TARASCON
Baillard made good speed to Tarascon and went immediately to Pujol’s house, where he explained what he was intending to do with Sandrine and Raoul’s help.
‘Do you trust Pelletier?’ Pujol asked.
Baillard had considered the question seriously. Raoul reminded him of men he had known in the past, one man in particular. The same combination of bravery and certainty, lack of judgement on occasion, coupled with loyalty and courage. That man had proved himself to be a true cavalier of the Midi. They had been rivals. In the final hours of his life they had become, if not friends, then certainly allies.
‘I do.’
Pujol stared at him. ‘You don’t look too sure about that, Audric.’
‘An old man’s memories, nothing more.’
Pujol grunted. ‘Boy’s got a murder charge hanging over him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he guilty?’
‘No.’
‘Framed?’
‘It seems so.’
Pujol topped up his glass. ‘Where’s Pelletier now?’
‘Went with Geneviève Saint-Loup as far as Belcaire, then her sister Eloise was to meet him and take him to the site.’
‘Why didn’t you travel together?’
‘Safer alone. And people less likely to remark on the presence of a young man with a girl, è?’
‘Where have you chosen to hide it?’
‘On the Col de Pyrène. It is far enough away from the real site, but at the same time within the region where excavations have taken place. We cannot be sure how much information Antoine was forced to give them.’
‘No,’ Pujol said. ‘I suppose it’s worth going to all this trouble? You don’t think it’s a bit of a sideshow? Now you have the map, why not simply concentrate on retrieving the genuine Codex?’
‘Smoke and mirrors, Achille. We need to give them something to stop them looking. If they believe they have the text they seek, that will give us a free hand without fear of interruption. It’s also the only chance to persuade them to lose interest in Pelletier and Madomaisèla Sandrine.’
‘Possibly,’ Pujol said, then poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Where did Antoine find the map? Did Rahn send it to him?’
Baillard shook his head. ‘If it had come from Rahn, Antoine would have acted sooner. There is a gap of some two years between Rahn’s death in March 1939 and Antoine being demobbed and beginning to search the mountains in earnest.’
‘I dare say you’re right.’
Baillard sighed. ‘Have you had any luck with the names I gave you?’
Pujol pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I asked around, but I’m afraid the news is all bad.’ He put his spectacles on. ‘César Sanchez was stabbed near the railway station in Carcassonne a day or two after the Bastille Day demonstration. It’s been dismissed as a blood feud between Spanish workers. No one claimed the body, no family so far as the police can tell, but my contact said a woman had been asking after him.’
Baillard remembered something Sandrine had told him. ‘In all likelihood that will be Suzanne Peyre. She and Sandrine’s sister, Marianne, are active in Carcassonne. Sanchez was a friend of hers.’
‘Did Pelletier know?’
‘No, he saw César being arrested. Someone must have given an order for him to be released from custody.’
‘I checked. There was no arresting officer listed.’ Pujol went back to his notes. ‘Gaston and Robert Bonnet were both arrested and released, in the end, without charge.’ He peered at Baillard over the top of his glasses. ‘You know there are nearly seven thousand men held in Le Vernet now. Communists, partisans, gypsies. They will need enormous camps if it goes on like that. Jewish prisoners, apparently, are being moved to other camps in the East. Even so, soon there won’t be any room left at all in any of these places.’
‘No one is coming back, Achille,’ Baillard said quietly.
Pujol stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Audric?’
‘Tuez-les tous . . .’
‘Kill them all,’ Pujol muttered. Infamous words said to have been spoken in Béziers at the beginning of a genocide against the Cathars of the Languedoc, more than seven hundred years ago. They, too, had been forced to wear scraps of yellow cloth pinned to their cloaks, their robes.
‘This is evil of a different order,’ Baillard said. ‘And why we must not fail.’
Pujol was silent for a few moments. ‘Do you want me to come with you, Audric?’
Baillard’s gentle face softened. ‘At the risk of offending you, Achille, I think we might make quicker progress alone.’
Pujol laughed. ‘When do you expect Pelletier?’
Baillard looked up at the dusk sky.
‘Dins d’abòrd,’ he said. Soon.
BELCAIRE
‘There are no trout in the stream.’
Raoul stood up, immediately alert, and gave the response. ‘My cousin says the fishing will improve when the melt waters begin.’
A pretty, dark-haired woman appeared in the opening between two trees and walked towards him. She was carrying a panier containing wild flowers and wore a pale blue summer dress with a pattern of tiny white blossoms on it. He thought how well it would suit Sandrine’s colouring, then smiled that he was even thinking such things at such a moment.
‘Monsieur Pelletier?’
‘Raoul,’ he said, shaking her outstretched hand.
‘I’m Eloise. I’m sorry I’m late. I was held up.’
‘Trouble?’
‘None. You?’
‘All quiet.’
Eloise nodded. ‘That’s how we like it.’
‘I’m grateful for your help. How long will it take to get there?’
‘Two hours, give or take. Monsieur Baillard arrived in Tarascon this afternoon. He’s going to meet you at the cave.’
‘OK.’
Raoul hauled his rucksack on to his shoulder. It was heavy now with tools borrowed from the outhouse in Coustaussa.
Eloise led him west along a network of lowland mountain paths, cross-country from Belcaire towards Tarascon. They didn’t speak much. From time to time they heard a car and took cover, waiting until it had passed before continuing on through the dark land of the Ariège. Raoul wanted to ask her about Sandrine. He’d attempted to quiz Geneviève earlier, but her loyalty to her friend meant she deflected all his questions.
‘Sandrine said your families have known each other all your lives,’ he said, hoping to draw Eloise out.
‘That’s right.’
‘She said she and Geneviève were particular friends, whereas you and Marianne were more the same age.’
‘Yes. We’re very distant cousins, in fact, on our mother’s side.’
‘Really?’
Raoul wanted to know what Sandrine had been like as a child, the sorts of things they’d done in the long summers in Coustaussa before the war. He wanted to know about Yves Rousset. When Sandrine had mentioned him, against all common sense he’d felt jealous.
‘Sandrine said that—’ he began.
‘Best we don’t talk, Monsieur Pelletier,’ Eloise said quietly but firmly, though Raoul thought he heard a flicker of amusement in her voice.