CHAPTER 71
Léonie followed Monsieur Baillard down the passageway, which opened into a pleasant room at the rear of the tiny house. A single large window dominated the whole of one wall.
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed. ‘The view is quite as perfect as a picture. ’
‘It is,’ he smiled. ‘I am fortunate.’
He rang a small silver bell that sat on a low side-table next to the wing armchair in which he had clearly been sitting, beside the wide stone fireplace. The same boy reappeared. Léonie discreetly cast her eyes around the room. It was a plain and simple chamber, with a selection of mismatched chairs, a boudoir table behind the sofa. Bookcases covered the length of the wall opposite the fireplace, every inch of them filled.
‘There, now,’ he said. ‘Please, take a seat. Tell me your news, Madomaisèla Léonie. I trust all is well at the Domaine de la Cade. You said your aunt was indisposed. Nothing serious, I hope?’
Léonie removed her hat and gloves, then settled herself opposite him.
‘She is much improved. We were caught out in the ill weather last week and my aunt developed a chill. The doctor was called, but the worst is over and every day she grows stronger.’
‘Her condition hangs in the balance,’ he said, ‘and it is early days. But all will be well.’
Léonie looked at him, puzzled at this non sequitur, but at that moment the boy returned carrying a brass tray with two ornate glass goblets and a silver jug on it, much like a coffee pot but with swirling diamond patterns, and the question died on her lips.
‘It comes from the Holy Land,’ her host told her. ‘A gift from an old friend, many years ago now.’
The servant handed her a glass filled with a thick red liquid.
‘What is this, Monsieur Baillard?’
‘A local cherry liqueur, guignolet. I a dmit, I am rather partial to it. It is particularly good when taken with these black pepper biscuits.’ He nodded and the boy offered the plate to Léonie. ‘They are a local speciality and can be purchased everywhere, but I judge those baked here at the Frères Marcel quite the best I have tasted.’
‘I bought some myself,’ Léonie replied. She took a mouthful of guignolet, then immediately coughed. It was sweet, tasting intensely of wild cherries, but very strong indeed.
‘You have returned earlier than we were expecting,’ she said. ‘My aunt led me to believe that you would be away until November at least, perhaps even until Noel.’
‘My business was quicker to conclude than I had expected, so I returned. There are stories coming up from the town. I felt here I might be of more use.’
Use? Léonie thought it an odd word, but said nothing of it.
‘Where did you go, Monsieur?’
‘To visit old friends,’ he said quietly. ‘Also, I have a house some way into the mountains. In a tiny village called Los Seres, not so far from the old fortress citadel of Montségur. I wished to ensure that it was ready, should I need to repair there in the foreseeable future.’
Léonie frowned. ‘Is that likely, Monsieur? I was under the impression that you had taken lodgings here in town in order to avoid the rigours of winter in the mountains.’
His eyes sparkled. ‘I have lived through many mountain winters, Madomaisèla,’ he said softly. ‘Some hard, others less so.’ He fell silent a moment and seemed to drift into thought. ‘But, tell me,’ he said finally, gathering himself together once more. ‘What of you these past weeks? Have you had any further adventures, Madomaisèla Léonie, since last we met?’
She met his gaze. ‘I have not returned to the sepulchre, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, ‘if that is your meaning.’
He smiled. ‘That was indeed my meaning.’
‘Although, I must confess, the subject of Tarot has continued to hold some interest for me.’ She scrutinised his expression, but his timeworn face gave nothing away. ‘I have begun a sequence of paintings also.’ She hesitated. ‘Reproductions of the images from the walls.’
‘Is that so?’
‘They are studies, I suppose. No, in point of fact, they are rather copies.’
He leaned forward in his chair. ‘And you have attempted all of them?’
‘Well, no,’ she answered, although thinking it a singular question. ‘Just those at the beginning. What they term the major arcana, and even then, not each character. I find that I am disinclined to attempt certain of the images. For example, Le Diable.’
‘And La Tour?’
Her green eyes narrowed. ‘Quite. Nor the Tower. How did—’
‘When did you begin these paintings, Madomaisèla?’
‘The afternoon of the supper party. I only wished to occupy myself, to fill the empty hours of waiting. Without the slightest conscious design, I found I had painted myself into the picture, Monsieur Baillard, so I felt moved to continue. ’
‘May I ask within which of them?’
‘La Force.’ She paused, then shivered as she recollected the complication of emotions that had swept over her at that moment. ‘The face was my face. Why do you think that should be?’
‘The most obvious explanation would be that you see the characteristic of strength within yourself.’
Léonie waited, expecting more, until it became clear that again Monsieur Baillard had said all he intended on the matter.
‘I admit I find myself increasingly intrigued by my uncle and the experiences of which he writes in his monograph, Les Tarots,’ Léonie continued. ‘I do not wish to press you against your better judgement, Monsieur Baillard, but I have wondered if you knew my uncle at the time of the events detailed in the book?’ She scanned his face, looking for signs of encouragement or else displeasure at the line of questioning, but his expression remained unreadable. ‘I have realised the . . . situation sits precisely within the period of time after my mother had left the Domaine de la Cade and yet before my aunt and uncle married.’ She hesitated. ‘I imagine, without intending to be disrespectful in any way, that he was by nature a solitary man. Not drawn much to the company of others?’
She stopped once more, giving Monsieur Baillard the opportunity to make some response. He remained perfectly still, his veined hands in his lap, seemingly content to listen.
‘From comments Tante Isolde has made,’ Léonie ploughed on, ‘I gained the impression that you had been instrumental in effecting an introduction between my uncle and Abbé Saunière, when he was appointed to the parish at Rennes-le-Château. She also hinted, as you had, at some unpleasantness, rumours, incidents traced back to the sepulchre, which required the intervention of a priest.’
‘Ah.’ Audric Baillard pressed the tips of his fingers together.
She took a deep breath. ‘I have . . . Did the Abbé Saunière perform an exorcism on behalf of my uncle, is that it? Did such an . . . an event take place within the sepulchre? ’
This time, having asked the question, Léonie did not rush in. She allowed the silence to do the work of persuasion. For an endless time, or so it seemed, the only sound was the ticking of the clock. In a room beyond the passageway, she could just discern the chinking of crockery and the distinctive rough scratching of a broom on the wooden boards.
‘To rid the place of evil,’ she said eventually. ‘Is that so? Once or twice I have glimpsed it. But I realise now that my mother might have felt its presence, Monsieur, when she was a girl. She quitted the Domaine as soon as she was able.’
