The Alchemist's Secret

  Pascal went on. ‘After they took him away and I returned to the spot where the dagger lay, I found the soaked remnants of what seemed to be sheets of old scroll. They must have fallen out of his ragged clothes. They were crushed into the mud where he had collapsed. The rain had all but destroyed them–most of the ink was washed away. I could see some inscriptions and artwork still intact, and thinking the manuscript was precious and I might be able to return it to its owner I tried to pick it up. But it simply fell apart in my hands. I gathered up the pieces and brought them back here. But it was impossible to save them, and so I threw them away.’

  Ben’s heart fell. If Rheinfeld’s papers had been the Fulcanelli manuscript, it was over.

  ‘But I mentioned none of this to the bishop,’ Pascal went on. ‘I was afraid to, even though I could not understand why I felt this way. Something told me it would be wrong to tell him.’ He shook his head. ‘I have known since then that this was not the last I would hear of the Rheinfeld story. I always felt that others would come and find me, looking for him.’

  ‘Where’s Rheinfeld now?’ Ben asked. ‘I’d still like to talk to him.’

  Pascal sighed. ‘I am afraid that will be difficult.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he is dead. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, he died recently, about two months ago.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘While you were ill I telephoned the Institut Legrand, the mental institution near Limoux where Rheinfeld spent his last years. But it was too late. They told me that the poor unfortunate had ended his own life in a gruesome manner.’

  ‘Then that’s that,’ Ben muttered.

  ‘Benedict, I have given you the bad news,’ said Pascal, touching his shoulder. ‘But I also have some good news for you. I told the people at the Institut who I was, and asked if it would be possible to talk to someone there who might have known Rheinfeld. Perhaps someone who had come to know him well during his time there. I was told that nobody at the Institut Legrand had managed to break through the madman’s shell. He never allowed anyone to approach him or form any bond with him. His behaviour was disruptive and even violent. But there was a woman, a foreigner, who used to visit him occasionally during his final months. For some reason, her presence calmed Rheinfeld down, and she was able to speak quite normally to him. The hospital staff said that they used to talk together about things that none of the psychiatric nurses could understand. I am wondering, Benedict, if this woman might not have discovered some information that would be useful to you.’

  ‘Where can I find her? Did you get her name?’

  ‘I left my number and asked them to tell the lady that Father Cambriel would like to talk to her.’

  ‘I bet she won’t phone,’ Ben said darkly.

  ‘Trust is another virtue we discussed yesterday, Benedict, and one that you must learn to cultivate. In fact, Anna Manzini–that is her name–telephoned here early this morning, while you and Roberta were still sleeping. She is a writer, a historian if I gather correctly. She has taken a villa some kilometres from here. She is expecting to hear from you, and is free tomorrow afternoon if you would like to pay her a visit. You can use my car.’

  So there was still a chance. Ben’s spirits lifted. ‘Father, you’re a saint.’

  Pascal smiled. ‘Scarcely,’ he said. ‘A saint would not have stolen a gold crucifix and lied to his bishop.’

  Ben grinned. ‘Even saints have been tempted by the Devil.’

  ‘True, but the idea is to resist him,’ Pascal replied, chuckling. ‘I am an old fool. Now–I will show you the dagger. Do you think Roberta would like to see it too?’ He frowned. ‘You will not tell her I stole it, will you?’

  Ben laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Father. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Roberta breathed. Her mood was brighter now that Ben had apologized for his harsh words to her. She knew there was something about the picture that caused him pain, that she’d touched some raw nerve. But somehow, he seemed different since his talk with Pascal.

  Ben turned the cruciform dagger over in his hands. So this was one of the precious artefacts that Fulcanelli had prized so highly. But its significance was beyond him. Nothing in the Journal gave any clue.

  The cross was about eighteen inches in length. When the blade was sheathed inside the shaft-scabbard, it looked just like an exquisitely ornate gold crucifix. Curled around the scabbard, like the ancient symbol of the caduceus, was a golden snake with tiny rubies for eyes. Its head, which was placed at the top of the scabbard where it met the crosspiece, was a sprung catch. If you grasped the upper part of the cross like the hilt of a short sword and depressed the catch with your thumb, the glittering twelve-inch blade could be drawn out. It was narrow and sharp, and strange symbols had been engraved in fine lines into the steel.

  He hefted the weapon. Nobody would be expecting a man of God suddenly to whip out a concealed dagger. It was a fiendishly cynical idea–or maybe just a very practical one. The dagger seemed to sum up medieval religion pretty well. On the winning side were the kind of churchmen who might stab you in the back. On the other side were the priests who were always watching their back. From what Ben knew already about the history of the Church’s relationship with alchemy, whoever had carried this cross might well have belonged to the latter.

  Pascal pointed to the blade. ‘This is the marking that Rheinfeld had made at the centre of his chest. It looked as though it had been re-cut again and again, a huge pattern of scar tissue that stood out from his skin.’ He shuddered.

  The symbol he was pointing to was a precise pattern of two intersected circles, one above the other. Within the upper circle was a six-pointed star, each of its points touching the circumference. Within the lower circle was a five-pointed star or pentagram. The circles intersected so that the two stars were locked together. Delicate criss-cross lines pinpointed the exact centre of the strange geometrical shape.

  Ben stared at the design. Did it mean anything? It obviously had meant something to Klaus Rheinfeld. ‘Any ideas, Roberta?’

  She studied it carefully. ‘Who can say? Alchemical symbolism is so cryptic sometimes, it’s virtually impossible to figure out. It’s like they’re challenging you, teasing you with scanty information until you know where to go and look for more clues. It was all about protecting their secrets. They were fanatical about security.’

  Ben grunted. Let’s just hope these ‘secrets’ are worth finding, he thought. ‘Perhaps this Anna Manzini will be able to shed more light on it,’ he said out loud. ‘Who knows, maybe Rheinfeld told her what the symbols meant.’

  ‘If he knew.’

  ‘You have any better ideas?’

  He’d had to walk up the hill overlooking Saint-Jean before he’d been able to get any kind of reception on his mobile to contact Fairfax and give him a progress report. His side was aching as he looked out over the wooded valley.

  Against the blue sky two eagles were swooping and curving around one another in an aerial dance of graceful majesty. He watched them riding the thermals, gliding and side-slipping as they called to one another, and he wondered fleetingly what that kind of freedom must feel like. He dialled Fairfax’s number and shielded the phone from the crackling roar of the wind.

  38

  It was late afternoon when they took Father Pascal’s car and drove to Montségur, an hour or so away. The old Renault wheezed and rattled along the winding country roads, through landscapes that alternated between breathtaking rocky mountain passes and lush wine-growing valleys.

  Just before the old town of Montségur they turned off the main road. At the end of a long lane, high on a hill and surrounded by trees was Anna Manzini’s country villa. It was a fine-looking ochre stone house with shuttered windows, climbing wall-plants and a balcony running across its façade. The place was like an oasis in the middle of the arid landscape. Terracotta pots overflowed with flowers. Ornamen
tal trees grew in neat rows along the walls, and water burbled brightly in a little fountain.

  Anna came out of the house to greet them. She was wearing a silk dress and a coral necklace that showed off her honey-coloured skin. To Roberta she seemed the classic Italian beauty, as fine and delicate as porcelain. Amid the sweat and dust of the wilds of the Languedoc she seemed to come from another world.

  They got out of the car and Anna welcomed them warmly, speaking English with a soft, velvety Italian accent. ‘I’m Anna. I’m so pleased to meet you both. Mr Hope, this is your wife?’

  ‘No!’ Ben and Roberta said in unison, glancing at one another.

  ‘This is Dr Roberta Ryder. She’s working with me,’ Ben said.

  Anna gave Roberta an unexpected kiss on the cheek. Her delicate perfume was Chanel No. 5. Roberta suddenly realized that at close quarters she probably reeked of Arabelle the goat–she and Marie-Claire had milked her that morning. But if Anna noticed anything, she was too polite to wrinkle her nose. She flashed a perfect smile and led them inside.

  The cool white rooms of the villa were filled with the scent of fresh flowers. ‘Your English is excellent,’ Ben commented as she poured them a glass of ice-chilled fino sherry. He drank it down in one, and noticed the hot glare Roberta threw at him. ‘Don’t gulp like that,’ she whispered furiously.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Mea gulpa.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘I’ve always loved your language. I worked in London for three years, at the start of my teaching career.’ She laughed her musical laugh. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  She showed them into an airy living-room with french windows opening out onto a stone terrace with the garden and the hills beyond. A pair of canaries sang and twittered in a large ornamental cage by the window.

  Roberta noticed some copies of Anna’s books on a shelf. ‘God’s Heretics–Discovering the Real Cathars, by Professor Anna Manzini. I’d no idea we were coming to visit such an expert.’

  ‘Oh, I’m no real expert,’ Anna said. ‘I just have an interest in certain under-researched subjects.’

  ‘Such as alchemy?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Medieval history, Catharism, the esoteric, alchemy. That’s how I got to know poor Klaus Rheinfeld.’

  ‘I hope you won’t mind if we ask you a few questions,’ Ben said. ‘We’re interested in the Rheinfeld case.’

  ‘May I ask what your interest is?’

  ‘We’re journalists,’ he answered without missing a beat. ‘We’re doing research for an article on the mysteries of alchemy.’

  Anna made them a black Italian coffee served in tiny little china cups, and told them about her visits to the Institut Legrand. ‘I was so upset to hear of Klaus’s suicide. But I must say it didn’t come as a complete surprise. He was deeply disturbed.’

  ‘I’m amazed they even allowed you access to him,’ Ben said.

  ‘They normally wouldn’t have,’ Anna replied. ‘But the Director granted me these visits to help me research my book. I was well guarded, although poor Klaus was usually calm with me.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor man, he was so ill. You know about the marks he carved into his own flesh?’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Once, when he was very agitated and tore open his shirt. There was a particular symbol he was obsessed with. Dr Legrand told me that he had drawn it all over his room, in blood and…other things.’

  ‘What symbol was that?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Two circles intersecting,’ Anna said. ‘Each circle contained a star, one a hexagram and the other a pentagram, their points touching.’

  ‘Similar to this?’ Ben reached into his bag and took out an object wrapped in a cloth. He laid it on the table and peeled back the edges of the cloth to reveal the glinting cruciform dagger. He drew out the blade and showed Anna the inscription on it. The two circles, just as she’d described.

  She nodded, her eyes widening. ‘Yes, exactly the same. May I?’ He passed it to her. She carefully slid the blade back into the shaft and examined the cross from all angles. ‘It’s a magnificent piece. And extremely unusual. Do you see these alchemical markings on the shaft?’ She looked up. ‘What do you know about its history?’

  ‘Very little,’ Ben said. ‘Only that it may once have belonged to the alchemist Fulcanelli, and we think it might date back to medieval times. Rheinfeld apparently stole it from its owner in Paris, and brought it with him down south.’

  Anna nodded. ‘I’m no antiquarian, but from these markings I would agree about its age. Perhaps tenth or eleventh century. It could easily be verified.’ She paused. ‘I wonder why Klaus was so interested in it. Not just because of its value. He was penniless, and he could have sold it for a lot of money. Yet he kept hold of it.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘How did you come to find it?’

  Ben had been ready for that one. He’d promised Pascal he wouldn’t give away his secret. ‘Rheinfeld dropped it,’ he said. ‘When he was found wandering and taken away.’ He watched her reaction. She seemed to accept it. ‘What about the twin-circle symbol on the blade?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Why was Rheinfeld so interested in it?’

  Anna grasped the shaft of the cross and drew the blade back out with a quiet metallic zing. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But there must be a reason. He may have been deranged, but he wasn’t stupid. He had areas of knowledge that were very deep.’ She studied the blade thoughtfully ‘Do you mind if I make a copy of this symbol?’ She laid the dagger down in front of her and took a piece of tracing paper and a soft-leaded pencil from a drawer. Laying the paper across the bare blade she did a careful rubbing of the markings on it. Roberta noticed her perfectly manicured hands. She glanced down at her own. Slipped them under the table.

  Anna studied her finished rubbing, looking happy with it. ‘There.’ Then she frowned and looked at it more closely. ‘It’s not quite the same as the one in the notebook. There’s a slight difference. I wonder…’ Ben looked at her sharply. ‘Notebook?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it to you. The doctors gave Klaus a notebook in the hope that he would keep a record of his dreams. They believed this would help in his treatment, and perhaps help to shed light on what had caused his mental condition. But he didn’t record his dreams. Instead he filled the pages with drawings and symbols, strange poetry and numbers. The doctors couldn’t make any sense of it, but they allowed him to keep it as it seemed to comfort him.’

  ‘What happened to it?’ Ben said.

  ‘When Klaus died, the director of the Institut, Edouard Legrand, offered it to me. He thought I might be interested in it. Klaus had no family, and in any case it wouldn’t have been much of an heirloom. I have it upstairs.’

  ‘Can we see it?’ Roberta said eagerly.

  Anna smiled. ‘Of course.’ She went to fetch it from her study. A minute later she returned, filling the room again with her fresh perfume, holding a small polythene bag. ‘I put it in here because it was so filthy and smelly,’ she said, laying the bag gently on the table.

  Ben took the notebook out of the bag. It was frayed and crumpled and looked like it had been soaked in blood and urine a hundred times. It gave off a sharp musty smell. He flipped through it. Most of the pages were blank, apart from the first thirty or so which were heavily stained with grubby fingerprints and reddish-brown smears of old dried blood that made it difficult in places to read the handwriting.

  The bits he could make out were just about the strangest thing he’d ever seen. The pages were filled with snatches of bizarre verse. Obscure and apparently meaningless arrangements of letters and numbers. Scrawled notes in Latin, English and French. Rheinfeld had obviously been an educated man, as well as a competent artist. Here and there were drawings, some of them simple sketches and others drawn in painstaking detail. They looked to Ben like the kind of alchemical images he’d seen in ancient texts.

  One of the most grubby and well-thumbed pages in the notebook had a drawing on i
t that was familiar. It was the diagram from the dagger blade, the twin intersecting star-circles that Rheinfeld had been so obsessed with.

  He picked up the dagger and compared them. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They’re slightly different from one another.’

  Rheinfeld’s version was identical except for one small extra detail. It was hard to make out, but it looked like a tiny heraldic emblem of a bird with outstretched wings and a long beak. It was positioned at the dead centre of the twin-circle motif.

  ‘It’s a raven,’ Ben said. ‘And I think I’ve seen it before.’ It was the symbol he’d seen carved in the central porch at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

  But why had Rheinfeld altered the design from the blade?

  ‘Does any of this mean anything to you?’ he asked Anna.

  She shrugged. ‘Not really. Who knows what was in his mind?’

  ‘Can I have a look?’ Roberta asked. Ben passed the notebook to her. ‘God, it’s gross,’ she said, turning the pages with revulsion.

  Ben’s heart was sinking again. ‘Did you learn anything at all from Rheinfeld?’ he asked Anna, hoping he might be able to salvage at least something of value.

  ‘I wish I could say yes,’ she replied. ‘When Dr Legrand first mentioned this strange, intriguing character to me I thought he might help to inspire me for my new book. I was suffering from writer’s block. I still am,’ she added unhappily. ‘But as I got to know him I felt so sorry for him. My visits were more for his comfort than for my own inspiration. I can’t say I learned anything from him. All I have is this notebook. Oh, and there is one other thing…’

  ‘What?’ Ben asked.

  Anna blushed. ‘I did something a little…what’s the word…naughty. On my last visit to the Institut I smuggled in with me the little gadget I use for dictating my book ideas. I recorded my conversation with Klaus.’

  ‘Could I hear that?’

  ‘I don’t think it could be of any use,’ Anna said. ‘But you’re welcome to listen to it.’ She reached behind her and picked up a miniature digital recorder from a sideboard. She set it down in the middle of the table and pressed PLAY. Through the tinny speaker they could hear Rheinfeld’s low, muttering voice.