Labyrinth

  Alice gave a wry smile. What were you expecting?

  She didn’t even need to get her drawing of the cave labyrinth from her bag to know that there was nothing for her here. Without a fuss, Alice excused herself from the group, and slipped away.

  After the fierce heat of the Midi, the gentle northern sun was a relief and Alice spent the next hour exploring the picturesque historic town centre. She was half looking for the corner where Grace and Audric Baillard had posed for the camera.

  It didn’t seem to exist or else was outside the area covered by the map. Most of the streets had taken their names from the trades practised there in previous times: clockmakers, tanners, equerries and stationers, testament to Chartres’s importance as the great centre of paper making and book binding in France in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But no rue des Trois Degrès.

  Finally, Alice arrived back where she had started, in front of the West Door of the cathedral. She sat down on the wall leaning against the railings. Immediately, her gaze honed in on the corner of the street directly opposite. She jumped up and ran over to read the sign on the wall: RUE DE L’ÉTROIT DEGRÉ, DITE AUSSI RUE DES TROIS DEGRÉS (DES TROIS MARCHES).

  The road had been renamed. Smiling to herself, Alice stepped back to get a better view and banged into a man buried in a newspaper.

  ‘Pardon,’ she said, moving sideways.

  ‘No, excuse me,’ he said, in a pleasant American accent. ‘It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  To her surprise, he was staring intently at her.

  ‘Is there . . .’

  ‘It’s Alice, right?’

  ‘Yes?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Alice, of course. Hi,’ he said, pushing his fingers through his mop of shaggy brown hair. ‘How amazing!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I — ’

  ‘William Franklin,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Will. We met in London, nineteen-ninety four or five. Big group of us. You were dating a guy . . . what was he called . . . Oliver. Is that right? I’d gone over to visit with my cousin.’

  Alice had a vague memory of an afternoon in an overcrowded flat filled with Oliver’s university friends. She thought she could just about remember an American boy, engaging, good looking, although she’d been head over heels in love at that stage, noticing no one else.

  This boy?

  ‘You have a good memory,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘You haven’t changed so much,’ he said, smiling. ‘So, how is Oliver anyhow?’

  Alice pulled a face. We’re not still together.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ he said. There was a slight pause, then added: ‘Who’s in the photo?’

  Alice looked down. She’d forgotten she was still holding it.

  ‘My aunt. I came across this in some of her things and, since I was here, I thought I’d see if I could track down where it was taken.’ She grinned. ‘It’s been harder than you’d imagine.’

  Will looked over her shoulder. ‘And the guy?’

  ‘Just a friend. A writer.’

  Another pause, as if both wanted to keep the conversation going, but didn’t quite know what to say. Will looked back to the picture.

  ‘She looks nice.’

  ‘Nice? She looks rather determined to me, although I don’t know that for a fact. I never met her.’

  ‘Really? So how come you’re carrying her photo around?’ Alice put the photograph back in her bag. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘I can do complicated,’ he grinned. ‘Look . . .’ he hesitated. ‘Do you want to get coffee or something? If you’ve not got someplace else you’ve got to be.’

  Alice was surprised but, actually, she’d been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Do you usually go picking up random women like this?’

  ‘Not usually,’ he said. ‘The question is do you usually accept?’

  Alice felt as if she was looking down on the scene from above. Watching a man and a woman, who looked like her, walk into the old-fashioned patisserie with the cakes and pastries laid out in long glass cabinets.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Sights, smells, sounds. The waiters dipping in and out of the tables, the burned, bitter aroma of the coffee, the hiss of milk in the machine, the clink of forks on the plate, everything was especially vivid. Most of all Will himself, the way he smiled, the turn of his head, the way his fingers went to the silver chain at his neck when he was talking.

  They sat at a table outside. The spire of the cathedral was just visible over the tops of the houses. A slight constraint descended on them when they sat down. They both started talking at once. Alice laughed, Will apologised.

  Cautiously, tentatively, they started to fill in the stories of their lives since they’d last met nine years ago.

  ‘You looked really engrossed,’ she said, turning his newspaper around so she could read the headline. ‘You know, when you came hurtling round that corner.’

  Will grinned. ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘The local paper’s not usually so exciting. A man’s been found dead in the river, right in the centre of the city. He’d been stabbed in the back, his hands and feet were tied, the local radio station’s going crazy. They seem to think it’s some kind of ritual killing. Now they’re linking it to the disappearance last week of a local journalist, who was writing an exposé of secret religious societies.’

  The smile fell from Alice’s face. ‘Can I see that?’ she said, reaching for the paper.

  ‘Sure. Help yourself.’

  Her sense of uneasiness grew as she read the list of names. The Noublesso Véritable. There was something familiar about the name.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Alice looked up to see Will gazing at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was miles away. It’s just I’ve come across something similar recently. The coincidence gave me a shock.’

  ‘Coincidence? Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ said Will, propping his elbows on the table and smiling encouragingly at her.

  After being trapped inside her own thoughts for so long, Alice was tempted by the chance of finally talking to someone. And she sort of knew him. Only tell him what you want.

  Well, I’m not sure this is going to make much sense,’ she began. ‘A couple of months ago I discovered, totally out of the blue, that an aunt I’d never heard of had died and left everything to me, including a house in France.’

  ‘The lady in the photo.’

  She nodded. ‘She’s called Grace Tanner. I was due to come to France anyway, to visit a friend who was working at an archaeological dig in the Pyrenees, so I decided to run the two trips together.’ She hesitated. ‘Some things happened at the dig - I won’t bore you by going into detail - except to say there seemed to be . . . Well, never mind.’ She took a breath. ‘Yesterday, after a meeting with the solicitor, I went to my aunt’s house and I found some things . . . something, a pattern, which I’d seen at the dig.’ She stumbled, inarticulate. ‘There was also a book by an author called Audric Baillard who, I’m almost a hundred per cent certain, is the man in the photo.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  ‘So far as I know. I haven’t been able to track him down.’

  ‘What’s his relationship with your aunt?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell me. He’s my only link to her. And other things.’

  To the labyrinth, the family tree, to my dream.

  When she looked up, she saw Will was looking confused, but engaged. ‘I can’t say I’m much the wiser yet,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘I’m not explaining it very well,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s talk about something less complicated. You never did tell me what you were doing in Chartres.’

  ‘Like every other American in France, trying to write.’

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; Alice smiled. ‘Isn’t Paris more traditional?’

  ‘I started off there, but I guess I found it too, well, impersonal, if you know what I mean. My parents knew folks here. I liked it. Ended up staying a while.’

  Alice nodded, expecting him to carry on. Instead, he returned to something she’d said earlier. ‘This pattern you mentioned,’ he said casually. ‘That you found at the dig and then at Grace’s house, what was special about it?’

  She hesitated. ‘It’s a labyrinth.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here in Chartres then? To go to the cathedral?’

  ‘It’s not quite the same . . .’ She stopped as caution returned. ‘Partly, although it’s more because I’m hoping to catch up with a friend. Shelagh. There’s a . . . a possibility she might be in Chartres.’ Alice reached in her bag and passed the scrap of paper with the address scribbled on it across the table to Will. ‘I went there earlier, but there was no one there. So I decided to do my sightseeing, then go back in about an hour or so.’

  Alice was shocked to see Will had turned white. He looked dumbstruck.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Why do you think your friend might be there?’ he said in a tight voice.

  ‘I don’t, for sure,’ she said, still puzzled by the change that had come over him.

  ‘This is the friend you went to visit at the dig?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And she saw this labyrinth pattern also? Like you?’

  ‘I suppose so, although she didn’t mention it. She was more obsessed with something I’d found, which . . .’ Alice broke off as Will abruptly stood up.

  What are you doing?’ she said, unnerved by the expression on his face as he took her hand.

  ‘Come with me. There’s something you ought to see.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked again, hurrying to keep up with him.

  Then they rounded the corner and Alice realised they were at the other end of rue du Cheval Blanc. Will strode towards the house, then ran up the steps to the front door.

  ‘Are you out of your mind? What if someone’s come home?’

  ‘There won’t be.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  Alice watched with astonishment as Will produced a key from his pocket and opened the front door. ‘Hurry. Before someone sees us.

  ‘You have a key,’ she said in disbelief. ‘Suppose you start telling me what the hell’s going on.’

  Will ran back down the steps and grabbed her hand.

  ‘There’s a version of your labyrinth here,’ he hissed. ‘OK? Now, will you come?’

  What if it’s another trap?

  After everything that had happened, she’d be crazy to follow him. It was too much of a risk. Nobody even knew she was here. Curiosity won out over common sense. Alice looked up at Will’s face, eager and anxious at one and the same time.

  She decided to give him another chance and trust him.

  CHAPTER 55

  Alice found herself standing in a grand entrance hall, more like a museum than a private house. Will went straight to a tapestry opposite the front door and pulled it away from the wall.

  What are you doing?’

  She ran after him and saw a tiny brass handle set into the panelling. Will rattled and pushed at it, then turned round with frustration.

  ‘Dammit. It’s been locked from the other side.’

  ‘It’s a door?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And the labyrinth you saw, it’s down there?’

  Will nodded. ‘You go down a flight of stairs and along a corridor, which leads into a weird sort of chamber. Egyptian symbols on the wall, a tomb with the symbol of the labyrinth, just like you described, carved on top. Now — ’ he broke off. ‘The stuff in the newspaper. The fact your friend had this address . . .’

  ‘You’re making a lot of assumptions based on not much,’ she said.

  Will dropped the corner of the tapestry and was striding to a room on the opposite side of the hall. After a moment’s hesitation, Alice followed.

  What are you doing?’ she hissed as Will opened the door.

  Walking into the library was like stepping back in time. It was a formal room with the atmosphere of a men’s club. The shutters were partially closed and batons of yellow light lay stretched on the carpet like strips of golden cloth. There was an air of permanence, a smell of antiquity and polish.

  Bookshelves ran from floor to ceiling along three sides of the room with sliding book ladders giving access to the highest shelves. Will knew exactly where he was going. There was a section dedicated to books on Chartres, photographic volumes set alongside the more serious examinations of architecture and social history.

  Turning anxiously towards the door, her heart racing, Alice watched as Will pulled out a book with a family crest embossed on the front and carried it to the table. Alice looked over his shoulder as he flicked through the pages. Glossy colour photographs, old maps of Chartres, line and ink drawings flashed by until Will reached the section he wanted.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A book about the de l’Oradore house. This house,’ he said. ‘The family has lived here for hundreds of years, since it was built. There are architectural floor plans and elevations of each floor of the house.’

  Will flicked through until he’d found the page he wanted. ‘There,’ he said, turning the book round so she could see properly. ‘Is that it?’

  Alice caught her breath. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered.

  It was a perfect drawing of her labyrinth.

  The sound of the front door being slammed shut made them both jump.

  ‘Will, the door! We left it open!’

  She could make out muffled voices in the hall, a man and a woman.

  ‘They’re coming in here,’ she hissed.

  Will thrust the book into her hands. ‘Quick,’ he hissed, pointing at a large three-seater sofa standing beneath the window. ‘Let me handle this.’

  Alice scooped up her bag, ran to the sofa and crawled into the gap between it and the wall. There was a pungent smell of cracked leather and old cigar smoke and the dust tickled her nose. She heard Will shut the case with a rattle, then take up position in the middle of the room just as the library door creaked open.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous foutez là?’

  A young man’s voice. By tilting her head a little, Alice could just about see the two of them reflected in the glass doors of the cabinets. He was young and tall, about the same size as Will, although more angular. Black curly hair, a high forehead and patrician nose. She frowned. He reminded her of someone.

  ‘François-Baptiste. Hi,’ said Will. Even to Alice’s ears he sounded falsely bright.

  What the fuck are you doing in here?’ he repeated in English.

  Will flashed the magazine he’d picked up from the table. ‘Just dropped by to get something to read.’

  François-Baptiste cast his eye over the title and gave a short laugh.

  ‘Doesn’t seem your thing.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  The boy took a step towards Will. ‘You won’t last much longer,’ he said in a low, bitter voice. ‘She’ll get bored of you and kick you out like all the rest. You didn’t even know she was going out of town, did you?’

  What goes on between her and me is none of your business, so if you don’t mind — ’

  François-Baptiste stepped in front of him. ‘Why the hurry?’

  ‘Don’t push me, François-Baptiste, I’m warning you.’

  François-Baptiste put his hand on Will’s chest to stop him passing.

  Will pushed the boy’s arm away. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Ça suffit.’

  Both men spun round. Alice strained to get a better look, but the woman hadn’t come far enough into the room.

  ‘What is going on?’ she demanded. ‘Squabbling like children. François-Baptiste? William?’


  ‘Rien, maman. Jelui demandais — ’

  Will was looking stunned as he finally realised who it was who’d come in with François. ‘Marie-Cécile. I had no idea . . .’ He faltered. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back just yet.’

  The woman moved further into the room and Alice got a clear look at her face.

  It can’t be.

  Today, she was dressed more formally than the last time Alice had seen her, in a knee-length ochre skirt and matching jacket. Her hair was loose around her face rather than tied back with a scarf.

  But there was no mistaking her. It was the same woman Alice had seen outside the Hotel de la Cite in Carcassonne. This was Marie-Cécile de l’Oradore.

  She glanced from mother to son. The family resemblance was strong. The same profile, the same imperious air. The reason for François-Baptiste’s jealousy and the antagonism between him and Will now made sense.

  ‘But, actually, my son has a point,’ Marie-Cécile was saying. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I’ve been . . . I was just looking for something different to read. It’s been . . . lonely without you.’

  Alice winced. He sounded utterly unconvincing.

  ‘Lonely?’ she echoed. ‘Your face tells a different story, Will.’

  Marie-Cécile leaned forward and kissed Will on the mouth. Alice felt the embarrassment seep into the room. It was uncomfortably intimate. She could see Will’s fists were clenched.

  He doesn’t want me to see this.

  The thought, bewildering as it was, came and went from her mind in the blinking of an eye.

  Marie-Cécile released him, a glint of satisfaction on her face.

  ‘We’ll catch up later, Will. But now, I’m afraid, François-Baptiste and I have a little business to attend to. Desolée. So if you’ll excuse us.’

  ‘In here?’

  Too quick. Too obvious.

  Marie-Cécile narrowed her eyes. ‘Why not in here?’

  ‘No reason,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Maman. Il est dix-huit heures déjà.’

  J‘arrive,’ she said, still looking suspiciously at Will.

  ‘Mais, je ne . . .’

  ‘Va le chercher,’ she snapped. Go and get it.