The Alchemist's Secret

  62

  ‘Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees,’ she ordered. He saw from the look in her eye and the unwavering muzzle of the gun that she meant it. She was much too far away to risk anything. He obeyed. She produced a bright torch and shone the beam in his face.

  ‘You told me you were interested in old houses,’ she said as he knelt there helplessly, blinking in the strong white light. ‘But it seems that you were also interested in other things.’

  ‘I’m not here to rob you,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You break into my house, you bring a gun, you sneak into my private chapel, yet you tell me you’re not here to rob me?’ She motioned the torch beam at Bozza’s body. ‘Who is he? A friend of yours?’

  ‘Does it look like it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Thieves may quarrel. What’s in there?’ She pointed the light at Ben’s bag, which was lying by the altar. ‘Empty it out on the floor. Move slowly so I can see your hands.’

  He carefully up-ended the bag and she directed the torch to look at the contents as they spilled out onto the stone floor. The pool of white light rested on Rheinfeld’s notebook and Fulcanelli’s Journal. ‘Throw those over to me,’ she commanded, tucking the torch under her arm. He picked them up and tossed them to her. Keeping the gun on him, she leafed through them, nodding thoughtfully to herself. After a pause she placed them gently on the floor and lowered the gun to her side. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘But I had to be sure.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he repeated.

  ‘My name is Antonia Branzanti,’ she said. ‘I am the granddaughter of Fulcanelli.’ She cut off his reply with a gesture. ‘We can talk later. First we must dispose of this filth.’ She pointed at Bozza’s corpse, where the pool of blood was merging with the slick of stagnant green water from the broken altar.

  Shining the way ahead, Antonia led him through the columns to a passageway where a huge circular rock, like a six-foot millstone, stood on its edge against the wall. ‘This doorway leads out to the mountainside. Open it.’

  Grunting with effort, he rolled it back through a groove cut in the stone floor. As it turned backwards on itself with a grating sound, the cold night air rushed into the chamber. The rock covered the entrance to a short tunnel, some five metres deep, and through the mouth of the cave he could see a craggy-edged semicircle of night sky. The storm was over, and the full moon was shining over the rocky landscape. Below them was a dizzy drop into a deep ravine.

  ‘Nobody will ever find him down there,’ Antonia said, pointing down. Ben returned to where Bozza’s body lay. He grasped the heavy corpse under the arms and dragged it to the hole, leaving a trail of watery blood across the stone floor. He dropped the body in the windy tunnel, and rolled it with his foot until it slid off the edge. He watched as it tumbled down the sheer cliff, a cartwheeling black shape against the moonlit rock, and disappeared in the dark tree-studded ravine hundreds of metres below.

  ‘Now we go,’ Antonia said.

  Defeat was weighing heavily on him as he followed her back through the tunnel to the house. So the elixir had turned out to be worthless. It was just a legend after all. Now he’d have to return to Fairfax empty-handed, look the old man in the eye and tell him that the child would have to die.

  They reached the house. She shut the fireplace behind them and led him to the kitchen, where he washed some of the blood off his hands and face. ‘I’ll be leaving now,’ he said grimly, putting down the towel.

  ‘You don’t want to ask me anything?’

  He sighed. ‘What’s the point? It’s over.’

  ‘You are the seeker my grandfather said would come here one day. You have followed the hidden path. You have found the treasure.’

  ‘I didn’t come here for gold,’ he replied, tears burning in his eyes. ‘It’s not about that.’

  ‘Gold is not the only treasure,’ she said, cocking her head with a curious smile. She walked over to a cupboard. On a shelf inside were bottles of olive oil and vinegar, jars of dried herbs and preserves, peppercorns and spices. She parted them and took out from behind a small, plain earthenware container which she carefully brought over and set on the table. She lifted the lid. Inside the container was a little glass bottle. She gave it a gentle shake and the clear liquid inside caught the light and shimmered. She turned to Ben. ‘Is this what you were looking for?’

  He reached out for it. ‘Is it…?’

  ‘Careful. It is the only sample my grandfather prepared.’

  He slumped in a chair, feeling suddenly as drained and spent as he was relieved. Antonia sat opposite him, rested her hands flat on the table and looked at him keenly. ‘Now would you like to stay a while and hear my story?’

  They talked. Ben told her about his mission and the events that had led him to the House of the Raven. Then it was his turn to listen as she continued the story told in Fulcanelli’s Journal.

  ‘After Daquin betrayed my grandfather’s trust, things happened quickly. The Nazis raided the house and ransacked the laboratory to find the secrets. My grandmother surprised them, and they shot her.’ Antonia sighed. ‘After that, my grandfather fled from Paris and came here with my mother.’

  ‘What happened to Daquin?’

  ‘That boy did so much damage.’ Antonia shook her head sadly. ‘I suppose he thought he was doing good. But when he began to see what kind of people he had given away my grandfather’s teachings to, he couldn’t live with himself. Just like Judas, he put a rope around his neck.’

  ‘What was the connection between Fulcanelli and the architect?’ Ben asked. ‘The House of the Raven?’ ‘Corbu and my grandfather had a special bond between them,’ she explained. ‘They were both direct descendants of the Cathars. When Fulcanelli discovered the lost Cathar artefacts, this led him to locate the site of the hidden temple where their treasures were stored. The house was built the year after his discovery, to pay homage to the temple and to guard the treasures inside. Who would have guessed that a house like this marked the entrance to a sacred shrine?’ ‘Fulcanelli lived here with you and your mother?’ ‘My mother was sent to Switzerland to study. My grandfather remained here until 1930, when my mother returned with her new husband. By that time, my grandfather knew that his enemies had lost his trail. My mother then took over the role of guardian of the house and its secret. Fulcanelli went away. He disappeared.’ Antonia smiled wistfully. ‘That’s why I never met him. He was a restless soul, who believed there was always more to learn. I think he may have gone to Egypt, to explore the birthplace of alchemy.’ ‘He must have been ancient by then.’ ‘He was in his mid-eighties, but people took him for a man in his sixties. The portrait you saw was painted soon before he went away. Some time later, in 1940, I was born.’

  Ben raised his eyebrows. She looked a good deal younger than her age.

  Antonia noticed his look and gave an enigmatic smile. ‘When I grew up I became the guardian of the house,’ she went on. ‘My mother moved to Nice. She is in her late nineties now, and still going strong.’ She paused. ‘As for my grandfather, we never heard from him again. I think he was always afraid that his enemies might catch up with him, and that’s why he never contacted us or revealed his identity to anyone.’

  ‘So you don’t know when he died?’

  Another mysterious little smile lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘What makes you so sure he’s dead? Perhaps he’s still out there, somewhere.’

  ‘You believe the elixir of life could have kept him alive all these years?’

  ‘Modern science doesn’t have all the answers, Ben. They still understand only the tiniest fraction of the universe.’ Antonia fixed him with her penetrating gaze. ‘You’ve taken so many risks to find the elixir. Don’t you believe in its power?’

  Ben hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I want to believe in it. Perhaps I need to.’ He took Fulcanelli’s Journal, Rheinfeld’s notebook and the dagger-blade-rubbing out of his bag and laid them on the table. ‘Anyway, these are
yours now. This is their rightful place.’ He sighed. And so, what happens now?’

  Antonia frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Am I free to take the elixir with me? Does the guardian let the seeker take the bottle away? Or is the next round in that Mauser reserved for me?’

  Her eyes twinkled with mirth and Ben could see the family resemblance to Fulcanelli’s portrait. She laid her hand on the elegant old pistol in front of her. ‘It was my grandfather’s gun. He left it to my mother, in case our enemies ever found us here. But it’s not meant for you, Ben. My grandfather believed that one day a true initiate would decipher the clues he left behind, and would come and find the secret. Someone pure of heart who would respect its power, never abuse it or publicize it.’

  ‘That’s a big chance to take on me,’ he said. ‘How can you be certain I’m so pure of heart?’

  Antonia looked tenderly at Ben. ‘You are thinking only of the child. I can see that in your eyes.’

  Rome

  A procession of unmarked police cars wound their way between the lavish gardens of the Renaissance villa and pulled up in an orderly semicircle in the courtyard at the foot of the grand white columns.

  From his window, high up in the magnificent dome, Archbishop Massimiliano Usberti watched them get out of their cars, brush by his servants and climb the steps to the house. Their faces were dour and official. He’d been expecting them.

  Thanks to one man, Benedict Hope, Gladius Domini had been badly damaged. For all his seething hatred, Usberti had to admire the man. He hadn’t believed he could be so easily outdone, but somehow Hope had done it. Usberti had been bettered, and he was impressed.

  The attack had been swift and decisive. First the simultaneous arrest of his top French agent Saul and the disaster in Montpellier. Then the highly coordinated Interpol swoop on his people across Europe. Many of his agents were under questioning. Some, like Fabrizio Severini, had gone into hiding. Others had folded under police interrogation. Like a row of falling dominoes, like a blazing powder-trail of information, the investigation had led with alarming speed all the way to the top, all the way to him.

  He could hear voices on the stairs leading up to the dome. They’d be here any minute. They probably thought they had him.

  Fools. They had no idea who they were dealing with. A man like Massimiliano Usberti, with the contacts and influence they could never even begin to imagine, wasn’t going to go down easily. He’d find a way out of this mess, and then he’d come back and take his revenge.

  The door burst open at the far end of the room, and Usberti calmly turned from the window to meet them.

  63

  Ben had called Fairfax to say the mission was completed and he was coming in. There were a few spare hours before the private jet was due to pick him up at the airport near Montpellier.

  Father Pascal was tending to his little vineyard when he heard the gate creak and he looked up to see Ben coming towards him with a broad smile. The priest embraced him warmly. ‘Benedict, I knew you would come back to see me again.’

  ‘I haven’t got much time, Father. I just wanted to thank you again for all your help.’

  Pascal’s eyes widened with concern. ‘And Roberta? Is she…’

  ‘Safely back home in the USA.’

  The priest let out a sigh. ‘Thank the Lord she is all right,’ he breathed. And so, your work is done here?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going back this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, then it is goodbye, my dear friend. Look after yourself, Benedict. May the Lord be with you and watch over you. I will miss you…Oh, how foolish of me, I nearly forgot. I have a message for you.’

  Ben was feeling self-conscious as the nurse showed him into the private room. The police guard had been lifted after his call to Luc Simon earlier.

  Anna was sitting up in her bed, reading a book. Behind her, sunlight streamed through her window. She was surrounded by vases of yellow, white and red roses that filled the room with sweet perfume. She looked up as Ben came in, and her face spread into a smile. Her right cheek was covered with a large gauze dressing.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. He was hoping she wouldn’t notice the nervous edge in his voice.

  ‘I woke up this morning to find all these beautiful flowers. Thank you so much.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do,’ he said. He looked uncomfortably at the mottled bruises around her eye and forehead. ‘Anna, I’m so sorry for what happened to you. And your friend…’

  She laid her hand on his arm, and he bowed his head. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Ben,’ she said softly. ‘If you hadn’t come, he was going to murder me. You saved my life.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, that man is dead now.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘What are your plans, Anna?’

  She sighed. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of France. It’s time I went back to Florence. Perhaps I can get my old job back at the university.’ She chuckled. ‘And perhaps one day–who knows?–I’ll finish my book.’

  ‘I’ll look out for it,’ he said. He checked his watch. ‘I have to go. There’s a plane waiting for me.’

  ‘You’re going back home? Did you find the thing you were looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know what I found.’

  She reached out and grasped his hand. ‘It was a map, wasn’t it?’ she breathed. ‘The diagram? It came to me, as I was lying here. So stupid not to have thought of it…’

  He sat on the edge of the bed and squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, it was a map,’ he said. ‘But take my advice and just forget everything you know about this stuff. It attracts the wrong kind of people.’

  Anna smiled. ‘I noticed.’

  They sat quietly together in the stillness of the flower-filled room for a while longer, then she looked at him searchingly with her almond eyes. ‘Do you ever go to Italy, Ben?’

  ‘From time to time.’

  Gently, insistently, she pulled his hand towards her, and he leaned down. She sat up straighter in the bed and pressed her lips to his cheek. They were warm and soft, and her touch lingered for a few seconds. ‘If you should ever find yourself in Florence,’ she murmured in his ear, ‘you must give me a call.’

  64

  Three hours later Ben was sitting in the back of the Bentley Arnage for the second time on his way to the Fairfax residence. Dusk was beginning to fall as they swept down the leaf-strewn lanes between rows of golden beeches and sycamores, and pulled in through the gates of the Fairfax estate. The Bentley passed the neat little red-brick estate cottages that Ben remembered from his first visit.

  A short way further down the private road, the car began to pull to the right and Ben could feel a faint bumping from the front end. The driver swore quietly to himself, stopped the car and climbed out to see what the matter was. He poked his head back in through the open door. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Puncture.’

  Ben got out as the driver fetched the tools from the back of the car and unhitched the spare wheel. ‘Need any help?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir, it’ll only take a few minutes,’ the driver said.

  As he started unbolting the wheel, the door of a nearby estate cottage opened and an elderly man in a flat cap walked grinning across the verge. ‘Must’ve picked up a nail or somethin’,’ he said, plucking a pipe out of his mouth. He turned to Ben. ‘Would you like to come in for a moment while Jim changes the wheel? Evenings’re getting chilly now.’

  ‘Thanks, but I thought I’d just have a smoke and look at the horses.’

  The old man walked with him towards the paddocks. ‘Like horses, do you, sir?’ He put out his hand. ‘Herbie Greenwood, head of stables for Mr Fairfax.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Herbie.’ Ben leaned over the paddock fence and lit a cigarette.

  Herbie chewed on his pipe stem as two horses, a chestnut and a dark bay, came thundering across the pocked surface. They curved round in a parallel arc towards the fence, slowed and approached the old man,
shaking their heads and blowing through their nostrils. Herbie patted them as they nuzzled him affectionately. ‘See this one ‘ere?’ He pointed at the bay. ‘Three times Derby winner, Black Prince. Out to grass now, like I will be soon. Ain’t ya, boy?’ He stroked the horse’s neck as it snuffled his shoulder.

  ‘He’s a beauty,’ Ben said, running his eye down the horse’s rippling muscles. He held his palm out flat and Black Prince pressed his soft, velvety nose against it.

  ‘Twenty-seven and still gallops about like a young colt,’ Herbie chuckled. ‘I remember the day ‘e was born. They thought ‘e wouldn’t thrive, but he’s done well for ‘imself, the old boy.’

  In the next paddock Ben could see a small grey pony grazing contentedly on a clump of grass, and it made him think of the picture Fairfax had shown him of little Ruth. ‘I wonder if Ruth will ever be able to ride again?’ he thought out loud.

  The Bentley crunched to a halt on the gravel in front of the mansion a few minutes later, and an assist ant met Ben on the steps. ‘Mr Fairfax will see you in the library in half an hour, sir. I am to show you to your rooms.’ They walked through the marbled hall, their footsteps echoing up to the high ceiling. The assistant led him up the staircase to the upper floor of the west wing. After freshening up, Ben came down half an hour later and was shown to the galleried library.

  Fairfax rushed across the room, extending his hand. ‘Mr Hope, this is a wonderful moment for me.’

  ‘How’s Ruth?’

  ‘You couldn’t have come at a better time,’ Fairfax replied. ‘Her condition’s been declining steadily, even since we last spoke. You have the manuscript?’ He held out his hand expectantly.

  ‘The Fulcanelli manuscript is worthless to you, Mr Fairfax,’ Ben said.

  A ripple of fury shot through Fairfax’s reddening face. ‘What?’

  Ben smiled, and reached inside his jacket. ‘What I’ve brought you instead is this.’ He took it out and gave it to him.