you little fool,’ Marianne said, ‘I just . . .’

She stopped. There was no point going over it all again.

‘I did try to telephone to warn you about Captain Authié. I was telling the truth. And I swear I didn’t tell him anything else. He’s going to help me, I know he’ll keep his word.’

Marianne swallowed a sigh, realising Lucie was determined to hold on to the only chance she thought she had. She got up, went to the larder and poured two small glasses of red wine.

‘Still no news about Max then?’ she said.

Lucie shook her head. ‘I have no rights, I’m not his wife or a relation. No one will tell me anything.’ She glanced at Marianne, then let her gaze slide back to her lap. ‘Captain Authié is the only person, the only one who’s offered to help at all. And I have to know how Max is, I have to. That everything’s going to be all right.’

‘It will be,’ Marianne said mechanically, knowing the odds were against it. Every day the news was worse. ‘It might take a little time, but we will find out what’s happening.’

‘That’s the thing,’ Lucie said desperately. ‘I don’t have time.’

‘Of course you do. We’ll find out why Max has been arrested, and then you can at least write to him. I know it’s dreadful waiting, but a few days here or there won’t make any difference.’

Lucie shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

Lucie drew in her breath. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Marianne sat back in her chair. ‘I see.’

‘We were careful. I don’t understand how it happened.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, then, ‘Does Max know?’

She shook her head. ‘I wanted him to be the first to know.’ She looked up. ‘We wanted to get married, you know we did, but . . . he didn’t want to put me at risk. He was thinking of me.’

‘Do you think your mother guessed?’

‘I have been dreadfully sick.’

‘Perhaps she was thinking of you after all.’

‘Maybe.’

They heard the kitchen door open and Suzanne came in from the garden. She looked at Lucie with surprise, then put her hand on Marianne’s shoulder.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Lucie’s pregnant,’ Marianne replied.

‘What!’ said Suzanne.

‘Her father’s back and Fournier told him she’d been seen out with Max. She came here to get away from him.’

‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ Lucie said.

Suzanne folded her arms and leant back against the dresser. ‘You can’t stay here. Fournier’s next door and his sister’s always at the window, snooping and passing on information.’