Labyrinth

  The Commissioner was shaking his hand.

  ‘Maybe if you put a personal call through to the Prefect . . .’

  Noubel waited.

  ‘All right, all right.’ He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at him. ‘But I promise you this, Claude, if you fuck up, you’re on your own. Authié’s an influential man. As for Madame de l’Oradore . . .’ He let his arms drop. ‘If you can’t make this stick, they’ll rip you to pieces and there won’t be a damn thing I can do to stop them.’

  He turned and walked to the door. Just before he went out, he stopped. ‘Remind me who this Baillard is? Do I know him? The name’s vaguely familiar.’

  ‘Writes about Cathars. An expert on Ancient Egypt too.’

  ‘That’s not it . . .’

  Noubel waited. ‘No, it’s gone,’ said the Commissioner.

  ‘But for all we know, Madame Giraud could be making something out of nothing.’

  ‘She could, sir, although I have to tell you I’ve not been able to locate Baillard. No one’s seen him since he left the hospital with Madame Giraud on Wednesday night.’

  The Commissioner nodded. ‘I’ll call you when the paperwork’s ready. You’ll be here?’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ he said cautiously, ‘I thought I might have another go at the English woman. She’s a friend of O’Donnell. She might know something.’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  As soon as the Commissioner had gone, Noubel made a few calls, then grabbed his jacket and headed for his car. By his reckoning, he’d got plenty of time to get to Carcassonne and back before the Prefect’s signature on the search warrant had dried.

  By half-past four, Noubel was sitting with his opposite number in Carcassonne. Arnaud Moureau was an old friend. Noubel knew he could speak freely. He pushed a scrap of paper across the table.

  ‘Dr Tanner said she would be staying here.’

  It took minutes to check she was registered there. ‘Nice hotel just outside the Cite walls, less than five minutes from rue de la Gaffe. Shall I drive?’

  The receptionist was very nervous about being interviewed by two police officers. She was a poor witness, close to tears much of the time. Noubel got more and more impatient until Moureau stepped in. His more avuncular approach yielded better results.

  ‘So, Sylvie,’ he said gently. ‘Dr Tanner left the hotel early yesterday morning, yes?’ The girl nodded. ‘She said she would be back today? I just want to be clear.’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard anything to the contrary. She hasn’t telephoned or anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Good. Now, is there anything you can tell us? For example, has she had any visitors since she’s been staying here?’

  The girl hesitated.

  ‘Yesterday a woman came, very early, with a message.’ Noubel couldn’t help himself jumping in. What time was this?’

  Moureau gestured for him to be quiet. ‘How early is early, Sylvie?’

  ‘I came on duty at six o’clock. Not long after that.’

  ‘Did Dr Tanner know her? Was she a friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. She seemed surprised.’

  ‘This is very helpful, Sylvie,’ said Moureau. ‘Can you tell us what made you think that?’

  ‘She was asking Dr Tanner to meet someone in the cemetery. It seemed an odd place to meet.’

  ‘Who?’ said Noubel. ‘Did you hear a name?’

  Looking even more terrified, Sylvie shook her head. ‘I don’t know if she even went.’

  ‘That’s OK. You’re doing very well. Now, anything else?’

  ‘A letter came for her.’

  ‘Post or hand-delivered?’

  ‘There was that business with changing rooms,’ called a voice from out the back. Sylvie turned and glared at a boy, hidden behind a mound of cardboard boxes. ‘Pain in the bloody — ’

  What business with rooms?’ interrupted Noubel.

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ said Sylvie stubbornly.

  ‘But I bet you know about it all the same.’

  ‘Dr Tanner said there was an intruder in her room. Wednesday night. She demanded to be moved.’

  Noubel stiffened. Immediately, he walked through to the back.

  ‘Causing a lot of extra work for everybody,’ Moureau was saying mildly, keeping Sylvie occupied.

  Noubel followed the smells of cooking and found the boy easily enough.

  Were you here Wednesday night?’

  He gave a cocky smile. ‘On duty in the bar.’

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘I saw a woman come charging out of the door and go chasing after some bloke. Didn’t know it was Dr Tanner until after.’

  ‘Did you see the man?’

  ‘Not really. It was her I noticed more.’

  Noubel took the pictures out of his jacket and held them in front of the boy’s face. ‘Recognise either of them?’

  ‘I’ve seen that one before. Nice suit. Not a tourist. Stuck out a bit. Hanging around. Tuesday, Wednesday maybe. Can’t be sure, though.’

  By the time Noubel got back to the lobby, Moureau had got Sylvie smiling.

  ‘He picked out Domingo. Said he’d seen him around the hotel.’

  ‘Doesn’t make him the intruder, though,’ murmured Moureau.

  Noubel slid the photo on the counter in front of Sylvie. ‘Either of these men familiar to you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘although. . .’ She hesitated, then pointed at the picture of Domingo. ‘The woman asking for Dr Tanner looked quite like this.’

  Noubel exchanged glances with Moureau. ‘Sister?’

  ‘I’ll get it checked out.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to let us into Dr Tanner’s room,’ said Noubel.

  ‘I can’t do that!’

  Moureau overrode her objections. We’ll only be five minutes. It’ll be much easier this way, Sylvie. If we have to wait for the manager to give permission, we’ll come back with a whole search team. It will be disruptive for everybody.’

  Sylvie took a key from the hook and took them to Alice’s room, looking drawn and nervous.

  The windows and curtains were shut and it was stuffy. The bed was neatly made and a quick inspection of the bathroom revealed that there were fresh towels on the rack and the water glasses had been replaced.

  ‘No one’s been in here since the chambermaid cleaned yesterday morning,’ muttered Noubel.

  There was nothing personal in the bathroom.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Moureau.

  Noubel shook his head as he moved on to the wardrobe. There he found Alice’s suitcase, packed.

  ‘Looks like she didn’t unpack anything when she moved rooms. She’s obviously got passport, phone, the basics, with her,’ he said, running his hands under the edge of the mattress. Holding the handkerchief between his fingers, Noubel pulled open the drawer of the bedside table. It contained a silver strip of headache pills and Audric Baillard’s book.

  ‘Moureau,’ he said sharply. As he passed it over, a small piece of paper fluttered from between the pages to the floor.

  What is it?’

  Noubel picked it up, then frowned as he passed it over.

  ‘Problem?’ said Moureau.

  ‘This is Yves Biau’s writing,’ he said. ‘A Chartres number.’

  He got out his phone to dial, but it rang before he’d finished.

  ‘Noubel,’ he said abruptly. Moureau’s eyes were fixed on him. ‘That’s excellent news, sir. Yes. Right away.’

  He disconnected.

  We’ve got the search warrant,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘Quicker than I’d expected.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ said Moureau. ‘He’s a worried man.’

  CHAPTER 67

  ‘Shall we sit outside?’ Audric suggested. ‘At least until the heat becomes too much.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Alice replied, following him out of the
little house. She felt like she was in a dream. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. The vastness of the mountains, the acres of sky, Baillard’s slow and deliberate movements.

  Alice felt the strain and confusion of the past few days slipping away from her.

  ‘This will do well,’ he said in his gentle voice, stopping by a small grassy mound. Baillard sat down with his long, thin legs straight out in front of him like a boy.

  Alice hesitated, then sat at his feet. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, then saw he was smiling again.

  ‘What?’ she said, self-conscious suddenly.

  Audric just shook his head. ‘Los ressons.’ The echoes. ‘Forgive me, Madomaisèla Tanner. Forgive an old man his foolishness.’

  Alice didn’t know what had made him smile so, only that she was happy to see it. ‘Please, call me Alice. Madomaisèla sounds so formal.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Very well.’

  ‘You speak Occitan rather than French?’ she asked.

  ‘Both, yes.’

  ‘Others too?’

  He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘English, Arabic, Spanish, Hebrew. Stories shift their shape, change character, take on different colours depending on the words you use, the language in which you choose to tell them. Sometimes more serious, sometimes more playful, more melodic, say. Here, in this part of what they now call France, the langue d’Oc was spoken by the people whose land this was. The langue d‘oïl, the forerunner of modern-day French, was the language of the invaders. Such choices divided people.’ He waved his hands. ‘But, this is not what you came to hear. You want people, not theories, yes?’

  It was Alice’s turn to smile. ‘I read one of your books, Monsieur Baillard, which I found at my aunt’s house in Sallèles d’Aude.’

  He nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful place. The Canal de Jonction. Lime trees and pins parasols line the banks.’ He paused. ‘The leader of the Crusade, Arnald-Amalric, was given a house in Sallèles, you know? Also, in Carcassona and Besièrs.’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Before, when I first arrived, you said Alaïs did not die before her time. She . . . did she survive the fall of Carcassonne?’

  Alice was surprised to realise her heart was beating fast.

  Baillard nodded. ‘Alaïs left Carcassona in the company of a boy, Sajhë, the grandson of one of the guardians of the Labyrinth Trilogy.’ He raised his eyes to see if she was following, then continued when she indicated she was.

  ‘They were heading here,’ he said. ‘In the old language Los Seres means the mountain crests, the ridges.’

  Why here?’

  ‘The Navigatairé, the leader of the Noublesso de los Seres, the society to which Alaïs’ father and Sajhë’s grandmother had sworn allegiance, was waiting for them here. Since Alaïs feared she was being pursued, they took an indirect route, first heading west to Fanjeaux, then south to Puivert and Lavelanet, then west again towards the Sabarthès Mountains.

  With the fall of Carcassona, there were soldiers everywhere. They swarmed all over our land like rats. There were also bandits who preyed on the refugees without pity. Alaïs and Sajhë travelled early in the morning and late at night, sheltering from the biting sun in the heat of the day. It was a particularly hot summer, so they slept outdoors when night fell. They survived on nuts, berries, fruit, anything they could forage. Alaïs avoided the towns, except when she was sure of finding a safe house.’

  ‘How did they know where to go?’ asked Alice, remembering her own journey only hours earlier.

  ‘Sajhë had a map, given to him . . .’

  His voice cracked with distress. Alice didn’t know why, but she reached out and took his hand. It seemed to give him comfort.

  ‘They made good progress,’ he continued, ‘arriving in Los Seres shortly before the Feast Day of Sant-Miquel, at the end of September, just as the land was turning to gold. Already here, in the mountains, was the smell of autumn and wet earth. The smoke hung over the fields as the stubble burned. It was a new world to them, who had been brought up in the shadows and alleyways and overcrowded halls of Carcassona. Such light. Such skies that reached, as it seemed, all the way to heaven.’ He paused as he looked out over the landscape in front of them. ‘You understand?’

  She nodded, mesmerised by his voice.

  ‘Harif, the Navigatairé, was waiting for them.’ Baillard bowed his head. When he heard all that had happened, he wept for the soul of Alaïs’ father and for Simeon too. For the loss of the books and for Esclarmonde’s generosity in letting Alaïs and Sajhë travel on without her to better secure the safety of the Book of Words.’

  Baillard stopped again and, for a while, was silent. Alice did not want to interrupt or hurry him. The story would tell itself. He would speak when he was ready.

  His face softened. ‘It was a blessed time, both in the mountains and on the plains, or at first so it seemed. Despite the indescribable horror of the defeat of Besièrs, many Carcassonnais believed they would soon be allowed to return home. Many trusted in the Church. They thought that if the heretics were expelled, then their lives would be returned to them.’

  ‘But the Crusaders did not leave,’ she said.

  Baillard shook his head. ‘It was a war for land, not faith,’ he said. ‘After the Ciutat was defeated in August 1209, Simon de Montfort was elected Viscount, despite the fact that Raymond-Roger Trencavel still lived. To modern minds, it is hard to understand how unprecedented, how grave an offence this was. It went against all tradition and honour. War was financed, in part, by the ransoms paid by one noble family to another. Unless convicted of a crime, a seigneur’s lands would never be confiscated and given to another. There could have been no clearer indication of the contempt in which the northerners held the Pays d’Oc.’

  ‘What happened to Viscount Trencavel?’ Alice asked. ‘I see him remembered everywhere in the Cite.’

  Baillard nodded. ‘He is worthy of remembrance. He died - was murdered - after three months of incarceration in the prisons of the Château Comtal, in November 1209. De Montfort published it that he had died of siege sickness, as it was known. Dysentery. No one believed it. There were sporadic uprisings and outbreaks of unrest, until de Montfort was forced to grant Raymond-Roger’s two-year-old son and heir an annual allowance of 3,000 sols in return for the legal surrender of the Viscounty.’

  A face suddenly flashed into Alice’s mind. A devout, serious woman, pretty, devoted to her husband and son.

  ‘Dame Agnès,’ she muttered.

  Baillard held her in his gaze for a moment. ‘She too is remembered within the walls of the Ciutat,’ he said quietly. ‘De Montfort was a devout Catholic. He - perhaps only he - of the Crusaders believed he was doing God’s work. He established a tax of house or hearth in favour of the Church, introduced tithes on the first fruits, northern ways.

  ‘The Ciutat might have been defeated, but the fortresses of the Minervois, the Montagne Noire, the Pyrenees refused to surrender. The King of Aragon, Pedro, would not accept him as a vassal; Raymond VI, uncle to Viscount Trencavel, withdrew to Toulouse; the Counts of Never and Saint-Pol, others such as Guy d’Evreux, returned north. Simon de Montfort had possession of Carcassona, but he was isolated.

  ‘Merchants, peddlers, weavers brought news of sieges and battles, good and bad. Montreal, Preixan, Saverdun, Pamiers fell, Cabaret was holding out. In the spring of April 1210, after three months of siege, de Montfort took the town of Bram. He ordered his soldiers to round up the defeated garrison and had their eyes put out. Only one man was spared, charged with leading the mutilated procession cross-country to Cabaret, a clear warning to any who resisted that they could expect no mercy.

  ‘The savagery and reprisals escalated. In July 1210, de Montfort besieged the hill fortress of Minerve. The town is protected on two sides by deep rocky gorges cut by rivers over thousands of years. High above the village, de Montfort installed a giant trébuchet, known as La Malvoisine — the
bad neighbour.’ He stopped and turned to Alice. ‘There is a replica there now. Strange to see. For six weeks, de Montfort bombarded the village. When finally Minerve fell, one hundred and forty Cathar parfaits refused to recant and were burned on a communal pyre.

  ‘In May 1211, the invaders took Lavaur, after a siege of a month. The Catholics called it “the very seat of Satan”. In a way, they were right. It was the See of the Cathar bishop of Toulouse and hundreds of parfaits and parfaites lived peaceably and openly there.’

  Baillard lifted his glass to his lips and drank.

  ‘Nearly four hundred credentes and parfaits were burned, including Amaury de Montreal, who had led the resistance, alongside eighty of his knights. The scaffold collapsed under their weight. The French were forced to slit their throats. Fired by bloodlust, invaders rampaged through the town searching for the lady of Lavaur, Guirande, under whose protection the Bons Homes had lived. They seized her, misused her. They dragged her through the streets like a common criminal, then threw her into the well and hurled stones down upon her until she was dead. She was buried alive. Or possibly drowned.’

  ‘Did they know how bad things were?’ she said.

  ‘Alaïs and Sajhë heard some news, but often many months after the event. The war was still concentrated on the plains. They lived simply, but happily, here in Los Seres with Harif. They gathered wood, salted meats for the long dark months of winter, learned how to bake bread and to thatch the roof with straw to protect it against storms.’

  Baillard’s voice had softened.

  ‘Harif taught Sajhë to read, then to write, first the langue d’Oc, then the language of the invaders, as well as a little Arabic and a little Hebrew.’ He smiled. ‘Sajhë was an unwilling pupil, preferring activities of the body to those of the mind but, with Alaïs’ help, he persevered.’

  ‘He probably wanted to prove something to her.’

  Baillard slid a glance at her, but made no comment.

  ‘Nothing changed until the Passiontide after Sajhë’s thirteenth birthday, when Harif told him he was to be apprenticed in the household of Pierre-Roger de Mirepoix to begin his training as a chevalier.’