They stood in silence for a moment, each hardly able to trust the evidence of their eyes. Then Sandrine reached out and took his hand, felt the flesh-and-blood reality of his fingers in hers.
‘Here you are,’ she said, finally remembering how to talk. ‘Yes.’
Raoul nodded. ‘All the way, I kept telling myself there was no reason you would be here. Yet, somehow . . .’
Sandrine stared at him, seeing her delight mirrored back in his face. Smiling, reminding each other and themselves of how they looked and sounded, until Sandrine realised how stupid they were being.
Quickly she pulled him inside and closed the door. ‘The police have been here. They’re looking for you.’
‘Why here? Why did they come here?’
‘They were going to every house, not just us. Someone in Couiza saw you.’
‘I heard the siren an hour back, but hoped . . .’ Raoul put his hand to his face and rubbed his stubble. ‘I hoped this would be enough.’
She smiled. ‘I rather like it.’ Still holding his hand, she took a step back. ‘How did you know I was here? Did Marianne tell you?’
‘No, I just thought I’d try my luck.’
‘What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Though I shouldn’t have come—’
‘Where have you been all this time?’ she interrupted, the words coming out in a rush. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘In a moment,’ he said, pulling her to him.
Raoul put his hand around her waist, the other around her neck. She felt the touch of his lips on hers and the salt of his skin, and the memory of the time spent without him faded away into the haze of the day.
‘Come on,’ she said quietly, finally slipping out of his arms. ‘Let’s join the others.’
‘Others? Who else is here?’
‘Marieta, of course. Also Max’s sister Liesl, as well as an old friend of Marieta’s.’ She caught her breath. ‘Marieta’s not been at all well.’
Quickly she explained what had happened.
‘But she’s going to be all right?’ he said. ‘She’ll make a full recovery?’
She nodded. ‘The doctor says she’ll be fine, provided she rests and doesn’t overdo things.’
‘And how’s Liesl holding up?’
‘Given what’s she’s been through, well.’ Sandrine glanced up the stairs to the girl’s closed door, then back to Raoul. ‘I’ll go and bring her down in a moment. Suzanne tried to find out where Max has been taken, but hit a brick wall. There’s been no news about César Sanchez. He’s gone to ground somewhere too.’ She paused. ‘Unless you know where he is?’
Raoul frowned. ‘César was arrested after the demonstration.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘When Suzanne went to the police, then the Palais de Justice, they denied all knowledge of him.’
‘But I saw them take him.’
‘I remember you saying that, but there’s no record of him being arrested.’ She paused, then carried on. ‘There is one thing. Antoine’s been found dead, outside Tarascon,’ she said, watching his face. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.’
Raoul nodded. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I already know.’ He pulled the copy of La Dépêche out of his rucksack. ‘It’s what tipped the balance and made me decide to come to find you. I wanted to warn you.’
‘Monsieur Baillard thinks it will set things moving too.’
‘Monsieur Baillard?’
‘He was with Inspector Pujol when Antoine’s body was found. So far as I know, no one’s been trying to find me, though.’
‘Who’s Monsieur Baillard?’ he asked again.
Sandrine smiled. ‘Come and meet him. He’ll be able to explain better than I can.’
She pushed open the wire mesh screen and went out on to the terrace. Baillard was sitting in the shade, looking out over the garrigue.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ Sandrine said, ‘this is Raoul. He saw the report of Antoine’s death in La Dépêche.’
Baillard stood up. ‘Do you usually act on what you read in La Dépêche?’
‘Not usually, sir.’
As the two men shook hands, Sandrine noticed how closely Monsieur Baillard was scrutinising Raoul’s face. As if searching for something, some sense of recognition or familiarity. ‘It is an honourable local name you have,’ Baillard said.
Raoul nodded. ‘The steward to Raymond-Roger Trencavel was called Bertrand Pelletier, I know. My brother used to tell me stories about him. Viscount Trencavel, Guilhem du Mas and Sajhë de Servian, others. The great heroes of the Midi, he called them.’
For a moment, something flickered in Baillard’s amber eyes, a window to another story, an older story, but then it was gone.
‘My father was always pointing out street signs to me when I was little,’ Sandrine said. ‘It was something of a crusade of his to have local men remembered in practical, visible ways. Not just Viscount Trencavel, but also Courtejaire, Cros-Mayreveille, Riquet, Jean-Jaurès. He thought it was the best way to keep the past alive in our memories.’
Raoul nodded. ‘My brother thought the same, though it is confusing when streets are forever being renamed.’
‘You won’t say that when it’s your name up on the wall for some heroic act of bravery,’ Sandrine teased. ‘You’ll be all for it then.’
They both laughed. Baillard did not.
‘Your father was right,’ he said. ‘We should remember the dead, those who gave their lives for others. These lands have suffered more than their fair share of occupation and violence. If we do not remember those who have gone before us, we are destined to repeat the same mistakes. We walk blind through time.’
His voice sobered them, brought a different atmosphere to their conversation. Sandrine frowned.
‘Surely it’s better to look forward?’
‘Sometimes, filha, yes. But history is perspective. Those who come after us will – may – look back on these times we are living through now and see the situation clearly. It is possible to see the span and the duration of things – a war of two weeks, two months, two years, two hundred years even. It will seem obvious to them which of the decisions we are making today are right and which are not. In the heat of the battle, it can be difficult for good people to act for the best.’
‘Only if you have no sense of right and wrong, she said.’
Baillard gave the slightest of smiles. ‘Some are fortunate enough to see the world in black and white. Others might perceive the situation the same way, yet feel their actions must be guided by different considerations.’ He glanced at Raoul. ‘So some view the partisans as freedom fighters, for example. Brave and honourable men and women, refusing to collude with an occupying force. Others think it is the partisans who are the terrorists, preventing France from enjoying peace.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Nobody could possibly believe that.’
‘Ah, but you know there are some who do.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘I don’t accept that there are always two sides to every story. I won’t. What happened to Liesl, the way the prisoners were forced on to the train, that was wrong. What’s happening in Paris – everywhere – it’s wrong. You have to choose.’
Baillard tilted his head to one side. ‘Do you think things are so simple, madomaisèla?’
Sandrine raised her chin. ‘Yes.’
Baillard smiled, then turned to Raoul. ‘And you, Sénher Pelletier?’
He hesitated. ‘Most of the time, yes.’
Baillard’s eyes rested on Raoul for a moment longer, then he nodded. ‘Good. It is good to be steadfast. It is to be hoped your certainty will serve you – serve us all – well.’
For a moment, Baillard’s words hung in the air between them. Then he nodded and, when he spoke again, his voice was practical. The reverie of moments before had gone.
‘Sénher Pelletier, I am glad to see you are safe. As, I am sure, is Madomaisèla Sandrine.’
She smiled. ‘But where have you been?’
‘When I left you, I decided that Coursan would assume I’d head immediately south. So I stayed close to Carcassonne instead. Roullens first, then Montclar, down to Cépie, then Limoux.’
‘So close,’ she sighed. ‘I pictured you in the mountains, on the coast.’
He nodded. ‘It was so hard not to turn round and come back,’ he said quietly. ‘Hardest thing of all.’
‘Is there any reason to believe the police are aware of your connection with this house, Monsieur Pelletier?’
‘Not from me, sir, no.’ He paused, then said: ‘Sandrine told me you were there when Antoine was found.’
Baillard nodded. ‘He died bravely.’
Raoul briefly bowed his head, but said nothing.
‘Did she also tell you that Antoine was working for me?’
‘I haven’t had a chance.’ She turned to Raoul. ‘He was supposed to be delivering something to Monsieur Baillard.’ She saw his expression change. ‘What?’ she said quickly. ‘Do you know what it was?’
Baillard also sat forward. ‘Sénher Pelletier?’
‘No, but I found this.’
Raoul opened his rucksack and pulled out the white handkerchief, grey now from its long journey in the belly of the bag. Baillard’s eyes glinted with unexpected hope. Raoul unwrapped the package and placed an iridescent glass bottle in the older man’s palm.
‘Is it what you were waiting for, Monsieur Baillard?’ said Sandrine eagerly.
Baillard let out a long exhalation of breath. ‘It might be.’
‘Where did you find it?’ Sandrine asked Raoul.
‘In Antoine’s apartment. When he didn’t show up, I went to look for him. It was hidden in the cistern, so I figured it was important. It’s beautiful, probably valuable, but I thought there had to be more than that. There’s something inside’
Baillard turned the object over in his hands. ‘At first glance, this looks as if it could date back to the fourth century of the Christian era. A great deal of evidence of the Roman occupation of this region has come to light. When the land has been ploughed, or in fields where vines were planted and replanted.’
‘I found an old brooch in the ruins of the château-fort,’ Sandrine said, ‘years and years ago. I gave it to my father as a present. He thought it was Roman.’ She smiled. ‘He said we had to give it to the museum. But later, I discovered he’d kept it, the paper wrapping and the ribbon as well.’
‘Humankind has a habit of occupying and reoccupying the same territory over and again. Houses built where once there were temples, shrines to Christian saints on the sites dedicated to the old Roman gods along the routes most travelled.’ Baillard lifted the bottle to the light. ‘Imagine all the many men and women through whose hands this one small object has passed.’
‘Or maybe not so many,’ Sandrine said, ‘if it has been hidden all this time.’
Baillard smiled. ‘True.’
‘Why is it so important?’ Raoul asked.
‘Not of itself, but rather because of what it contains, Sénher Pelletier.’
Sandrine stared at Raoul. ‘Why didn’t you try to get it out?’ she said. ‘I would have done.’
‘I was tempted, but I was worried about damaging it. And I suppose I wanted to carry on thinking I’d be able to give it back to Antoine in person, so . . .’
Baillard nodded. ‘Madomaisèla, do you have a pair of tweezers?’
Sandrine charged inside, her footsteps clattering on the wooden steps, and was back in no time.
‘Here you are.’
Baillard hooked the piece of grey fabric in the neck of the bottle with the metal points and slowly, carefully, eased it out.
‘Wool,’ he said. ‘Wool was widely used, especially in the colder western territories of the Roman Empire. This is quite thick, so it probably comes from a cloak or an outer garment.’
‘Wouldn’t it have rotted?’
‘That depends on where it has been all this time.’
Baillard sniffed the bottle, in case there was some perfume or liquid inside, then tipped it gently into the palm of his hand. Nothing came. He held it closer to the flame, trying to see inside the narrow neck.
Sandrine watched him pinch the points of the tweezers together and, with a steady hand, thread them into the neck. He released the pressure a little to try to grasp what was inside, then withdrew the tweezers again. Little by little he gained purchase, until finally he managed to draw the tweezers out of the neck of the bottle.
‘Aquí,’ he whispered. ‘There.’
Baillard carefully put the bottle down, then, laying the yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket on the table, he even more delicately, placed the piece of fabric on it.
‘It will be very fragile, in the air after so long confined,’ he said. ‘We must be so careful.’
‘Is it the map?’ she said.
Baillard didn’t answer. ‘This, also, is wool, but of a much lighter weave. Perhaps from an undergarment.’
Gently, corner by corner, he opened the square of fabric out with the tweezers. Sandrine leaned forward to see better. It was a faded white, yellow in places and brown along the main creases, with simple images. Like a child’s drawing.
‘It is what you were waiting for, Monsieur Baillard?’
The old man sighed with relief. ‘I think so,’ he said softly. ‘Look, the sun and her shadow to show direction, trees identified by delicate leaves sketched alongside – oak, ash, pine and beech.’ He paused. ‘And here, a double cross.’
‘But even supposing it is genuine, the landscape will surely have changed beyond recognition after all this time. Will it be any use?’
‘It is true, filha, that rock is quarried, that rivers change their course and that forests are cut down for timber, for houses.’ He smiled. ‘But the mountains, they change their shape less than anything else. The Pyrenees are much as they ever were.’ He pointed with the end of the tweezers. ‘So you see, I rather think that might be the Pic de Vicdessos, outside Tarascon. And can you see there, and there, that sequence of ridges. It is very distinctive, this combination of woodland, outcrop and the cave below.’
‘I suppose so,’ Sandrine said, still looking doubtful.
‘Does anyone else know you have this, Sénher Pelletier?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘No. At least, I showed César the bottle, though he wasn’t very interested.’
‘Would he have told anyone?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He frowned, remembering that Sandrine had told him César was also missing. ‘I hope not.’
Baillard studied the map for a while longer, then looked up. ‘I am greatly in your debt, Sénher Pelletier. We all are.’
‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Sandrine.
‘Put our plan into action,’ Baillard replied.
Sandrine frowned. ‘But surely we should start looking for the Codex straight away?’
‘Pas a pas,’ he murmured. ‘All in good time. There is everything to be gained by continuing along the path we have set ourselves. The difference is, now we have sight of the map, we can lay our trap in another part of the mountains altogether.’ Baillard hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘Do you know how to handle a gun, madomaisèla?’
Sandrine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I beg your pardon?’ She stared at Monsieur Baillard, then realised he was utterly serious. ‘I suppose I do. I’ve fired a shotgun. And a pistol once. Why?’
‘It is time you learned properly.’ Baillard turned to Raoul. ‘Do you have your service revolver, Sénher Pelletier?’
‘Yes.’
Sandrine looked at Raoul, then back to Monsieur Baillard. ‘You’re not suggesting . . .’ she said, her voice rising. ‘But that’s madness. Someone’s bound to hear us. What if the police are still around? It’s too much of a risk.’
‘You wish to help, do you not?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘In which case,’ he said quietly, ‘it is more of a risk if you cannot defend yourself, should the need arise.’
Sandrine turned cold. ‘But if anyone hears us and sees Raoul, they might – will – turn him in.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t risk it.’
Raoul put his hand on her arm. ‘Monsieur Baillard’s right, you need to be able to use a gun. We’ll be careful. It’s a good time of day for it, most people are indoors, sheltering from the heat. And if anyone does hear us, they’ll more likely than not think it’s a farmer out shooting rabbits. There must be plenty of secluded places around here.’
Sandrine stared at him. ‘Raoul, the police were here in Coustaussa. Today. It’s not any ordinary day. It’s too dangerous. We should wait.’
‘We do not have time to wait,’ Baillard said. ‘There will be no other opportunity.’
‘Why?’ she said quickly. ‘When do you intend to go?’
‘Raoul, at first light,’ he said. ‘I shall follow later in the morning.’
Distress rushed through her. She knew Raoul couldn’t stay, but at the same time she had hoped they would have more than a day together. She looked from one to the other, then gave a sharp nod of her head and stood up.
‘All right, if you both think it’s a risk worth taking. But on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’ said Raoul.
Sandrine held out her hand. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Marieta will help.’