Dedication

In memory of the two unknown women
murdered at Baudrigues
19 August 1944

Principal Characters

THE ‘CITADEL’ NETWORK

Sandrine Vidal

Marianne Vidal

Lucie Ménard

Liesl Blum

Suzanne Peyre

Geneviève Saint-Loup

Eloise Saint-Loup

IN CARCASSONNE

Raoul Pelletier

Robert Bonnet

Leo Authié

Sylvère Laval

Marieta Barthès

Jeanne Giraud

Max Blum

IN THE HAUTE VALLÉE

Audric Baillard

Achille Pujol

Erik Bauer

Yves Rousset

Guillaume Breillac

PROLOGUE

August 1944

PART I

The First Summer

July 1942

Codex I

GAUL

THE CARSAC PLAINS

JULY AD 342

The young monk looked across the river and saw the outline of the town ahead on the hill on the far side. A fortified castellum, the low walls sharply defined in the shimmering light of dawn. A crown of stone set on the green plains of Carsac. The slopes surrounding the settlement were abundant, rich, fertile. Row after row of vines, spread out like a peacock’s tail. Silver olive trees and heavy purple figs ripening on the bough, almond trees.

In the east, the white sun was rising in a pale blue sky. Arinius drew closer to the water’s edge. A low mist floated above the silver surface of the river Atax. To his right, wooded glades of elder and ash. The reed beds shifting, swaying, in the breeze. The distinctive silhouette of angelica, with its hollow fluted stems standing like soldiers to attention, the leaves as big as his hand. The familiar bell-shaped pink flowers of knitbone. The splash of fish and snakes, water boatmen skimming their silent way across the mirrored surface.

For week after week, one month, two months, the young monk had walked and walked and walked. Following the sweep and flow of the great Rhodanus from Lugdunum, south towards the sea. Rising before matins each day, with the memory of the gentle murmur of his brothers’ voices in his head, he voyaged on alone. In the heat of the day, between the hours of sext and nones, sheltering from the sun in the dense green woods or shepherds’ huts. In the late afternoon, as the first stirrings of vespers echoed from the chapel in the community, he would rise again and fare forward. The Liturgy of the Hours marking the progress of the days and nights. A slow and steady progress from north to south, from east to west.

Arinius didn’t know precisely how long he had been travelling, only that the seasons were changing, spring slipping softly into early summer. The colours of April and May, white blossom and yellow broom and pink phlox, yielding to the gold of June and July. The green vineyards of the Gallia Narbonensis and the sweep of barley in the fields. The driving wind whipping over the austere salt flats and the blue of the gulf of the Sinus Gallicus. That stretch of the journey followed the Via Domitia, the Roman wine route, along roads of tolls and taxes. It had been simple for him to blend in with the merchants and traders heading for Hispania.

Arinius coughed and pulled the grey hooded cloak tight around his narrow frame, though it was far from cold. The cough was worse again, leaving his throat raw. Bunching the material at his neck, he re-pinned his brooch. A bronze fibula, in the shape of a cross, with tiny white enamel oak leaves decorating each of the four arms and a green leaf in the centre. It was the only personal possession Arinius had been unable, unwilling, to give up on entering the community. A gift from his mother, Servilia, the day the soldiers came.

He looked across the Atax to the walls of the town and gave thanks to God for his safe deliverance. He had heard that here, men of all faiths and creeds were given sanctuary. That here, Gnostics and Christians and those who adhered still to the older religions lived side by side. That this was a place of safety and refuge for any and all who would come.

Arinius put his hand to his chest, needing to feel the familiar single loose leaf of papyrus beneath his tunic. He thought of his fellow brothers in Christ, each of them also smuggling a copy of a condemned text away from the community. They had parted company at Massilia, where it was said Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea had first come ashore to preach the word of God. From there Arinius and his brothers set sail for Smyrna in Asia Minor. From there, one was bound for the Holy City of Jerusalem and the plains of Sephal, another for Memphis, the last for Thebes in Upper Egypt. Arinius would never know if their efforts had been successful, any more than they would hear of him. Each was destined – burdened – to complete his mission alone.

Arinius considered himself an obedient and willing servant of God. He was not a particularly brave man, nor a lettered one, but he had found strength in his conviction that the holy writings should not be destroyed. He could not watch the words of Mary Magdalene and Thomas and Peter and Judas burning. Arinius still remembered the crack of the flames licking the air, red and white and gold, as the precious writings were consigned to the pyre. Papyrus and vellum, the quires and scrolls, the blister of Greek and Hebrew and Coptic turned to black ash. The smell of reed and water and glue and wax filling the stone courtyard of the community in the capital of Gaul that had been his home.

The papyrus shifted beneath his tunic, like a second skin. Arinius did not understand the text; he could not read the Coptic script, and besides, the letters were smudged, cracked. All he understood was that it was said the power contained within the seven verses of this, the shortest of the Codices, was absolute. As great as anything in the ancient writings of Exodus or Enoch, of Daniel or Ezekiel. More significant than all the knowledge contained within the walls of the great libraries of Alexandria and Pergamum.

Arinius had heard some of the lines spoken aloud by a fellow brother, and never forgotten them. An incantation, wonderful words sent free within the cool cloisters of the community in Lugdunum. It was an act that had precipitated the Abbot’s rage. Considering this Codex to be the most dangerous of all those proscribed books held in the library, he decreed it to be magic, a sorcery, and those who defended it were denounced as heretics. Enemies of the true faith. The novitiate was punished.

But Arinius believed he was carrying the sacred words of God. That his destiny, perhaps his entire purpose on God’s earth, was to ensure that the truth contained within the papyrus was not lost. Nothing else mattered.

Now, floating across the still waters to where he stood on the banks of the river Atax, the toll of a bell for lauds. A simple song calling him home. Arinius raised his eyes to the city on the hill and prayed he would find a welcome there. Then he grasped his staff in his right hand, stepped out on to the wooden bridge and walked towards Carcaso.

Chapter 1

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1942

Sandrine jolted awake. Bolt upright, her eyes wide open, her right hand stretched out as if she was trying to grasp something. For a moment she was neither asleep nor awake, as if some part of her had been left behind in the dream. Floating, looking down at herself from a great height, like the stone gargoyles that grimaced at passers-by from the cathédrale Saint-Michel.

A sensation of slipping out of time, falling from one dimension into another through white, endless space. Then running and running, escaping the figures hunting her down. Indistinct outlines of white and red and black, pale green, their faces hidden beneath hoods and shadow and flame. Always the sharp glint of metal where should have been skin. Sandrine couldn’t remember who the soldiers were or what they wanted, if indeed she’d ever known, and already the dream was fading. Only the sense of threat, of betrayal, remained. And those emotions, too, were slipping away.

Little by little, the room came back into focus. She was safe in her own bed in the house in the rue du Palais. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she could pick out the bureau of bleached mahogany against the wall between the two windows. To the right of her bed, the high-backed couch covered with washed-green Chinese silk and the bamboo plant stand. Opposite, beside the door, the low bookcase, its shelves filled to bursting.

Sandrine wrapped her bare arms around her knees, shivering in the chill of the early morning. She reached for her eiderdown, as if by touching something real she would feel less insubstantial, less transparent, but her fingers found only the cotton of her crumpled sheet. The eiderdown, kicked off in the night, lay on the floor beside the bed.

She couldn’t see the hands on the clock on the chest of drawers, but there was something in the quality of the light coming through the gaps in the shutters, the song of the blackbirds in the street outside, that told her it was nearly morning. She didn’t have to get up, but she knew she wouldn’t go back to sleep now.

Sandrine slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the room in her bare feet, trying to avoid the worst of the creaking floorboards. Her clothes were piled, raggle-taggle, over the arm of the cane-backed chair at the foot of her bed. She wriggled out of her nightdress and dropped it to the floor. Though she was eighteen, Sandrine still looked like the tomboy she had been, a garçon manqué. She was all arms and legs, there was nothing soft about her. Her black hair refused to be tamed and she had the deep complexion of a country girl, tanned from days spent out of doors. Powder made no difference. As she threaded her slim arms into the sleeves of her cotton blouse, she noticed a smudge on the inside of the wide round collar where she’d experimented yesterday with her sister’s face powder. She rubbed at it with her thumb, but it was stubborn and wouldn’t shift.

The skirt was too big, a hand-me-down. Their housekeeper, Marieta, had moved the hook and eye, taking in a good two inches at the waist, so even though it didn’t hang quite right, it was wearable. Sandrine liked the feel of the sateen lining against her legs, the way the chequered pattern shifted through squares of red and black and gold when she walked. In any case, everyone wore hand-me-downs these days. The sleeveless pullover was her own, a blowsy burgundy, knitted by Marieta last winter, that half argued with, half suited, her colouring.

Perching on the edge of the chair, Sandrine pulled on her écossaises, the precious tartan socks her father had brought back as a gift from Scotland. His last trip, as it turned out. François Vidal had been one of the many Carcassonnais who had gone to fight and never come home. After the months of waiting, seeing no action – the drôle de guerre, the phoney war as it had become known – he was killed on 18 May 1940 in the Ardennes, along with most of his unit. A muddle of orders, an ambush, ten men dead.

It had been two years. Although she still missed her father – and her nights were often broken by bad dreams – she and Marianne had learnt to carry on without him. The truth was, much as Sandrine hated to admit it, the outline of his face and his gentle smile were less clear in her mind with each passing month.

In the east, the sun was rising. Light filtered through the patterned glass of the arched window on the stairwell, casting a kaleidoscope of blue and pink and green diamonds on to the rust-red tiles. Sandrine hesitated a moment outside her sister’s bedroom. Even though it was her intention to sneak out, she had a sudden urge to check that Marianne was there, safe in her bed.

Sandrine put her hand on the ornate metal door handle and crept in. She tiptoed over to the bed. In the grey half-light, she could just make out her sister’s head on the pillow, her brown hair wrapped in complicated knots of paper and rollers. Marianne’s face was as beautiful as ever, but there was a spider’s web of worry lines around her eyes. Sandrine could just make out her shoes beside the bed. She frowned, wondering where she had been for them to be caked in mud.

‘Marianne?’ she whispered.

Her sister was five years older. She taught history at the École des Filles on Square Gambetta, but spent much of her free time at the centre run by the Red Cross in the rue de Verdun. Quiet and principled, Marianne had offered her services as a volunteer with the Croix-Rouge after France’s surrender in June 1940, when tens of thousands of dispossessed people from the Occupied Zone had fled south to the Languedoc. Then, her work had been to provide food, shelter, blankets for refugees fleeing the advancing Nazi forces. Now, it was monitoring the condition of prisoners being held in Carcassonne’s gaol or being sent to internment camps in the mountains.

‘Marianne,’ whispered Sandrine again. ‘I’m going out. I won’t be long.’

Her sister murmured and turned over in her bed, but did not wake.

Considering her duty done, Sandrine stole back out of the room and quietly closed the door. Marianne didn’t like her going out in the early morning. Even though there was no curfew in the zone non-occupée – the zone nono as it was known – there were regular patrols and the atmosphere was often jittery. But it was only in the stillness of the early morning, free from the restrictions and tensions and compromises of everyday life, that Sandrine felt herself. She didn’t intend to give up these moments of freedom unless she had to.

Until she had to.

Sandrine carried on down through the silently sleeping house, trailing her hand over the warm wood of the banister. Diamonds of coloured light danced at her heels. For an instant, she wondered if other girls, in other times, had felt the same as she did. Confined, caught between childhood and the adult life to come. And in the air around her, the echo of all those stifled hearts, trapped spirits, fluttered and sighed and breathed. So many different lives, passed over centuries in the narrow streets of the medieval Cité or in the Bastide Saint-Louis, whispered and cried out to be heard. Sandrine could not understand them, not yet, though a certain restlessness moved in her blood, her veins.

For the ancient spirit of the Midi, buried in the deep memory of the mountains and hills, in the lakes and the sky, had long ago begun to stir. To speak. The white bones of those sleeping in the cimetière Saint-Michel, in the cimetière Saint-Vincent and in the country graveyards of the Haute Vallée, were beginning to awake. A shifting, a murmuring through the cities of the dead, words carried on the wind.

War was coming to the South.

Chapter 2

A narrow corridor with high ceilings led directly from the foot of the stairs to the front door. Sandrine sat on the bottom step to lace up her shoes, then went to the hallstand. Two umbrellas were wedged into the base. Six brass hooks, three on each side of the mirror, held a selection of hats. Sandrine chose a plain maroon beret. Looking in the glass, she held her hair off her forehead and put the hat on, teasing out a few curls. Then she heard the rattle clatter of a pan and the bang of the screen door, and realised Marieta was already up and about. Little chance of getting out unobserved now.

Sandrine walked down the corridor to the back of the house. As little girls, she and Marianne had spent a good deal of time in the kitchen. Her sister loved to cook and was keen to learn. Sandrine was too impatient, did everything in a hurry. Perched up on the draining board beside the porcelain sink in Coustaussa to help strain the cherries for jam in summer when she was three or four. When she was six, being given the mixing bowl and wooden spoon to lick when Marieta baked cakes for the bataille des gabels to celebrate the fête de Saint-Nazaire in Carcassonne. At eight, sprinkling flour over the old wooden table while Marieta taught Marianne how to knead the dough for her pan de blat, the rustic wheat bread not available in the boulangeries in Couiza.

She paused on the threshold. Marieta grumbled that the kitchen was too small, but it was cool and well stocked and efficient. Metal pots and pans hung from hooks above the fireplace, where a modern gas cooker had been installed. A deep enamel sink with a large draining board, and a tall dresser so that the plates and cups were easily within reach. High windows filled the entire back wall. Even though it was early, all four were tilted wide open. Bundles of wild rosemary, dried tarragon and sprigs of thyme gathered at Cavayère hung from the wooden rack suspended from the ceiling.

‘Marieta,’ she said. ‘Coucou, c’est moi.’

Marieta was sitting at the table with her back to the door, breathing heavily. Beneath a wrapover housecoat, today’s a pattern of yellow and pink field flowers, she wore her customary black, cotton rather than wool her only concession to the season. Buttoned up to the neck and at the cuffs, with dark stockings and sabots, the heavy wooden clogs she always wore. Wisps of grey hair were escaping from the bun at the nape of her neck and her chest wheezed, her breath full of dust.

‘Coucou,’ Sandrine said again, putting her hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

Marieta jumped. ‘Madomaisèla!’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘What are you doing up at this time?’

‘Couldn’t sleep.’

Marieta looked her up and down, taking in the beret and outdoor shoes.

‘You know your sister doesn’t like you to go out on your own.’

‘I did tell her.’

Marieta raised her eyebrows. ‘But did she hear you?’

Sandrine flushed. ‘I didn’t want to wake her up.’

The housekeeper leaned forward and picked a stray piece of crimson wool from Sandrine’s skirt.

‘And if Madomaisèla Marianne asks where you are?’

‘She won’t, she was awfully late home last night.’ Sandrine paused. ‘Do you know where she went?’

Their eyes met. On the wall above the door, the hands of the clock moved round. One tick, two ticks, three.

Marieta was the thread that held the woven life of the household together. Originally from Rennes-les-Bains, she had spent her life in the service of others. Devout and loyal, she had been widowed young, in the Grande Guerre. She had come to help after Madame Vidal had died, unexpectedly, eighteen years before.

She claimed to be content to live in Carcassonne, though Sandrine knew she missed the ancient green forests of her childhood, the quiet village streets of Coustaussa and Rennes-les-Bains. When war had broken out in 1939, Marieta took it in her stride, saying she had survived one war and would survive another. After the telegram informing them of Monsieur Vidal’s death, there had been no more talk about her going home.

‘Do you?’ Sandrine said again.

Marieta pretended she hadn’t heard. ‘Well, if you are determined to go out, you’d better have something inside you.’

Sandrine sighed. She knew if Marieta didn’t want to talk about something, she wouldn’t.

‘I am hungry,’ she admitted.

Marieta lifted the linen cloth on the table, releasing a sweet smell of flour, rosemary and salt, to reveal a freshly baked loaf cooling on a wire tray.

‘White bread!’

Marieta cut a slice, then gestured to the blue china dish in the centre of the table.

‘And butter,’ she said. ‘Delivered this morning.’

Without thinking how it might embarrass the older woman, Sandrine threw her arms around her. The familiar scent of lavender water and sulphur lozenges was reassuring, taking her back to a place before the war, before her father’s death. To a simpler and easier time.

Marieta stiffened. ‘What’s the matter? Did you have another bad night?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘At least, I did, but it’s not that. It’s . . .’

‘Well then, sit. Eat,’ Marieta said, then spoke in a softer voice. ‘It will be all right, you hear? These times will pass. France will be France again. There are enough good men – men of principle, men of the Midi – they won’t sell us out. Not like those criminals in Vichy.’

Sandrine looked down at the piece of bread, her appetite suddenly gone.

‘But what if it stays like this for ever? Nothing getting better? Always the fear of things getting worse?’

‘We will bide our time,’ she said. ‘Keep our heads down. The Germans will stay north of the line, we stay south. It won’t last for ever. Now, finish your breakfast.’

Marieta watched until she’d finished every scrap. Then, before Sandrine could clear up after herself, she was on her feet and carrying the plate over to the sink. Sandrine brushed the crumbs from her skirt and stood up too. She wasn’t sure why she felt so out of sorts.

‘Is there anything you need in town, Marieta?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘Surely, there’s something? I want to do something.’

‘Well,’ said Marieta eventually, ‘I suppose if you are going that way, I promised this dress pattern to Monsieur Quintilla’s wife.’ She took an envelope from the drawer. ‘I meant to deliver it myself, but it is such a long walk down to the café at Païchérou and . . .’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘Only if you’re going that way.’

‘I can.’

‘But don’t go over the bridge,’ Marieta warned. ‘Madomaisèla Marianne would say the same. Stay on this side of the river.’

Chapter 3

Sandrine ran down the steep steps to the small courtyard garden at the back of the house. She got her bicycle and pushed it out into the street. The gate rattled shut on its latch behind her.

She felt her mood lift as the air rushed into her lungs. Tilting her face to the morning, she dropped her shoulders and felt the cobwebs blow away. She picked up speed as she crossed the rue du Strasbourg, weaving in and out of the elegant platanes that lined the square behind the Palais de Justice, then left into the rue Mazagran.

The ebb and flow of life as it used to be was most evident in the elegant nineteenth-century beauty of this quartier, all grey stone and wrought-iron balustrades, the chalky pinks and blues of the decorative tiles and plaster on the front of the maisons de maître. On mornings such as this, when the lilac sky told of another hot day to come and the green underside of the leaves shimmered silver in the light breeze, it was impossible to believe that much of France was under German occupation.

The Bastide had come into being in the mid thirteenth century, some fifty years after the medieval crusade that had given Carcassonne its bloody notoriety. The vicious wars of religion had turned the inhabitants of the medieval Cité into refugees. Evicted in 1209, with only the clothes they stood up in, after the treacherous murder of their leader and ruler, Viscount Trencavel, it was only in 1276, some years after the last Cathar stronghold had fallen, that the French king gave permission for a new settlement to be established on the left bank of the Aude.

Despite the fact that Sandrine had lived her whole life in the Bastide, she loved the Cité more. And although she felt guilty even for thinking it, a part of her was grateful that, thanks to Maréchal Pétain’s collaboration with Berlin, she did not have to witness German soldiers walking through the cobbled streets of old Carcassonne.

The bells of Saint-Michel were ringing the half-hour as she crossed Square Gambetta, then cycled down the rue du Pont Vieux. Then, suddenly there it was – la Cité – on the hill on the far side of the river. The sight of it never failed to take her breath away.

For a moment, Sandrine was tempted to cross the bridge, but mindful of the promise she’d made to Marieta, she instead turned right. This first stretch of the bank, between the Pont Vieux and the weir above Païchérou, was the prettiest. Silver olive trees, fig trees in the gardens of the large houses. Ivy trailed down painted walls and ironwork trellises with vines. Elegant canopies and awnings and white terraces. Bougainvillea, carnations in pots, red and pink and white.

She pedalled along the water’s edge, twigs and stones spinning under her wheels, and arrived at the café. Before the war, tea dances were held at Païchérou each Sunday afternoon, the waiters in their white jackets, and long refectory tables laid out in rows. For a moment, grief caught in her throat, an old memory taking her by surprise. Her father had promised to take her for her twenty-first birthday, a promise he would no longer be able to keep.

The gates into the grounds were open. Sandrine propped her bike against the wall, then knocked at the door. She waited, but no one came. She knocked again.

‘Madame?’

She went to the window and peered in. It was dark inside. Everything looked closed up. Sandrine was in two minds as to whether to leave the envelope – Marieta was careful about her belongings. In the end, she posted it through the letter box and decided she’d come back later to make sure Madame Quintilla had got it.

Sandrine had intended to go straight home from Païchérou, but she’d heard rumours that refugees had set up a camp on the far side of the river. She was curious to know if it was true.

She cycled towards the weir and the secluded pocket of trees that stood at the bend of the river, just below the cimetière Saint-Michel. A glade of pine and beech, elm and ash. This morning, though, it felt a little too secluded. Sandrine found herself glancing over her shoulder, with a prickling on the back of her neck as if someone was watching her. The flapping of a collared dove, then the slither and splash of a fish in the shallows made her jump.

Sandrine stopped at the water’s edge and looked across to the far side of the Aude. She could see nothing unusual at all, nothing different or threatening or out of place. No tents, no gypsy encampment, no shadow city. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved.

The sky was the colour of forget-me-nots. The bells of Saint-Gimer below the Cité began to ring seven o’clock, the sound floating across the mirrored surface of the water. Minutes later, they were answered by the bells of Saint-Michel and other churches of the Bastide. There had been a time, during the early days of the war, when the bells were silenced. Sandrine had missed them then, the familiar steady marking of each day. Now, though they rang again, she couldn’t help hearing a sadness in their voice.

She laid her bike down, then sat on the bank and pulled at the grass with her fingers. Before the war, at about this point in July, they’d be getting ready to leave Carcassonne for their summer house in Coustaussa. Her and Marianne, their father. Marieta fussing and packing three times as much as they needed. Picnics on the banks of the river Salz in the deep shade of the afternoon with her oldest friend, Geneviève. Cycling to Rennes-les-Bains for supper at the Hôtel de la Reine in the evening. Playing ‘Docteur Knock’ in the kitchen for hour upon hour with the battered old playing cards.

Sandrine leant back against the trunk of the tree and looked at the towers and turrets and spires of the medieval Cité, the walls of the Château Comtal and the distinctive thin outline of the Tour Pinte. Like a finger pointing to heaven. And, between the two Carcassonnes, lay the river. Still and flat and silver.

Like a sea of glass.

Codex II

GAUL

CARCASO

JULY AD 342

The shimmering waters of the river Atax glinted bright in the early morning sunlight. The young monk crossed the wooden bridge, then followed the track that led up to the main gates on the eastern side of the fortified town.

Ahead, Arinius could see the walls of Carcaso, not much more than twice his own height perhaps, but wide and solid. They looked strong enough to keep out any invaders. The foundations were large stone blocks, two or three deep, with a layer of mortar on the top. The façade was a mixture of lime and rubble. Spaced at regular intervals were horseshoe-shaped bastions, short squat towers on the northern section of the walls, curved on the outside and flat on the side facing the town.

‘A place of refuge,’ he said, praying that it would be the case. He was weary and intended to rest in Carcaso for a few days, to gather his strength for the final leg of his journey into the mountains. His throat was sore and his ribs ached from coughing.

Pressing his hand against the dry papyrus beneath his grey habit – an action that was now as natural and unconscious as breathing – Arinius joined the early crowd waiting to gain access to the town. Merchants, farmers from the faratjals, the pastures on the plains below the hill, weavers and those with pottery or ceramics to sell. Even in these uncertain times, this trade route along the coast of Gaul remained one of the busiest. Traders and wine sellers travelling to and from Hispania. Rumours of marauding bagaudes, bands of deserting soldiers or barbarians from the East, could not deter the men and women of commerce.

Arinius pulled his hood over his head as he approached the gate, a coin in his hand ready to pay the toll. An old denarius, though he felt sure it would still be accepted. Money bought nothing these days, but silver was silver. His heart began to thump. If the Abbot had put a price on his head, it was at the gates of Carcaso he was likely to be taken. Branded not only a heretic, but also a thief.

‘Protect me, Father,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross.

The crowd shuffled forward once more. The wheels rattling on an old cart, struggling over the rough ground. A flock of geese, herded by a scrawny girl with arms like sticks, a dog snapping at the heels of its choleric owner. Another step forward. Just then, a mule kicked its back leg, sending a barrel flying. The wood split and red wine began to leak out, like a seam of blood on the dry earth.

Arinius pushed the image away.

The merchant started shouting and began to remonstrate with the owner of the animal, their words turning the pale morning air blue. Grateful for the diversion, Arinius slipped in front of them and up to the gate. There were two guards on duty. One, a brutish-looking man, was watching the altercation with a greedy glint in his eyes, itching for a fight. The other, a young man with a pockmarked face and a helmet too large for him, looked tired after his night’s watch.

‘Salve,’ said Arinius quietly. ‘Greetings, friend.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘Massilia,’ Arinius lied, holding out the silver coin. It was significantly more than required and the boy’s eyes widened. He took it, tested it between his teeth, then waved Arinius through.

‘Salve,’ he said with a grin. ‘Welcome to Carcaso.’

Chapter 4

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1942

Sandrine was woken by a squeal of tyres on the road as a motorbike took the corner too fast. She blinked up through the quilt of dappled leaves, for a moment not sure where she was. Trapped once more in the same nightmare? Then, the sound of the bells of Saint-Gimer striking the half-hour, and she remembered.

She sat up, picking a twig out of her hair, and looked out across the river. The sun had climbed higher in the cloudless sky. Way upstream, she heard the plash of the water against Monsieur Justo’s barge as he pulled hand over hand on the wire. If the ferry was working, it must be past nine o’clock.

Sandrine scrambled to her feet. As she grabbed her beret, something caught her eye ahead of her in the reeds. Something blue, beneath the overhang of the marsh willow. She paused, certain it hadn’t been there before. She walked upstream, along the water’s edge, moving out of the bright sunlight into the green shadow beneath the tree.

She bent down. It was a man’s jacket, snagged half in and half out of the water. Sandrine reached out to get it, but it was caught on the underside of a branch and it took a couple of pulls to get it free. Holding the dripping material away from her, she examined it. The pockets were empty, apart from a heavy silver chain, the sort of thing a man might wear. The catch was broken and initials – ad – had been carved on the underside.

She frowned. It wasn’t unusual for things to be jettisoned in the river, old boxes, flotsam, torn sacks from the market gardens upstream. But not clothes, not jewellery. Everything had a price or could be traded for something else. And the Aude was fast at this point; there were no rocks on this side of the river, only reeds and grass and flat riverbank that curved gently, so mostly the current sent its cargo rushing downstream.

Sandrine looked out over the river. Now she noticed there was something else in the water, caught on the ridge of jagged rocks below the weir. Pushing the chain into her pocket, she shielded her gaze with her hand, reluctant to believe the evidence of her own eyes.

It looked like someone trying to swim. One arm stretched out, the white material of the shirt billowing in the current, the other holding on to the rocks.

‘Monsieur?’ she shouted, hearing the fear in her voice. ‘Monsieur, do you need help?’

Her voice sounded thin, not loud enough to carry above the roar of the water over the weir.

‘Monsieur!’

Sandrine looked around for help, but the ferry had reached the far bank and was out of earshot. She dropped the jacket on to the grass and ran up towards the road. There was no one about, no sign of the motorbike she’d heard, no one walking past.

‘Help, I need help,’ she shouted.

There was no answer, no movement, just shadows reflected in the water, a pattern of light and dark. Sandrine ran back to the river, hoping she’d imagined it, but the man was still there, on the rocks beneath the weir, his shirt moving to and fro in the current. It was down to her. There was no choice. There was nobody else.

She removed her shoes and her socks, tucked her skirt into her underwear, then waded out into the water.

‘I’m coming, hold on.’

The further she went into the current, the faster the water swirled about her legs, harder and fiercer against her calves, her knees, the backs of her thighs. Deeper, colder. Sandrine struggled not to be knocked off her feet.

‘Hold on,’ she cried again.

Finally, she was close enough to touch him. A young man, unconscious, dark skin, black brows, long hair. His head lolled to one side. His mouth and nose were out of the water, but his eyes were closed. She wasn’t sure if he was breathing or not.

‘Monsieur, can you hear me?’ she said. ‘Take my hand, if you can.’

He didn’t respond.

Steeling herself, Sandrine reached out and touched him. Still nothing. She took a deep breath, then manoeuvred herself around so that she could get her hands beneath his armpits. She tried to pull. At first, nothing happened, he was held somehow on the rocks. But then his grip slackened and after a few more heaves, suddenly he came free.

Sandrine lurched and nearly collapsed under the sudden responsibility of his weight, but then the water took over and held him up. Feeling the squelch of mud between her toes, slowly she began to drag him back to the bank. She tried not to look at his pallid skin and lifeless features, his dark hair. She thought he was breathing, hoped he was. Tiny sounds seemed to be coming from his mouth, but she wasn’t sure. Every drop of her strength was focused on the task of getting him back to the safety of the shore.

As the water became shallower, he grew heavier in her arms. The last few steps were almost impossible, half dragging, half pulling, until his upper body at least was out of the water. With what little energy she had left, she managed to roll him on to his side before sinking to the ground on the grass beside him.

She took deep breaths, steadied her heart. A few moments later and she forced herself to look at him properly, at his bruised and lifeless face. There were rope burns around his wrists, red marks on his lower arms. Not the sort of marks he could have got from the water. She looked at his feet, seeing the soles were also bruised.

Sandrine swallowed hard. Not drowned. Rather, someone had tied him up, beaten him. She took another deep breath, fighting the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her, trying to work out what might have happened.

Without warning, the man’s eyes snapped open. He coughed, started to choke, as if the oxygen had suddenly started to feed into his lungs again. Sandrine leapt back, just as a stream of river water spewed from his mouth. He attempted to sit up, but he had no strength and fell back to the ground.

‘Spirits of the air,’ he muttered. ‘The number was ten thousand times ten thousand . . .’

His eyes were staring at her. Pleading, suffering eyes, shot through with despair.

‘Don’t move,’ she said quickly, trying to sound calm. ‘I’ll get help. You need help.’

‘Tell Baillard,’ he whispered. ‘Trouvez-lui. Dîtes que . . .’

‘I’ll fetch help,’ she said. ‘The police, we—’

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Sandrine stifled a scream.

‘No police. Can’t trust . . . no!’ he gasped. ‘Tell the old man, tell . . .’

‘A doctor, then,’ she said, trying to prise his fingers from her skin. ‘You need help, I must fetch someone. You can’t—’

‘Tell him . . . it’s true. A sea of glass, of fire. Speak and they will come.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said desperately. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The spirits of the air . . .’ he whispered, but his voice was fading.

‘No, don’t give up . . .’

A terrible rattling in his throat. A gurgling, then a snatching at the air. Every gasp of breath hard fought for.

‘Save your strength. Help is on its way,’ she lied, glancing up to the road again.

‘All true,’ he repeated, almost looking as if he was smiling. ‘Dame Carcas . . .’

‘It will be all right. Just . . .’

But he was drifting away, his colour fading from pink to grey to white. Sandrine kept shaking him, trying to keep him with her. Her wet skirt was clinging to the back of her legs as she pushed against his chest, her feet muddied and cut from the stones on the riverbank.

‘Hold on,’ she said, trying to keep him breathing. ‘Help will come soon, hold on.’

Then she felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Someone was there. Someone was standing behind her.

‘Thank God,’ she started to say, except something felt wrong.

Fear, rather than relief, jabbed her between the ribs. She spun round, but she was too slow. A blinding pain at the side of her head, dazzling white and yellow and red light, then she was falling, falling, her legs buckling under her. The smell of the river and the reeds, rushing up to meet her. A hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face down into the water. The river, framing her face now, lapping into her mouth, her nose, the shimmer of shadow and light on the surface.

For an instant, a whispering. A voice she couldn’t identify, a sound heard but not heard. Experienced somewhere beyond language, beyond hearing.

‘Coratge.’ A girl’s voice, glistening in the light. Courage.

Then, nothing.

Chapter 5

THE HAUTE VALLÉE

Audric Baillard stood in a clearing at the edge of a beech wood in the French Pyrenees. Rather than his customary pale suit and panama hat, he was wearing the nondescript clothes of a man of the mountains. Corduroy trousers, an open-necked shirt with a yellow handkerchief at his neck, a wide-brimmed hat. His skin was tanned, the colour of leather, and heavily lined. He was old, but he was strong, and there was a resolve in his eyes that bore witness to the evidence of his years.

Beside him, mopping his brow in the heat, was a smartly dressed man in a black suit and iron-grey trilby, with a fawn trench coat over one arm and a leather valise. At his side, two silent little girls and a thin woman with dead eyes. A little apart stood a young man in country smock and boots. All around, the sounds of the forest. Rabbits, squirrels, wood pigeons calling one to the other.

‘Good luck,’ said Baillard.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ the American, Shapiro, replied, pulling an envelope from his pocket. ‘I hope this is sufficient . . .’

Baillard shook his head. ‘It is not for me, my friend. It is for your guides, the passeurs. It is they who take the risk.’

‘Didn’t mean to offend you, sir.’

‘I am not in the least offended.’

The American hesitated, then put the envelope back in his pocket. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘I am.’

Shapiro glanced at his guide, then lowered his voice so the woman and children couldn’t hear.

‘But as a businessman, sir, I hope you don’t mind me asking what’s in it for you?’

‘Merely to be of assistance,’ Baillard said quietly.

‘Though you’re taking a chance too?’

Baillard fixed him with his steady, quiet gaze. ‘These are difficult times.’

Shapiro’s face clouded over. Baillard knew that this man’s family, French Jews, had been among the first to be rounded up in Paris. He had come over from America, thinking his money might save them, but in twelve months he had succeeded only in finding his brother’s wife and two of her four children. The others had disappeared.

‘You cannot blame yourself,’ Baillard said softly. ‘Because of you, Madame Shapiro and your nieces have a chance. We each do what we can.’

Shapiro fixed him with a look, then he nodded. Something in Baillard’s voice persuading him of his sincerity.

‘If you’re sure,’ he said again. He glanced once more at the passeur. ‘What about this guy, does he speak English?’

‘No. Very little French either.’

Shapiro raised his eyebrows. ‘So what am I looking out for? The landmarks, in case we get split up.’

Baillard smiled. ‘I am sure you will not, but in any case, the route is simple. Keeping the sun ahead of you, you follow the draille, these wide tracks the shepherds and goatherds use. You’ll cross several brooks, passing through open meadows as well as sections of woodland. The first lake you come to will be the Étang de Baxouillade. Keep the water on your left. You’ll travel through a pine forest and on further, until you reach the banks of the Étang du Laurenti. There, all being well, a second passeur will be waiting. He will be accompanied by three others who are making the crossing today. He will take you over the summit of Roc Blanc, ready for the descent to the border with Andorra.’

‘This guy’s not sticking with me?’

‘There are different guides for different sections of the mountain. I cannot say for certain, but I think it likely your second aide will be a Spaniard.’

‘That’s grand. I have a little Spanish.’

Baillard smiled. ‘At the risk of now offending you, monsieur, I would recommend you keep conversation to a minimum. Your accent will give you away.’

‘You could be right,’ he said amiably, acknowledging the comment with good grace. ‘How long do you figure the journey will take, sir? Give or take?’

‘With the children, perhaps four hours to the Étang du Laurenti, then another two hours to the summit of Roc Blanc. The descent will be easier.’

The passeur cleared his throat. ‘Sénher, es ora.’

Shapiro turned round, then back to Baillard. ‘What’s that he’s saying?’

‘That it is time to leave.’ Baillard held out his hand. ‘The passeurs know these paths, this mountain. They know where the risk of being spotted by a patrol is at its highest. Do as they tell you.’

‘Here’s hoping,’ said Shapiro, clasping Baillard’s hand and shaking it. ‘And if you’re ever in New York, you look me up. I mean it.’

Baillard smiled at the American’s confidence, hoping it was not misplaced. In the two years he had been helping smuggle people over the Pyrenees – exiles, fugitives, Jews, communists, those without an exit visa – many had ended up imprisoned in gaols in Spain or repatriated to France. Americans in particular did not understand that, in this war, money did not talk.

‘Pas a pas,’ he murmured to himself.

He watched the small party set off along the path. Like so many of the wealthy refugees Baillard had guided to the escape routes, they had brought too much with them. The American was not dressed for the mountains, the children would struggle with their cases and the woman looked defeated, someone who had seen too much to think she could ever be safe again.

Baillard sighed, wished them luck, then turned and retraced his steps to the village of Ax-les-Thermes. The air was fresh and clean, but the sun was hot and would get hotter, and he was tired. He had walked many thousands of miles through these mountains, and he accepted that the time was coming when he would no longer have the strength required for such arduous journeys.

He knew many of the secrets hidden in these hills, yet an explanation for the purpose of it all eluded him. He had published books – on folklore, on the bloody history of the region, about the citadel of Montségur and the caves of the Sabarthès and Lombrives and the mountain peaks of the Vicdessos – but still the truth of his continuing mission remained stubbornly beyond his comprehension.

He took one last look. His charges were specks on the horizon, five diminishing figures walking slowly uphill. He said a prayer for them, then turned and slowly began his descent.

It took Baillard nearly an hour to reach the outskirts of the town. There, he changed back into his usual clothes. He noticed a police car idling at the corner of the road and quietly changed direction. The police did not notice him. Or if they did, they had no interest in an elderly man in a white suit taking the morning air. But he took no chances, no unnecessary risks. It was why he had never been caught, not in this conflict nor in any other war in which he had been called upon to play his part.

He circled the town, walking slowly, with apparent lack of purpose, then came back in through the northern streets and went to the Café des Halles by the bridge, where he was to wait. The local doctor was due to visit a pregnant woman, expecting twins any day now, and had agreed to take him back to Rennes-les-Bains, where he hoped the package from Antoine Déjean would be waiting. Baillard allowed himself a moment of anticipation. If all was well, then there was a chance.

‘Come forth the armies of the air,’ he murmured.

Old words, ancient words, from a sacred text Baillard believed destroyed more than fifteen hundred years ago.

But what if the rumours were true? If it had survived?

He glanced at his watch. At least three hours to wait, if the doctor came at all. He ordered something to drink and eat. The café only had thin wine and ersatz coffee. No milk, of course. But Baillard didn’t require much. He ate a dry biscuit, dipping it into the tepid brown liquid, and sipped the rough mountain rosé.

He had seen many summers such as this, the gold of the sunflowers and the pinks, blues and reds of the mountain flowers fading into wine-coloured autumns as the leaves fell. Harsh winters following on behind, the passage of rain and mist to snow and ice. The endless march of the seasons. So many years, wondering whether each might be his last.

The sun rose higher in the sky. Baillard continued to wait and to watch the road, looking for anything, anyone out of place. There were spies everywhere, undercover rather than in plain view as in the occupied zone, but here all the same. Members of the Kundt Commission, the branch of the Gestapo operating in the zone non-occupée; SD and SS of course, but also Deuxième Bureau. Willing partners with the invaders whose aim in time, he had no doubt, was to subjugate all of France.

Baillard took another sip of wine. The uniforms were different in each age, the battle colours under which they marched changing as the centuries marched on. Boots and guns had replaced banners and horses, but the story was the same.

Men with black hearts. With black souls.

Chapter 6

CARCASSONNE

‘A sea of glass . . .’ she murmured, bright in the shimmering.

Sandrine knew it was her own voice she was hearing inside her head, but it seemed to be coming from a long way away. Shapes shifting, fragments of sound. An echo slipping in and out of conscious thought, as if underwater. Or through the clouded gaps between the valleys. She felt the hard metal of the chain in her pocket digging into her hip. She pulled it out, but her fingers didn’t seem to work and the necklace slithered to the ground.

‘Mademoiselle, can you hear me?’

Now she was aware of her hair being stroked gently off her forehead.

‘Mademoiselle?’

A man’s voice, sweet, soft, and a scent of sandalwood. So close, she could feel his breath on her skin.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, you’re safe now.’

‘Sleep,’ she murmured.

‘You shouldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘You must wake up.’

Sandrine felt his hands beneath her shoulders, then the warmth of his skin through his shirt as he held her against him. ‘Open your eyes,’ he was saying. ‘Try to wake up. Open your eyes.’

She felt herself growing heavy in his arms, slipping away again. Then, his lips on hers, the lightest of touches. Breathing life into her. A kiss. Sandrine felt something inside her stir, a shock, a jolt. Then he kissed her again. For a single, unique moment, her eyes fluttered open, but she couldn’t seem to see.

‘I . . .’ she murmured, as her eyes closed once more. ‘I can’t . . .’

Now his hand was cupping the back of her neck, cradling her head in his arms.

‘Wake up. Please, mademoiselle. Sit up.’

Sandrine was aware of the sound of an engine, a different timbre from the motorcycle she’d heard earlier. Louder, a car coming closer. She felt the man’s muscles tense, then she realised she was not in his arms any more. She was being laid back down on the grass, his skin no longer touching hers.

‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.

Sandrine wanted him to stay. Wanted to ask him to stay, but the words wouldn’t come. The car was getting closer, the belch of an exhaust.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice fading. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t be found here . . . I’m sorry.’

Then he was gone. The air was still, empty. She could feel herself drifting away again. The smell of the riverside giving way to other scents, wild lavender and rosemary, the green and purple of the valleys around Coustaussa. Honeysuckle and the sharp tang of wood smoke in winter. Images now, cold reflections. The old wooden sign on the back road marking the way to the castillous, the arms crooked like a broken cross. In town, walking alongside her sister and her father beneath a red and yellow CGT trade union poster, a demonstration, before the war. Everyone singing for peace, for liberty, as they walked past the gardens and white balustrades and the marble angel statue in the centre of the lake in Square Gambetta.

‘Paix,’ Sandrine murmured.

Carcassonne had marched for peace in 1939, but war had come all the same. In 1940, defeat had come all the same. Their voices had counted for nothing.

‘Patz,’ she murmured again. ‘Peace.’

Codex III

GAUL

CARCASO

JULY AD 342

The young monk made his way through the crowds of people filling the narrow streets of the fortified town. Despite the air of trade and commerce, and the brave attempts of everyone to behave as if nothing had changed, Arinius detected a hint of unease, of watchfulness in the air. The same atmosphere that was spreading through all of Gaul since the death of Emperor Constantine. All around him, hands hovering ready to draw a knife from its hilt, eyes darting this way and that.

Arinius knew little of military strategy or the diplomacy of emperors and generals, but from stories overheard in the forum in Lugdunum or told by the merchants he’d met on the Via Domitia, he knew that the history of his country was one of invasion and counter-invasion. From century unto century, the imposition of a new set of values upon the old – defeat, then collaboration, then assimilation. The prehistoric tribes who once lived on the Carsac plains, the Celtic settlers who had come after them, the Volcae Tectosage three centuries before the birth of Christ, the armies of Augustus. Now, it was said, tribes were coming from the East to reclaim what Caesar once had ruled.

Arinius didn’t know how well or how often Carcaso had been called upon to defend her walls, but he could see they had been built to withstand siege and invading armies. The horseshoe-shaped watch towers in the northern sections were faced with courses of dressed ashlar and intersected by red brick. On the first floor of each tower, three semicircular windows were underscored by red-brick arches. The wooden walkway and the battlements, accessed by ladders set against the base of the walls, were guarded by foot soldiers in chain mail and silver helmets, some armed with a pilum, a weapon like a javelin, others carrying slings. Some were Roman, but many were clearly from local villages – typical of the limitanei, the frontier garrison troops who now protected even these outposts. Arinius wondered for whom these disaffected men on the walls would fight. For the failing Empire? For their neighbours and families? For God? He wondered if even they themselves knew where their loyalties lay.

There were four major streets, forming the shape of a cross within the walls, with other smaller roads connecting different quadrants of the town. Most of the buildings were tiled rather than the bush and thatch still common in the villages of the south. A small central square, a covered forum, was packed with merchants selling spices and herbs, geese and rabbits in wooden cages, wine, woollen tunics and strips of leather to patch broken sandals and belt fastenings. There was hammering from the forge, where a blacksmith worked on a scrawny bay mare.

Arinius saw many different skin colours and different ways of dressing. Some men wore beards, others had bare faces. Higher-born women with braided hair, jewelled and adorned, the daughters and wives of the Roman garrison commanders and men. Others walked freely with their heads uncovered in the older style, pale woollen tunics worn beneath hooded cloaks. It was hard to say who were natives, the original inhabitants of the land, and who the outsiders.

A fit of coughing caught Arinius by surprise. He doubled over, pressing his hand against his chest until the attack had passed, struggling to get his breath. He looked at his palm, saw spots of blood, and a wave of panic washed through him. He had to keep the illness at bay until the Codex was safe. That was all that mattered. Not his life, only that he fulfilled his mission.

He walked slowly on. He needed to rest. Arinius found a tavern opposite the residence of the garrison commander, an imposing two-storey house with red guttered tegulae forming the roof. Outside, the paved street was littered with clay pots, some broken, meat bones, and figs split and oozing rotting purple flesh, but inside the tavern was clean and it offered board and lodging at a reasonable price.

The formalities observed, Arinius drank two cups of wine, ate a handful of almonds and some hard white goat’s cheese with honey. Afterwards he lay down on the hard wooden bed. He unpinned his mother’s brooch, took off his cloak and used it as a blanket. Then, using his leather bag as a pillow, he folded his hands across his chest and, pressing the Codex close against his skin, Arinius slept.

Chapter 7

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1942

‘She’s coming round.’

A different voice this time. Another man, formal, educated, northern, not a local accent. Not the boy who had whispered to her, not the boy who had kissed her. The memory faded away. The real world returned, cold and hard and colourless.

‘Mademoiselle,’ the Parisian said. ‘Do you know what happened to you? Can you tell us your name?’

Sandrine was aware of the sharp grass, that she was cold and damp. She tried to sit up, but pain exploded at the base of her skull. She attempted to lift her arm, but she had no strength. The muscles and bones could not be made to work.

Then a woman’s voice, sing-song high. ‘Actually, I think I know who she is.’

Sandrine managed to open her eyes. A pretty girl in her early twenties, with blue eyes, ultra-thin brows and blonde waved hair, the colour of corn, curled off her face. She was wearing an orange and red summer print dress, with big white buttons and trim on the collar and sleeves.

‘Aren’t you Marianne Vidal’s sister?’ the girl said.

She nodded, setting her head spinning again.

‘Sandrine,’ she managed to reply. Her name felt thick in her mouth, like wet cloth.

‘Sandrine, that’s it. On the tip of my tongue. Thought I recognised you. I’m Lucie, Lucie Ménard. We met once, at the Café Continental I think it was, a while back. We were going on somewhere, can’t quite remember where.’

Sandrine recalled the evening well. Marianne had been on the terrace and waved her over to meet her friends. Lucie had stood out. She looked like an American movie star. Mad about anything to do with Hollywood, according to Marianne.

‘You were going to a jazz concert at the Terminus.’

Lucie’s face lit up. ‘How about you remembering that!’ She put her arm around Sandrine’s shoulders. ‘You look like you took one heck of a knock. How are you feeling?’

‘Giddy.’ Sandrine put her hand to her head. Something was stinging, raw. Her fingers came away sticky, red. ‘What happened?’

‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ Lucie said.

Sandrine frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Did you come off your cycle and hit your head?’

‘There are tracks down by the water,’ the man said.

‘Although they’re a little too wide for a cycle,’ Lucie said. ‘More like a motorbike.’

‘No,’ Sandrine said slowly, struggling to remember. ‘No, there was somebody here. He pulled me out of the water.’

‘We didn’t see anyone,’ said Lucie, turning to her companion. ‘Did we?’

‘No.’

Lucie smiled. ‘Sorry, forgot to do the honours. Sandrine, this is my friend Max. Max Blum, Sandrine Vidal.’

‘Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he said formally.

Sandrine took a proper look at the man standing beside Lucie. Tall and slim, slightly stooped as if he spent his life trying to conceal his height. He wore heavy black-framed glasses, a dark suit and sober tie. With black hair just visible beneath the rim of his hat, he looked rather like a bird of prey.

‘Lucky the river’s shallow at this point,’ Lucie continued, ‘given you pitched head first into the water.’

Sandrine looked down at her clothes. Tartan skirt, burgundy jumper, blouse, everything was soaking wet. Dry mud on her feet and ankles. Had she gone into the water? To get the jacket, yes. She had waded in, but only up to her knees. Why was she so wet?

Then she remembered. ‘There was someone in the river. A man. He was drowning, at least that’s what I thought. I pulled him out. There, by the willow, and . . .’ She opened her hand, but there was nothing there now. ‘There was a necklace, a chain, in the pocket of the jacket.’

Finally the shock hit her. She felt a rush of heat, then a sour, bilious taste in her throat. Sandrine flung herself forward, doubled over on the grass on her hands and knees and was sick.

She retched until there was nothing left inside her, then sat back on the grass, her arms and hands resting on her knees. She felt hollow, utterly spent, chilled to the bone despite the warmth of the sun on her face.

‘You’ll feel better now,’ Lucie said sympathetically, looking rather green herself.

Sandrine nodded, knowing she would have felt embarrassed if she didn’t feel so wretched.

‘Any sign of the jacket?’ Lucie called to Max, who had discreetly wandered away.

‘Not yet.’

‘It was caught in the reeds beneath the marsh willow.’ Sandrine pointed. ‘Down there.’

‘I’ll keep looking,’ he said.

‘I dragged him to the bank,’ Sandrine continued. ‘He was lying there.’

Lucie’s eyebrows went up. ‘Hang on, didn’t you say he pulled you out of the water?’

‘No, that was afterwards. Someone else,’ Sandrine said, realising what a muddle it all sounded. ‘Someone else hit me.’

‘You’re telling me you were attacked?’ Lucie said doubtfully.

‘Yes.’

‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lucie was frowning. ‘Someone attacked you, then ran off, leaving you to be pulled out of the water by somebody else? Two different men.’

‘Yes,’ said Sandrine, though sounding less sure.

‘And this second man, he ran off too?’

‘Because he heard the car,’ Sandrine said. ‘I heard it too, the engine. Or the motorbike.’ She stopped, suddenly not sure of the order in which things had happened. ‘No, a car.’ She looked up at Lucie. ‘Your car, he heard you coming and—’

‘Why would he bolt unless he’d done something wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s what happened, I’m not making it up.’

Lucie smiled. ‘Hey, kid, it’s not that I think you’re making it up, but you did bash your head pretty badly. Bound to be muddled.’

Max came back. ‘There’s nothing there. I looked all around and in the water. No jacket, nothing resembling the piece of jewellery you described.’ He paused. ‘No . . . person.’

‘But he must be there. He was hurt, badly hurt. Unconscious, maybe . . . He wasn’t capable of going anywhere.’

Sandrine looked at them. Max’s hawk-like face was thoughtful, calm. Lucie was concerned and sympathetic. But it was clear that neither of them believed her.

‘I’m not making it up,’ she said again. ‘He was unconscious, he half woke up, but then someone else came . . .’

Lucie stood up and straightened her dress. ‘Come on, we should take you home,’ she said. ‘Get you out of those wet clothes.’

Sandrine was sure she hadn’t imagined it, she couldn’t have. Her aching muscles were testament to that. She looked over to the glade and the willow tree. She hesitated. Had somebody hit her? She had thought so, was sure of it. But was it possible she had slipped? Her fingers stole to her lips. Sandalwood, gentle, his breath soft on her skin where he’d kissed her. She hadn’t imagined that.

Lucie’s voice cut into her reflections. ‘Sandrine?’

She blinked. ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t hear.’

‘I said, if we take you home, will there be someone to look after you? Patch you up?’

Sandrine nodded, sending her head spinning again. ‘Marieta, our housekeeper.’

Lucie held out her hand and helped Sandrine to her feet. ‘In which case, let’s get going.’ She retrieved Sandrine’s things from the edge of the water. ‘I like your socks, by the way. Unusual. Really something.’

‘Thanks.’ She managed a smile. ‘My father brought them back for me from Scotland. Just before he was called up. Then, of course . . .’

Lucie’s pretty face clouded over. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I heard he didn’t make it back.’

‘No.’ There wasn’t anything else she could say. ‘What about you?’

‘My father’s in a POW camp,’ Lucie said in a tight voice, ‘though we’re expecting him to be released any day.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘My mother says she’ll be pleased to have him back,’ she said sharply. ‘So far as I’m concerned, the Germans are welcome to him.’

Sandrine looked at her in surprise. She waited for Lucie to say more, but she didn’t.

‘Marianne’s fiancé’s in a camp in Germany,’ Sandrine said to fill the silence.

‘Thierry, yes.’

‘You know him?’

Lucie’s smile came back. ‘It was me who introduced them.’

‘I don’t know him awfully well. His cousin, Suzanne, is a friend of Marianne’s, but she hadn’t been seeing him long when Thierry was called up. He seems nice.’

‘He is nice.’

‘Marianne got one of those grey cards last October, saying he’d been captured. She’s not heard anything since then.’

‘That’s tough.’

Max caught the end of the conversation. ‘What’s tough?’

‘Not knowing what the future holds,’ Lucie said, looking up at him.

‘You worry too much, Lulu,’ he said softly, touching her cheek.

They climbed into the car. Lucie started the engine and they drove up the hill towards the rue du cimetière Saint-Michel. Sandrine closed her eyes, but immediately vivid images of the events of the morning rushed into her mind – distorted, distressing, confusing – and her lids snapped open again. She tried not to think of the man’s face, the desperate touch of his fingers on her arm, the rattling in his throat. What had happened to him? Where was he? Was he still alive?

A shudder went down her spine.

‘You all right, kid?’ said Lucie, glancing sideways at her.

‘A little bit cold.’

‘That’s the shock kicking in.’

Sandrine forced herself to focus on what she could see through the window of the car. Ordinary, everyday sights. A cat sunning itself on a wall, its black tail twitching back and forth against the white paint like a windscreen wiper. Two terracotta pots, like amphorae, standing either side of a door painted the colour of a bishop’s robe. A man’s hat lying at the side of the road in the rue du 24 Février.

As they turned into rue du Manège, Sandrine remembered why the name Blum was familiar. There was a Liesl Blum in the class beneath her at school. Max’s sister perhaps, or his cousin? A quiet, studious girl, much older than her years, Liesl had been one of several students to arrive in Carcassonne after Paris fell. Now she was one of only two or three Jewish pupils left in the school. Anyone who had the money to get out, to America or to England, had gone.

Lucie turned left into boulevard Barbès. She and Max were discussing the car, a blue Peugeot 202. Lucie was animated, her eyes bright. She seemed to know a lot. Sandrine remembered that the Ménard family owned one of the biggest garages in town.

She leant her head against the glass, trying to decide what to do. Round and around went her thoughts, like wool unravelling from a skein. Unrelated fragments, but creating a pattern of connections all the same. And all the time those strange words echoing in her mind. So vivid, so clear, even though she didn’t understand what they meant.

Chapter 8

Raoul didn’t stop running until he reached the montée Saint-Michel. Then he slowed to a fast walk, up the steep hill and over into the rue du 24 Février. Only when he drew level with the entrance to the cemetery did he pause. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath in the heat.

‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Damn.’

An elderly woman, stooping to fill a watering can inside the gate, looked at him with disapproval.

‘Pardon,’ he apologised.

Raoul waited until she was out of sight, then leant back against the wall in the shade. It had all happened so fast. One minute he was walking along the river, thinking about tomorrow. Then he’d come around the corner and seen the girl half in, half out of the water. Tried to help. Given her the kiss of life. Then the relief of realising she was all right, and he’d kissed her again. He didn’t know what had got into him.

‘Damn,’ he repeated.

When he’d heard the car, his instinct for self-preservation had kicked in. Three years of war and defeat, trusting no one, meant he couldn’t hang around and see who it was. That was asking to be caught. These days, apart from doctors and a handful of civil servants, almost nobody but police and members of the administration ran private cars.

Even so, Raoul felt shabby for leaving the girl. He ran his fingers over his hair, realising he’d dropped his hat somewhere en route. It wasn’t a great loss, but even so. He looked down. The bottoms of his trousers were wet, but the material was dark and it didn’t show.

He pulled the chain from his pocket. The girl had been holding it. A simple silver chain, but Antoine never took it off. Could they have been together? Arranged to meet? She didn’t look like a courier, but then of course that was the point.

He looked at his watch. He’d got time for a drink. He needed a drink. Raoul headed for the Place des Armes. There was nowhere to sit at the Café Lapasset – he needed somewhere where he could see what was going on around him – but he found a table at the Grand Café des Négociants with a good view of the square and the Portail des Jacobins on the opposite side of the road. He ordered a glass of red wine and took a cigarette from a crumpled packet, knowing he’d get through his ration before the end of the week if he wasn’t careful. A trail of white smoke twisted up into the chattering, jackdaw air.

Raoul borrowed a copy of La Dépêche from a man on the next table. A Vichyist publication these days, it was the same stale mix of international and domestic politics, propaganda most of it. Arrests in Narbonne – ten partisans printing and distributing anti-Vichy tracts, of whom four had been shot dead by French police officers. Flash floods in Tarascon, preparations for the Fête de l’Âne at the end of the month in Quillan, taking place for the first time since 1939. A few shreds of loose paper in the middle where ration coupons had been torn out. Weather reports for the beaches at Gruissan and La Nouvelle.

The man got up to leave. Raoul went to give the newspaper back, but he shook his head.

‘Keep it. Not worth the paper it’s printed on.’

‘You’re right about that,’ Raoul said.

His eye was caught by an article about Maréchal Pétain. The hero of the battle of Verdun – and for two years head of the French government in exile in Vichy – Pétain was still a popular figure in the zone non-occupée. To traditionalists, he was a symbol of fortitude and honour, the embodiment of old-fashioned, Catholic French values. They’d even renamed the boulevard Jean-Jaurès after him, though the signs kept being defaced. Supporters of Vichy claimed the ‘voie de la collaboration’, as Pétain christened his relationship with the Nazis, was part of a longer-term strategy: that the Maréchal had a plan to save France, if only they were patient. Those like Raoul, who would not accept the status quo and supported Général de Gaulle and his Free French forces, were considered troublemakers.

The article was about how although Jews in the occupied zone were now being forced to wear yellow stars, as in all other conquered territories, Vichy had stepped back from implementing the policy in the zone libre. ‘Proof’ of the government’s principled behaviour, the editorial claimed.

Raoul tossed the paper down in disgust, his fingers stained black by the ink. The naïvety of it turned his stomach. Each new edict, each new compromise made him ashamed to be French. Like many men of the South, he was sickened by the wholesale arrests of communists, many of whom he’d fought alongside in 1940, of the internment of those who opposed Vichy and of Jews no longer considered French. Little by little, France was being absorbed into the Greater Reich. Raoul despised what was happening and despised those who, by design or by neglect, were letting it happen. Sins of omission, sins of commission; the same result in the end.

He stood up, tossed a couple of coins on the table, then crossed the boulevard Barbès, unable to stop himself wondering – as he so often did – what his brother would have made of it all. Bruno had been murdered by Franco’s fascists in Spain in December 1938, but at least he hadn’t lived to see France on her knees. Raoul hoped that he himself had grown into a man his brother would have been proud to know. His heart hardened by his loss, he had fought bravely and honourably against the Nazis. He had killed and seen men die, but had always done his best to protect those he fought alongside. After the defeat and surrender in June 1940, Raoul joined a mountain Resistance network, helping to smuggle refugees and Allied airmen over the border to Spain. Obtaining false papers and travel documents, providing currency and passports for those who had lost the right to stay in France. He thought Bruno would have done the same, had he lived.

Raoul’s network had operated for nearly two years before it was betrayed, his comrades arrested and sent to the notorious camp of Le Vernet. Raoul only evaded capture because he was away from base when the police came. With everything gone, no papers and no means of support, he’d been forced to return to the anonymity of his home town of Carcassonne. To his grieving mother treading the boards of their tiny, sombre flat on the Quai Riquet, with only Bruno’s ghost for company.

Raoul hated it. He was unsuited for civilian life and missed his brother even more in Carcassonne, in the streets where they’d grown up together. So when, a few months ago, César Sanchez, one of Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade, had approached him to see if he’d join a group of patriots in Carcassonne, Raoul hadn’t hesitated.

He looked up and realised he’d already arrived in Place Carnot. He glanced at his watch again. He was still too early, so he kept walking across the square and into rue Georges Clemenceau. César worked in the print shop attached to the Café des Deux Gares. If he went there first, Raoul would at least have the chance before the meeting to tell César he’d found Antoine’s chain at the river.

Chapter 9

‘Here we are,’ said Lucie, parking at the kerb in front of Sandrine’s house.

Max got out and unstrapped the bicycle from the rack. ‘Where do you want this?’

‘There’s a gate into the garden at the back.’

He nodded and disappeared around the corner. Sandrine watched him go.

‘Max is nice,’ she said.

Lucie’s eyes lit up. ‘I know, isn’t he?’ She leaned over and opened the door. ‘There you go.’

Sandrine didn’t move.

‘You all right, kid? You need a hand getting inside?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘The thing is, I’m thinking I should go to the police. Report what happened.’

Alarm flashed across Lucie’s face. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said immediately.

‘I know you don’t believe me—’

Lucie interrupted. ‘It’s not that . . .’

‘—and I don’t blame you,’ Sandrine continued. ‘But I know what I saw. The police should be told.’

Lucie was frowning. ‘I absolutely don’t think you should get the police involved. It could be difficult for Max, and,’ she hesitated, ‘in any case, you’re all right. No real harm done.’

‘But I was attacked,’ Sandrine said, taken aback by Lucie’s opposition. ‘What if he does it again? Attacks some other girl?’

‘You’ll never be able to persuade the police that’s what happened,’ Lucie said. ‘You’ve got no evidence.’

‘What about this?’ Sandrine said, touching the cut on her head.

‘That’s not evidence, they’ll simply say you took a fall. And . . . if you report it, it might come out that we were there. That Max was there. The police will have your details. You don’t want that, surely? No one wants that.’

‘A man is missing,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘What about him? His injuries were . . .’ She stopped, picturing the rope marks on his wrists, the bruising, the agony on his face. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’

‘Wait until you’ve talked it over with Marianne. I’m sure she’ll agree with me.’

‘But his family might be looking for him. Someone might have reported him gone.’

‘At least change your clothes before you do anything,’ Lucie said, trying yet another approach. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

‘If I do that, it’s even less likely they’ll believe me,’ she said. ‘Look at me. They’ll be able to see I’m not making it up.’

‘They’ll see you came off your bike, that’s all,’ Lucie said stubbornly.

Finally accepting the girl wasn’t going to come round, whatever she said, Sandrine decided the only thing for it was to make her own way to the police station once Lucie and Max had gone. She sat for a moment longer, pretending she was reconsidering, then she sighed.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Lucie’s relief was palpable. ‘It’s the sensible thing, kid,’ she said in a rush. ‘Best not to get the police involved.’

‘I’ll hang on for Marianne,’ Sandrine said, getting out of the car. ‘See what she says.’

Lucie hopped out too and gave her a hug. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’

‘Yes. Don’t worry.’

‘And, really, you know I wouldn’t mention it to anyone,’ Lucie added. ‘Apart from Marianne, of course, but nobody else.’

‘I won’t,’ Sandrine said, walking up the steps to the front door.

‘All right?’ Lucie said brightly to Max as he reappeared.

‘I’ve left your bike just inside the gate,’ he said, giving Sandrine a slight, formal bow. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Vidal, despite the circumstances.’

‘You too. Thank you. You’ve both been so kind.’

Sandrine watched as Max got into the front seat beside Lucie and they pulled off. As soon as the car had rounded the corner, she ran back down the steps and walked quickly towards the Bastide and the police station.

A few minutes later, Sandrine was standing looking up at the Commissariat of the Police Nationale. In her whole life she had never had cause to go into the elegant white building. Her father had brought her up to trust authority, but that was then. Before the war, before France was cut in two, before the occupation of the north. Given the things the police were obliged to do now – arrests, raids, the implementation of new laws – perhaps Lucie’s caution was justified?

At that moment, the door to the police station flew open and two officers appeared on the top step. They looked Sandrine up and down, then said something to one another and they both laughed. She blushed, made self-conscious by their scrutiny, but it gave her the impetus she needed to go on in.

She ran up the steps. When she got to the top, she turned. The officers were still there on the pavement, staring at her. Sandrine turned her back on them, pushed open the door and went inside.

The station smelt of disinfectant and tobacco and sweat. A woman with smudged eye make-up and a bruised face was sitting sobbing on the long bench that ran beneath the window. At the far end, an elderly man reeking of alcohol and muttering, a down-and-out. A copy of the front page of L’Echo de Carcassonne with a grainy photograph of Maréchal Pétain was stuck to the wall, beside a black and white public information poster advising citizens to be on the lookout for fifth columnists. There was also a noticeboard covered with mugshots of men sought by the police. Reward posters, wanted posters, they all looked villainous. Less than human.

A dark-haired officer with silver buttons, black tie and flashing on his shoulder came down the corridor and gently touched the woman on the arm.

‘We’ll keep him in until he’s slept it off,’ he said. ‘Let’s be getting you home.’

The woman nodded, then slowly got to her feet. Clasping her handbag to her, like a shield, she allowed herself to be led out. Sandrine smiled at her, but the woman’s head was bowed and she didn’t respond.

When they’d gone, Sandrine approached the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

The desk clerk on duty ignored her, just continued to flick through the papers in front of him.

‘S’il vous plaît,’ she said, more loudly this time.

He still took no notice. Irritated, Sandrine leant forward and sharply tapped on the bell. The drunk in the corner began to laugh.

‘Jump to it,’ he shouted. ‘Girl wants you. Come to see you,’ he slurred. ‘Pining for you, she is. Your girl, is she? Bit young—’

‘Enough of that,’ the clerk shouted, ‘or I’ll have you back in that cell.’

He did at least look at her then, raising his eyebrows as he took in her dishevelled clothes.

‘Well?’

Sandrine met his gaze. ‘I’ve come to report a crime.’

Chapter 10

Raoul watched the side door into the Café des Deux Gares from the Jardin des Plantes, checking there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign that the premises were being watched, no unusual activity. A few down-and-outs were sitting on the stone steps surrounding the bust of Omer Sarraut, with their rough cigarettes and dark, sharp eyes. The bronze around the fountain was long gone, melted down for metal during the war.

Once he was certain it was safe, Raoul walked quickly across the road and into the narrow alley that ran alongside the café. He knocked on the door, three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. He glanced uneasily down the alley, then in the opposite direction, as he waited for the sound of footsteps behind the door.

‘Oui?’

‘It’s me.’

The rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock, then César opened up.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Wanted to catch you before the meeting.’

‘Come in, I’m not quite finished,’ César said, pulling him inside and shutting the door. ‘Five minutes.’

Raoul followed César down a set of steps to the basement. César flicked on a dim red ceiling lamp, then closed the door.

The darkroom was well stocked, a legacy from the days before the war when the pressmen had developed their pictures here to wire to the Parisian papers. There were bottles of developing fluid, clearly labelled, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Pegged to the wire above the wooden counter Raoul saw a row of black and white photographs of the camps at Argelès and Collioure. He recognised the coastline, swampland, the air black with mosquitoes. After France’s surrender in June 1940, Raoul had spent several weeks travelling between the camps in Collioure, Saint-Cyprien, Rivesaltes, Argelès, helping Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade. The photos triggered many painful, broken memories.

‘How did you get hold of these?’ he said quietly.

‘Smuggled out by the Croix-Rouge women,’ César replied.

‘Brave of them.’

César nodded. ‘Yes.’

The photographs had obviously been taken illegally – the angles were odd, the definition blurred and out of focus – but the story they told was clear. Emaciated women and men, children, standing behind barbed-wire fences, staring out at the camera. Raoul looked along the line of prints, his eye drawn by a smaller photograph showing the sign that hung at the entrance to the camp at Argelès: CAMP DE CONCENTRATION D’ARGELÈS.

His eyes hardened. ‘You know the worst of it? That it’s French soldiers policing these camps. Doing Hitler’s work for him. That’s the truth of Vichy’s “voie de collaboration”.’

César nodded as he tidied the bench. ‘I’ll print the tracts tonight,’ he said. ‘Machines are too noisy now, too many people around.’

‘These are excellent, César.’

He shrugged. ‘Best I could do. Make people realise what’s going on, not that most of them care.’

‘Some do,’ said Raoul.

‘You’ve heard the latest? For every Nazi killed by the Resistance in Paris, they’re executing ten Frenchmen.’

‘I heard a hundred.’

César shook his head. ‘And yet everyone walks around with their eyes shut, grateful to be in the so-called “free” zone. People still think things could be worse.’

Raoul put his hand on César’s shoulder. ‘That’s why we’re trying to change their minds. Make them understand. Your tracts, the papers we put out, these photographs, all of it makes a difference.’

César gave a long, deep sigh. ‘I wonder . . .’

‘Attitudes are changing,’ Raoul said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘People are starting to realise. More people are starting to support us.’

For a moment they were silent. Then César flicked off the light. ‘You go first,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out the front. See you in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or.’

It was only as Raoul crossed boulevard Antoine Marty that he remembered he hadn’t told César about Antoine’s necklace. He kicked himself. The sight of the photographs had sent everything else out of his mind, brought back the familiar tightness in his chest when he thought about Bruno and how he’d died. In any case, César was in an odd mood – uncommunicative, morose.

With any luck, Antoine would be at the meeting and he could give the chain back and it would turn out he’d been making something out of nothing. Raoul doubled back and crossed the rue de Verdun. He didn’t want to think about the alternative.

Chapter 11

Raoul watched César enter the building next to the Café Lagarde in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or. He waited a couple of seconds, then followed and gave the password.

‘Per lo Miègjorn.’ For the Midi.

He was admitted into a dark hallway, where César was waiting for him.

‘Any trouble?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘Nothing. You?’

‘All quiet.’

They went up the narrow stairs in single file, towards an apartment on the first floor. Voices were muffled, just audible. César knocked – four slow raps – then opened the door.

Raoul followed him in and found himself in a dingy kitchen. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, stale food and blocked drains.

‘Sanchez,’ said the man leaning over a map on the table. ‘We were about to give up on you.’

César shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted photographs on the flyers, Coursan.’

Raoul glanced at César, surprised by his tone, but his face gave nothing away.

‘You must be Pelletier,’ Coursan said, offering his hand. ‘And this is Robert Bonnet, and his brother Gaston.’

Raoul nodded at the two men sitting at the square table in the middle of the room. Robert was large and amiable-looking, with a handlebar moustache. Gaston was short, with mean, small eyes. The glass ashtray between them was filled with spent matches and cigarette papers. An empty jug of water and a half-full bottle of Pastis stood on the counter behind them.

Raoul looked at Coursan, trying to get the measure of the man. He was quite short, no more than five foot seven or eight, but with a commanding physical presence all the same. Clear eyes, balanced features, with five or six days’ stubble and a moustache. He wore the same ordinary, nondescript blue trousers and open-necked shirt as the rest of them, though there was something of the bureaucrat about him.

Raoul didn’t know where Coursan had served during the war, or what he’d done since the defeat. All he knew was that he’d set up this particular unit of résistants. One of the newest of the local groups, according to César, formed partly in reaction to the collaborationist organisations that were operating openly in Carcassonne: the PPF, the SOL, Collaboration, the Jeunes Doriotistes and the LVF were the biggest, but there were others.

‘What have we missed?’ said César, with the same spike of belligerence.

Raoul couldn’t tell whether Coursan was ignoring the edge in César’s voice, or was too preoccupied to notice it. Either way, his expression gave nothing away.

‘I’ve been running through the plans for tomorrow,’ he said.

‘Let’s get on with it then, shall we?’

Now Raoul did see a flash of anger in Coursan’s eyes, but his voice remained neutral.

‘We’ll be stationed here,’ he said, pointing at the plan of the town, ‘here and here. Our comrades from “24 Février” will be coming from the opposite direction, from boulevard Marcou.’ He tapped the map. ‘According to the wireless, our colleagues from “Libération” will base themselves by the Grand Café du Nord.’ He looked at César. ‘Is everything all right with the leaflets?’

‘Yes.’

Coursan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are they printed?’

‘They will be,’ he said curtly.

Coursan held César’s gaze, but didn’t question him further.

‘The word is,’ he continued, ‘that the SOL intends to disrupt the demonstration. Drafting in reinforcements from Narbonne and Limoux. Our job is to make sure they don’t.’

‘How many are we expecting?’ Raoul asked.

‘No way of knowing.’

‘There were thousands at that demonstration in Place Davilla,’ Robert said, his bushy moustache wagging up and down as he talked. ‘Day of National Mourning, that’s what they called it.’

Raoul nodded. ‘But that was two years ago. Demonstrations weren’t illegal then.’

‘True. People are more scared now. Too scared to stand up and be counted these days.’

Raoul turned to Coursan. ‘The police must be aware something’s planned. Isn’t it strange they’re not trying to stop it?’

‘Getting cold feet, Pelletier?’ said Gaston.

‘Just assessing the situation.’

‘Not having second thoughts?’

‘Not at all,’ Raoul said quickly. ‘I’m just saying that if the authorities think they have more to gain by letting it go ahead than by preventing it, should we be worried?’

Gaston poured himself another drink, slopping Pastis over the table. ‘Don’t know what—’

Coursan held up his hand. ‘Let Pelletier finish.’

‘They want to prove that Carcassonne isn’t Paris,’ he said, warming to his theme. ‘But it’s also a good way to get us all in one place. The leaders of Resistance groups, partisans, together at the same time.’

‘You think there’ll be arrests?’ Robert said.

Raoul was amazed he was even asking. He glanced at César to gauge his reaction, but his friend’s hands were laced behind his neck and he was staring up at the ceiling.

‘I’m certain there will be trouble,’ Coursan said, ‘but it’s a risk we have to take. Does anyone disagree?’

No one spoke.

Coursan returned his attention to the map. Raoul loosened his collar. It was very hot, airless. In the corner, the tap continued to drip, drip. Every now and again the pipes gurgled, as if someone was running a bath elsewhere in the building, then the plumbing sighed and settled down again.

‘Where’s Antoine?’ Robert said. ‘Isn’t he coming?’

Raoul felt a kick in his stomach. Immediately, his hand went to his pocket, found the cold metal.

‘Another one with cold feet,’ Gaston was saying.

César glared at him. ‘He’ll be here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Raoul said, not sure what he was actually apologising for. He put the chain on the table. ‘I don’t know if it’s important, but I found this. I think it’s Antoine’s.’

Straight away, there was a shift in the atmosphere. A sharpening of attention. César leant forward and snatched up the silver necklace.

‘Where did you get it?’ he demanded.

‘Down by the river, this morning. Near Païchérou.’

‘Did you see Antoine there?’

‘No. I’d have said if I had.’

Raoul was aware of Coursan’s eyes fixed on him. ‘Something the size of this and you just happened to notice it, Pelletier?’ he said lightly.

‘No,’ he said, then stopped, wondering how to explain. ‘That’s to say, there was a girl . . .’

Gaston bayed with laughter.

Raoul ignored him. ‘There was a girl – don’t know who she was – had got into trouble. Come off her bike, tipped forward into the water.’ He shrugged. ‘She was holding the chain.’

‘And what time did you say this was?’ Coursan asked.

‘Ten o’clock, give or take.’

‘So you saw the necklace. Took it.’ He paused. ‘Why was that?’

‘I don’t know really,’ Raoul replied, feeling wrong-footed. ‘I suppose, because it looked like Antoine’s.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t really think about it.’

‘Did the girl explain why she had it?’

‘She was unconscious. Then I heard a car, and since she was all right – and obviously I didn’t want to get caught up in anything – I left.’

‘A real chevalier,’ muttered Gaston. ‘Gallant.’

‘You’d have done the same, Bonnet,’ Raoul said. ‘Common sense.’

Gaston swallowed a belch, then poured himself another drink. Robert frowned at his brother and sat back heavily in his creaking chair.

‘You’re sure the girl didn’t say anything?’ Coursan said. His voice was casual, though Raoul sensed the keen interest behind his words.

‘Not really, nothing that made sense. Nothing about Antoine.’ He felt the tension tighten another notch. He looked at everyone’s faces, seeing nothing unusual, nothing different in any expression, but he was regretting bringing it up all the same. ‘Look, I don’t know where Antoine is, but I’m sure the girl just happened to be there. Bad luck, good luck, however you want to look at it. She saw the chain, picked it up, end of story.’

‘Except for the fact the girl was half drowned,’ said César. ‘Except for the fact Antoine should be here, and isn’t.’ He turned on Coursan. ‘And Laval isn’t here either, come to that? Where is he, Coursan?’

‘He’ll be here.’

Downstairs, the door to the street slammed. Everybody stopped talking, listening to the footsteps coming up the stairs. The door swung open. Raoul sighed, realising he’d been holding his breath.

It wasn’t Antoine.

‘Christ, Laval,’ muttered Gaston. ‘Give us all a heart attack.’

Raoul hadn’t previously met Coursan’s second-in-command, Sylvère Laval, though he recognised him from César’s description. He had the look of a musician, black trousers and shirt, hair slicked back. His eyes were sharp with smoke and drink and late nights. Like Coursan, he had five or six days’ growth on his chin.

Laval nodded at Coursan, then sat down beside Gaston.

‘We have – might have – a problem,’ Coursan said. ‘Déjean’s not shown up and Pelletier has been telling us how he fished a girl out of the river earlier this morning. She was holding Déjean’s chain.’

Raoul saw a look pass between the two men. Again he glanced at César, but he was still examining the necklace and didn’t meet his eye.

‘Why was Pelletier at the river?’ Laval asked.

‘On my way here,’ Raoul replied, irritated to be talked about as if he wasn’t in the room.

César stood up. ‘I’m going to check Antoine’s flat, see if he’s there.’

‘Sit down, Sanchez,’ Coursan said mildly.

‘He’s probably in bed nursing a hangover,’ said Gaston.

‘He’s not a drinker.’

‘Everyone’s a drinker,’ said Gaston, swallowing another belch.

‘I’m not sitting here doing nothing,’ César said, ‘when Antoine might be in trouble.’

‘Sit down,’ Coursan repeated.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the authority in it was clear all the same. To Raoul’s surprise, César did what he was told. Robert poured a glass of Pastis and pushed it across the table to him. César added water and downed it in one.

‘Did the girl say anything?’ Laval asked Coursan.

‘As I said,’ Raoul replied, ‘she was unconscious. She didn’t do or say anything.’

Laval was looking at Raoul, but still addressing himself to Coursan.

‘What do you want to do?’

Coursan drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. ‘If Antoine’s been arrested, we need to know. It could affect things tomorrow. César, why not check his apartment? If he’s there, leave a message in the usual way, behind the bar in the café downstairs.’

‘And if not?’

‘Our priority is tomorrow.’

‘Right,’ said Gaston, giving a mock salute.

‘Is everyone clear about what they’re doing?’

Raoul and Robert nodded. César didn’t respond.

‘Laval?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case,’ Coursan continued, ‘meet at the Café Saillan at eight tomorrow morning.’ He looked at César. ‘You’ll bring the leaflets there?’

César still didn’t answer.

‘Sanchez?’ snapped Laval.

César stared at him, then gave a sharp nod and stood up.

‘I always deliver what I promise.’ He swept his tobacco and matches from the table and walked out of the room.

Raoul looked at Coursan, then at Laval, but their faces gave nothing away. Gaston and Robert were already getting up.

‘Good luck tomorrow, gentlemen,’ Coursan said mildly. ‘A word before you go, Laval.’

Raoul followed the Bonnets out. On the landing, he paused just long enough to hear Coursan’s voice.

‘What the hell happened?’

The door was slammed shut. Raoul pressed his ear against the wood, but couldn’t hear anything other than muffled voices. After a moment or two, he followed the others down the stairs and out into the street.

Chapter 12

The rue de l’Aigle d’Or was crowded now. Women queuing, women shopping, talking. Three little girls were playing hopscotch on a chalk pattern drawn on the pavement, and a gaggle of teenage boys, all spots and hungry eyes, were admiring a silver motorbike parked outside the café.

Raoul lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, then saw César was waiting for him at the junction with the rue du Port.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant to tell you about the chain before the meeting. It’s why I came to the print shop, but then I saw the photographs and it went out of my mind.’ Raoul took a breath. ‘It might not even be his,’ he continued, still feeling the need to apologise. ‘There must be hundreds like it in Carcassonne.’

‘It is his,’ César said. ‘Antoine scraped his initials on the catch with his knife. I checked. They were there.’

For a moment, both men were silent. The white smoke from their cigarettes spiralled up into the hot lunchtime air.

‘No reason to think he’s been arrested,’ Raoul commented.

César paused, then sighed. ‘Last week he told me he was going to Tarascon for a few days, but he should have been back by now.’

‘Why Tarascon?’

‘His parents live there, but . . .’

‘That’s all he said?’

César shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’

Raoul nodded. Tell nobody anything. Trust no one, not even closest friends and family. What they didn’t know, they couldn’t speak of.

‘But that chain of his,’ César continued quietly, ‘I never saw him without it on.’

Raoul glanced at him, trying to work out what was going on in César’s head. He’d been in an odd mood from the beginning of the meeting, even before he knew Antoine was missing. Might be missing.

‘Do you want me to come with you to the apartment?’

César tossed the stub of his cigarette to the pavement and ground it under his heel, then shook his head. ‘That’s why I waited. It’s getting on for lunchtime. I thought if you go to the flat, that leaves me free to try the bars, the café in the rue du Port where Antoine usually goes. I know his friends. They’ll talk to me.’

‘Fine. Where’s he live?’

‘Building on the corner of rue Emile Zola and the allée d’Iéna. First floor.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll be in the Café des Deux Gares about nine, if you find anything out. If you don’t, in the Saillan tomorrow.’

‘You think you’re being watched?’

He shrugged again. ‘Not worth taking the risk.’

César started to move off. Raoul put his hand out to stop him.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘Aside from this business with Antoine.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ Raoul said steadily. ‘You’re on edge. Then, in the meeting, there seemed to be something going on between you and Coursan.’

He said nothing.

‘César?’

Sanchez hesitated. ‘I don’t like the way he puts himself above us.’

Raoul frowned. ‘Coursan set the group up, it’s natural he takes charge. You told me he was a patriot, working to preserve the traditions and alliances of the Languedoc. The Occitan spirit of tolerance, that’s how you put it. You certainly thought enough of him to recruit me. And Antoine.’

‘Things change,’ César said brusquely.

‘What kind of things, that’s what I’m asking.’

‘Nothing worth mentioning.’

Raoul bit back his impatience. ‘Well, how do you know Coursan? You must have known something about him to join the unit in the first place.’

‘By reputation. People spoke highly of him. Acquitted himself well in the war. Did a lot with the early Resistance in Toulouse.’

‘But you’d never met him in person?’

‘No.’

Raoul thought for a moment. ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Not sure.’

‘César, if there’s a problem, if you’re having doubts – something specific – you’ve got to tell me.’

‘Let’s just say he’s not the man I thought he was.’

‘That’s not good enough.’

‘All right. I’ve started to ask myself what’s in it for Coursan. What does he really want?’

‘Same as us presumably, to fight the Occupation. Defeat Vichy.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘What then, money? Is that what you think?’

Sanchez didn’t answer.

‘César?’ he prompted again.

‘All I’m saying is the man I heard so much about and the man I see in front of me don’t match up.’

Suddenly, the antagonism seemed to go out of César and his mood changed. He leaned over and rested his hand on Raoul’s shoulder.

‘Look, forget I said anything. Coursan and I don’t see eye to eye, so what?’ He shrugged. ‘After tomorrow, it won’t matter. It’s Antoine we’ve got to worry about.’ Then, before Raoul could ask any more questions, he turned and was walking away into the crowds in Place Carnot.

Raoul stood and watched him go, confused by the whole conversation. He thought back to the grievances and conflicts he’d known in groups he’d been involved with in the past. Tempers were always frayed, worse the night before a mission or when they were about to take a new group of refugees across the mountains. Was that César’s problem? Just nerves about tomorrow’s action, fuelled by his concerns for Antoine, or something more?

Still mulling things over in his mind, he headed towards the allée d’Iéna. The fact César no longer liked Coursan wasn’t a problem. No one chose one’s comrades on the basis of liking or disliking. Raoul himself hadn’t liked everyone in the Banyuls network by any means. But he had trusted them. That was essential.

He cast his mind back to what his brother had written about Sanchez. That he was hot-headed, liable to fly off the handle and to bear a grudge. Something of a lone wolf. But also that his instincts were sound. That he was a good judge of character.

‘Per lo Miègjorn,’ Raoul muttered.

Brave words, fighting words. Spoken by the medieval hero of the Cité, Raymond-Roger Trencavel, to rally the men of the Midi against the northern crusaders in 1209. When Raoul had given the password earlier, it had sounded like a call to arms.

But now? Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Chapter 13

Sandrine glanced up at the clock again. She’d been sitting on the hard bench beneath the window for almost an hour. She was thirsty and uncomfortable and only her reluctance to give the supercilious desk clerk the satisfaction of watching her give up kept her there.

The police station was busy, people coming and going. Officers carrying buff folders or box files. Bursts of noise, then silence. Doors opening, closing, a sense of activity and anticipation. The same dark-haired officer she’d seen when she arrived came back into the reception area.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Still here, mademoiselle?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve any idea how much longer before someone might be free to see me?’

He stopped. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Everyone’s got the wind up. Telegrams coming in all night. The girls in the exchange say the telephones haven’t stopped.’

‘Has something happened?’

He lowered his voice. ‘There’s a rumour there’s going to be a demonstration tomorrow. In support of de Gaulle.’

Their eyes met, and for a moment Sandrine saw the man behind the uniform. She smiled. He smiled back, then the official shutters came down once more.

Sandrine watched him continue on down the corridor, open a door on the right-hand side, and then he was gone.

She approached the desk clerk. ‘May I have some writing paper?’

‘What?’

‘Writing paper,’ she repeated, as if talking to a child. ‘And a pen. If it’s not too much trouble.’

He stared at her, but then leant under the desk, produced a few sheets of lined notepaper and a pencil, and passed them over without a word.

Sandrine went back to the bench. So long as she was here, she might as well make use of the time. Balancing the notepaper on her lap, she wrote the date.

Lundi, le 13 juillet 1942.

She underlined it once, then again.

Déclaration de Mlle Vidal Sandrine.

‘This is my true and freely given testament.’

She put the end of the pencil in her mouth, thought for a moment longer, then began to write.

Chapter 14

THE HAUTE VALLÉE

‘Tell me.’

Antoine screamed again. He didn’t know where he was, he knew nothing. Nothing except the pain. The iron bar came down again, again on the back of his neck and he felt his broken bones jump. His arms were shackled and tied round the back of the chair. Blood congealed around the cuffs, rings of red and broken skin on his wrists. His right hand was swollen purple, his fingernails torn where he’d tried to get across the weir. How long ago was that? One hour, more, less? A day? He no longer knew.

‘Where is it? Where is the key?’

It had been Sunday. He remembered Sunday. Thinking about seeing his parents, heading back to his apartment ready to make the journey south. That was when they’d got him. Walking past the river. The catch on his chain had broken, he remembered that. Putting it in his pocket. So hot, even though it was early. He remembered the black Renault Primaquatre coming slowly down the road from the cimetière Saint-Michel, and pulling up. A man, well dressed, foreign, asking for directions to the Cité.

Then, nothing.

At first, in the cellar, the questions and the blows, the tightening of the rope on his wrists. Then they stopped. Left him alone for a long time, he didn’t know how long, day and night blurring one into the other. They were waiting for someone, for instructions, though Antoine didn’t know it then. Waiting for this man, he realised now.

It was morning when he escaped. Pretended to be unconscious, so they left him unguarded. Managed to climb out of the broken window and snapped the padlock on the gate. But he was too weak to get far and although he made it down to Païchérou, down to the river, on to the rocks, he hadn’t the strength. He’d slipped, fainted. The water pressing into his mouth, his nose.

He tried to remember. There’d been a girl, hadn’t there? Pulled him out of the water. It hadn’t mattered anyway. They’d come after him, brought him back here. Now, again, the drip, drip of the cellar, the bare earth under his feet.

‘Komm. If you tell me, this will stop.’

With each word, another strike with the iron bar, cutting through the silent air, the steady breathing of his captors within it, the marks on his broken body telling the story of every blow he’d received.

‘He’s passed out. Hurry.’

Antoine hoped they were talking about him, welcoming the thought that he would not have to feel any more. But a sponge was thrust into his mouth. The sour, sharp vinegar made him gag. His cracked lips recoiled in protest and he tried to twist free, but hands on his shoulders held him firm. He smelt blood and wondered if it was his own or if someone else had sat on this chair before him. Then water running over his head, his shoulders, down into his lap, shocking him into speech.

‘I don’t know . . .’

Antoine didn’t know if that was true. Hours ago, days, between the kicks and punches and the burns from the cigarettes, the smell of the singed hairs on his arms and the hiss of skin, he’d forgotten what the man wanted. None of it made sense. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what he had already said.

‘Antoine,’ said the man, drawing the vowels out so softly. ‘Your friend died, you remember? You had a telegram, yes? Cast your mind back. To March 1939, remember? We found Rahn in the snow, the mountains of the Wilder Kaiser. Nothing you say can harm him now. He’s at peace. We have his diaries, all his notes, letters. He worked for us, didn’t you know that? We know that if he had left anything behind – the key – it would have been in your safe keeping, yes? The key?’

Antoine knew they were lying. If they had everything, then why were they asking him questions? He didn’t understand anything. The old man would know. He tried again to shake his head, but his bones, his muscles, nothing worked any more. Words were coming back to him, fragments of memory.

‘D-Die-Dietrich,’ he said. If he kept saying this, they would believe that there was a key, that they were looking for a key, then the secret would be kept from them at least.

‘The skeleton key, yes?’

Antoine felt the man’s breath, eager, suddenly on his face. Saw the death’s-head brooch on his lapel. Otto Rahn had worn one too. He’d written to tell him he had joined them, then nothing more until just before the end. Life became too dark after that.

‘Rahn gave you a key to look after?’ The man’s voice was closer still. ‘Where is it now, Antoine? What’s it for?’

His friends hadn’t liked Otto, but there was something about him that made you listen to his stories. Beautiful stories, clever, words taking flight. Antoine never dreamed there was any truth in them.

The old man had told him to be careful. Antoine should have listened, but he’d thought he’d outwitted them. In a way he had, though the cost was too high.

‘All true . . .’

The man’s voice, sharp again, impatient. ‘What’s that you say?’

Antoine was slipping away, like a boat coming loose of its moorings, a gentle letting go. Remembering the words written on the map. He hoped the girl was all right. Kind . . . she was gentle. She had tried to help. He didn’t know his torturer. Hadn’t seen his face, only a grey suit, and the pink, waxy skin on his left arm when he rolled up his shirt sleeves, as if he’d been burnt. The Cathars had been given to the fire, hadn’t they? The good men, Otto had called them.

The old man knew all about them.

‘Gottesfreunde,’ Antoine whispered. ‘Forgotten.’

As he said it, he realised that was true. A few months of friendship, ten years ago, eleven. Otto Rahn, a young German from Michelstadt, travelling with a Swiss friend. Antoine just out of university and with time on his hands. A chance meeting in a café, the pleasure of discovering a shared interest in the same things, treasure and local legends, an initiation into the mythology of the mountains. As 1931 tipped over into 1932, they had read and talked and smoked late into the night, going climbing in the day when the weather permitted, up to the summit of the Pic de Soularac, to the ruins of Montségur and Coustaussa, or down into the belly of the caves of Niaux and Lombrives. Brotherhood – the Fahneneid, the blood oath of the German warrior of legend – it was innocent, harmless. Otto was naïve certainly, but he didn’t think like those maniacs. He was flattered when they invited him to join them, proud of his black uniform. Later, he had become disillusioned, wanted to get out, but by then it was too late.

Ten years ago, more. Antoine had been young and understood nothing. A classics student, Latin and Greek, idealistic. He had never killed a man then. Never seen a man die. If Rahn had lived, the two of them would have been on opposite sides. Ten years. It had been one of those interludes in a life starting out. Antoine didn’t understand. Otto had died more than three years ago. Before all the madness started. So why were these men here now?

‘Sprich.’ Speak.

Antoine heard the anger in the man’s voice and flinched from it.

‘Forgotten,’ he said again, feeling the tug of sweet black sleep.

This time the blow caught him across the face. Antoine heard his nose crack, the splinter of it, then felt the blood, warm and wet, coating his dry lips, but there was no pain. Tears, of relief, slipped from his tired eyes.

‘We’re losing him,’ someone else was shouting, a voice thick with violence and cigarettes. An ugly voice.

Antoine was almost free now, floating above the torture cellar and the pain and the sheer pointlessness of it all. They couldn’t reach him. Rough hands, cold water, dragging a broken body to its feet, he was beyond them.

‘Get the doctor in here,’ the man ordered. ‘Allez, vite.’

Antoine realised he was smiling. The sound of running feet, the door being thrown open, the rustle of the doctor in his bag. Needles, light, a sharp prick, so many people pulling him this way, that.

He died ten minutes later, without revealing anything more about his friend Rahn. Without telling them anything about what he had found or what he knew. And without letting the name of Audric Baillard pass his lips.

Chapter 15

CARCASSONNE

Sandrine carried on writing, writing until her arm ached and she’d set down everything she could remember. Finally, she was done. She leant back against the hard wooden bench and flexed her right hand. She looked up at the desk clerk, determined that he should notice she was still there.

He’d gone. The desk was unmanned. This was her chance. If he refused to let her pass, she’d go and find someone herself. Sandrine stood up, her sense of grievance at being kept waiting pushing her into action.

Shoving the sheets of paper into her pocket, she walked quickly away from the reception, in the direction everyone else had been going all morning, and sneaked through the door on the right.

The atmosphere away from the public space was immediately different. She was in a long and featureless corridor. White tiles on the floor, no windows, just strip lighting all the way along. The walls were painted a clinical washed green and no posters or pictures or notices broke the monotony. On either side, heavy studded doors of reinforced steel.

Sandrine hesitated, but then made herself go on. There was a door at the end of the passage with a card on it – COMMISSAIRE DE POLICE – slotted into a wooden holder. She could hear voices inside. She lifted her hand and knocked sharply before she had time to change her mind.

She heard footsteps on the far side of the door, then the sound of the handle turning, and the same young officer appeared.

‘How did you get in here? This is a restricted area.’

‘I didn’t realise.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted a voice from inside the room.

Sandrine sidestepped the officer and darted into the room.

‘Commissaire, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t see what else to do. I’ve been waiting for hours.’

A senior officer was sitting behind a wide mahogany desk on which a map with small wooden markers was spread out. Behind him was a phalanx of gunmetal-grey filing cabinets, each with several drawers and handwritten white labels set into the handles.

‘What in the name of God is going on?’ He turned on the young officer. ‘Ramond, get her out of here.’

‘Mademoiselle,’ the young man said, ‘official personnel only allowed. You must leave.’

‘I want to report a crime,’ she said.

‘Mademoiselle . . .’

‘I was attacked this morning,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. ‘I thought the police – you – would want to know of a crime committed in Carcassonne.’

‘For the last time, Officer Ramond, get her out of here!’

She felt the young officer’s hand in the small of her back, propelling her towards the door.

‘You are supposed to protect us,’ she said furiously, then spun on her heel and walked out.

The moment she was back in the corridor, her legs started to shake. Sandrine felt sick, with anger or nerves she wasn’t sure. She heard the door open and close, then the sound of footsteps behind her as the young officer caught up with her.

‘That wasn’t very sensible,’ he said.

Sandrine pulled a face. ‘I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.’

He gave a brief, sweet smile. ‘It’s all right. I’m used to it.’

He led her to a bench, sat down and took out his notebook. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

Sandrine took a deep breath, then launched into her story. ‘I was at Païchérou this morning and there was a man in the water – I thought he was drowning, but there were rope marks on his wrists and . . . I think his family, someone, should know – but when I—’

The officer held up his hand. ‘Wait, hold on a moment,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with your name.’

‘Vidal,’ she replied. ‘Sandrine Sophie Vidal.’

‘And your address?’

Chapter 16

Raoul found rue Emile Zola easily enough and Antoine’s building on the corner. Six individual apartments, each with their own bell. He pressed, then stood back on the pavement and looked up. The shutters were open, but there was no sign of life. He pressed the bell again, a little harder and for a little longer, then once more stepped back and waited. The first-floor window remained closed. Finally, he rang the concierge’s bell instead. A few moments later, a thin woman dressed in black, with a sour expression and sharp eyes, answered the door.

‘I’m looking for Antoine Déjean,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘He was here earlier.’

Raoul’s interest quickened. ‘What time was that?’

‘Can’t remember,’ she said, meeting his gaze.

Raoul slipped a coin into her hand.

‘Seven, seven fifteen.’

‘Did you actually see him?’ He got out another couple of francs.

‘No,’ the concierge admitted. ‘But I heard him moving about up there. Who else would it be, that time in the morning?’

Raoul thought for a moment. ‘The thing is, I left something with him that I need to collect. Any chance you could . . .’

She stared at him for a moment, then put the coins in the pocket of her housecoat, went into her office, took a bunch of keys from a hook.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said.

Raoul followed her up to the first floor. She unlocked the door to let him in. Stale, unused air rushed out. A scent of sour tobacco, vanilla, newspaper print hot in the sun beating in through the windows.

‘Ten minutes,’ she repeated.

There was a small lobby, leading into a large room which overlooked the allée d’Iéna, with a fold-out bed in the corner and a kitchenette with a sink and a single gas ring. A few tins of food and two apples, bruised and mouldy, in a china bowl. A narrow corridor led off the lobby to a WC and small bath at the back.

Antoine’s newspapers were stacked corner to corner on a desk, with a few banned pamphlets too. Two low armchairs were set at perfect right angles to the window, facing into the room, all oddly neat and tidy. Raoul got a book down from the shelves, put it back, not sure what he was looking for. Evidence of where Antoine had been at the weekend? Evidence of where he was now?

He looked out of the window on to the allée d’Iéna. He saw a travelling salesman arriving at the Hôtel des Voyageurs and two of the green police cars used for transporting prisoners – paniers à salade as they were known. They were heading towards the compound of the infantry barracks at the far end of the road.

It didn’t take long to search Antoine’s small flat. Raoul was loath to leave, just in case he came back. If it had actually been Antoine the concierge had heard. He smoked his last but one cigarette. At two o’clock, he gave up. He scribbled a note asking Antoine to get in touch, then made a quick detour to answer a call of nature before leaving. The tiny WC smelt sour, the water stagnant.

Raoul buttoned his trousers, reached over and opened the skylight window to air the room, then pulled the thin chain. Nothing happened. The water in the cistern above his head churned and gulped, but didn’t flush. He tried again, jerking down hard on the chain.

He tried once more, not sure why it bothered him so much that the toilet was blocked, only that it did. He balanced on the seat, feet either side of the bowl, but he couldn’t see inside the cistern. Under the kitchen sink he found an old-fashioned wooden plunger with a rust-coloured rubber head. He climbed back up and poked blind at the blockage with the handle, jabbing it down into the cistern, trying not to let the water slop over the sides. He could feel there was something there, hard against the ballcock. He twisted the stick, jiggered it from side to side, but still couldn’t shift the obstruction, so he rolled up his right sleeve and shoved his hand into the cistern. He felt something soft, a kind of heavy fabric, rolled into a ball. He worked it free and carefully took it out.

Raoul stepped down from the seat, shook the excess water from his hand and wiped it on his trousers, then looked at the wad of dark green waterproof material. As he started to unwrap the package, something slipped out. His hand darted out, just catching it before it hit the uneven lino floor.

It was a small pale glass bottle, heavy and opaque, the hemispherical body patterned with a beautiful blue-green iridescence on one side, like the eye of a peacock’s tail. On the other, a pattern in the glass that looked like leaves. It had a long thin neck with a small hole in the top, as if it had been worn on a chain or a thread, and a stopper of grey wool.

An unexpected explosion of knocking on the apartment door made him jump. He felt his heart lurch as he heard the rattling of keys in the lock.

‘Monsieur,’ came the shrill voice of the concierge, ‘it’s been more than ten minutes.’

‘J’arrive,’ he called out. ‘Merci.’

Raoul looked down at the exquisite tiny object in the palm of his hand, then, without thinking about it, quickly wrapped the bottle in his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He put the damp cloth back in the cistern and was standing in the tiny lobby as the concierge pushed open the door.

‘I lost track of time,’ he said, dropping his last two coins into her open palm as he passed her. ‘You know how it is.’

Aware of her suspicious eyes on his back as he ran down the stairs, he hoped she wasn’t the type to call the police.

The sun was at its zenith. Keeping to the shadows, Raoul walked back towards the centre of town. He crossed the tram line and went down the boulevard Omer Sarraut past the Jardin des Plantes.

Outside the Café Terminus, a waiter was writing in chalk on a blackboard advertising they had beer. Raoul stopped. The prices were exorbitant, but he was hot, thirsty and, for once, lucky to be in the right place at the right time. The thought of a cold beer – real beer – was too much to pass up.

He checked in his pockets. He’d given all his loose change to the concierge, but he had a note he’d been saving to buy food. Raoul looked at it, and decided that beer beat the foul black bread they were selling hands down. He ordered at the bar, then took his drink outside to a table in the shade.

For a moment he just enjoyed the cold, sour taste on his tongue, on the back of his throat. Then, as usual, his thoughts started crowding in. Would the demonstration tomorrow change anything? He took another mouthful of beer, his mind turning, as it always did, on memories of war and revolution, resistance, like a permanent newsreel playing in his head.

From that, of course, to his brother. When Raoul had first arrived back in Carcassonne, he’d seen Bruno everywhere. Standing at the counter in the Café des Halles, or coming round the corner of the Quai Riquet, raising his hand to wave. So many men looked like him, reminded Raoul of his loss. As the days turned to weeks, to months, he’d seen Bruno less often. It made him miss him all the more.

Raoul raised his arm to attract the waiter’s attention.

‘S’il vous plaît,’ he said, ordering a second glass.

The shadows moved round. Now, as the beer took hold, weak as it was, Raoul found his thoughts moving from grief to something different, something sweeter. To the girl at the river. The way her eyes fluttered open, just for an instant, and her wild black hair, all out of place. Her strong, determined features.

Chapter 17

‘I know she’s here, officer. Please check your records again.’

Sandrine looked down the corridor and saw Marianne standing at the desk in a blue dress, blue hat, matching gloves and bag. Immaculately turned out, as always.

‘Marianne!’ she cried, running to meet her.

Her sister immediately put her hand up to the cut on the side of Sandrine’s head, staining the fingertips of her glove.

‘Whatever happened? Are you all right?’

Sandrine winced. ‘It’s not too bad. How did you know I was here?’

‘Lucie came to the Croix-Rouge to let me know what had happened. She told me she and Max had taken you home, but although your bike was there, Marieta said she hadn’t seen you. I put two and two together . . .’

‘But how did you know I’d be at the police station?’

‘Lucie said she’d persuaded you not to come,’ Marianne said drily. ‘Obviously, she didn’t succeed.’ She turned to the officer. ‘Is my sister free to go?’

He nodded. ‘Of course.’

Neither of the girls was aware of him watching them leave. Or that, as soon as they’d gone, Ramond tore up his notes and put the pieces into the rubbish bin.

Sandrine could tell Marianne was cross, although she wasn’t quite sure why. She kept glancing at her, kept waiting for her to say something, but she walked fast and in silence. It wasn’t until they had passed Artozouls, with its display of fishing nets, lines, rods and hunting equipment, and were standing outside the boulangerie next to the église des Carmes that Marianne spoke.

‘Wait here,’ she said, producing a coupon from her handbag and vanishing inside.

Sandrine was aware of the sharp eyes of an old woman in a first-floor apartment in the building on the opposite side of the street. She smiled, but la vieille stepped back behind her lace curtain.

Marianne reappeared holding a brown paper bag. ‘It’s still warm.’

Sandrine bit into the bun, which wasn’t too bad at all. Solid, but thick with dried fruit so it tasted sweet despite the lack of sugar.

‘You’d think they’d have a queue around the block if people knew she had these available so late in the day.’

‘They don’t,’ said Marianne.

Sandrine frowned. ‘Then how . . .?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said sharply.

‘Why are you so cross?’

Marianne ignored the question. ‘You’d better tell me what happened.’

‘Didn’t Lucie tell you?’

‘No, all she said was that you’d had an accident down at the river, that she and Max had found you and taken you home.’

‘She did try to talk me out of going to the police station,’ Sandrine said, ‘but I thought I should report it. Now I wish I’d listened to her.’

‘Why?’ Marianne said quickly. ‘What happened? What did they do?’

‘Do?’ said Sandrine in surprise. ‘They did nothing, that’s the point. Nobody took me seriously.’

Marianne’s shoulders relaxed a little.

Sandrine continued. ‘In the end an officer took a few notes, and that was that.’ She pulled a face. ‘I was an idiot, you don’t have to rub it in. I know.’

To her astonishment, Marianne grabbed her arm. ‘Do you, Sandrine? Really, I don’t think you have any idea. That you would simply waltz into a police station – a police station, of all places – and make a scene. Didn’t you even think about Max?’

‘I didn’t mention him,’ she said, stung by how harsh Marianne sounded. ‘I gave Lucie my word I wouldn’t, though I don’t understand why she made such a fuss.’

‘Max is Jewish, Sandrine. Don’t be so naïve.’

‘Yes, but he’s French. He’s got all the right papers, hasn’t he? He’ll be all right.’

‘No one is “all right”, as you put it,’ Marianne said. ‘If he’d stayed in Paris, he’d have been arrested by now.’

‘But Maréchal Pétain is protecting Jews in the zone libre, that’s what it said in the paper.’

Marianne gave a sharp laugh. ‘Every week the situation gets worse, can’t you see? And because Lucie goes about with him, she has to be careful too. She gets spat at in the street; someone painted foul comments on her front door.’

‘Oh,’ said Sandrine, the fight going out of her. ‘I didn’t know.’ She paused. ‘Is that why she’s worried about her father coming back?’

‘Lucie said that?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘Monsieur Ménard is a brute, an unpleasant man at the best of times,’ said Marianne. ‘Unkind to his wife. To Lucie too. Belonged to a right-wing veterans’ organisation for years, long before the war. In the LVF now.’ She stopped. ‘I’m just saying we have to be careful. You have to be careful. You put people at risk otherwise, even if you don’t mean to.’

Sandrine felt a shiver go down her spine. On the surface, Carcassonne and its people looked the same, but her perception was shifting, changing, slipping. Suddenly, it was no longer quite the town she loved.

‘I thought I was doing the right thing,’ she said, now thoroughly miserable.

‘I know, darling,’ sighed Marianne, the heat going out of her voice. ‘But you don’t see what’s under your nose half the time.’

‘How can I?’ she protested. ‘You never tell me anything. Besides, you’re hardly ever home these days.’

‘That’s not fair, I . . .’

Sandrine stared at her, but whatever her sister might have been about to say, she’d thought better of it.

‘What?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

They walked a little further in silence for a moment, then Sandrine pushed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the notes she’d written in the police station.

‘Here,’ she said.

‘What’s this?’ Marianne asked.

‘It’s what happened,’ she said. ‘I was intending to give it to the police, but . . . well, I didn’t get the chance. Anyway, you might as well read it.’

The sisters sat down on a bench beneath the plane trees lining the boulevard Maréchal Pétain. Sandrine watched as her sister turned the pages, but the expression on her face gave nothing away. When she had finished, Marianne leant back against the metal struts of the bench.

‘At least do you see why I thought I should report what happened?’ Sandrine said.

‘To tell you the truth, darling, I don’t know what to think.’ Marianne tapped the papers in her lap. ‘How much of this did you tell the policeman you talked to?’

‘Not much. I simply said I’d pulled a man out of the river and that I thought someone had hit me. When I came to, there was no one there, so I made my way to the police station.’

‘Did he believe you?’

Sandrine frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

Marianne paused. ‘You didn’t say anything about the . . . nature of the man’s injuries?’

She shook her head. ‘The thought of nobody knowing what had happened to him, after what he’d suffered, it didn’t seem right,’ she said quietly. ‘I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.’

At last, Marianne reached out and took her hand. ‘No. It must have been dreadful. Horrible for you.’

Sandrine was furious to feel tears pricking in her eyes. ‘You do believe me then,’ she said. ‘You don’t think I’m making it up.’

Marianne shook her head. ‘Even if you did bang your head, I can’t see you could invent all that.’

‘What do you think happened?’

Her sister thought for a moment. ‘Probably that the man, whoever he was, was being held nearby. Somehow he got away and made it down to the river. Perhaps he was trying to swim across. They came after him, saw you pull him out, were forced to put you out of action for long enough to retrieve the body.’

As much as anything, Sandrine was astonished by the matter-of-fact way her sister seemed to accept that such a thing could have happened in Carcassonne.

‘As for the rest,’ Marianne continued, ‘honestly I don’t know. It’s hard to square the business of a second man pulling you out of the water. You’re quite sure it wasn’t the same person who hit you?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘How can you be certain? Did you see his face?’

‘Why would he attack me first, then help me afterwards? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘True.’ Marianne thought for a moment more. ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘Maybe. His voice, certainly.’

‘What about the man who hit you?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘He came up behind me. I didn’t see him at all.’

The girls sat in silence for a while longer. On the steps of the Palais de Justice opposite, a group of lawyers, like a murder of black crows, came flocking suddenly out of the court and down the steps to the cars waiting for them.

‘What do you think has happened to the man I rescued from the river?’ said Sandrine in a quiet voice.

‘Try not to think about it.’

‘I am, but it’s hard. I’ve never seen anything so . . .’

Marianne folded the papers and gave them back to Sandrine.

‘Put these away somewhere, somewhere safe. Better still, burn them.’

‘But what do you think we should do?’

‘Do? We should do nothing, nothing at all. Keep it to ourselves for now and hope nothing more comes of it.’

Chapter 18

THE HAUTE VALLÉE

The doctor did not arrive at the Café des Halles until late in the afternoon, so it wasn’t until after five that Baillard started the next stage of his journey.

He was heading for Rennes-les-Bains, a small town not far from Couiza and Coustaussa in the Salz valley. Baillard had lived there for some years in the 1890s, and continued to use it as his poste restante. He had been working on a book on the folklore and mythology of the valley. Gathering together antique stories of demons and ghosts and prehistoric creatures said to have stalked the mountains and hills before the Celts, before the Volcae, before the Romans. Before Christianity came and appropriated the old ways, the old shrines, for its own.

There wasn’t a breath of wind as they drove north and the sun was still fierce, so they kept the windows wide open. The journey passed pleasantly enough. The doctor was good company and an engaging conversationalist, his interests ranging from midwifery in the mountain villages to the promise of a good harvest this year. He was careful to express no opinions about either Pétain or de Gaulle, and Baillard did not prompt him.

They drove into the town as the shadows were lengthening. The single bell of the church of Saint-Celse et Saint-Nazaire was ringing for vespers. The doctor set him down in the Place du Pérou. It had a new name now, but Baillard still thought of it in the old way. In those days, Abbé Boudet had preached from the tiny pulpit of the church of faith and ghosts and superstition, of trapped spirits and souls that could not rest. It was in this square that the old families of the village had waved their men to war in 1914, to Belgium and the Western Front, to their deaths – Jules Bousquet, Jean Bruet, Pierre and René Flamand, Joseph Saint-Loup. Baillard too, watching those he loved walk away – Louis-Anatole, who had survived the slaughter to start a new life in the Americas, and Marieta’s beloved husband Pascal, who had not. A SES GLORIEUX MORTS read the inscription on the plaque in the church porch. Baillard knew, as did they all, that there was no glory in death.

For a moment he was tempted to climb up through the woods to see the old house that lived so vividly in his imagination, but the thought of gazing upon the burnt shell of the Domaine de la Cade saddened him. Nearly fifty years ago, but the memories were still sharp as glass. Too many people had died. Too many stories had changed their course. Here, more than anywhere else, Baillard felt the horror of that night in the landscape, the memory of ghosts and the earth torn open.

His thoughts returned again to the Codex. To the promise of those words, as well as the intimations of terror contained within them. Of what might be unleashed.

‘Las fantomas . . .’

Baillard walked more quickly through the familiar streets to the bureau de poste, where he hoped the package from Antoine Déjean would be waiting for him. The office was closed, but he tapped on the window. Seconds later, a young woman came to the door and looked out. He saw her take in his pale suit, his panama hat and the yellow handkerchief he wore in his breast pocket.

‘Monsieur Baillard?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘It’s Geneviève, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘I knew your grandparents,’ he said. ‘Your parents, too.’

‘Yes, my mother said so.’

‘Please pass on my respects to Madame Saint-Loup when next you see her.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Now, I am hoping you have something for me?’

The girl’s pretty face grew serious. ‘I’m afraid that nothing has come, Monsieur Baillard. I’ve been here all weekend and today, but nothing has arrived for you.’

Baillard felt the air go out of his lungs. Only now did he realise how very much he had depended on the package being there.

‘A message, perhaps?’

‘I’m afraid not, monsieur.’

‘No message,’ he said softly. ‘A pity, damatge.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Will you be here again tomorrow, Geneviève?’

‘Every day except for Fridays, monsieur. My sister Eloise stands in for me then.’

Baillard nodded. ‘I will be gone for a few days, but shall return at the beginning of next week. If anything comes for me, please keep it. Tell no one.’

‘Yes, monsieur.’

He looked at her, seeing the steadfast expression behind her calm exterior. The Saint-Loup girls were all the same, took after their mother. As alike as grapes on the vine.

‘Thank you, Geneviève.’

‘I’ve done nothing, monsieur.’

‘Ah, but you have, filha. You are here. That, in and of itself, is courageous.’ He smiled. ‘And for that, you have my thanks.’

‘Any of us would do the same, Monsieur Baillard.’

With the sound of Geneviève bolting the door at his back, Baillard walked back into the main street. He passed the Hôtel de la Reine, now down on its luck, so much less assured than it had been in the heyday of the spa town in the 1890s, when visitors from Paris, from Toulouse, from Carcassonne and Perpignan came to take the waters.

On the outskirts of the town, a farmer in a truck picked him up. Baillard was grateful for the lift. He was capable of walking great distances, even at his advanced age, but he felt burdened, particularly tired.

They left the village, following the cut of the river Salz. On the hills, jutting outcrops of rock kept watch over the valley. The glint of sunlight on water, the soft silver underside of leaves lifted by the breeze, yellow and blue and pink flowers clustering at the foot of fir trees and pines, juniper bushes and willow.

Unlike the doctor, his latest companion was a silent man, content to smoke and occasionally share a swig of red wine from the flask balanced on the dashboard in front of him, leaving Baillard at liberty to think. As the truck chugged its way through wooded valleys towards the tiny village of Los Seres, he wondered again what had gone wrong. He hoped that Antoine Déjean had only been delayed. That there was no cause for alarm.

As they drove higher into the mountains, Baillard thought about the Codex. A single sheet of papyrus between leather covers, according to contemporary records. Seven short verses, no more. Was it possible that so fragile a thing could have survived for so long? Fragments spoken, written down, words Antoine had seen? Enough for Baillard to hope they came from the Codex, but until the package arrived, he could not be sure.

Fanciful as it was, it seemed to him as though the story did not want to be told. A whispering, a trick of the light, hints and rumours, but the truth remaining stubbornly out of reach. He felt he was standing alone on a bare stage, with the characters waiting, invisible, in the wings.

Chapter 19

CARCASSONNE

‘At least let me carry the plates to the sink,’ Sandrine said again, after their evening meal was finished.

‘I can manage,’ Marieta said firmly, shooing her away. ‘You should be resting.’

Sandrine’s hand automatically went to the large sticking plaster on her head, the smell of iodine and antiseptic catching in her throat.

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

Marieta huffed. ‘Well, I don’t want you under my feet in the kitchen.’

Sandrine went to find Marianne in the salon at the front of the house. The largest room on the ground floor, before the war it had been used for special occasions only. After their father’s death and the bitter winter of 1940 that followed, the girls had shut up the other rooms and set up camp here. Easier to heat just one room. By the time spring came, the habit was established. The dining room and their father’s study remained closed, and the salon was a working room, magazines and books everywhere, a pleasant muddle.

In those days, acquaintances of Marianne had often stayed for a day or two, though Sandrine had rarely seen them. In the morning she went to college, and by the time she got home, they’d gone. Now, the stream of visitors had dried up. They mostly had the house to themselves.

Two tall windows gave on to the rue du Palais, with long yellow curtains skimming the wooden floorboards. A fin-de-siècle fireplace of ornate marble, a little too large for the space, and a wrought-iron fire basket. Two oil paintings, one of their mother and one of their father, hung above the sideboard that smelt of beeswax and honey. Some time back, the plate and silver had been moved to the cellar for safe keeping, then left there even after the threat of bombing was over. In their place was a ceramic bowl with dried rose petals from the garden.

Marianne was reading on the sofa, with her legs curled up under her.

‘I offered to wash up,’ said Sandrine, throwing herself into the armchair, ‘but Marieta sent me away.’

‘Did you expect anything else?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No, but she seems so tired.’

‘She’s not going to change her ways now.’

‘I suppose not.’

Sandrine sat cross-legged in the chair and rested her head back. ‘Are you going out?’

Marianne met her gaze. ‘Not tonight,’ she said, then went back to her book.

Sandrine couldn’t settle. She swung her legs backwards and forwards, shifted position, picked up her book, put it down again.

‘Do you mind if I put on the wireless?’ she said in the end.

‘Anything to stop you fidgeting. It’s on the blink, though. Reception comes and goes.’

Sandrine went over to the highly polished wooden set and began to fiddle with the Bakelite dials, turning each in turn, but with no luck. The rattle of the airwaves cracked and pulsed. The hiss and spit of distant voices, echoing through the mesh of the speaker. Then there was a knock on the front door.

Marianne was immediately alert. ‘Are you expecting a visitor?’

‘No. Are you?’

Marianne shook her head. The girls listened as Marieta’s wooden clogs clacked along the tiled corridor. Then the chain being taken off the door and the snick of the deadlock, followed by muffled conversation in the hall.

‘Madomaisèla Lucie,’ announced Marieta.

Lucie was wearing a smart red dress with wide sleeves, high heels and a matching bag. Her corn-coloured hair was perfectly waved and set and her lips were a flash of red in her pale face.

Marianne sighed with relief.

‘Hope you don’t mind me calling so late?’

‘Not at all,’ Marianne said. ‘You look nice. Have you been out somewhere?’

‘Sure thing.’ Lucie pushed off her shoes and began to massage her toes. ‘As a surprise, Max had bought tickets to a concert – our first-year anniversary, you see – and it was wonderful. No problems at all, it was a marvellous evening.’ She turned to Sandrine. ‘Max is a terrific amateur pianist, you know, good enough to be professional really, though he’s so modest.’

‘I didn’t think classical music was quite your thing,’ Marianne said.

‘Oh well . . .’ Lucie waved her hand airily.

Marianne smiled. ‘He’s not with you?’

‘No, he’s gone home. He doesn’t like leaving Liesl alone at night for long; there’ve been one or two . . . problems. Well, you know.’ Her look deepened. ‘So, seeing as how I was at a loose end, I thought I’d come and see how the patient here was bearing up after this morning. Check she was all right.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Sandrine said. ‘And you were right about the police. No one wanted to listen to me. Kept me waiting for hours. One officer was nice, but that was it.’

‘You went to the police station?’ Lucie said quickly. ‘But you said you wouldn’t, you promised.’

‘There’s no harm done,’ Marianne said. ‘Sandrine didn’t say anything about you or Max. Really, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘What kind of problems has Liesl had?’ Sandrine asked.

‘Boys throwing stones, shouting names,’ Marianne said.

‘Max says it isn’t serious,’ Lucie said, ‘but I think it’s awful. He’s reported it to the police, but of course they do nothing. It makes me furious.’

She leant back against the arm of the sofa, suddenly looking tired.

‘Thank you for bringing me home earlier,’ Sandrine said, feeling guilty now.

‘It’s all right, kid. You’re fine, that’s the main thing.’

‘Apart from the fact I can’t get the wireless to work.’

Lucie rubbed her eyes. ‘Want me to take a look?’

‘Can you fix it?’

‘I can try.’

She took off her gloves and went over to the cabinet. She crouched down and put her ear to the mesh, then started to adjust the settings.

‘Is it broken?’ asked Sandrine.

‘No, it’s just hard to pick up a signal. Well, that’s to say, it’s easy enough to get Radio Paris, but not other frequencies.’

Sandrine sat on the arm of the sofa, watching Lucie work. Voices in French, in German, echoing, then clear, then gone again. A burst of accordion music. Then four notes on a drum. Sharp, staccato, hollow.

‘Sounds like Beethoven’s Fifth,’ Sandrine joked.

Marianne stiffened. ‘God, you’re right!’

A high-pitched whistling filled the room, like an orchestra tuning up.

‘Perhaps it’s your concert, Lucie—’

‘Shut up,’ her sister said sharply. ‘Listen!’

‘Marianne!’

‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just that at nine o’clock every night there’s a broadcast from London. It’s how de Gaulle and his supporters communicate with the Resistance. And how they pass on messages to one another in the zone occupée. Lucie’s found it.’

Sandrine’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How do you know that?’

Marianne didn’t answer, just sat forward to hear better. Lucie flapped her hand for silence as she tried to tune in. Then, through the hiss and crack of the radio waves, at last a clear voice.

‘Ici Londres. Les Français Parlent aux Français.’

‘Got it,’ said Lucie.

‘Demain, à Carcassonne . . . Tomorrow, in Carcassonne, in the zone non-occupée . . .’

Sandrine felt she was hardly breathing as she listened to a message she only half understood. She glanced at her sister, at Lucie, and saw expectation, nerves, concentration on their faces. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The English national anthem was played, and another burst of music, then the echo of space and a hissing. London fell silent.

Lucie leant forward and turned off the wireless.

‘It is true then,’ Marianne said under her breath. ‘A demonstration tomorrow for Bastille Day.’

‘Did you know about it?’ Lucie asked.

Marianne flushed. ‘Rumours, nothing definite,’ she said. ‘It’s extraordinary you found the transmission.’

‘So that’s what he meant,’ said Sandrine slowly.

‘What who meant?’ said Marianne sharply.

‘The policeman, the one who listened to me – I think his name was Ramond. He said there was due to be a demonstration in support of de Gaulle.’

‘He told you that?’

Sandrine nodded.

‘And he was the officer you talked to about what happened to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good, at least,’ Marianne said, though she didn’t explain.

‘Max will want to go,’ Lucie was saying, ‘even though it’s a risk.’

Marianne’s expression softened. ‘You’d think less of him if he didn’t.’

Lucie laughed. ‘I know that, I know.’

Sandrine felt a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. ‘I want to go too.’

Marianne’s reaction was immediate, unequivocal. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘I want to show my support.’

‘You’re too young.’

‘I’m eighteen!’

‘Too young,’ Marianne repeated firmly. ‘I don’t want you getting caught up in anything.’

Sandrine flushed. ‘You were the one telling me I don’t see what’s going on under my nose. Well, this is my chance.’ She turned to Lucie. ‘May I come with you and Max?’

‘No,’ Marianne repeated.

‘Look, I know I was an idiot today, but you can’t wrap me up in cotton wool.’

‘I am happy for Sandrine to come with us,’ Lucie said carefully, looking at Marianne. ‘Max won’t let anything happen to her.’

Sandrine turned back to her sister. ‘You see?’

Marianne didn’t speak. The clock on the sideboard marked the seconds. Finally, she answered.

‘All right, but you are to stay with me and do exactly – exactly – what I tell you. Do you hear?’

‘You’re going too?’

‘Of course. Though quite what Marieta will have to say about it, I can’t imagine.’

Sandrine grinned. ‘Maybe she’ll want to come. Wave a placard.’

There was a moment of silence as they each pictured the scene. Then all three girls burst out laughing.

Chapter 20

LOS SERES

‘This is as far as I go, monsieur. You’ll be all right from here?’

Audric Baillard nodded. ‘I will, amic,’ he said, climbing out of the cab. ‘My thanks for your kindness.’

Baillard watched the muffled tail lights of the lorry growing more and more faint, two pinpricks of weak light in the dark countryside. Then he turned away from the road and began to walk into the hills.

The world seemed to age with each step he took, following the old shepherds’ tracks as he had done many times before. As so often, the familiar and ancient path brought back memories. At first they were memories of those against whom he had battled during his long life. But as he walked higher into the Sabarthès mountains, at his side were the ghosts of his allies, friends, the women and men of courage who, through the ages, had stood firm against tyranny. If the Codex yet survived to be found, then might he see them again in the even darker hours he knew lay ahead?

At last Baillard caught the first glimpse of the handful of buildings that made up Los Seres, silhouetted in the dark. His own small stone house was at the heart of the village. As he approached, he could see that no one had been there. No sign that Antoine had sought him here instead. He removed the wooden bar at the front door, propped it against the outer wall, then went inside.

Stale air rushed to greet him. He took off his hat and his jacket, then lit the oil lamp. The match hissed, sparked, then a flame flared bright and set a pool of yellow light dancing across the polished wooden surface of the table. He went to the cupboard, took out a glass and an old-fashioned bottle with a rubber stopper, and poured himself a measure of Guignolet. The red liquid glinted and danced in the lamplight, sending a rainbow flickering across the bare walls of the house. He frowned, feeling something was not right, then realised it was the sound of the ticking of the clock that was missing. It had run down while he had been gone. He wound it up, let the music of the turning hands fill the silent space, then sat down at the table.

‘And there shall come forth . . .’

The few words that had come down through the ages. One phrase in particular, recorded by a contemporary witness to the conflagration of texts destroyed by the early Christian Church in Gaul.

Was it a call to arms? An incantation? For all his scholarship and knowledge, Baillard was not certain. He feared the power contained within the words, of what might be set loose. France needed some intervention to help her cause, that was certain. But would the cost be too high?

‘Come forth the spirits of the air.’

As he spoke the words again, Baillard had the sensation of something shifting. Imagination, hope, or something more tangible, he wasn’t yet certain. The boundaries between the known and the unknown world beginning to crack, like ice in a melting river. He had an awareness of movement beyond the black of the mountains and the rock, beyond the fields and the plains.

Even now, in the caves of the Pic de Soularac, a shifting of bone and spirit. A girl and her lover, her husband, beginning to stir after eight hundred years of sleep.

‘A ghost army . . .’ he muttered. ‘L’armada de fantomas.’

Was it true? Could such things be true?

Baillard covered his eyes, in the hope that he might see more clearly. That he might hear better the voices trying to speak to him through the depths of recorded time. He almost felt he could hear the stirrings of the dead awakening, the remembrance of blood and sinew and muscle as the land came back to life.

But after a brief moment of promise, now only silence echoed. The graveyards, once more, were quiet. The time had not yet come. Might, he knew, never come.

Baillard took his hands from his face and placed them upon the table. Skin as thin as tissue, brown liver spots and ridged with blue veins. He was astonished to find his pulse was racing.

‘Vertat . . .’

He couldn’t allow himself to hope, because if he did and he was mistaken, the despair would weaken him. As rumours of what was happening in the East reached him – a genocide, a rewriting of what it meant to be human – Baillard feared he would not be able to find within himself the strength to fight such evil.

Outside, the moon continued to rise in a darkening sky above the Pic de Saint-Barthélémy, flooding the mountains in a silver light.

Chapter 21

CARCASSONNE

The windows and shutters of the bedroom were open. The black night sky was lit by ribbons of light from the glow of the full moon. Sandrine lay in her bed beneath the window, listening to the noises in the street and too stirred up to sleep. Comings and goings, men’s voices, the sound of cars and feet on the pavements, the shriek of the last train leaving the station. Sounds of the Bastide, echoing off the stone walls of the old city, the cathedrals and alleyways, the lakes and trees in Square Gambetta.

Sandrine hated the blackout. No street lamps, no headlights. All official buildings had been issued with swathes of fabric to cover their long, high expanses of opaque glass. Two years after France’s defeat, the blackout wasn’t observed so rigorously in the zone nono now there was no longer the constant threat of German or Italian planes in the skies above Carcassonne. Even so, occasionally a zealous patrolman would knock on their door and tell them a sliver of light was showing through the gap in the shutters.

In some respects, life wasn’t as bad as it had been during the war itself. There was no curfew in the South. There was rationing, of course, and endless queues, restrictions on travel and identity papers. But provided one didn’t want to go over the demarcation line, it was possible to forget, if only for a moment, that France had been defeated. That, and the hollow absence in the heart of the house where her father had been.

But now Sandrine felt full of a wild, restless energy. She felt she had been lied to. That, beneath the surface of everyday life, everything was utterly changed. A dreary resignation etched on people’s faces, the accretion of hundreds of tiny indignities. And what she had seen today at the river, at the police station too, signs of a harsher reality. She kicked off the sheet, stretching her long legs and arms to the furthest boundary of the bed, then she heard footsteps on the landing.

‘I’m not asleep,’ she called out.

The handle turned, and Marianne put her head round the door.

‘Has Lucie gone?’ asked Sandrine.

‘About half an hour ago.’

‘You’ve been ages. What were you talking about?’

Marianne sat down on the chair at the foot of the bed. ‘Max. He’s all Lucie talks about really. About his life before the war, his experiences on the front line, their future plans.’ She paused. ‘She was down tonight, though, not like her usual self.’

‘Max seems very nice.’

‘Oh, he is. He’s very good for her.’

‘Where was he based during the war?’

‘Metz, attached to the 42^e Corps d’Armée.’

‘Is that where Papa was?’

‘No, Papa was much further north. Of course, Lucie didn’t know Max then – they only met when he arrived in Carcassonne eighteen months ago. His father, Ralph Blum – you might have heard of him – was a well-known journalist. Anti-fascist, a vocal opponent of Hitler. He sent his family south when Paris fell.’

‘Where’s he now, still in Paris?’

‘They don’t know. He was arrested last August and sent to the camp at Beaune-la-Rolande. They’ve heard nothing since.’ Marianne sighed. ‘Lucie was talking about how much she wants to get married, but of course Max refuses. He says it will put her at risk.’

‘Is he right?’

‘Yes, even if they could find someone prepared to marry them in the first place. However, Lucie can’t think about anything else. I’m terribly fond of her, but she seems to believe that rules don’t apply to her.’

Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘Lucie told me she’d introduced you and Thierry.’

‘That’s true, she did.’

‘It made me realise you hardly ever mention him.’

Marianne went quiet for a moment. ‘What’s there to say? Lots of women in the same boat as me. No sense complaining.’

Sandrine sat up in bed and put her arms around her knees. ‘Well, are you going to get married as soon as he comes back? Do you love him?’

Marianne hesitated. ‘We’re comfortable around each other.’

‘Not love at first sight?’

Marianne laughed. ‘I’m not sure that sort of thing exists outside of Hollywood or tatty romans-feuilletons!’

‘How did it start? I don’t think you ever told me.’

‘Start? He was in our crowd. He’s a cousin of my friend Suzanne. You remember Suzanne? Tall, cropped hair?’

‘Yes, I like her.’

Marianne smiled. ‘Well, Lucie was going dancing and Thierry was there, asked if I’d like to go with him. I did. It was pleasant. We went out again, and I suppose it went from that. You wouldn’t guess to look at him, but he’s very light on his feet. When he was called up, he wanted to make it official. As you know, he proposed. Rather caught me by surprise. He was so keen, I heard myself agreeing.’ She shook her head. ‘But as I said, it’s not on the cards now.’

‘It doesn’t sound awfully romantic when you put it like that.’

‘Why all these questions?’ Marianne said suspiciously. ‘Is there someone you like?’

‘No,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘No, just curious.’

The bells of Saint-Michel struck three. The air was cooler now and the rue du Palais was quiet at last, though there were still distant noises of men at work elsewhere in the town. The sound of a nightjar singing, the rasp of crickets in the cracks in the garden wall.

Marianne stood up. ‘I’m all in.’

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Sandrine said. ‘About getting married.’

‘When Thierry comes home – if he comes home – we’ll see.’ She leant over and kissed Sandrine on the forehead. ‘I promise you one thing, darling. War or no war, when you fall in love, you’ll know.’

After the door had shut, Sandrine lay back on her pillows. What did she want? A steady and workaday arrangement, like Marianne seemed content with? Or the absolute and single-minded devotion Lucie had for Max? Or the loyalty her father had felt for their mother, spending his life mourning a wife who had died eighteen years before?

Sandrine felt a shimmering anticipation under the surface of her skin. It was absurd. Minutes, less than minutes, moments. She hadn’t even seen his face. She knew nothing about him. In her half-waking state, her thoughts tumbled one over the other, racing, falling, soaring as she tried to re-create him. The sound of his voice, the sweet smell of sandalwood on his skin, the touch of his lips on her mouth.

Breathing life back into her.

Codex IV

GAUL

CARCASO

JULY AD 342

Arinius climbed the ladder to the top of the wall between the towers. Over the past days, the limitanei on the first watch of the day had become used to the company of this silent young monk. They nodded a greeting and continued their patrol.

He looked north, over the plain, to the river Atax, shimmering silver in the first light. Then he turned to the south. On clear mornings, before the burning heat of the sun fell over the town in a white haze, the peaks of the distant mountains were visible. Somewhere, someone was singing. A woman’s voice, an old song about exile, about the endless sands of the deserts. About being far from home.

Arinius had become used to the different languages, the various smells of food and wine, the mixture of peoples who made their homes in Carcaso. He no longer heard the murmurings of the Liturgy of the Hours in his mind, but rather the whispering of the wind across the plains, the call of linnets and sparrows. The baleful howl of wolves in the hills at night.

From time to time, he unswaddled his precious cargo and stared at the beauty of the Coptic letters on the papyrus. He read Latin, but none of the other ancient languages. He wished he knew what the words meant, why they were considered so dangerous. But the letters, the pattern of them, the shape, imprinted themselves on his eyes and, through his eyes, on his soul. He feared them and revered them in equal measure.

Arinius felt God spoke to him through every line. His growing grief that Christianity had turned on itself had faded. His sorrow that, after the years of persecution by Rome, the new Church should have adopted the same weapons of oppression and judgement and martyrdom, this too had faded.

Here, in the frontier settlement of Carcaso, he felt at peace, even though the streets were not always tranquil. Arguments flared up easily out of nowhere, weapons drawn, then just as quickly sheathed. It felt like home and it saddened him that he had to leave. Even though his health had improved, the racking cough that tore through his thin frame and made his ribs ache was a constant reminder of how the illness still crouched within him. He did not believe he would live to make old bones.

Arinius was not afraid to die, though he feared the journey itself might kill him. All he could hope was God might grant him the time to ensure that the Codex was safe. In the future, in better times, he prayed, the holy words would be found and read, honoured and understood. Spoken as he had heard them spoken in the stone silence of the community in Lugdunum.

Arinius stood for a while longer, looking south towards the mountains, wondering what lay ahead.

Chapter 22

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1942

The man known as Leo Coursan knelt at the screen in the confessional in the cathédrale Saint-Michel, aware of the presence of the priest behind the grille.

‘O God,’ he continued, ‘I am sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.’

His hand went to the silver crucifix pinned to his left lapel. He had been obliged not to wear so visible a sign of his faith over the past few months and had felt naked without it. He had been forced to take on another name, another man’s characteristics, and he had played his part well. Finally, this morning, he could return to himself once again.

The cathedral was deserted at this time of day. The only sounds were the song of the birds in the lime trees lining the boulevard Barbès. The plaster figures of St Bernard and St Benoît listened to him in contemplative silence.

‘I have dissembled and lied for the purpose of bringing the enemies of the Church into plain view. I have consorted with those who deny God. I have neglected my spiritual salvation.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life.’

His confession seemed to hang like mist in the air. The silence from behind the screen was deafening, so palpable that he almost felt he could reach out and touch it. Then, an intake of breath and the priest began to speak. A low, steady collection of vowels and syllables, intoned so very many times before, though he could hear the fear in the man’s voice.

The words of absolution and forgiveness washed over him as white sound. He felt a lightness in his limbs, coursing through his veins, a sense of grace and of peace and the deep and certain knowledge that today he was doing God’s work.

‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.’

He could hear the relief in the priest’s voice as he came to the end of the ritual.

‘For His mercy endures for ever,’ Coursan gave the response.

He made the sign of the cross, then stood up. He ran his hand over his newly cut hair, straightened his jacket and his trousers, then leant forward and whispered through the grille.

‘Remain where you are for five minutes. Then leave and lock the cathedral behind you. Allow no one access today.’

‘I cannot possibly—’

He smacked the wire mesh with his hand. The sound was loud, discordant, violent in the confined confessional. He felt the priest flinch behind the wire.

‘Do it,’ he said in a cold, level voice. ‘You will thank me for this, Father. I give you my word.’

He pulled back the curtain, feeling the dust and imprint of ages in the thick material. Left, right, left, the heels of his shoes clipping loudly on the stone floor. He stopped, turned back to the altar, towards the rising sun, and made the sign of the cross with the holy water from the bénitier. Then he pulled open the heavy wooden door and rejoined the world.

For an instant, he paused and looked out over the Garden of Remembrance. To the stone plaques of the war memorial commemorating the men of Carcassonne who’d given their lives in the Grande Guerre. He regretted the damage that would be done in this honoured place, but it was unavoidable.

He put his hands to his face, relishing the feel of smooth, clean skin, after the weeks of not shaving properly. It was Leo Coursan, partisan, Occitan freedom fighter, who had entered the cathedral. A borrowed identity, stolen from a murdered man. It was Leo Authié, member of the Deuxième Bureau and servant of God, who left it and walked out into the early morning sun.

Chapter 23

Raoul woke with a jolt. He had slept badly, his dreams haunted by Antoine and the girl, the sense of being too late. Always too late, failing to prevent some catastrophe or another. Arriving to find her dead in the water. His brother’s tortured face shifting into Antoine’s features. Antoine’s silver chain in the girl’s fingers. Coursan and César sitting at separate tables in a bar.

His hand shot out to his bedside table, checking the antique glass bottle was still there, lying wrapped in the handkerchief, then he slumped back against the headboard. He could see there was something inside the bottle, but had resisted the temptation last night to try to get it out. It was so fragile, he didn’t want to damage whatever Antoine had hidden inside. He’d see what César thought.

Raoul lit his last cigarette, smoking it to the very end, then got up, washed and went into the kitchen. His mother was already there, standing at the window. Her blank eyes looked blindly out over the narrow street to the canal. Her thin arms were wrapped tight around her waist, as if she feared that if she let go she would shatter into pieces. In the sink, the tap was running into a china bowl filled with turnips.

For a moment, Raoul thought he saw her lips begin to form a smile or try to shape a greeting or acknowledge his presence, but she didn’t. He kissed her on the cheek, then leant over and turned the tap off.

‘I have to go out,’ he said. ‘Will you be all right?’

‘Is he here yet?’

‘No, there’s no one, Maman.’

‘Not Bruno?’

Raoul felt his heart contract, though he’d not expected anything else. It was the same every day. His once vivacious and kind mother had vanished when he’d told her Bruno had been killed. At first she hadn’t believed it. Then, slowly and remorselessly, her world had begun to unravel, a little more every day, every week, every month.

Four years ago.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘Only us.’

Now she rarely spoke, never seemed to notice anything. A neighbour came in each day to keep an eye and to do a little shopping, but Raoul didn’t know if she even noticed. If she even knew a war had been fought and lost.

‘Don’t stay indoors all day,’ he said. ‘Go out, get some air.’

Raoul left the apartment and ran down the stairs, two at a time. On the Quai Riquet, he exhaled deeply, breathing out the sadness that choked his lungs, and let the sun and the soft morning air bring life back into his cheeks.

By seven thirty, he was sitting in the Café Saillan. The oldest café in Carcassonne, it was opposite Les Halles and only a few minutes’ walk from boulevard Barbès, where the demonstrators were to gather. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the grey faces of men come off the night shift. Hard-boiled eggs sat in a glass jar on the bar, as they always had, though these days they were china, not real.

Raoul found a table facing the door and ordered a panaché, not able to stomach the ersatz coffee on offer. He was queasy with nerves as it was. He scanned the room, wondering how many of the men in here were going to the demonstration. How many of them even knew what was about to happen. It was extraordinary how a day of such significance could look the same as any other, smell the same. Men in the tabac, women already queuing outside the boulangerie, the épicerie, a few standing in line outside the closed door of the haberdasher.

He raised his hand as he saw César appear in the doorway carrying a holdall. He looked drawn and there were bags under his eyes.

‘No Gaston or Robert?’ César asked, sitting down.

Raoul shook his head. ‘Not yet. I waited for you at the Terminus last night, later at the Continental, in case you went back to the print shop. I didn’t see you.’

César’s eyes sparked. ‘Did you find Antoine then?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘No. I went to the apartment straight after I left you. The concierge said she heard someone early yesterday morning, but didn’t actually see him. What about you?’

César sighed. ‘No luck either. Antoine didn’t turn up at work yesterday. I tried his usual bars, but no one admitted to seeing him since last Friday.’

Raoul paused, then produced the white cotton handkerchief from his pocket with the bottle wrapped inside.

‘I don’t know if it’s important, but I found this in Antoine’s flat. It was hidden in the cistern.’

César frowned. ‘In the cistern?’

Raoul nodded. ‘That’s why I took it. Antoine had gone to a lot of trouble to conceal it. I thought it might be important.’ He looked across the table at César. ‘It doesn’t mean anything to you? He never mentioned he was looking after something for someone?’

César shook his head.

‘There’s something inside, a piece of paper maybe. I’ve been thinking we should try to get it out.’

‘The bottle looks valuable,’ César said doubtfully. ‘It might break.’

‘That’s what worries me. On the other hand, if what’s inside might—’

He broke off. César’s eyes had sharpened, his face settling into a scowl. Raoul turned round to see Sylvère Laval walking towards them, followed by the Bonnets. Quickly, he slipped the handkerchief and the bottle off the table and back into his pocket.

‘Got the leaflets?’ Gaston said when they drew level.

‘For Christ’s sake, Bonnet,’ snapped César, ‘don’t broadcast it.’

‘It’s been all over the radio as it is,’ Gaston said, but he lit a cigarette and shut up.

The group sat in silence. Laval watched the street. Gaston twisted a spent match round and round between his finger and thumb. Robert was tearing tiny shreds of paper from the corner of a copy of L’Éclair, another Vichyist newspaper.

Anticipation crawled over Raoul’s skin like pins and needles. He wanted to get on with it. Seven forty-five, seven fifty-five. The hands of the clock above the counter ground slowly on, counting down the minutes to eight o’clock.

Finally Laval stood up. ‘Time to go.’

Chapter 24

Sandrine looked at the drift of clothes heaped along the back of the Chinese silk settee, the discarded shoes on the floor by the bamboo plant stand. She had slept well for once – no nightmares – and she was full of anticipation.

‘Darling, are you ready?’ Marianne called up the stairs.

‘Almost . . .’

She settled on a green dress with a white belt and buttons, which she thought made her look older. She paused for a moment to look at her reflection. The bruise on the side of her head was the colour of the sea at Narbonne in July, blue and green and purple, but the cut barely showed. She applied a little face powder, ran a comb through her hair, then began to search for a suitable pair of shoes.

‘Sandrine!’

‘J’arrive,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m coming . . .’

She buckled her shoes, then threw open the door and charged out on to the landing. The catch bounced in the latch and a funnel of warm air rushed into the room. It lifted the papers, her notes written in the police station and left abandoned on the tallboy, and sent them fluttering like a drift of autumn leaves. Sandrine picked them up and dropped them on the bed, then rushed back out.

The front door was open and Marianne was already waiting in the street. Marieta was hovering at the foot of the stairs.

‘You stay with your sister,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything silly.’

‘I won’t, I won’t,’ Sandrine said, trying to get past her.

‘And don’t go getting yourself arrested again.’

Sandrine pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t arrested yesterday.’

‘The first sign of trouble, you come home. Do you hear me?’

Sandrine grinned. ‘And you put your feet up, do you hear me? You look all in.’

Then before Marieta could make any more fuss, Sandrine slipped past her and down the steps to the pavement.

‘I’m sorry. Marieta was fussing, though I think she’s proud of us actually.’ She jerked her head. ‘Which is more than can be said for that old witch next door.’

Marianne followed Sandrine’s gaze to see their next-door neighbour, Madame Fournier, peering out from behind a voile curtain.

‘She’s an awful woman,’ she said. ‘Take no notice.’

The rue du Palais was quiet. But as soon as the girls reached the boulevard Maréchal Pétain, it was clear many Carcassonnais had heard the illicit broadcast or been told of it. Everywhere, people.

‘Where are we meeting Lucie?’ Sandrine said, raising her voice to make herself heard over the noise of the crowd.

‘At the junction with rue Voltaire.’

Despite the serious purpose of the rally, there was something of a carnival atmosphere. Women in summer dresses, bare arms and flowered skirts, the clip of heels on the pavements. Men in their Sunday best, hats perched on the back of their heads, children carried on shoulders. As well as placards, there were flags – the red, white and blue of the murdered Republic, but also the scarlet and gold of the Languedoc. The colours of Viscount Trencavel. Some men had bottles of beer, women carried trays of cake or bread, biscuits, bonbons, each willing to share their meagre rations with those around them. For today, at least.

Sandrine felt a tap on the arm. She turned to see one of the teachers from the Lycée, a quiet and rather serious woman who taught the première. She had an idea she was married to a doctor.

‘Madame Giraud, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.’

The woman held up her hand. ‘Aujourd’hui, appelez-moi Jeanne,’ she replied.

Seeing her out of school, Sandrine realised Madame Giraud wasn’t actually much older than Marianne.

‘All right,’ she smiled. ‘Jeanne.’

‘It’s good to see you here, Sandrine.’

The crowd was continuing to build. Many people carried banners, words printed in block letters: ICI FRANCE, ICI LONDRES, VIVE LA RÉSISTANCE, VIVRE LIBRE OU MOURIR.

‘Live free or die,’ Sandrine said, reading a placard carried by a veteran. She smiled at him. The medals pinned to his black jacket rattled as he leant forward and clasped her arm.

‘I fought at Verdun, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘But not for Vichy. Not for Berlin.’ He waved at the people all round him. ‘Today at least, today Carcassonne shows her true face.’ He put his hand up and touched her cheek. ‘It is up to you now. Old men should be put out to grass. Leave it to the young.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ she said, oddly moved by the exchange.

At that moment, the marchers began to move off. The old man nodded to her, then raised his placard and, with his eyes fixed straight ahead, walked on.

Sandrine and Marianne turned the corner into boulevard Barbès, where the crowds were even denser, more tightly packed. Chalk marks had been drawn on the road. Slogans and symbols, the Cross of Lorraine and the Occitan cross, the letters FFL – for les Forces Françaises Libres – and the letter H for Honneur. White marks of defiance on the grey tarmac. Men outnumbered the women here, men with dark jumping eyes and thin shoulders, scanning the crowd. And lining the route along the pavements Sandrine saw a line of police, guns cradled in their arms. Watching, all the time watching. She stole a glance at her sister and saw Marianne had noticed too.

Swarms of children were running up and down the paths below the old city walls of the Bastide. Two little girls of seven or eight were playing cache-cache, until the mother of one of them appeared, smacked the child on the back of her legs and dragged her away. The march shuffled past the Jardin des Tilleuls, where the Foire aux Vins was held each November. On a normal day, she thought, the old veteran might be sitting with his comrades beneath the trees in his dark suit and beret. Today the benches were empty.

On the far side of the road, Sandrine caught sight of Max and Lucie, standing with Max’s sister, Liesl. She had pale skin and wide brown eyes and wore her black hair long to the shoulder, not waved or pinned up.

‘Liesl’s rather beautiful, isn’t she?’ Sandrine said to Marianne.

‘Very.’

Lucie was wearing the same dress she’d had on at the river. She looked bright and eye-catching, as if she was going to a fair. She waved and they pushed through the sea of people to join them. Lucie kissed them both. Max, formal as always in a sombre black suit, lifted his hat. Liesl gave a quick smile but said nothing.

Then Sandrine noticed Marianne’s friend, Suzanne Peyre, Thierry’s cousin. At nearly six foot tall and with cropped hair, she was very distinctive, towering head and shoulders above everyone else.

‘There’s Suzanne over there,’ she said.

Sandrine tried to move forward, but she found her way blocked by Monsieur Fournier, their unpleasant next-door neighbour’s equally unpleasant brother. Sandrine disliked him, not least because he always stood too close. She wondered why he’d come. He made no secret of his support for Pétain, and his outspoken opinions about ‘the Jew conspiracy’, as he called it, were well known.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he said.

‘Monsieur Fournier.’

‘I’m surprised your sister allowed you to come.’

Sandrine forced herself to smile. ‘You’re here, Monsieur Fournier.’

‘What would your father have said?’ he said, taking a step closer. Sandrine tried to move back, but the crowds were too dense and they were being pressed together in the crush. She could feel his sour breath, ripe with tobacco, on her cheek. ‘Then again, he was another Jew lover, wasn’t he?’ he said. ‘Like Ménard’s girl over there.’

Sandrine was shocked by the blatancy of it all. Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say to defend either her father or Lucie.

‘Problem?’

Somehow Suzanne had picked her way through the crowd and was now standing between her and Fournier.

‘Not really,’ Sandrine said.

‘My friend doesn’t want to talk to you,’ Suzanne said, turning to him, ‘so if you don’t mind?’

‘I’ll talk to whoever I like, éspèce de gouine.’

Fournier’s hand flashed out to grab Suzanne’s elbow, but she batted it away and put her own hand up to warn him not to touch her again.

‘Let’s go,’ she said, taking Sandrine’s arm. ‘Bad smell around here.’

‘Sale pute,’ Fournier hissed.

As Suzanne steered her back through the crowd, Sandrine couldn’t help herself turning round. Fournier was still looking after them with hate-filled eyes.

‘Don’t let him get to you,’ Suzanne said. ‘Not worth it.’

‘No. No, I won’t,’ she said, but she felt shaken all the same.

Some cafés were closed, but most on this section of boulevard Barbès had put out flags and bunting and banners. The Café du Nord was packed, people spilling out from the pavements into the road. The reason soon became clear. A display board was offering, at the price of only one franc, a special cocktail, ‘la blanquette des Forces Françaises Libres’. There were huddles of men standing around high bar tables set out on the street. Even though it was only just after eight o’clock in the morning, demand was already outstripping supply.

The house band from the Hôtel Terminus had set up on the terrace. The sheets of music, held in place by wooden pegs on the music stands, fluttered in the Tramontana breeze. Trumpet, horn, euphonium, brass glinting in the early sunshine, banjo, clarinet and drum, the accordionists apart from the others. The men wore black button-up uniforms and képi caps with their insignia on the brow.

Sandrine noticed an army of journalists and newspapermen camped on the opposite side of the street. Photographers with cameras and tripods jostled one another to get the best spot – first-floor balconies, the narrow perch of a wall. A reporter from La Dépêche was stopping people, asking why they had come, while a colleague snapped away.

‘Hey, girl with the white belt. Over here!’

Sandrine turned round, in time to be caught as the flash went off. Quickly she dropped her head and hurried to catch up with Suzanne.

‘Be in tomorrow’s paper,’ the journalist called after her.

‘We wondered where you had got to,’ said Marianne.

‘A photographer just took my picture.’

‘Sandrine!’

‘It’s all right, he didn’t get a proper shot. Although what’s the point in coming if we’re not prepared to be seen?’ She looked around. ‘They can hardly arrest all of us, there must be three thousand people here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘In fact, I’ve a good mind to go back and give him my name.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Marianne said. ‘No.’

Then someone started to shout. They all looked up. Sandrine felt nerves fluttering in the pit of her stomach and she reached for Marianne’s hand. For a moment there was no response, then a quick squeeze and their fingers intertwined.

‘They’re here,’ Marianne said. ‘Someone’s about to speak.’

Chapter 25

Raoul moved through the crowd, aware of César to his right and Gaston Bonnet somewhere up ahead. In the crush, he’d lost track of Laval and Robert Bonnet, and there was no sign of Coursan at all. He pressed leaflets into people’s hands and shopping baskets. So far, it had gone well. People were reading them, looking at the photographs. Raoul slid one under a door, another beneath the windscreen wiper of a delivery truck parked at the bottom of boulevard Barbès. People would see the leaflet and start to understand what was really going on. Understand that the newspapers were all propaganda and lies.

His eyes darted from side to side to side, occasionally recognising a comrade, greeting one another by a glance or a slight nod of the head. There was a strong visible police presence, though they were clearly under instruction not to intervene or prevent the demonstration from marching. The plain-clothes men were harder to spot, though he did recognise Fournier, a well-known local collabo. Despite the carnival atmosphere, Raoul knew the crowd was thick with collaborators, police informers, with Deuxième Bureau.

Close to the Place des Armes, there were a couple of newspapermen with cameras. Raoul turned his face away and crossed to the opposite side of the street. Then there was an outbreak of applause up ahead and he stopped and looked towards the monument, like everyone else.

The crowd surged forward, then again. Through the forest of arms and shoulders and backs, Sandrine could just make out the clutch of men standing in front of the empty plinth. She recognised Henri Gout, the former socialist deputy of the Aude. Each carried a green wreath. Bons homes, that was what Marieta had called them. Good men.

‘Who’s that with Docteur Gout?’ she asked.

‘Senator Bruguier,’ replied Suzanne. ‘A member of the Socialist Party before the war. He refused to support Pétain’s dissolution of the constitution. Voted against the proposals. Like Docteur Gout, he’s been relieved of his duties.’

Through a crackling loudhailer, Sandrine could hear Gout’s voice, then another man, then another. She couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, but the sentiment was clear. An outburst of applause, then another man, shouting and fierce, stirring up the crowd.

‘Quite something,’ said Suzanne.

‘Wonderful.’

Suzanne looked at her. ‘That clown earlier didn’t upset you too much?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? People like him.’

‘What happened earlier?’ Marianne said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

‘Fournier.’

Sandrine saw a flash of disgust in Marianne’s eyes. Then up ahead, there was a crescendo of applause and they all turned to look.

‘France libre,’ someone shouted. ‘France libre. Vive la France.’

Another outbreak of clapping, hand against hand against hand, growing louder. Cheering and yelling, the sound reverberating off the high stone walls of the old Bastion du Calvaire, the cathédrale Saint-Michel, the façade of the Caserne Laperrine on the far side of the Place des Armes.

‘De Gaulle, de Gaulle, de Gaulle.’

The chanting grew stronger, braver.

‘France libre, France libre.’

Sandrine’s heart was pounding. All around her she felt the spirit of those courageous men and women who, in the past, had stood as she did now in the streets of Carcassonne, and who would do so again in the future. Voices raised in protest.

Then, above the noise, a woman began to sing.

‘Allons, enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé . . .’

Her voice floated above the crowd, a simple soprano line, as the words of ‘La Marseillaise’ filled the air. One by one, people joined in. Tainted by its adoption by Vichy, on this forbidden Bastille Day the anthem was being reclaimed by the daughters and sons of the Midi. Holding her sister’s hand on one side and Suzanne’s on the other, Sandrine joined in the final words of the song.

‘Marchons, marchons, qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!’

Applause, again. Another song began, the notes rippling like a wave through the crowd.

This time, the words caught in her throat. Sandrine was suddenly overwhelmed by affection for this band of women – Marianne and Suzanne, Lucie and Liesl, other friends and neighbours elsewhere in the crowd. And she knew that, whatever happened in the future, she would always remember this day. Standing together beneath the endless blue of the Midi singing for peace. For freedom.

‘Vive la France,’ she cried, punching the air with her fist. ‘Vive Carcassonne!’

Raoul had not intended to be drawn in, but the simple innocence of the crowd, the shouting and the singing, car horns beeping, touched him. He realised he was smiling. Bruno would have loved it. Been proud to be a part of it. The true Midi standing up for what they believed in. The pavements were five, six people deep, so Raoul climbed on to the base of a street lamp to get a better look. Now he could make out the distinctive features of Henri Gout. Could hear his rallying cry. His call for the crowd to fight for France, to resist the occupation of the North, to disregard Vichy. Raoul stuffed the remaining leaflets he was holding into his jacket pocket, moved by the emotion of it all. He pushed on where the crowds were densest and climbed up on to a low wall.

‘Vive le Midi!’ The shout went up for the last time.

The band on the terrace of the Café du Nord struck up again, playing louder, faster, wilder, like a tarantella, notes spiralling, twisting in the air, as when dancers lose their footing at the Fête de l’Âne. Hats were being thrown in the air. Bellowing, shouting, berets and workers’ caps and bonnets of straw and felt. Carcassonne in glorious colours. Around Raoul, the crowd on the boulevard Barbès, the Places des Armes, in the tiny side streets. Matrons and maîtres, men and women of all classes, all ages, united in the moment. Flags and placards, banners.

A woman’s straw hat suddenly flew in front of his eyes, nearly hitting him in the face. Raoul instinctively flung out his hand to catch it.

Then all sound fell away, all he could hear was the beating of the blood in his veins. He took in the elegant woman in a navy blue dress, her very tall friend with cropped hair and the bottle blonde, all standing beside a girl in a green dress with a white belt. Wild black curls.

That girl.

Now she was turning around, reaching up to take the hat from his hand. A crack of light entered Raoul’s numb heart.

Her eyes widened, as if she was trying to remember how or why she knew him.

‘Merci infiniment,’ she said politely.

He climbed down and handed her the hat. She took it, held his gaze a moment longer. Then turned away. Raoul saw her whisper something to the woman in blue, who then turned round to look at him too. Sisters? She was older, pale, with soft brown hair, but they had similar features.

Raoul didn’t dare speak, for fear his voice would betray him. He had found her. Or, rather, Carcassonne had given her up.

The girl turned round again and now was staring directly at him, cautious but curious too.

Raoul was about to smile, about to try to speak, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of four thugs step forward and grab a man whose arm was raised in the communist salute. He was pushed to the ground. Someone screamed.

The mood of the day immediately changed, tightened, sharpened. A second man started to run, going against the tide of people. One of the officers hit him across the throat, and he fell. A woman shouted. Panic started to spread through the crowd. Then, the sound of glass breaking and tables being kicked over, chairs.

‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ he said, allowing himself to touch her briefly on the arm. ‘Very glad.’

‘It’s you,’ Sandrine said.

But Raoul had already turned on his heel and charged towards the café.

Chapter 26

Sandrine felt a swooping sensation, as if she was up high and looking down on herself from a great height.

‘Max has already gone ahead with Lucie and Liesl,’ Marianne was saying. ‘I think we should follow them.’

She stood stock still, watching him go.

‘Sandrine, come on,’ said Marianne impatiently.

She didn’t move. ‘It was him,’ she said, in a dazed voice.

‘What, who?’

‘The boy who gave me my hat back. It was him. From the river.’

Marianne stared at her. ‘But you said you didn’t see his face properly.’

‘I didn’t, not really.’

‘Well, how do you know it was him? Did he say?’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘He just said he was glad I was all right. But when I heard his voice, I was certain. It was him.’

There was another shout, then the shriek of a police siren. Marianne and Sandrine found themselves being pushed forward in the surge of the crowd.

Marianne grabbed her hand. ‘We must get away from here, come on.’

Raoul ran to join César, who was standing outside the Café du Nord. All around on the terrace, tables and chairs were scattered, lying on their sides.

‘What happened?’ Raoul demanded, trying to concentrate on César, not think about the girl.

‘As soon as Gout and the others had gone, the flics moved in. Arrested someone. They’d obviously been watching him.’

‘One of ours?’

‘Ex-International Brigade, working with the Narbonne Resistance now.’

Raoul looked around. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Gaston and Robert were by the Place de l’Armistice earlier.’

‘And Laval?’

‘Saw him up by the Bastion du Calvaire about half an hour ago.’

‘With Coursan?’

‘Haven’t seen him at all. You?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘Keep looking. Make sure no one else is taken.’

‘Fine,’ said César.

Raoul continued up the boulevard Barbès. Most ordinary people, rattled by the altercation, were heading back into the safety of the maze of streets behind the Place des Armes. He caught another glimpse of Fournier, this time with a couple of men he recognised as members of the Fascist LVF.

He stepped back into the shadow of the building.

Then he saw Sylvère Laval was with them. At first, Raoul thought he’d been arrested, but as he watched, Laval pointed to a man in the crowd and spoke.

‘That one, him.’

Immediately, the police reacted.

‘Attention, arrêtez,’ one of the officers yelled.

The target began to run, darting sideways, trying to find a path through the frightened men and women in his way, attempting to escape.

‘Arrêtez!’ the officer repeated. ‘Stop!’

The partisan desperately pushed forward, launching himself into the sea of arms and legs. Someone fired into the air. A moment of silence, then people began to flee. Some dived for cover, others started running. Their quarry stopped. Slowly, he turned and put his hands above his head. Raoul saluted his bravery. There were women and children, old men who might get shot if he didn’t give himself up.

The police were on him in a second, throwing him to the ground and cuffing his hands behind his back. Then hauling him to his feet and marching him towards a dark prison van parked beside the trees below the walls of the Bastion du Calvaire. As he was marched past the group, the partisan spat in Fournier’s face.

Raoul leant against the wall for a second, his mind racing. Laval and Fournier. Undercover, working with the police, a trap. His thoughts tumbling one over the other in his mind.

He doubled back to where he’d last seen César. No sign of him. He skirted round the periphery of the dwindling crowd, watching all the time. He couldn’t see any of the others. Then he caught sight of Laval again, now standing in front of the Garden of Remembrance by the cathédrale Saint-Michel. He was holding something in his hand.

Raoul watched as Laval bent down, then immediately stepped back into the sheltered west door of the cathedral. As if taking cover.

In an instant, he saw the whole plan laid out from the first act to the last. The full scale of it. This wasn’t just about Laval infiltrating their group; it was part of a coordinated attempt to use the demonstration to turn the people of Carcassonne against the partisans. To paint the résistants as dangerous, careless of the lives of ordinary citizens. To portray them as the enemies of peace.

‘Get down,’ Raoul shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everyone, get down!’

His words were lost in the explosion.

For a second after the blast, nothing seemed to happen. Time stood still. Fistfuls of masonry, of stone and ballast seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment, under the malevolent watch of the gargoyles, before suddenly crashing back to earth. And all around, copies of the leaflets Raoul was holding were fluttering like leaves blown by the wind. It seemed Laval had packed their tracts round the bomb to implicate them further.

Then, screaming and people shouting for help.

Raoul ran towards an old man lying dazed on the ground, still holding the placard he’d been carrying. A trickle of blood ran down his temple, but he was shocked rather than seriously hurt.

‘Vivre libre ou mourir,’ Raoul read, prising the veteran’s thin fingers from the wooden handle. ‘Are you all right, monsieur?’

‘Never better, son,’ he said. ‘Shows we’ve got ’em on the run, è?’

A woman came to help, so Raoul moved on to the next. A teenage boy was propped against the wall, clutching his arm. He looked very grey, very pale. Raoul took off his jacket and swung it over the boy’s shoulders. As he did, the few remaining tracts fell out of the pocket.

‘Look!’ a woman with a child was shouting. ‘That’s him. That’s one of them, look!’

It was a split second before Raoul realised she was pointing at him, at the leaflets lying on the steps beside him. The same black and white images as were drifting all over the garden.

He heard sirens, distant but coming closer.

‘No,’ he began to say. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laval step out of the doorway and slip away into the crowd. He pointed. ‘No, the man you want is—’

‘He did it,’ the woman shrieked. ‘There!’

Now police were converging on the patch of garden from all angles and the woman was still shouting.

Raoul didn’t like the pallor of the boy, but he knew there was nothing he could do.

‘I’ll try to get someone to help you,’ he promised, then he ran into the cover of the streets beyond the square.

Chapter 27

‘What was that?’ said Sandrine, turning back in the direction of the noise. ‘Firecrackers?’

A woman’s scream drifted across the rooftops. Everyone around them paused, then carried on with what they were doing. Sandrine saw the owner of the Pharmacie Sarcos hesitate, before reaching up with his long wooden pole and hook to pull down the yellow and white awning as if he’d heard nothing. The mechanism squeaked as it unfurled.

‘Why’s no one taking any notice?’

Suzanne tapped the side of her head. ‘See nothing, do nothing, that’s how it is.’

‘We should go back,’ Sandrine said.

Another shout from the direction of the boulevard Barbès.

‘We’ve got to help,’ she said.

Before Marianne could stop her, Sandrine had started running. She raced back along the rue du Chartran, going against the tide. Marianne and Suzanne were now following behind.

The crowd was streaming away from the boulevard Barbès and into the safety of the Bastide. Men walking fast, women clutching the hands of frightened, crying children. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance.

Sandrine shot out her hand. ‘What’s going on? We heard an explosion and—’

‘A bomb,’ the man said. ‘Might be another, no one knows.’

‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘Didn’t stick around to find out,’ he said, pulling his arm free and running on.

Sandrine’s heart was thudding in her chest and her muscles were taut, but she kept going. Across rue Voltaire, then straight ahead she saw the devastation. The Garden of Remembrance looked like a quarry. Masonry, bricks. The rose trees lining the paths were snapped and twisted, there was rubble everywhere. The west door of the cathedral was obscured by a cloud of dust. The façade was still intact, but the semicircular stone surround and the pillars on one side were broken, torn apart by the impact of the blast.

Sandrine, Marianne and Suzanne looked in disbelief at one another, then went into action. Everywhere, injured people, dazed people, sitting on the ground. Some lying. Sandrine crouched down beside a teenage boy, who was nursing a wounded arm. His face was white with pain.

‘Help’s on its way,’ she said.

The boy opened his eyes. ‘My father will kill me. He didn’t want me to come.’

‘My sister didn’t much want me to come either.’

‘Then we’re both for it.’ He tried to grin, then closed his eyes. ‘I’m cold,’ he whispered.

As Sandrine adjusted the jacket on his shoulders, over his broken arm, she noticed his shirt was drenched. She lifted the jacket and saw, to her horror, a jagged piece of metal lodged in his side. Blood was pooling on the pavement beneath him.

‘Am I going to be all right?’ he said. ‘I’m so cold.’

Sandrine tried to keep her voice steady. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ she said. ‘Try to keep still.’

She waited with him, watching him grow paler, more transparent, until at last the medics arrived. From the expression on their faces, she knew they didn’t rate his chances either.

Shocked by what she was witnessing, Sandrine moved on to the next person, then the next, doing what little she could. Smears of blood on the ground, turning brown in the heat of the sun, a child’s shoe.

Suddenly all sound seemed to slip away from her. All heat, all colour, everything fading to grey, to white. And then, the same whispering she’d heard at the river.

‘Coratge,’ a girl’s voice.

Sandrine spun round, then around again. There was no one there. No one anywhere near her. Yet the same sensation of cold air brushing her skin.

‘Coratge, sòrre.’ Courage, sister.

‘Sandrine?’

A hand on her arm made her jump. She blinked and saw Jeanne Giraud looking at her.

‘Are you all right? You’re as white as a sheet.’

‘I thought I heard someone calling me, but . . .’ She stopped, seeing the look of concern on Jeanne’s face. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘I’m looking for my father-in-law, I don’t suppose you’ve seen him? We got separated on the boulevard Barbès. Someone said they saw him here, by the cathedral, just before the explosion.’

‘I don’t know, I’m afraid.’

‘He forgets he’s not young any more,’ she said, then moved off to continue looking.

Sandrine stood still. She saw the last of the wounded being helped into an ambulance. The door was slammed shut, then the siren rang and the ambulance pulled away. She noticed now there was a line of police cars in front of the Bastion du Calvaire. She turned to her right and saw the same at the top of the boulevard.

‘Does anyone know what happened?’ she asked, when Marianne and Suzanne joined her.

‘No, reports are muddled,’ Marianne replied, wiping her hands on her scarf.

‘Some are blaming the partisans,’ Suzanne said.

‘You did well, darling,’ Marianne said, giving a brief smile. ‘You kept your head.’

Sandrine looked at her big sister. Seeing the pride in Marianne’s face, despite the tiredness, she felt something had changed between them. She smiled back, trying not to think about the boy and the blood on the ground. Another police car went past at top speed, its siren blaring, then a second.

‘Where’s everybody being taken?’ she asked.

‘Most have gone to the hospital,’ Suzanne said, ‘and those who can’t risk it, in there.’ She nodded in the direction of the Clinique du Bastion. ‘Delteil or Giraud will patch them up, no questions asked.’

Chapter 28

César wasn’t at the print shop. Raoul hesitated, then headed for his house. He was too late.

‘Damn,’ he said, throwing himself back into an open doorway opposite.

He watched as two policemen kicked their heavy boots against César’s front door. The wood splintered and the lock gave. The door was flung back against the wall, the glass shattering over the hall tiles as the officers rushed in. Barely a minute or two later, they were back out in the blinding sun. César’s hands were cuffed behind his back and blood was pouring from his nose. He was forced into the panier à salade and driven away.

Raoul waited until the road was clear, then quickly crossed the boulevard Marcou and over into rue Voltaire, not sure where to go next. He didn’t know where Gaston and Robert Bonnet lived, so there was no way of warning them. No way of knowing if they’d already been arrested. He weighed up his options in the light of what he now knew, quickly realising the only sensible course of action was to get out of Carcassonne and try to make contact with other partisans in the region. He couldn’t do anything to help César, but he could at least warn others about Laval and make sure they got the message that the bomb had not been detonated by résistants.

Raoul ran along the rue du Port towards the cathédrale Saint-Vincent, then right into the boulevard Omer Sarraut.

In the quartier de la Gare, the clean-up operation was already underway. Newspapers trampled underfoot, flags, greased-paper food wrappings and discarded caps from bottles of beer littered the ground, the squalid aftermath of the crowds. Bonfires lit in the SNCF sidings to dispose of the litter trapped by the wire railings belched grey smoke into the blue air.

The tram was loaded full of village husbands and their wives. The whistle shrieked, shrill and insistent, as the lines began to hum. But a procession of police cars was blocking the Pont Marengo and there were officers everywhere. A horde of people was standing outside the doors to the mainline station, everyone showing their papers. Lowered eyes, a flicker of fear, their moment of bravery was over.

There was no chance of Raoul getting on to a train, so he kept walking, heading for the apartment on the Quai Riquet and praying the police weren’t already there. Muscle, skin, adrenalin, blood and bone, he took the stairs two at a time.

His mother was still standing at the kitchen sink. He rushed over and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘Maman, listen to me. Maman? This is important.’

For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of the woman she had been in her dead eyes.

‘Bruno?’ she whispered.

Raoul had to stop himself from shaking her. ‘Bruno’s gone,’ he said in a level voice. ‘He was killed, you know he was. Four years ago.’

Confusion flickered in her eyes, a spark of anger, grief, as if she was waking up. Then hope faded and her eyes clouded over again.

‘Raoul,’ she said.

He sighed. ‘You have to listen. Soon, men will come here looking for me. Asking if you’ve seen me. If they do, tell them you don’t know where I am. They won’t hurt you. Tell them you haven’t seen me for weeks, can you do that?’ He tightened his grip on her shoulders. ‘Do you understand? If the police come, you tell them you don’t know where I am. Yes?’

For an instant, she didn’t react. Then, she nodded.

‘Got to keep my boys safe,’ she said softly. ‘Keep Bruno safe.’

A wave of pity swept through Raoul, anger too. He put his arms around her, horrified by how thin she was, how fragile. He could feel every rib through the cotton dress. She did not hug him in return, but stood rigid, unyielding.

‘That’s right,’ he said quietly. ‘Keep your boys safe.’

Raoul ran into his bedroom. He got his papers and money from beneath the mattress, grabbed Bruno’s rucksack from the back of the door and an old work jacket from the wardrobe. He pulled open the drawer in his bedside table and, from beneath a pile of laundered handkerchiefs, took out his service revolver and a box of ammunition. He put them in the rucksack too, then rushed back into the kitchen. His mother had returned to her vigil at the window, looking out for a son who would never return.

‘They’re coming,’ she murmured.

Raoul rushed to look out, but the street was empty.

‘Tell them you haven’t seen me,’ he repeated.

‘They’re coming,’ she said again, crossing herself. ‘The ghosts. I hear them. Waking, beginning to walk. They’re coming.’

Raoul couldn’t think of anything to say. His misgivings about leaving her were even stronger, but she’d be safer without him. At least he hoped he was right.

‘You haven’t seen me,’ he said again.

He found an unopened bottle of red wine and hesitated over a loaf of dark bread. He left the bread.

‘I’ll be back, Maman,’ he said gently. ‘As soon as I can, I’ll come back.’

Raoul headed down the rue des Études. He had a friend nearby he hoped might let him stay for a few hours, until it was dark at least. A third police car went past, its siren shrieking, this time heading towards the Caserne d’Iéna. The town was alive with police. As he crossed the street, he saw a panier à salade at the top of rue Voltaire. He glanced behind him, seeing there was another at the bottom of the street too.

He needed to get off the street, before they saw him. Quickly, he slipped through the wrought-iron gates of the Jardin du Calvaire and pulled them shut behind him, hoping the deep green shadows of the garden would give him sanctuary.

Chapter 29

It took the girls less than ten minutes to get back to the rue du Palais. Marianne still looked passably respectable, but the knees of Suzanne’s slacks were black from where she’d knelt on the ground. Her short hair was standing up in tufts where she’d run her fingers through it to shake out the dust.

Marieta shrieked when she saw them.

‘We’re all right,’ Sandrine said quickly, seeing how weary Marianne looked. ‘None of us is hurt.’

‘You’re covered in blood! Look at you!’

Sandrine caught sight of herself in the mirror of the hallstand and saw a wide smear, like a piece of ribbon, across her face.

‘There was an explosion outside Saint-Michel,’ she said. ‘We went to help. We’re fine.’

‘Do you think you could make us some tea, Marieta?’ Marianne said quietly. ‘We could all do with something.’ She put her hand on Suzanne’s arm. ‘You’ll stay?’

‘If there’s enough to go round.’

Marianne smiled briefly. ‘Is that all right, Marieta? A little bread and some ham, perhaps?’

Marieta stared for a moment longer, then nodded and tramped back down the corridor to the kitchen.

Marianne and Suzanne went into the salon. Marianne slipped off her shoes and sat on the sofa. Suzanne dropped down into the armchair and began to unlace her heavy boots. She pushed them off, revealing a hole in the heel of her left sock.

‘Do either of you know what happened to Lucie?’ Sandrine asked from the doorway.

Marianne shook her head. ‘I lost track of her. I could telephone.’

Suzanne shook her head. ‘I’ll go round and check later.’

Sandrine watched them for a moment, then turned and went back into the hall. After all the noise and chaos and confusion, she wanted to be on her own. She took off her outdoor shoes, found a pair of espadrille sandals beneath the hallstand, then went upstairs to the bathroom to wash her face.

She heard Marieta carrying a tray of tea to the salon and the murmur of thanks and explanations, and took the chance to slip out through the kitchen and into the small courtyard garden. Her bicycle was still leaning against the fence where Max had left it yesterday morning.

Sandrine settled herself on one of the white wrought-iron chairs set at the table in partial shade beneath the fig tree and let the tranquillity of the garden wash over her. A hen blackbird was singing and there was a steady murmuring of cicadas, wasps buzzing around the ripe fruit. From time to time a lizard, quicksilver green, shot up the back wall of the house and disappeared into the cracks below the guttering.

She heard the rattle of the screen door. She looked up to see Marieta at the top of the steps, a glass in her hand. Holding tight to the railings, she made her way slowly down and placed the tumbler of lemonade in front of Sandrine.

‘There,’ she said.

Then, to Sandrine’s astonishment, Marieta pulled out one of the heavy white chairs and sat down. Her expression was so solemn and so anxious that, despite her exhaustion, Sandrine sat up.

‘What is it?’ she said quickly.

‘Madomaisèla, there’s something I need to ask you.’

Unaccountably, Sandrine felt her heart skip a beat. ‘Is something wrong?’

The old woman frowned. ‘After you left this morning, I heard the shutters banging in your bedroom. I went upstairs. I couldn’t help reading what you had written. I’m sorry.’

‘Written?’

‘The papers.’

At first, Sandrine had no idea what Marieta was talking about. Then, she realised she was referring to the notes written in the police station.

‘I’m sorry, I thought I’d picked them up. I’ll clear them away later.’

‘It’s not that . . .’ Marieta paused again, clearly trying to find the right words. ‘Some of the things you wrote – “a sea of glass” and “the spirits of the air” – those are the words he said?’

Despite the warmth of the day, a shiver went down Sandrine’s spine, as the image of the man’s face rushed back into her mind.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Kept saying the same things, over and over.’

‘And he said Dame Carcas, you are sure?’

Sandrine frowned. ‘Pretty sure. Why?’

‘Also, to tell “the old man” it was all true?’

‘Yes.’ Sandrine kept her eyes fixed on Marieta’s troubled face, trying to work out what she was really thinking. ‘He said a name, but I can’t remember it, so couldn’t put it down.’

‘Try, madomaisèla,’ she said urgently.

Sandrine had never seen Marieta so jittery before. Even when the news came about her father, the older woman had kept her own emotions hidden. So having tried to forget, Sandrine forced herself instead to relive the moment.

She shut her eyes. ‘It was an old-fashioned name. Bailleroux or Brailland, something like that.’

‘Baillard?’ Marieta said quickly. ‘Was it Baillard, madomaisèla?’

Sandrine’s eyes snapped open. ‘Actually, it was. How on earth did you know?’

The housekeeper didn’t answer. ‘You did not tell the police? You did not give them Monsieur Baillard’s name?’

‘How could I? I’ve only just remembered it myself.’

The old woman sighed and sat back in her chair.

‘What’s this about, Marieta? You’re making me nervous with your fierce looks.’

A breeze slipped through the garden, lifting the leaves on the fig tree and setting slats of golden sunlight down on to the table. Sandrine looked at Marieta, forced the housekeeper to meet her eye.

‘Marieta?’

‘It’s so long ago,’ she said, twisting the black material of her skirt between her fingers. ‘My memory could be at fault. But the ghosts, Monsieur Baillard said he could hear . . . and those words, I’m sure . . .’

‘You’ve heard them before?’ Sandrine asked. ‘Or read them? You know where they come from?’

But Marieta was locked in her own thoughts and wasn’t listening. ‘I shall write to him,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Those words. Ask him what to do.’

Sandrine touched her on the arm, making her jump.

‘Who is Monsieur Baillard?’ she said quietly.

The old woman’s expression lightened for a moment. ‘A good man, a good man and a true friend. He knew your father. It was Monsieur Baillard who recommended me for the position here. I came to know him in Rennes-les-Bains, many years ago. He was a regular visitor to the Domaine de la Cade.’

Sandrine’s curiosity deepened. It was odd Marieta hadn’t mentioned Monsieur Baillard before, though she wasn’t one to talk about herself. Sandrine did know plenty of stories about the Domaine de la Cade, stories picked up over many long summers in Coustaussa. How the house had burnt down in mysterious circumstances on 31 October 1897. How the entire estate, abandoned now, was said to be haunted. How the village children wouldn’t go near it, especially at Hallowe’en.

She did the arithmetic in her head. ‘If you knew Monsieur Baillard then,’ she said, ‘he must be incredibly old now.’

Marieta gave a brief smile. ‘No one knows how old he is.’

But before Sandrine could ask anything else, Marieta was getting to her feet. She tucked the chair back under the table and headed back towards the house.

‘Marieta?’ Sandrine called after her. ‘Where does he live, this Monsieur Baillard? In Rennes-les-Bains?’

The old woman didn’t turn round, but continued up the steps, pulling herself along the railings.

‘Marieta! What are you going to ask him?’

The only answer was the rattle of the screen and the snick of the catch as the door closed, leaving Sandrine alone in the garden once more.

She sat back in her chair, hardly knowing what to think. All around her, secrets seemed to swoop and dive like fireflies, bright and dazzling. Unseen, but making their presence felt all the same.

Chapter 30

Leo Authié’s office overlooked the Palais de Justice. It was the control centre from which he had run today’s operation and an indication of the power he now held within the Deuxième Bureau.

A large mahogany desk and chair, wooden filing cabinets rather than functional regulation bullet-grey metal. The antique maps on the wall were originals, not reproductions. One showed the boundaries of Gaul in the fourth century, the point at which France became a Christian country. The second, the shifting boundaries of the Languedoc, from the historical territories of Septimania to the present day. The third illustrated the course of the medieval crusades in the Midi against the Cathar heretics.

Authié was not alone in believing that France’s defeat in June 1940 was a direct consequence of successive administrations turning their backs on traditional Christian values. Too many immigrants, a lack of leadership, a corrosive dilution of what it meant to be French. However, after the shock of the quick and humiliating surrender had passed, Authié realised that in fact the occupation of the north and the collaboration between Vichy and Hitler would suit his purposes.

His hand went to the silver cross on his lapel. God had been with him today, as he had known He would. And it was to the Church that Authié’s loyalties lay, not to the liberals and the socialists whose catastrophic godless government had led France to defeat.

Another prison van drew up at the door of the courthouse opposite. Everything had gone like clockwork. The operation had been a triumph. The threat to Vichy’s authority in Carcassonne had been contained, neutralised, undermined. Already, there were fifty résistants in custody. By the end of the day, they’d have the rest of them. And although he knew some networks would regroup and new units would be formed, Authié believed he’d dealt the insurgents a blow from which they would not fully recover. The bomb had been effective. The wireless and newspapers were blaming the chaos on the partisans. Most local people would be less inclined to shield or support them now. He drew a deep breath. More important, the successful completion of today’s strike against the terrorists meant he was at last free to return his attention to his pursuit of the Codex.

Authié went through the papers on his desk – letters, telegrams, official notifications, congratulations from his divisional commander, all of which he put to one side – until he found the envelope he was looking for. A long, thick fold of high-quality paper embossed with the name of a stationer in Chartres. No censor’s stamp. It was from the head of one of the oldest and most influential Catholic families in France. François Cecil-Baptiste de l’Oradore was an immensely wealthy and knowledgeable investor. A collector of antiques and religious artefacts, he was prepared to pay a great deal for rare objects he wished to acquire. Certainly, he had invested hundreds of thousands of francs excavating in the mountains of the Ariège and the Aude.

When he had been approached to ask if he might be prepared to provide information, Authié had been both flattered and pleased. It was during the course of his work for de l’Oradore that he first heard rumours about a Codex, a text condemned as heretical in the fourth century that appeared to have escaped being destroyed with other non-orthodox writings. De l’Oradore himself had more pressing interests – key amongst them his obsession with the lost Grail books of the Cathars – but Authié had become preoccupied with the Codex. Its continued existence – if the rumours were true – was an affront to God. An evil.

Excavations had been suspended during the war, but as soon as the terms of the Armistice had been agreed and signed, de l’Oradore had reactivated the arrangement. Since then, Authié had provided him with various particular archaeological items, information too, and he had no doubt that his rapid rise through the Deuxième Bureau was due to de l’Oradore’s patronage. He glanced again at the maps on his wall, each a gift for particular services rendered.

Authié hesitated for a moment, then broke the seal on the envelope. The header listed in striking Gothic type all the Catholic charities of which de l’Oradore was patron. The letter was, as he had been expecting, a request for a report into progress in the Ariège. Despite the difficult conditions in the Midi, de l’Oradore expected results – a return on his investment – and although the language was beautiful, the letter was an ultimatum.

Authié wondered how long he could delay before replying. Because he hadn’t been able to give the matter his full attention in recent weeks, there was nothing new to report. His German partners had failed. And although he knew Antoine Déjean was involved, he had failed to find out how exactly. In the end, he’d had no choice but to give permission for him to be interrogated. Not only had Laval not learnt anything, but he’d made a mess of the business and allowed Déjean to escape.

‘Il a tout foiré,’ he swore under his breath.

More aggravating still was that the escape had only come to light because of Raoul Pelletier’s presence at the river. And if Pelletier hadn’t been there at the critical time, Sylvère Laval could have dealt with the girl. That, at least, would have been one less loose end. It was a mess, all of it.

A knock at the door interrupted his reflections.

‘Come.’

A young gendarme appeared, his skin raw from shaving. His heels clicked on the parquet floor as he crossed the office.

‘Un télégramme.’

Authié put the letter down and held out his hand. His eyes scanned the information. His jaw tightened.

‘When did this come in?’

‘I brought it immediately, mon capitaine.’

Authié stood up, sending his chair flying. The gendarme rushed to right it, trying not to watch as Authié screwed up the telegram, put it in the ashtray on the desk and set a match to it.

‘Is Laval on the premises?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Well find out,’ he shouted. ‘Tell him to meet me downstairs. Immediately. And organise a driver and car. Now!’

The boy saluted, skidding on the parquet floor in his rush to be out of the room. Authié picked up the telephone, barked a number at the operator and waited for her to connect him. He listened to the voice at the end of the line for a moment, his face growing darker by the second.

‘We need to meet.’

He held the receiver away from his ear. ‘No, that’s not acceptable. One hour. Usual place.’

Authié banged the receiver back in the cradle. He thought for a moment, then put de l’Oradore’s letter back in the envelope and concealed it in the drawer of his desk, taking out his revolver at the same time. He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then strode out of the room and down the stairs to the main hall.

Everywhere the sound of muffled voices behind doors, the regular tap, tapping of the stenographers and the heels of women’s shoes on the black and white tiles as they delivered messages from one office to another.

Sylvère Laval was waiting for him by the main entrance. He was back in uniform and his black hair had been cropped, revealing white skin round the rim of his cap.

‘Why the hell did you hand Déjean over to Bauer?’

Laval looked confused. ‘They were your orders.’

‘I told you to keep him under guard until I could interrogate him.’

‘I must have misunderstood.’ Laval met his gaze. ‘I was under the impression that because of the demonst—’

Authié raised his hand. ‘I don’t want to hear excuses, Laval. It’s your second failure. I’m meeting Bauer now.’

‘In Carcassonne?’ Laval said quickly.

‘Where else?’

Authié stared at his deputy for a moment, unable to interpret the expression on Laval’s face, then walked towards the glass doors. The heat hit them the moment they were out on the street.

‘What about Pelletier, have you found him?’

‘Not yet, sir. We went to his apartment on the Quai Riquet. He lives with his mother.’ Laval did a winding motion with his hand. ‘Not all there. Kept asking if I’d seen Bruno and—’

‘Where else?’ Authié interrupted.

Laval’s expression hardened. ‘I tried the hospital, the usual cafés in town. No one remembers seeing him at the mainline station, or the tramway or the bus station.’

‘I want him brought in tonight.’

‘Posters with his photograph are being printed now, so—’

‘Tonight, Laval. What about Sanchez?’

‘He was arrested this afternoon,’ he said in a tight voice.

‘Good.’ Then he paused. ‘On second thoughts, has he been charged yet?’

‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’

Authié thought for a moment longer. ‘In which case, have him released.’

Laval’s eyes widened. ‘Sir?’

‘Sanchez is more likely than anyone to know where Pelletier’s gone to ground,’ he said impatiently. ‘They might have arranged to meet. Follow him.’

‘But if we let him go—’

‘Do as you’re told, Laval,’ Authié snapped. ‘If, after twelve hours, he hasn’t led us to Pelletier, he’s not going to. Then you can talk to him. Find out what he knows. But I don’t want him anywhere near the courthouse or the gaol. I don’t want an official record of the interrogation.’ He pointed at Laval. ‘Don’t make a mess of this too.’

Laval’s face remained impassive. ‘No, sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve traced the car I saw at the river yesterday, sir. The vehicle is registered to a Monsieur Ménard, the garage man on boulevard Omer Sarraut. Ménard belongs to the LVF. He’s currently in a POW camp in Germany, but there’s a daughter with Gaullist sympathies. Goes about with a Jew by the name of Max Blum.’

The driver opened his door. Authié stood with his hand on the roof of the car.

‘Was the Ménard woman driving the vehicle?’

‘I was too far away to see.’

‘She might know who the girl is.’

‘Do you want me to speak to Mademoiselle Ménard, sir?’

‘No, leave her to me. But talk to Blum. It’s possible he saw Pelletier or knows him. Bring him in.’

‘On what grounds, sir?’

Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘He’s a Jew, Laval. I’m sure you can find some reason.’

He got into the car and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Rue du cimetière Saint-Michel,’ he ordered.

Chapter 31

‘Let me do it,’ Sandrine repeated, taking the envelope from Marieta’s hands.

The housekeeper was standing in the open door wearing her hat and outdoor shoes. Her housecoat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door.

‘I’ll not have you running errands for me.’

Sandrine pushed the letter into her pocket and was out of the door before Marieta could raise any more objections.

‘Won’t be long,’ she called.

The air seemed to crackle with anticipation, as if the streets were waiting for darkness to fall. A strange, expectant atmosphere. The boulevard Maréchal Pétain was deserted and all the small side streets in the Bastide were empty too. As if everyone had been warned to stay inside.

Sandrine propped her bicycle against the wall and got inside with minutes to spare before the post office shut. Only one counter was open.

‘I’d like this to go tonight,’ she said. ‘It’s urgent.’

The clerk, a middle-aged man with a pinched face, looked up at her over the top of his spectacles.

‘Interzone?’

‘No, Aude.’

He glanced at the address, then held out his hand. ‘Carte d’identité.’

‘Why do you need to see that?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t make the rules.’

Sandrine took her identity card from her pocket and pushed it under the glass. He peered at her personal details, looked up at her, then slid the card back.

‘Not a very good likeness,’ he said.

‘How much will it be?’

‘Fifty centimes.’

Sandrine pushed the money under the glass and was given a red stamp in return, which she licked and pressed to the envelope.

‘The box is outside.’

‘It will go tonight?’

‘No reason not to,’ the clerk replied. Then he pulled down his blind, leaving Sandrine staring at the blank glass.

She came out into the rue de la Préfecture, irritated by the peremptory manner of the clerk and by the fact that she’d had to show her carte d’identité. She dropped the letter into the box, then got on her bike.

The street was still empty, but the sense of watchfulness had intensified. As if there were eyes hidden behind every shutter, every door, waiting for what would happen when night came. Sandrine pushed off from the pavement. Then, without warning, a man rushed out from a tiny ruelle, right in front of her.

‘Hey, watch what you’re doing!’ she shouted.

She swerved, jerking the handlebars to the left to avoid him. Her front wheel hit the kerb and she half toppled towards the pavement, grazing her knuckles. Furious, she looked up.

‘You idiot . . .’

Then she stopped. Straightened up.

‘You,’ she said.

He was standing very still, his right hand holding the strap of his rucksack, his left clenched by his side. The same dark hair pushed back off his forehead. The same fierce, restless eyes. Tense, as if he might bolt at any moment.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she said.

He looked dazed, but this time he answered.

‘Yes.’

‘At the demonstration.’

Now a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Yes.’

‘And yesterday. At Païchérou.’

‘Also me, yes.’

His voice was exactly as she remembered, and the presence of him, the memory of sandalwood and heat.

He looked down at her bike, then her scraped fingers. ‘I should have been watching where I was going.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Sandrine felt his eyes travel her face, as if trying to commit every feature to memory. Then, as though it was all happening to somebody else, she watched him raise his hand and gently touch the bruise on the side of her head. The street, the day, real life, all of it slipped away.

‘It’s not so bad,’ she said, aware her voice sounded high, odd even to her own ears. ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

He stepped back, let his hand fall to his side. She remembered to breathe.

‘I’m Sandrine, by the way,’ she managed to say. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’

He was looking at her, staring as if she was speaking a foreign language, then he laughed.

‘Raoul Pelletier,’ he said. ‘By the way.’

‘Third time lucky.’

‘Yes.’

He laughed again and ran his fingers over his hair. Sandrine realised, with a jolt, that the gesture was already familiar.

‘I didn’t think you’d recognised me earlier, in the boulevard Barbès.’

‘I didn’t at first,’ she admitted. ‘At least, I thought I knew you from somewhere, but . . . I wasn’t sure.’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘You were holding something. A necklace, chain. It belongs to a friend of mine.’

Sandrine’s eyes widened. ‘A friend? I . . .’

From further along the street there was the sound of footsteps, shouting. Then, a siren. Raoul’s expression changed, sharpened. The wariness came back into his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t—’

‘Why did you leave?’ she said quickly, not wanting to lose him again. ‘At the river.’

He caught his breath. ‘I didn’t want to.’

‘Then why?’

He glanced down the street, then back to her. ‘I heard the car, couldn’t risk it . . . Could have been anyone. You were there today, you saw what was happening, how things are.’

Another siren. This time, they both reacted. Sandrine looked back at him.

‘Where are you going?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t stay in Carcassonne.’

‘Why not?’

He dropped his voice. ‘Most of my comrades have been arrested, others are missing. There’s a warrant out for me. They’ll be watching my flat, watching the homes of anyone, everyone I know. If I try to rent a room for the night, the moment I present my papers, they’ll find me. I have to leave.’

Sandrine didn’t realise what she was going to say, until the words were out of her mouth.

‘You could stay with us.’

Surprise flashed across his face. ‘What? No, of course I can’t.’

‘We have plenty of room.’

‘That’s not the point,’ he said.

Sandrine raised her chin. ‘I won’t turn you in, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

She saw a flash of anger in his eyes.

‘That’s not what I meant at all!’

‘Then what?’

He stepped back from her. ‘I’m not putting you – your family – at risk.’

‘How would we be at risk? No one would suspect, why would they? We’re not friends. There’s no connection between us. No one would come looking for you at our house.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘You saved my life.’

‘Hardly.’

‘I think you did,’ she said simply.

Raoul was shaking his head. ‘Look, I appreciate the offer, I do. But I can’t let you get involved. You don’t even know what I’m accused of doing.’

‘Are you guilty?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘Well then.’

In an adjacent street, a car backfired. Sandrine jumped, looking towards the noise, then back to Raoul.

‘The longer we stand here, the more likely it is you’ll be caught. There are police everywhere, patrols watching all the main routes out of town and the station.’ She held his gaze. ‘Well? What do you say?’

Raoul was staring at her.

‘What?’

The slightest smile crossed his lips. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl like you,’ he said.

Sandrine flushed, but didn’t waver. ‘So you’ll come?’

‘You’re either very brave or very stupid.’

Now a flicker of a smile on her face too. ‘Stubborn, my sister would say. Not one to take no for an answer.’

In his eyes, she saw the battle he was waging with himself. A mixture of hope and temptation – and, she thought, something else she couldn’t quite identify.

‘What about your family?’ Raoul said.

‘It’s only me, my sister and our housekeeper. They’ll be pleased to help. My sister’s friends sometimes stay.’

For another endless moment, the invitation hung between them. Sandrine looked at his expression and saw his resistance was weakening.

‘Raoul,’ she said softly. ‘Please. Come.’

Finally, his resolve cracked. He dropped his shoulders. ‘For one night only.’

‘You can stay as long as you need,’ she said, trying not to smile too broadly.

‘Just tonight,’ he said.

But he was smiling too.

Chapter 32

Leo Authié and Erik Bauer stood beneath the cypress trees in the centre of the cimetière Saint-Michel. The last of the sun struck the rows of white crosses and stone crescents in the military section of the graveyard, sending long, elongated shadows across the ground. Authié looked comfortable in the late afternoon heat, his white shirt crisp and laundered. Bauer kept dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief, his pale skin flushed beneath the brim of his hat. Southern blood versus northern, old enemies. For now, finding themselves allies.

‘He was weak.’

‘Weak!’ Authié said. ‘You killed him and learnt nothing.’

‘May I remind you, Herr Authié, that you handed Déjean to me when your attempts to extract information failed. If your men had done their job properly in the first instance, we would not be having this discussion. You are not in a position to criticise.’

Since Authié didn’t want to acknowledge the original mistake had been Laval’s, he didn’t argue.

‘What have you done with the body?’

‘I shall deal with it.’

Authié’s eyes narrowed. ‘He can’t be found in Carcassonne.’

‘I shall deal with it,’ Bauer repeated.

Authié pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, buying time while he thought about his next step. He offered the packet to Bauer.

‘I do not smoke.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ Authié said dismissively.

He lit up and watched the smoke circle upwards, light, into the sky. Bauer flapped it away with his hand, the heavy metal of his ring catching the light. Authié recognised the distinctive Totenkopfring worn by the SS elite, but was surprised at Bauer’s indiscretion. It was common knowledge that there were thousands of Nazis operating south of the line, but they didn’t usually broadcast their presence.

‘Did Déjean mention the key?’ Authié asked.

‘He admitted knowing of it,’ Bauer replied in the same tight, clipped voice, ‘but no more. If Rahn did leave the key with him, Déjean did not confirm it.’ He paused. ‘You are satisfied your men searched Déjean’s apartment properly?’

Authié met his gaze. ‘Yes.’

‘Today?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘We have been rather busy today, Bauer, doing your dirty work for you.’

Bauer’s spongy skin flared red once more. ‘We have no jurisdiction in the South, as you very well know, Herr Authié.’

‘No official authority, but you have influence.’

Bauer stared at him a moment longer. ‘I understand Déjean was seen at the river.’

It took every scrap of self-control Authié possessed to keep his voice neutral. ‘Déjean tell you that?’

Bauer ignored the question. ‘And there was a girl there also. They made contact, yes?’

Authié turned cold, wondering how much Bauer knew. How he knew anything at all.

‘So Déjean did talk?’ he said, still fishing for an answer.

‘Who is she, Herr Authié? A courier?’

‘I’m inclined to think not, but we are investigating. She’s not a problem.’

‘She is dead?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bauer.’

‘You left a witness to this matter? That was unwise.’

‘A judgement call.’

‘A poor one.’

Since he agreed, Authié didn’t respond. ‘She’s just a girl who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. This is not Berlin.’

The Nazi took a step forward. This close up, Authié could see flecks of spittle in the corners of his mouth.

‘This has been amateur. You have left too many loose ends.’

Authié met his gaze. ‘The problem, as I see it, is that you have failed to find out anything. We needed to know who Déjean was working for and what, if anything, he knew, before the trail went cold.’ He drew breath. ‘You – we – have both failed. You assured me you were making good progress in the Ariège.’

Bauer frowned. ‘When there is information to share, Herr Authié, I shall do so.’

‘You are asking me to accept your assurances on that point?’

‘It is difficult to proceed at the present time,’ said Bauer. ‘Do not pretend you don’t understand.’

For a moment, the two adversaries faced each other down, neither man attempting to mask their mistrust or their dislike.

‘Did Déjean say anything more about Otto Rahn?’

‘Rahn was a fool,’ Bauer said.

Authié smiled at having got a rise out of him. ‘But one of yours, wasn’t he? Same rank as you, Bauer, if I’m not mistaken.’

Bauer flushed. ‘Rahn was a degenerate.’

‘An Obersturmführer-SS all the same.’

Without warning, Bauer turned on his heel and strode back towards the entrance. His sudden departure took Authié by surprise, but it gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. The conversation had not gone as he had hoped. In truth, he was now more rather than less uneasy.

After a couple of moments more, he followed Bauer along the gravel path through the graves towards the rue du 24 Février. An unmarked car was waiting in the street.

‘Are you going back to Tarascon tonight?’ Authié said.

Bauer hesitated. ‘Not directly. I am obliged to go north for a matter of days. After that I shall return to the Ariège, yes.’

‘I expect to be kept informed of progress in the excavation.’

‘If and when there is something to report, you will be told.’

‘In person,’ Authié said.

Bauer flushed. ‘You are not in a position to dictate terms, Herr Authié. You seem to forget we are paying you. You work for us. My superiors expect a return on our investment. So far, your contribution has been disappointing.’

Authié held his gaze. ‘I could say the same about your contribution, Bauer.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘There has been no difficulty with the local police?’

Bauer became still. Authié continued to stare at him.

‘And no awkward questions about your presence in the area, I trust?’

‘No,’ the Nazi replied eventually, though the admission seemed to cost him a great deal. ‘I am obliged to you for your assistance in this.’

‘My pleasure,’ Authié said sarcastically. ‘So, as I was saying, you will keep me personally informed of any progress?’

For a moment, he thought Bauer would refuse to answer, but in the end he gave a tight nod, then got into the car and slammed the door.

Authié watched until the vehicle was out of sight, then, slowly, let his breath out. His pleasure at having won the final exchange of words was short-lived. Much of what Bauer had said had hit home. The Resistance was increasingly using girls to carry messages, packages. He had assumed her presence was an unfortunate coincidence, but he was starting to reconsider. Could the girl and Déjean have arranged to meet?

Authié started to walk back towards the Bastide. Although the tip about Déjean’s involvement with the Codex had, admittedly, come from Bauer in the first instance, he was starting to ask himself whether the collaboration was more trouble than it was worth. He paused outside the house where Déjean had been held, an unofficial prison that had come in useful on several occasions, then continued on. No one could possibly have known Déjean would be at the river at that point on Monday morning.

And what about Pelletier? Yesterday, at the meeting, he would hardly have shown everyone the necklace if there had been anything sinister about it. But had Authié underestimated him too? Perhaps it was a deliberate ploy to provoke a reaction? César had been more than usually belligerent at the meeting, and he and Pelletier were friends.

He looked across the Place des Armes towards the cathédrale Saint-Michel, golden in the light of the setting sun. Official tape had been stretched across the entrance to the Garden of Remembrance and two armed officers were keeping guard.

Authié turned right, following the road along the back of the Caserne Laperrine, mulling everything over in his mind. Pelletier and the girl and Déjean. What was the link between them? Was there any link at all?

Chapter 33

‘Come on,’ whispered Sandrine.

Raoul’s edginess was contagious. Every sound, however innocent, was laden with threat, with danger. The empty streets she knew so well no longer felt safe.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘Rue du Palais, it’s not far.’

Raoul stopped. ‘Not this way.’

‘But it’s quickest.’

‘We can’t go past the Palais de Justice,’ he said. ‘And that building opposite’ – he pointed to an elegant white building past which Sandrine had walked a thousand times – ‘that’s the local headquarters of the Deuxième Bureau and where the Kundt Commission sets up shop when they’re in Carcassonne.’

‘What’s the Kundt Commission?’

‘Gestapo,’ he said.

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘We’ll go via the rue de Lorraine then. Avoid the area altogether.’

Sandrine led him through the narrowest alleyways and short cuts, Raoul half carrying, half wheeling the damaged bike. They emerged opposite Square Gambetta. Between the fountains and lakes and stone balustrades and trees, the white marble statue of a warrior angel shone gauzy in the haze of the setting sun.

‘After my father died, I got into the habit of sitting here and looking at her,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s called Y Penser Toujours – Never Forget.’

‘I didn’t know she had a name,’ he said.

They continued in silence through the square and into the rue de Lorraine. Raoul suddenly stopped, rummaged in the front pocket of his rucksack and produced a rather twisted and bent home-made cigarette with tobacco spilling out of both ends.

‘I forgot I had it,’ he said, striking a match.

Sandrine watched as he pulled hard once or twice, until the paper sparked and started to burn. He exhaled a long white cloud of smoke, then offered the cigarette to her. She hesitated, then accepted.

She put it between her lips, aware of the taste of him on the paper, and took a puff. Heat hit the back of her throat as she inhaled, then immediately doubled over. Choking, as the smoke went down the wrong way. He thumped her on the back, until she stopped coughing. When she looked up at him, through streaming eyes, she saw he was trying not to laugh.

‘First time?’

Sandrine nodded, unable to speak. She handed the cigarette back.

‘Filthy habit anyway,’ he said, though he was smiling. Then his expression grew thoughtful again. ‘Before, you asked me why I didn’t stay yesterday.’

‘It’s all right, you don’t owe me an explanation.’

She wanted to ask him if he’d taken the chain, but she didn’t know how to bring it up in case the man she’d tried to save was his friend.

‘The thing is . . .’ she began, but Raoul carried on.

‘No, I want to explain.’ He paused. ‘You must have thought badly of me.’

Sandrine tilted her head to one side. ‘And that bothered you?’

‘I suppose it did.’ He shrugged. ‘I kept wondering if you were all right. You were on my mind – my conscience – all day.’

Sandrine glanced at him, then away again.

‘You kissed me,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, then added: ‘Did you mind?’

‘No,’ she said quietly.

She heard him sigh. ‘Well . . . good.’

They walked a little further, until they came to the corner of the rue Mazagran, where he stopped. Sandrine stopped too. Feeling as if she was watching the scene from the outside, she felt his hand on the back of her neck. Then he was drawing her gently towards him. She was aware of the steady pace of her breathing, in and out, in and out. The texture of his skin against hers, then the imprint of his lips on her forehead. Sandalwood, the memory of heat on his skin, tobacco.

‘Since you didn’t mind,’ he said, when he released her.

They kissed again, then stood still for a while longer, bound together by stillness, by the calm of the moment. Raoul traced the line of her neck, over her shoulder, running his fingers down the length of her bare arm, over her elbow and wrist and hand, to empty air.

‘We should keep going,’ he said.

Time accelerated, catching up, returning Sandrine to the Bastide. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

They walked on through the square until they reached the crossroads.

‘We can go in through the back,’ she said, pointing at the side gate.

Her voice sounded thin, high, even to her own ears, but Raoul didn’t seem to notice. He followed her into the garden, then propped the bike against the wall. For a moment, she couldn’t see him.

‘Raoul?’ she whispered, terrified suddenly that he’d changed his mind.

He was standing beside the fig tree, half silhouetted in the fading light.

‘I’m here,’ he said.

Chapter 34

Raoul followed Sandrine into the house. Through a mesh screen door, the hiss of steam and pans clattering, a wooden spoon being banged against the side of a mixing bowl.

As they walked in, a medley of smells hit his senses – wild thyme and tarragon, sweet mashed turnip, even sausages. His heart tightened a notch. It reminded him of his mother’s kitchen in the old days. An elderly woman, dressed in old-fashioned sabots and a long black dress beneath a patterned housecoat, looked up.

‘Marieta, this is Raoul,’ Sandrine said, her voice falsely bright. ‘He’s the one who helped after my . . . accident at the river.’

The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change. ‘How does he come to be here now?’

Raoul was not surprised by the old woman’s hostility, but he could see Sandrine was taken aback at her abrupt tone.

‘We ran into each other in town, outside the post office,’ Sandrine replied defensively. ‘Can supper stretch to one more?’

‘Madomaisèla Suzanne is still here. Madomaisèla Lucie too.’

‘I’d like him to stay,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to put anybody out . . .’ he began.

‘I invited you,’ Sandrine said quickly, now evidently embarrassed.

Marieta continued to stare, but then turned and walked towards the table.

‘In which case, I will lay an extra place.’

‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Raoul said under his breath.

‘Marieta’s like that with everybody at first,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t take it to heart. She’s a lamb really.’

‘She’s looking out for you,’ he said, touched Sandrine was trying to make him feel better. ‘I don’t blame her for that.’

They were standing close together now, close enough for him to smell the scent of her skin. His heart tightened another degree. There was a clatter of plates, then Marieta emerged from the larder carrying a wooden board with a large cut of ham in one hand, and the remains of a white loaf in the other.

Raoul stepped forward. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked.

‘I can manage.’

He swung the rucksack off his shoulder. ‘I have some wine. It’s not much, but I’d like you to have it.’

He took out the bottle and put it on the table. For the first time, Marieta looked directly at him. Then, finally, she nodded. Sandrine smiled with relief and Raoul stopped caring about anything else.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’

‘Is there anywhere I could clean up?’ he said.

Marieta stood back from the sink. Raoul quickly put his hands under the tap and splashed water on his face, the worst of the grass stains and dust of the day. When he was ready, he followed Sandrine down a long dark corridor towards the front of the house.

The last of the day’s light filtered through a large patterned glass window on the half-landing, illuminating three small black and white framed photographs. Raoul stopped and looked up. All were views of the countryside: the first, a village set high on a hill; the second, two or three odd flint huts, like tiny stone igloos. The third was a shot of a ruined castle.

‘Where were they taken?’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Coustaussa. We have a summer house there.’

‘What are those strange buildings?’

‘Our capitelles – castillous, the locals call them. They’re actually quite famous. Visitors come from all over the place to photograph them.’ She paused. ‘Well, they did before the war.’

‘What are they used for?’

‘My father said they were a form of very old shepherds’ shelter, for those taking their flocks south over the mountains in autumn and back again in the spring after the snows had melted. Truthfully, nobody even knows how old they are. When my sister and I were little, we used to play hide and seek in them, though we weren’t allowed.’

In the darkness of the corridor, their fingers found one another. Just for a moment. Sandrine squeezed tight, then let go of his hand. Briefly, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt, but for the first time in a very long time, he looked happy. Then he remembered the events of the day, remembered César and Antoine, and his eyes clouded over once more.

Behind a closed door to the left, he heard women’s voices and the sound of a wireless in the background.

‘Come on,’ Sandrine said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Chapter 35

‘Arrêtez!’ Laval shouted. A single bulb illuminated the long, dark corridor that led to the holding cells in the gaol in Carcassonne. ‘You, stop.’

This time, the guard turned round. Sylvère saw him take in his uniform, his rank. Confusion, then belligerence clouded his obdurate features.

‘Are you talking to me?’

Laval’s eyes slipped to the prisoner. The man’s hands were cuffed behind his back, his knuckles were purple, swollen, and the thumb of his right hand was bleeding.

‘Is this Max Blum?’

The prisoner raised his head and stared at Laval.

‘What if it is?’ demanded the guard.

‘I need to question him.’

‘You have no jurisdiction here.’

Laval strode along the corridor. The guard’s hand slipped to his revolver, a spurt of defiance on his bovine face.

‘I’ve no orders to release him into your custody.’

Laval stared at him. ‘And somewhere private to have our conversation.’

‘Unless you have written orders,’ the guard spat the words out, ‘I’m taking the prisoner to the cells, with all the others.’

Laval held his gaze for a moment longer, then, without warning, drove his fist into the guard’s soft stomach. The man grunted and doubled over, but went for his gun. Sylvère grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the wall, once then again. He yelled and dropped his pistol, which skidded along the concrete floor. Before he had time to recover, Laval circled his arm around the man’s fleshy neck and jerked his head back, then again. His cap fell to the ground. The guard’s eyes bulged and the gasping sound grew fainter.

‘Will this do in lieu of written orders?’ said Laval, jerking his victim’s neck back again. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ he choked.

Laval pushed the guard away from him, then crossed the corridor, picked up the weapon. He cocked it open, removed the bullets from the drum, clicked it shut again and threw it at the guard’s feet.

‘And somewhere to have the conversation,’ he repeated.

Rubbing his throat, the guard put his cap back on his head. Without meeting Laval’s eye, he walked a couple of steps back down the corridor, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened a door. Laval grabbed Blum by the arm and pushed him into the room.

‘Wait outside,’ he ordered the guard, taking the keys from the man’s hands and shutting the door.

‘Sit.’

Blum didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’

It was the first time he’d spoken. He was tall, but slight, so Laval was surprised at how deep his voice was.

‘Sit down,’ he said again, forcing the prisoner down into one of the chairs set either side of a plain wooden desk.

Laval sat on the corner, then leant forward and removed the glasses from Blum’s face. This time, he saw clear protest in the prisoner’s eyes, though still he didn’t complain.

‘Why have I been arrested? My papers are in order.’

‘Are you long-sighted or short-sighted?’

‘What?’

‘Answer the question, Blum.’

‘Short.’

‘Your sister, Liesl, where’s she tonight?’

Laval saw a flicker of alarm in Blum’s eyes, though he hid it well. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, now I know you’re lying, Blum. Because it says here . . .’ he made a show of pulling some papers from his pocket and looking at them, ‘that you keep a close eye on her. So, I have to ask, why you were out? Leaving her on her own.’

‘There’s no curfew,’ he said shortly.

‘Not for us, Blum, but for you?’

He saw the man struggle not to react to the provocation. He dropped his eyes to the papers again.

‘We’ve had five or six complaints from your address. Even so, you left your sister alone?’

‘The last time,’ Blum said, ‘those thugs were outside for three hours. Throwing stones at the window, shouting abuse.’

‘High spirits.’

‘Criminals.’

‘The police aren’t there to protect your kind, Blum.’

‘French police are supposed to protect French citizens. All French citizens.’

Laval leant forward again. ‘Tell me about Raoul Pelletier.’

‘Who?’ Blum said immediately. He sounded genuinely surprised.

‘You heard me. Raoul Pelletier.’

‘I don’t know anybody of that name.’

From the look on Blum’s face, Laval was certain he was telling the truth, but he needed to be sure. He drew back his arm and hit the other man on the side of his head with his open hand, taking him by surprise. Blum’s head snapped back and his legs shot out in an attempt to stop the chair from toppling over.

‘Raoul Pelletier,’ repeated Laval. ‘Who is he?’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

Laval laughed. ‘Pelletier’s name has been all over the wireless. There can’t be a man, woman or child in Carcassonne who’s not heard of him.’

‘If you recall, we are no longer permitted to own a wireless,’ said Blum, struggling to catch his breath.

Laval picked up Blum’s glasses and twisted them between his thumb and forefinger.

‘This morning, you attended the demonstration with your sister and your, what shall we call her, salope.’

Finally, a spark of anger. ‘Don’t talk about her like that.’

Laval hit him again, harder this time, splitting the skin beneath his eye. Blum swallowed a gasp, but said nothing as the blood trickled down his cheek.

‘An illegal demonstration,’ Laval continued. ‘Pelletier was there.’

‘I told you, I don’t know anyone called Pelletier.’

Laval saw Blum brace himself for the blow, which didn’t come.

‘Where’s Pelletier now?’

‘I don’t know anyone called Pelletier.’

‘Who was the girl at the river?’

Laval saw the confusion at the abrupt change of subject and then, for the first time, the flicker of evasion.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes you do, Blum. Think. We know you were there – we traced the number plate – you and your tart. Did you give the girl a lift somewhere?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘How does she know Pelletier?’

Laval could see Blum was struggling, trying to put the different questions together. Trying not to get caught out.

‘I don’t know Pelletier,’ he repeated for the third time.

This time, Laval went for his stomach, landing the punch just beneath the diaphragm. Blum grunted, but still managed to raise his head and stare at him.

‘You’re lying, Blum. Why was Pelletier at the river yesterday?’

The reaction was so quick, Laval almost missed it, but it was there. Confirmation that he genuinely didn’t know Pelletier. Or at least he didn’t know that he had been at the river. He moved on with another question before Blum had time to think.

‘This girl, is she a friend of “Mademoiselle” Ménard?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Max said, strain cracking his voice.

‘Do you want me to ask Mademoiselle Ménard myself, Blum?’

‘Leave her alone,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t know anything. There’s nothing to know!’

Blum flinched, clearly bracing himself for another blow, and relaxed a little when it didn’t come. Laval stared at him – he was stronger than he’d expected – then leant forward and put the warped glasses back on his bruised face.

‘She’s got to know more than you, Blum. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us the girl’s name. Or that little sister of yours. Pretty girl, for a Jewess.’

Blum sprang out of the chair, even though his hands were still cuffed behind his back.

‘Don’t you go near her, either of them,’ he warned. ‘Or else I swear I’ll . . .’

‘You’ll do what?’ Laval laughed. ‘You’re here, Blum, she’s out there. You can’t protect her. Your sister, your whore, you’re no use to either of them.’

Finally he saw fear in the other man’s eyes. ‘You can’t hold me,’ Blum said. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You’re a Jew, Blum,’ Laval said.

‘I’m French.’

‘Not in my eyes.’

‘A Parisian.’

‘Yet here in Carcassonne. Attending an illegal demonstration.’

‘There were thousands there. You can’t arrest everybody.’

Laval stood up and threw open the door. The guard, who had clearly been trying to listen in, sprang back.

‘Process him. Put him on the deportation list with the others.’

‘You can’t do this,’ Blum shouted. ‘You’ve got no right!’

Laval walked out into the corridor. ‘I can do anything I like, Blum. Send you anywhere I like. No one even knows you’re here.’

He turned. ‘And you,’ he hissed to the guard, ‘if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you’ll be on that train tomorrow too.’

Chapter 36

‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, leading Raoul into the salon. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

An attractive woman sitting on a sofa looked up, a book in her lap. Raoul recognised her from boulevard Barbès. In an armchair to her left, a tall woman with cropped hair and slacks. A pretty bottle blonde was adjusting the dials on the wireless. All three immediately stopped what they were doing and looked at him with a mixture of suspicion and interest.

‘Mesdames,’ he said, wishing his throat wasn’t so dry.

‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, her voice too sharp, too fast, too high. ‘This is Raoul. He’s stuck, needs somewhere to stay. I said you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Darling, I’m not sure that’s a . . .’

Sandrine carried on talking over her. ‘It was Raoul who fished me out of the river yesterday,’ she said. ‘Without him, who knows how long I might have been lying there.’ She put her hand on his arm and he felt how nervous she was. ‘Raoul, my sister Marianne and our friends Lucie Ménard and Suzanne Peyre. Everyone, Raoul Pelletier.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Suzanne stood up and offered her hand. ‘How do you do.’

‘Did you say Pelletier?’ said Lucie.

Sandrine nodded. ‘Yes, why?’

Lucie leant forward and turned up the volume on the wireless. The crackling voice of the presenter grew louder.

‘Police in Carcassonne therefore request anyone who has any information pertaining to the whereabouts of the suspected bomber to contact them immediately. Following the discovery of a number of items in the apartment where the suspect resided . . .’

Raoul felt a trickle of dread. He knew they’d be after him, but to be set up for the whole thing? He couldn’t work it out.

‘. . . and the police advise that Pelletier may be dangerous. He should not be approached. The telephone number will be repeated at the end of this bulletin. We repeat, he may be dangerous and should not be approached. In other local news, the celebrations for the Fête de Saint-Nazaire will still go ahead in Carcassonne, despite the damage caused by this afternoon’s outrage in the Bastide. Organisers say . . .’

Lucie flicked the dial off. ‘They’ve been running bulletins every half-hour,’ she said.

‘You can’t believe anything the wireless puts out,’ Sandrine said, squeezing his arm. ‘You’re always saying as much, Marianne.’

His situation was even worse than he’d imagined but, despite that, despite everything, Raoul’s spirits lifted a little at how Sandrine sprang unconditionally to his defence. Something inside him shifted.

He looked around the room, trying to work out what to say. How even to begin. He felt Marianne’s eyes on him.

‘Monsieur Pelletier?’

Raoul met her gaze. ‘I wasn’t responsible for the bomb.’

‘Were you there?’

‘Yes, and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘And I know who set it off, I saw him, though there’s nothing I can do about it. No one will believe me.’

‘Someone died,’ Marianne said.

‘A boy?’ Raoul said, remembering the child’s white face.

‘Yes.’

‘Marianne,’ Sandrine said, sounding upset as well as embarrassed. ‘Raoul told me he was in trouble. I invited him. He doesn’t have to answer to us.’

‘Your sister has a right to know what happened,’ he said. ‘I’d expect the same in her position.’

‘No,’ Sandrine said firmly, ‘she doesn’t. You told me you didn’t do anything and—’

‘Darling, let him speak for himself.’

Sandrine threw her hands in the air. ‘How can he possibly do that when you’re sitting in judgement?’

Marianne patted the sofa cushion. ‘Come and sit by me.’

Sandrine hesitated, then went to the sofa and sat down. Suzanne plonked herself back in the armchair. Lucie perched on the arm, swinging a shapely leg to and fro.

Raoul looked at Sandrine – her fierce eyes, the two spots of colour on her cheeks, her black curls framing her face – and the sight of her gave him courage. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if there was ever to be something between them, he had to break the habit of deception he’d been forced to adopt and tell the truth. Trust Sandrine and her sister, their friends. Tell them what had happened, leave nothing out.

‘May I sit down?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Marianne replied.

Raoul pulled a wooden chair from next to the sideboard and put it in the middle of the room.

‘The man who detonated the bomb is called Sylvère Laval,’ he said. ‘I know because he was a member of a group I was also in. I realised today – too late to do anything about it – he’d been working undercover with the police.’

‘What kind of group?’

He was aware of Sandrine’s dark eyes on him, but he continued to focus his attention on Marianne. He took a deep breath.

‘A Resistance group.’

‘And you, Monsieur Pelletier?’

He held her gaze. ‘You’re asking if I am a partisan?’

‘I am.’

Raoul hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. ‘Yes.’ He almost expected an alarm to go off at the admission, or for the police to storm the house. ‘I am a partisan. Of course.’

Marianne glanced at Suzanne. Raoul felt he could almost see the questions, the calculations flying unspoken through the air. He felt the force of Sandrine’s steady gaze on him. Quickly he turned his head and risked a smile, was rewarded by the encouragement in her eyes.

‘But the situation’s complicated,’ he said.

‘Go on,’ said Marianne.

‘The march itself was genuine enough, but it seems many of the Resistance groups in the Aude had been infiltrated by Vichyists, by Deuxième Bureau, or . . .’ He paused again. ‘Or, like mine, set up by collaborators in the first place.’

‘To trap résistantes,’ Suzanne said, then quickly corrected herself. ‘Résistants.’

‘Let Monsieur Pelletier continue,’ Marianne jumped in. ‘Who was in this group?’

Giving names went against everything he’d been taught. But again, Raoul knew he had no choice if he wanted to persuade her – them – to trust him.

‘Two brothers, Gaston and Robert Bonnet; Antoine Déjean; and a former comrade of my brother from the International Brigade, César Sanchez.’

Raoul saw a glance pass between Suzanne and Marianne.

‘What about your brother?’

‘Bruno was murdered by the Nationalists in Spain in December 1938.’

Marianne paused. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you. The other members were Laval and the leader of the group, a man called Leo Coursan.’

Marianne looked at Suzanne again. ‘Coursan, I know that name.’

Raoul glanced at each of the women in turn. Sandrine looked simply interested, curious. The blonde too. But Marianne and her friend? He was increasingly certain they knew precisely what he was talking about.

‘I was aware there were tensions, but since I didn’t know anyone except for César, and people are often on edge before something big like that, I didn’t take it to mean anything. Unfortunately, I failed to listen to my own instincts.’

‘Did you talk about your suspicions with anyone else?’

‘I tried to talk to César. He clearly had something on his mind, but stupidly I didn’t press him, so—’

‘Where’s César now?’ Suzanne interrupted.

‘He was arrested this afternoon. At his apartment.’

This time Marianne and Suzanne made no attempt to hide the glance that passed between them.

‘Do you know him?’ he asked.

Neither woman answered.

‘Go on, Monsieur Pelletier,’ said Marianne.

‘I was outside Saint-Michel when the bomb went off. I shouted a warning to get people out of the way, but I was too late. Laval left a pile of the tracts we’d been distributing at the site, or packed them into the bomb, I’m not sure which. I had a few with me. I was trying to help the boy who was injured, they fell out of my pocket and a woman saw. Started screaming.’

‘You have any proof of this?’

‘Marianne!’ Sandrine protested.

‘No. But it’s the truth.’

‘A bouc émissaire, a scapegoat,’ Suzanne said.

Marianne took no notice of the interruption. ‘Is that all you were doing, handing out tracts? No – no other action?’

Raoul again held her gaze. ‘Just handing out leaflets.’

‘What was in them?’

‘Photographs of the conditions in the camps at Argelès, Rivesaltes.’

‘I saw them,’ Sandrine said.

‘So did I,’ said Lucie. ‘Awful.’

Marianne was silent for a moment. Raoul waited, feeling that the tide was turning in his favour, but not wanting to jeopardise anything.

‘Do you think Coursan and Laval were working together?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘I’ve been trying to work it out. I didn’t see Coursan today and I don’t know what’s happened to him, but he and Laval are close . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It’s hard to be sure.’

He paused, trying to decide whether to go on or not.

‘Is there something else, Monsieur Pelletier?’

‘I can see it was easy for Laval to frame me. I was right there at the critical moment. On the other hand, it’s possible I’d been singled out anyway.’

‘Why?’ Marianne said quickly.

‘Because of what happened yesterday at the river.’

Now Lucie started to pay more attention.

‘Antoine Déjean is missing. Has been for several days.’ Raoul risked a quick glance at Sandrine, who was sitting very still on the sofa with her arms wrapped around herself. ‘You were holding his chain when I found you,’ he said softly.

‘It was in the pocket of a jacket abandoned down by the water,’ Sandrine said, ‘though that had gone when I came round.’ She looked at Lucie. ‘Do you remember, I asked you and Max to look for it?’

‘I’m sorry we didn’t believe you,’ Lucie said. ‘It just sounded so unlikely, all of it.’

Marianne leant towards Raoul. ‘The man Sandrine helped at the river, do you think it was your friend?’

‘I can’t be sure. But he’s still not turned up, and from Sandrine’s description, it sounded like Antoine.’

‘I didn’t want to say anything in case I was wrong,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Marianne thought for a moment. ‘Are you saying you think Coursan attacked Déjean?’

Raoul shook his head. ‘The timings don’t work. He can’t have been hauling Antoine up the bank, finding somewhere to hold him, then back at the rue de l’Aigle d’Or in time for the meeting. He was there before me.’

‘What about Laval?’ said Marianne.

‘That’s more likely. He arrived late, very late. Coursan was angry about it, though he didn’t say anything until the rest of us had gone.’

Raoul stopped talking, suddenly weary of it all. The guessing games, how much to reveal, how much to conceal. He had done what he could to persuade them he could be trusted. He’d given them names. If Marianne still didn’t believe him, he didn’t see what more he could say.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal, I accept you’ve only my word for any of this. And after everything, I can see how Sandrine turning up with me now, out of the blue, seems suspicious. I don’t blame you. I’d be the same.’ He glanced at Sandrine, then at Lucie and Suzanne, before letting his gaze come to rest on Marianne once more. ‘But I’ve told you the truth.’

‘I believe you,’ Sandrine said firmly.

Raoul looked at her, fighting his corner so fiercely, so doggedly, and felt the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosen a little more.

‘Darling,’ Marianne said gently, ‘you don’t know him.’

Sandrine got up and came to stand beside him. ‘I know enough,’ she said. ‘Raoul saved my life.’

Marianne placed her hands in her lap. ‘You’ve only got his word for that. He was there at the river yesterday when you were attacked – you say by someone else, but there’s no evidence it wasn’t him.’ She held up her hand to stop Sandrine interrupting. ‘Again, he turns up today precisely where you happen to be, first at the demonstration, then in the rue de la Préfecture.’

‘Are you suggesting he’s been following me?’ Sandrine said, her voice rising in disbelief. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone follow me?’

It was a simple question. That Sandrine asked it was, to Raoul, proof positive that she had no idea of what was going on. The blonde wasn’t in the picture either. But the fact Marianne had raised such a suspicion in the first place – and the look on Suzanne’s face – confirmed to Raoul once and for all that they were as involved as much as he was. He looked Marianne in the eye.

‘I understand why you might think that, but I give you my word, I didn’t know.’

‘Know what?’ Sandrine asked. She looked at her sister, then at Raoul, then back to her sister again. ‘Know what, Marianne?’

All the theories and counter-theories, words and speculations and justifications, seemed to hang in the air.

‘Marianne?’ she repeated, sounding less certain.

Raoul ran his hands over his hair, feeling the strain of the day and the hours spent in the Jardin du Calvaire in the ache of his shoulders. He stood up.

‘Look, I don’t want to cause any trouble. I don’t want to draw attention to the house. I should go.’

‘You can’t go now,’ Sandrine said. ‘If Raoul goes, I’m going with him.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘I mean it.’

Raoul felt the full force of Marianne’s eyes on him, summing him up. Everyone else was looking at her, waiting to see what she would decide. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece was deafening, suddenly, in the expectant quiet.

Finally Marianne sighed. ‘All right, he can sleep in Papa’s room. Only for tonight.’

Sandrine immediately rushed to her sister and threw her arms around her.

‘Thank you, I knew you’d come round.’

Raoul let out a long deep sigh. ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

Marianne was still staring at him. ‘But you need to be gone first thing in the morning, Monsieur Pelletier.’

Chapter 37

Reluctantly, Sandrine followed Marianne upstairs. She stood on the threshold of their father’s room, while Marianne fetched clean linen from the airing cupboard. Even though there had been plenty of occupants in the past couple of years, the room still smelt of him. A mixture of hair oil and old books and his favourite cologne. She sighed.

‘Come on,’ said Marianne.

‘I don’t see why I’ve got to help,’ she said. ‘Marieta was happy to make up the bed.’

‘She’s seeing to supper,’ Marianne said calmly. ‘Put the slip on the pillow first, then the pillowcase.’

Sandrine pulled off the heavy white cotton pillowcase, tossed it on the bed and started again.

‘It’s rude leaving Raoul alone downstairs,’ she said.

‘He’s not on his own. Lucie and Suzanne are with him.’

‘It’s our house. He’s our guest,’ Sandrine said irritably. ‘One of us should be looking after him.’

Marianne handed Sandrine the corners of the sheet and they shook it out, letting the air hold it before it floated down to the mattress.

‘No one’s stayed in here for a while,’ Sandrine said.

‘No.’

‘Why is that?’ she asked. ‘We used to have all sorts dropping by, but not so much now.’

Marianne didn’t answer. Sandrine looked at her sister, doubled over the bed. She looked so tired and was actually being pretty decent about having a last-minute guest sprung upon her. Sandrine suddenly felt guilty she was behaving so badly.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be foul-tempered,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I like him.’

Her sister straightened up, hand in the small of her back. ‘I know.’

Sandrine stared at her. ‘I mean, I really like him, Marianne.’

Finally, her sister’s expression gave a little. ‘Darling, that’s obvious.’

‘That’s the reason I was upset at you firing all those questions at him. I know you’re being careful, but I want him to like you too.’

‘Raoul understands,’ Marianne said quietly. ‘He understands how things are.’

Sandrine finished putting the second pillow in its case and dropped it on the bed.

‘What do you think, though? You do like him, don’t you?’

Marianne sighed. ‘I don’t know him,’ she replied, running her hand over the sheet to iron out any creases.

‘Don’t you believe what he said?’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘I thought you did.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘What then? I want to know what you think, Marianne.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

Marianne straightened up. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m not making a judgement on the rights and wrongs of the situation, so don’t jump down my throat, but the fact of the matter is that whatever the reason, he did run off and leave you at the river.’

‘But you can’t—’

Marianne raised her hand. ‘Let me finish. Raoul’s explanation of why he did that makes complete sense, I’m not saying it doesn’t, only you have to ask yourself, with a man like that, where do his loyalties lie? With the people he cares about, or with a cause?’

‘I don’t think—’

‘I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all,’ Marianne continued. ‘Love at first sight, it’s not real life.’

Sandrine took a deep breath. ‘I know you’ll say I’ve only known him a few hours – and that’s true, no time at all.’ She paused. ‘The thing is, it doesn’t matter what his motives are, I don’t care. It doesn’t seem relevant.’ She hesitated, willing her sister to understand. ‘Do you see?’

For a moment, Marianne didn’t answer. ‘There’s no future in it,’ she said in the end. ‘Raoul can’t stay in Carcassonne, he’ll have to disappear. There’s no chance of you being together.’

‘I’ll wait.’

‘It’s not a matter of waiting, Sandrine,’ she said wearily. ‘He’s got a murder charge hanging over him. He’s not going to be able to come back.’

‘He’ll clear his name.’

Marianne stared at her for a moment longer, then she sighed. ‘Just promise me you’ll be careful.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘I promise,’ she said. She straightened the pillows. ‘There, finished. Is there anything else to do up here?’

‘No,’ said Marianne, sounding even more tired.

‘Can I go?’

‘Of course. I’ll be down in a minute.’

Sandrine raced round the bed and hugged her. ‘Thank you for letting him stay,’ she said. Then she bounded out of the room and back down the stairs, to where Raoul was waiting for her in the salon.

Codex V

GAUL

PLAINS OF CARSAC

JULY AD 342

Arinius went to take his leave of the two soldiers on the night watch. A father and son, they had become friends during his time in Carcaso. They told him of their wandering lives, spent in fortified towns and garrisons. Marching from one side of the crumbling empire to another. He told them of his God, shared stories of mercy and grace and transformation. As they clasped hands one last time, the father gave him a pair of leather sandals for the journey south and warned him to be careful.

Arinius returned to his lodgings. He did not wish to leave, but he felt the broad hand of time at his back. He wrapped his arms around his thin frame, feeling the familiar crackle of the Codex against his skin, then settled his debt with the innkeeper and left.

The long journey from Lugdunum to the furthest reaches of Gaul had aged him. Every stone, every twist of the path, had left its mark on his bones, on the surface of his skin. But his time in the fortified town had restored his health. The blisters on his feet had healed and the cough that had plagued him since the salt lakes of the flat lands of Narbonensis, if no better, was at least no worse. More often than not, he slept through the night, no longer woken by fever or the sweating that left his bed drenched.

‘Pater noster, qui es in caelis,’ Arinius said, murmuring the comforting words of the Lord’s Prayer as he waited for the gates to be opened. ‘Hallowèd be Thy name.’

His fingers wrapped around his mother’s brooch. She was the wisest, kindest person he had ever known. Arinius knew she would have understood his mission, would have been proud of his fortitude. He felt her beside him, encouraging him on.

‘Et dimitte nobis debita nostra,’ he recited. ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.’

Arinius pulled his cloak around him and walked reluctantly through the streets that he had come to call home. He knew it was unlikely he would ever pass this way again. In the silence of the morning, for an instant he heard the voice of God speaking to him. A whispering, a sibilance on the wind. It was, he felt, a moment of grace. A sign.

‘Amen,’ he whispered. ‘So be it.’

He joined the crowds at the main gates. The sound of the wooden bars being removed, the creak of the metal hinges as the night watch pulled open the heavy gates and opened the castellum to the world once more. The movement and surge of men’s feet shuffling forward.

Ahead on the plains of Carsac, the Atax glinted brightly in the early morning sunlight. Arinius prayed that God would give him strength, would guide him safely to the mountains that divided Gaul from Hispania.

Step by step towards the mountains of Pyrène.

Chapter 38

CARCASSONNE

JULY 1942

The sun was rising over the fortified city of Carcassonne. Filigree rays pierced the clouds and dappled the stone face of the Narbonnaise towers, catching the shards of red tile in the Roman section of the walls and painting the Cité amber and bronze in the shimmering light of dawn.

The river was still in the hazy morning air. On the far side of the Aude, the shops and offices of the Bastide were beginning to stir. The house in rue du Palais was still sleeping. Marianne and Marieta were in their own beds, Lucie was curled up under the pink day blanket on the settee and Suzanne was asleep in the armchair, her arms crossed and her head resting on her chest. Wine and the adrenalin of the previous day – and the sense that it would be better not to be out on the streets – had kept the women there together.

Sandrine and Raoul were sitting on the terrace at the rear of the house, where they had been all night. Close together, her cardigan and his jacket serving as bedclothes, his head upon her shoulder. They had dozed a little, resting arm to arm. Mostly, they had talked. Shared fragments of autobiography, their stories. Occasionally touching each other’s hands, arms, the lightest of movements before a shy retreat, a dance every bit as complex as the skimming of the swifts over the surface of the river and up, higher and higher, into the sky.

Sandrine glanced at Raoul’s sleeping head, then back out over the garden once more. It was the same sun that had greeted her on Monday and on Tuesday, but it rose now on a different world. Everything had changed, for both the better and the worse, revealing a world at once more perfect and more treacherous. The blue of midday, the white heat haze of the early afternoon, the shifting of light and the purple dusk, setting the shadows to flight. Sandrine had felt she lived lifetimes in the space of the past two days.

Raoul stirred and sat up, stretched.

‘Good morning.’ She smiled at him.

He rubbed his eyes, turned and looked straight at her. ‘Sandrine.’

‘I wish I had coffee to offer you, but . . .’

‘I know.’

‘We have tea?’

‘Thank you.’

Sandrine got up and ran into the house, resenting the time it took the kettle to reach the boil on the stove. She returned a few minutes later with a tray, a metal teapot and two cups. ‘I found some biscuits. They don’t look too bad.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Early still.’

He took a mouthful of tea. ‘This is the time of day I always like best,’ he said. ‘After I was demobbed, I lived down on the coast near Perpignan. We helped refugees, escapees, over the mountains up to the border. We left at three or four o’clock in the morning, when it was still dark, and used to get back to Banyuls-sur-Mer just as the sun was rising. The relief at not being caught, every time . . .’

‘I like this time of day too,’ she said. ‘No one about.’

Raoul put his cup down between his feet and took one of the cigarettes Suzanne had given him from his pocket. ‘It was generous of her to give me these,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘How come she has tobacco?’

‘She claims her father’s ration, I think. He doesn’t smoke.’

Sandrine took another mouthful of her tea. Thick with sugar, hot, after their long night of talking it tasted wonderful.

‘Why did you go to Banyuls in 1940, rather than coming back to Carcassonne?’

‘Bruno.’

Sandrine frowned. ‘But by then, wasn’t he . . .’

Raoul nodded. ‘Yes, he was killed two years before that. I’d been in Banyuls before, before the war broke out. I used to get these letters from Bruno, telling me what was going on. He was fighting for what he believed in, putting his life on the line. I wanted to be like him. Do you see?’

‘Yes.’ Sandrine nodded, knowing that if she’d been asked the same question a few days ago, she might have given a different answer.

‘So I threw in my studies and went to join him, December 1938. I knew there was a crossing point south of Banyuls-sur-Mer, on the coast, so I headed there. I went straight to a down-at-heel bar on the water-front, where I’d been told a guide would meet me and take me over the Pyrenees. I had fifty francs to pay for my passage, all the money I had in the world.’ He flicked the end of the cigarette down on to the paving stones. ‘I waited and waited, but the guide never came. Not that day, nor the day after. I heard nothing, got no explanation other than these things happened.’ He stopped, his eyes fixed on a distant point in the garden. ‘A week later, I heard that a unit of French and British Republican sympathisers had been ambushed, their route betrayed by their own side. Bruno was one of them. Their bodies were doused in petrol and set alight.’

Sandrine took his hand.

‘Photographs of the massacre were circulated as a warning and the names published,’ he said quietly. ‘I was in shock. I was eighteen, on my own, a long way from home. I drank all night and all the following day and into the next night, stumbling from bar to bar, until the money I’d got together to pay the passeur was spent. Christmas found me on the jetty at Banyuls contemplating the black winter sea.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘I stood there for hours. The cold penetrated right down to my bones, but I barely noticed. Trying to be brave enough.’

Sandrine squeezed his fingers, encouraging him to keep going.

‘I wish I could say it was the thought of my mother, God even, anything. But, truthfully, I lacked the courage to jump.’

‘Perhaps it takes more courage not to,’ Sandrine said, pushing away the image of a world in which they had never met. ‘Harder to keep going.’

‘Perhaps.’ He gave a fleeting smile. ‘In the end, I think it was the idea that someone should pay for what had happened to Bruno. Revenge, I suppose. So I walked back to the bar and the proprietor’s wife took pity on me. Gave me coffee and rolls and a few francs to tide me over until I got back to Carcassonne. I didn’t want to come back, but I knew my mother would take Bruno’s death badly – he was always her favourite – and I thought I owed it to her to tell her myself, face to face.’

‘Did you mind that? It didn’t make you jealous of him?’

Raoul put his head on one side. ‘Not at all. I looked up to him too. Our father died when I was three – I have no memories of him at all. Bruno was the man of the house, he looked after us both. We relied on him.’ He sighed. ‘He was always so certain, so clear about right and wrong, whereas things never seemed so black and white to me. Not then, at any rate.’

Sandrine smiled, but didn’t say anything. She didn’t want him to stop talking.

‘I always intended to go back to Banyuls,’ he continued. ‘Stupid, but I felt close to Bruno there.’ He shook his head. ‘Then of course war broke out and I was called up. Caserne d’Iéna.’ He sighed. ‘Sunday the third of September. It was so hot that day.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Yes. Marianne and I went to see Papa off. We stood out on the parade ground for hours with the sun beating down on the back of our necks. Then, after all the buses had gone, we went to Place Carnot to listen to the news from L’Indépendant being broadcast over the loudspeakers. About how the Maginot Line would keep France safe. I believed it. It didn’t occur to me that Papa would . . .’

She broke off.

‘You miss him a great deal,’ he said softly, turning her hand over in his and kissing her palm.

She sighed. ‘Not all the time, but then something will happen and I’ll think to myself that I must tell him, then I remember.’

They sat in silence for a moment, until Sandrine released her hand and took another sip of her tea. ‘What happened to you then?’

‘We sat in barracks for what seemed like months. What I remember most about the drôle de guerre is the boredom. Being confined to quarters, the daily drill and pointless kit and weapon inspections. We spent most of our time playing football and cards. The farmers in my unit were more worried about the harvest and their crops than German bullets.’

‘It was the topic of conversation here too. That autumn, everyone joined in with the vendanges. Even the Spanish refugees from the camps at Couiza and Bram were allowed out to help.’

‘When finally we were sent north, we found ourselves in this strange deserted land. Walking through the villages, all evacuated, desolate, abandoned to the animals. Cows and pigs and goats wandering through deserted streets. Everyone had gone, been sent away. The only sound was the distant wail of sirens, the sound of the Stukas in the sky.’

They both fell silent, the ghosts of their past close to them in the early morning light. There was so much more Sandrine wanted to hear and to tell him, but she could feel the intimacy of the dawn was already melting away. The sky was turning from white to the glorious blue of summer. The outlines of the trees and rooftops beyond the garden were stronger, clearer.

The easy atmosphere between them changed. There was no more time for reminiscence and stories.

Beyond the walls of the garden, the bells of Saint-Michel began to ring for six o’clock.

Raoul sighed. ‘I have to go.’

‘I know.’

He didn’t move.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, jumping up. ‘There’s something I want you to have.’

She vanished into the house, reappearing a few minutes later with a brown trilby and a light summer jacket.

‘Your father’s?’

She nodded. ‘He wouldn’t mind,’ she said, helping him into the jacket. ‘There. It’s a good fit.’

He touched her cheek with his hand. ‘If you’re sure.’ He sighed again. ‘This is it, then.’

‘Yes.’

‘Say goodbye to Lucie and Suzanne. And thank your sister for me.’ Raoul grinned. ‘Does it often end up like that here? Everybody getting tight then sleeping it off in the salon?’

Sandrine smiled back. ‘No. Last night was unusual. Lucie only stayed because Max was spending the evening with his sister, so she was at a loose end. As for Suzanne, she’s a law unto herself.’

‘I like her. Straightforward. You could rely on her.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, remembering how Suzanne had come to her rescue with Monsieur Fournier. ‘Lucie’s fun, though.’

‘Yes, she seems nice.’ His face clouded over, as if he was struggling to find the right words.

‘What is it?’ she said quickly.

‘It’s . . .’ Raoul paused. ‘Get Marianne to talk to you.’

Sandrine laughed. ‘We’re always talking, what do you mean? We never stop.’ Then she looked at his expression and saw he was serious. The smile slipped from her face. ‘Talk to me about what?’

Raoul took her hand. ‘Just talk to her.’

Behind them, a rattle of pans in the kitchen.

‘Someone’s already up,’ he said. ‘I must go.’

‘It’s only Marieta.’

‘Even so.’

Sandrine stood on tiptoe to straighten his collar, then stepped back again.

‘Where will you go?’ she said quietly. ‘Back to Banyuls?’

‘Maybe. Anywhere, as far away from Carcassonne and Laval as I can manage.’

‘Until it’s blown over.’

Raoul sighed. ‘It’s not going to blow over,’ he said. ‘There’s a murder charge against me. That won’t go away.’

Sandrine didn’t know for sure what she was going to say until she’d said it, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she knew Marianne would be furious. But she didn’t care.

‘If you’re stuck or need somewhere to stay in an emergency, you could go to our house in Coustaussa.’

‘No,’ he objected immediately, as she’d known he would. ‘No question of it. You’ve done more than enough already. I’ve put you at risk simply by being here. I’m not going to do it again.’

Sandrine continued as if he’d not spoken. ‘The house is standing empty. It’s out of the way. People mind their own business in the valley.’

‘No,’ he said forcefully.

‘Once you’re in Coustaussa, coming from Couiza, head through the village towards the back road towards Cassaignes. It’s a stone house, three steps up to the front door, yellow paintwork. Everyone knows it. Wooden sign outside – CITADELLE – though it came down in the storms a couple of years ago and I’m not sure it was ever put back up. There’s a key under the geranium pot on the terrace at the back.’

‘Sandrine, enough,’ he said, putting his hands on her shoulders.

‘Just consider it.’

He placed a kiss on her forehead, then drew her close against him. Sandrine threw her arms around his waist, holding on tight as if her life depended on it.

‘You’re shivering,’ he said.

‘I’m cold, don’t know why,’ she whispered.

They stood there for a short while, greedy for even a few seconds more. Bound together, not speaking, just feeling the beat of one another’s heart through the thin cotton of their clothes.

Then he took her chin in his hand and tilted her face to his and slowly, sweetly, began to kiss her. She felt heat rushing through her, desire lightening every artery and vein and muscle, every tiny nerve ending.

Then, the unremitting and unwelcome sound of Saint-Michel striking the quarter. Raoul stepped back.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he said, though he was trying to smile. ‘Whatever happens in the days, weeks ahead, the time I’ve spent with—’

Sandrine couldn’t bear it. ‘Don’t,’ she said quickly, with a catch in her voice. ‘Please, don’t say anything more. Don’t.’

He nodded, understanding. The stolen seconds stretched into minutes. Finally, Sandrine dropped his hand.

‘Go,’ she said, amazed her voice sounded so steady, so determined, when she felt she was breaking into a thousand pieces.

‘You’ll be all right?’ he asked.

Sandrine nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She watched as he swung his rucksack on to his shoulder, adjusted the straps over the borrowed jacket, straightened the hat.

‘This is it then.’

‘Remember,’ she said, ‘through the village. The last house.’

She painted a smile on her face and Raoul did the same, though she could see he was struggling too.

Then he was walking away. Down the steps and across the garden and out through the gate, away from her and into the Bastide.

For a moment, Sandrine stood motionless, still feeling the echo of his hands on her skin. Then, dizzy with desire and the lack of sleep, she sat back on the bench, put her head in her hands and wept.

Chapter 39

‘Sanchez.’

César spun round at the sound of his name to see Sylvère Laval stepping out from beside the loading sheds in the station sidings. Like César, he was in the same clothes as yesterday, though he had a beret pulled low on his head.

‘Christ, Laval,’ Sanchez hissed, ‘what the hell do you think you’re playing at, sneaking up like that?’

Laval shrugged an apology.

‘What’re you doing here anyway?’

‘Same as you, I imagine. Waiting for the first train out. Safer up here than down in the station, less chance of being seen. The town’s crawling with flics.’

‘There are roadblocks everywhere. Checking papers.’

‘Not so bad this morning, though.’

‘Let’s at least wait inside,’ César said, still irritable Laval had made him jump.

Laval pulled open the large sliding doors a fraction, just enough for them both to slip through. César found a couple of packing crates and they both sat down.

‘There’s a train due at seven thirty,’ he said.

‘So I heard.’ Laval got out his cigarettes. ‘Smoke?’

César noticed the packet was full, even though he’d had no cigarettes yesterday morning, and wondered where Laval had got new supplies. He accepted anyway. Black market or not, they’d taste the same. He cupped his hand round the match, drew hard on the cigarette, then sat back and waited for the nicotine to hit the back of his throat.

‘They didn’t get you either?’

‘I was lucky,’ Laval said. ‘You too, by the look of it.’

César shook his head. ‘I was arrested, but they let me go.’

Laval narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t honestly know,’ he said. Truthfully, it had been preying on his mind all night. One minute he was in the holding cells with the other prisoners, the next he was being frogmarched out of the station and thrown out on to the street. The officer who’d released him didn’t look like he’d known what was going on either. It didn’t make sense, though César wasn’t about to complain.

‘Couldn’t make anything stick, I suppose. There was no evidence I’d done anything other than attend the demonstration.’

‘You and a couple of thousand others.’

César nodded. Maybe that was all there was to it. ‘They got the Bonnets, though. They both had a stack of the tracts left. Last I saw, they were being put in a prison van.’

‘Is that so?’

There was something about Laval’s tone that snagged César’s attention. He stared at the other man, trying – failing – to decipher the look on his face. He didn’t think it was fear or concern for his own skin. If anything, Laval seemed less on edge than usual.

‘What about Coursan?’ César asked. ‘Any news of him?’

Laval shook his head. ‘No, but they’ve been putting bulletins out for Pelletier all night. They think he set the bomb off.’ He paused. ‘What do you think, Sanchez? Do you reckon he’s capable of doing such a thing? A kid died . . .’

César looked at him. ‘Not a chance. The town was crowded, civilians everywhere. Raoul wouldn’t put innocent people at risk.’

‘Not even to make a point . . .?’

‘No.’

‘He was in the International Brigade,’ Laval said. ‘Ends justify the means and all that.’

‘His brother was. Not Raoul.’

‘You were too,’ Laval said mildly. ‘Do you know where Pelletier is?’

César’s head snapped up. ‘No, why would I?’

Laval shrugged. ‘You’re friends. Natural he’d turn to you if he needed somewhere to stay.’

‘He’s not stupid,’ César said. ‘He’ll be long gone.’

The noise of a car straining up the hill towards the cimetière Saint-Vincent caught their attention. Both men immediately stopped talking, even though there was no way anyone would hear them.

‘You did a good job with the leaflets,’ Laval said, when the sound of the engine had faded away. ‘Must have been difficult finding somewhere to print them.’

‘Not really,’ César replied. ‘Owner’s never there.’

‘I heard Robert Bonnet’s been helping you,’ said Laval. ‘That right?’

‘No,’ César said abruptly. ‘Don’t know where you heard that. All my own work.’ He was unnerved by Laval’s unswerving gaze. Like a snake about to strike. ‘All my own work,’ he repeated.

He felt a prickling on his skin, realised his heart was racing. He glanced at the sliding doors, only now noticing Laval had pulled them shut after them.

‘It’s stupid us being together,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m going to head down to the station. Take my chances.’

Laval also stood up. César tensed, he couldn’t help himself.

‘Where did you spend last night, Sanchez?’

‘Here,’ he said. He glanced again to the door, judging the distance.

‘Not in Déjean’s apartment?’

César turned cold. How could Laval possibly know he’d been there? He couldn’t, surely, not unless he’d followed him. But that would have meant following him from the police station, and how would he know he’d been released?

The truth hit him like a fist, taking the wind from him.

‘You’re working for them,’ he said slowly. ‘I suspected Coursan, but—’

Laval moved so quickly round behind him, César didn’t realise what was happening until the knife was at his throat, the blade tilted sharp against his windpipe.

‘Why did you go back there?’ Laval whispered in his ear. ‘Tell me.’

‘You know why,’ César said desperately.

He tried to struggle free, but Laval increased the pressure on the knife and Sanchez felt his skin split. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

‘And Pelletier? He was there for ages, according to the concierge. What was he looking for, Sanchez?’

‘Nothing. The same. We were both looking for Antoine.’

Laval increased the pressure on the blade. Another bead of blood bubbled on César’s skin. A pop of air, catching in his throat.

‘Don’t play games, Sanchez. You were looking for the key.’

‘Key? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘We can do this quickly,’ Laval said in a cold voice, ‘or very slowly indeed, it’s up to you. So, I’m going to ask you again. Did Pelletier find the key? Did you?’

César felt like he was drowning, a swimmer gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe properly. His eyes started to flicker shut. He remembered being in the Café Saillan. Raoul had shown him something, but it wasn’t a key.

‘No,’ he gasped.

Laval put the tip of the knife into the gash and pressed until it hit jawbone. This time, César couldn’t stop himself screaming.

‘Did he find the key?’

César didn’t understand anything other than he mustn’t reveal what Raoul had shown him. Was that yesterday? The day before? He’d been an idiot. He should have confided in Raoul, but he’d held back. Kept his suspicions about Coursan to himself and not paid enough attention to Laval.

‘Where’s Antoine?’ he managed to say.

‘You’ll see him soon enough,’ Laval said. ‘Last chance, Sanchez. Tell me what he found.’

César felt his eyes closing. ‘Nothing. I swear.’

For a moment Laval released the pressure. César swayed forward, his legs too weak to hold him. The whistle of a train penetrated the gloom of the shed. He tried to raise his head.

At first he thought Laval had winded him. Then he felt a violent, snaking pain in his back as the knife was withdrawn, leaving a vacuum. After that, a ferocious aching. He was losing consciousness, but he couldn’t help himself. As he slumped to his knees, he felt Laval’s hands searching his pockets, an act both gruesome and intimate. Then the sensation of being dragged backwards, the rough scratch of grit and dust on his heels, to the furthest grey corner of the loading shed. Laval let him drop. César felt his head hit the ground with a thud, then the sound of the doors sliding open and shut once more.

Then, silence.

He tried to move. He rolled over on to his side, then hauled himself up on all fours and tried to crawl towards the door. But colours were dancing in front of his eyes, red and green and stripes. He had no strength in his arms or his legs.

He heard the shriek of the train whistle and the belch of steam as another locomotive pulled out of the station. He slumped beside a stack of dirty crates and boxes. The fingers of his right hand were twitching as he clutched at the musty air.

He was finding it hard to breathe. Now all he could think about was how thirsty he was, a glass of beer or wine, anything would do. His eyes fluttered shut, then open. Shut. He imagined himself swimming at Saissac, could almost feel the ice-cold mountain water on his arms and back, running over his lips, his face.

His legs began to shake, jerk, no longer his to control. Not swimming, choking. The skin of his bare feet patterning the dust, recording his final moments. As his eyes closed for the last time, César thought how he should have trusted his instincts.

Chapter 40

Marieta looked out of the kitchen window. Sandrine was still out there on the bench, wrapped in the blanket. She was glad the boy had kept his word and gone, but the sight pulled at her heart.

The sound of Sandrine rattling through the wardrobe in Monsieur Vidal’s room had woken Marieta at six. From the house, she had watched Raoul leave, then gone into the garden in her nightclothes to try and coax Sandrine inside. She wouldn’t come, but she had accepted the blanket and a cup of lime-flower tea laced with brandy.

Marieta felt a sudden stab of pain in her chest, taking her breath away. She clutched at the sink, the cold porcelain comforting beneath her fingers. Her heart felt as if it was struggling to keep its regular beat. She pressed the heel of her hand against her ribs, waiting for the spasm to pass. It always did. A few seconds more, and the ache faded to nothing.

Marieta lowered herself heavily down on a kitchen chair, sipping at a tisane of lime tea and saccharine. The letter should arrive in Rennes-les-Bains in a day or two. Monsieur Baillard collected all his letters from the poste restante there, as he had always done – there had never been a postal service to the remote village of Los Seres, even before the war – but even if it did arrive quickly, there was no telling when he might pick the letter up. It could be days, weeks even. She felt her anxious heart stumble and trip once more.

She wasn’t sure why she was so fearful. Because of what Monsieur Baillard had told her long ago about the legend of Dame Carcas? Or because the matter brought back the memories of that dreadful Hallowe’en at La Domaine de la Cade when her beloved mistress Léonie had died? Of the screaming heard all through the valley and the little boy crying and holding tight to her skirts? Of all those who had died that night? Or because of how worried she was now about what would happen to the girls when she was gone? About Sandrine and the risks Marianne took?

‘All these things . . .’ she muttered.

Marieta took another sip of her tisane and felt the pressure in her chest ease a little. Monsieur Baillard would find a way to be in touch with her if he thought what she had to say was important. Her expression softened. Whatever the circumstances, the thought of seeing him again lifted her spirits. Like her, his roots were in the ancient stories and landscape of the Languedoc, not these headlong, modern times.

She had first met Audric Baillard in the 1890s, when he had been a regular visitor to the Domaine de la Cade, the old estate outside Rennes-les-Bains where she’d been in service. In those days, Marieta had been a curious girl, unwilling to let things lie. She had asked her friends about him, most of whom who were, like her, servants at the good houses. Agnès, parlour maid for old Abbé Boudet, one of Monsieur Baillard’s constant friends, said her master was too discreet to let anything slip. A cousin of Marieta’s was friends with the girls who did for the ritou, the priest, of neighbouring Rennes-le-Château. But even she couldn’t find anything out about Monsieur Baillard.

Marieta’s late husband Pascal was of the opinion he had been a soldier, even though Monsieur Baillard never talked about his time in the army or where he had served. He was a famous scholar, a respected author, a gentleman. As well as Occitan and French, he spoke Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish, Greek. He could read Latin and decipher hieroglyphs, Aramaic and Coptic texts.

Marieta took off her hairnet, twisting her long grey hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. Then, taking grips from her dressing gown pocket, she pinned it in its usual style. She knew she should go upstairs to dress, before anyone came down and found her sitting in the kitchen in her nightclothes, but her legs were tired and she was so short of breath.

‘Today is Wednesday,’ she muttered. The post was unreliable now. The earliest he might receive the letter would be Friday. Probably it would take longer, if it arrived at all.

Marieta’s thoughts again drifted to the past. After the fire in 1897 that had seen the Domaine de la Cade razed to the ground, she and Pascal had gone to work for Monsieur Baillard in Los Seres. She learnt then for certain that he had never married or had children of his own, though he had stood as guardian on more than one occasion. The letters he received from abroad were testament to that.

Marieta knew there had been someone he’d loved many years ago. It had come to nothing – she fancied the girl might have been married to somebody else – but even now, it pained her to remember how often Monsieur Baillard sat looking out over the Pyrenees, as night turned to day, as if he was still waiting for her to come back to him.

The old housekeeper settled her shoulders, trying to shake herself free of the ache in her neck and arm. To get rid of the knot of worry in the pit of her stomach.

‘Perhaps Friday,’ she muttered again. ‘Benlèu divendres.’

Chapter 41

In the small rented apartment in the rue Georges Clemenceau, Liesl Blum glanced at the clock for the third time. She didn’t understand why Max hadn’t come home last night when they had arranged to have supper together. Nor this morning either. This was how it had started in Paris. Men disappearing in the night or being arrested at dawn. Her father, their friends and neighbours. But not in Carcassonne.

Liesl had fallen asleep on the settee waiting, but when she’d woken and checked Max’s room, his bed hadn’t been slept in. She was trying to carry on as usual, though the dread was hard in her chest. She drank a glass of water and ate some bread, though she had no appetite, returning every few minutes to look out of the window. Willing herself to see her brother’s long, lean figure striding along the pavement.

Still Max did not come.

Liesl made herself sit down at the table in the living room, which was already covered with paste and scissors and paper. Her camera too, though it was hard to have film developed now. There was no ink, no good-quality photographic paper.

Since they had arrived in Carcassonne, Liesl had kept a scrapbook, everything that had happened since she and Max had left Paris two years ago when the Nazis marched in. It was foolish, in a way, but their father had always impressed upon them the importance of recording everything, writing things down. That whatever new laws were brought in, each new iniquity, they should continue to behave as they saw fit in the privacy of their own home. Liesl tried to live by his example. This scrapbook was her own small act of defiance.

She turned the pages, looking at the black and white photographs. Her eyes stopped on a portrait of her parents, her father’s arm proprietorial around her mother’s waist. Both elegant, both serious, staring straight into the camera. They had heard nothing from him – about him – for over a year. Liesl had been a little scared of him. Neither of their parents had paid much attention to her or to Max, farming them out to the care of neighbours while they campaigned and electioneered and organised rallies.

But Liesl felt she was carrying on her father’s tradition. He used words, she used images. He had been a prominent anti-Nazi campaigner, working tirelessly to expose what was happening to Jews in the countries annexed by Germany. Individual arrests at first, then the rafles, everybody rounded up at the same time and confined in ghettos. Now the same was happening in France. Little by little by little, the poison was spreading.

She turned the page, running her hand over the rough, blotting paper, this section a record of the mass arrests of Jewish families, of the thousands of Jewish men sent to camps. She stuck another cutting in, this one taken from La Dépêche. An old, but poignant image. Students in Paris had taken to wearing ‘butterflies’, anti-German stickers, and carrying their books against their chests, obscuring the yellow stars that Jews in the zone occupée were forced to wear.

Liesl glanced at the clock again, the trepidation building in her chest with every minute that passed without Max.

‘Jew!’

She jumped in alarm as a stone hit the wall next to the sitting room window with a loud thud.

‘Putain, we know you’re in there.’

Liesl turned. The boys hadn’t come last night – perhaps because there’d been too many police on the streets – but she hadn’t expected them this morning.

‘We know you’re in there, juive.’

Ugly voices shouting up at the window from the street. Another stone ricocheted off the woodwork. Liesl tried not to take any notice. They might be out there for up to half an hour, depending on who came along the street and was brave enough to make them stop.

‘Let us in, Jew. You know you want to.’

Raucous laughter. Liesl tried to stop her ears, tried to concentrate on what she was doing. They’d get bored. They usually did. What had changed? It was a normal day, why was nobody doing anything to stop them? Then another stone and the sound of the window shattering. Liesl leapt up as a shard of glass struck her on the cheek. Felt the trickle of first blood.

She ran to the door to the apartment to check it was locked and bolted. As she did so, she heard the street door downstairs bang back against the wall, and a cheer. For a moment she froze. How had they got in? Had someone let them in?

The sound of boots on the stairs propelled her into action. Liesl rushed to the table, her terrified hands trying to clear away her precious scrapbook. The smash of a fist on the inner door to the apartment made her jump, the papers slipping through her fingers. She realised she was holding her breath, as if that would keep her presence a secret.

‘We know you’re in there, garce.’ The same vile voice, now just the other side of the front door.

Another thud, a fist against wood. Then a boot. The entire door shook, the reverberations skimming along the wall.

Liesl swallowed a cry. She couldn’t believe they would break in, attack her in broad daylight. She didn’t see how such a thing could be happening. Then, the crack of wood as one of the panels in the door split. A roar of triumph went up from the boys outside. How many were there? Three? Four? More? Hateful voices getting louder, more frenzied.

‘We’re going to teach you a lesson, Jew girl.’

The boots harder against the door, the lock wouldn’t hold. They were almost inside.

Un, deux, trois, loup, the words of the children’s playground rhyme went round and round in Liesl’s head. ‘Coming to get you, ready or not.’

The sound of the front door splintering, the sound of blind hands reaching into the apartment, turning the lock. The rasp of the bolt, then a cheer as the door was flung open and the mob of boys stormed into the flat.

Chapter 42

‘Wake up, darling.’

Sandrine heard Marianne’s voice, then felt the weight of her sister’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake.

‘What time is it?’ she said, sitting up. Her neck was stiff and the bruise from Monday was throbbing where she’d leant against it.

‘Half past ten.’

For a moment, Sandrine felt all right. Normal. Then she remembered, and misery pressed down on her shoulders.

‘He’s gone,’ she said.

‘I know, Marieta told me.’

‘I didn’t want him to go.’

Marianne nodded. ‘I know, but it’s for the best. Come inside, have something to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘There’s a little bread left, and some butter.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she repeated.

Marianne held out her hand to pull her up. ‘Don’t be silly.’

Sandrine followed her back into the kitchen. She felt cold and woolly from lack of sleep. She sat down heavily on a chair, watching as her sister poured them both a cup of ersatz coffee from the pot Marieta had left on the stove, then got out a plate and knife.

Marianne sat down on the opposite side of the table. Sandrine sipped at the coffee and started to wake up. She took a piece of bread, dipping it in her cup to soften the crust, surprised to find that she had an appetite after all.

‘Have Lucie and Suzanne gone?’ she asked.

‘Suzanne, yes, about half an hour ago. Lucie felt rather unwell, so I’ve put her in Papa’s room to sleep it off.’ She paused. ‘Since the bed hadn’t been slept in . . .’

Sandrine flushed. ‘We stayed up talking all night. In the garden. That’s all.’

Marianne stared at her. ‘Glad to hear it.’

‘I gave him one of Papa’s jackets and a hat. I hope that was all right.’

‘Of course. No sense wasting things.’

Sandrine ate a little more. ‘Just as he was going, Raoul told me I should talk to you.’ She watched Marianne’s reaction. ‘I said we were always talking, but I think he meant something in particular.’

On the other side of the table, her sister became very still.

‘What else did he say?’ Marianne asked. Her voice was measured, but the atmosphere was suddenly taut.

‘Just that.’

Marianne still didn’t move.

‘What did he mean?’ Sandrine asked.

Marianne hesitated a moment more, then got to her feet, went to the door and closed it. She turned round with her arms crossed. Sandrine’s heart started to hammer against her ribs. Her sister looked so determined, so resolute. And the door between the kitchen and the hall was never shut.

‘What?’ she said quickly, nervous now.

‘Listen carefully. Don’t interrupt. You have to promise that you will never breathe a word of what I’m about to tell you to anyone. No one, not a soul.’

Sandrine felt her stomach lurch. ‘I promise.’

Marianne sat down again and placed both hands flat on the table, as if trying to anchor herself.

‘Raoul guessed. Almost straight away, I could see he knew.’

‘Knew what . . .?’ Sandrine began to say, then she stopped. She felt a strange calm come over her. She knew what Marianne was going to say. All those nights her sister was late back from work and with mud on her shoes, disappearing for an hour here or there without explanation. The ‘friends’ who arrived after dark and went before it was light.

‘You’ve been helping them too,’ she said.

Marianne’s eyes flicked up. ‘You knew? But you never said anything.’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘No, not until now.’ She paused. ‘Just you?’

‘Suzanne too.’

‘Not Lucie?’

A smile flickered across Marianne’s lips. ‘She only cares about Max, nothing else matters. She hopes if she closes her eyes to what’s happening, it will go away.’

‘Max doesn’t know?’

‘Nobody else knows,’ Marianne replied.

‘Not even Marieta?’

Marianne hesitated. ‘I’m sure she does, but she acts as if she doesn’t. She clears things away, things that get forgotten.’

‘I found a man’s razor in the bathroom once. It wasn’t Papa’s.’

Marianne smiled. ‘Marieta carries on in her usual way. Posts letters for me, drops things off if I ask her. I try not to call upon her too much.’ She shrugged. ‘And I go along with her pretending she doesn’t know. It’s safer that way.’

Sandrine’s head was spinning as she tried to take everything in. A snapshot of so many tiny incidents, none of them big enough to have drawn her attention at the time, but now combining to make a clearer picture.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked quietly. ‘Didn’t you trust me?’

Marianne sighed. ‘I wanted to, but I didn’t want to put you at risk, and besides . . .’

‘. . . you were worried I’d let something out.’ Sandrine finished the sentence for her.

Marianne nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, holding her gaze. ‘I’m sorry. Can you understand?’

Strangely, Sandrine realised she did. A few days ago, she would have lost her temper or sulked or argued. Not now. After a night of talking with Raoul, listening to what he had done, how he had been forced to live, she thought she did understand.

‘I feel such an idiot. Not noticing.’

‘I did my best to make sure you didn’t notice anything. That you could carry on as usual.’

Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘Why are you telling me now?’ she asked. ‘Simply because of Raoul?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘I’d decided to tell you anyway,’ she said. ‘I was just waiting for the right moment. The way you marched into the police station – although I was cross with you about that too – the way you coped with what happened at the river. Then at the cathedral yesterday . . .’ She shrugged. ‘You held your nerve, you didn’t make a fuss. You were a help and it made me realise that . . .’

‘. . . I’d grown up.’

Marianne smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that, but I suppose so, yes.’

Despite her exhaustion and all the complicated emotions battling inside her head, Sandrine felt a shot of pride.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

She sat in silence for a moment, letting her sister’s words take root in her mind. Looking back on everything that had happened, trying to make it fit. Finally putting two and two together.

‘The people you work with,’ she said after a while, ‘do you know who they are?’

‘No, we never meet. No one knows anyone except their immediate contact. It’s safest. That way, if we were caught, we couldn’t give much away.’

Sandrine felt sick as the reality of the risks Marianne and Suzanne had been taking started to sink in.

‘That’s what made Raoul suspicious,’ her sister continued. ‘He mentioned César Sanchez and Suzanne reacted. He noticed. Sanchez is a good friend of hers too – that’s where she’s gone now, to see if she can find out what’s happened to him.’

Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘How long have you been . . . helping?’

‘I can’t even remember quite how it started. Right at the beginning, the autumn of 1939 and the following spring, there were lots of German émigrés and Jewish dissidents, a few members of the Dutch Resistance, all trying to get out of France this way. We had plenty of space here.’ She shrugged. ‘Suzanne asked me if I could help from time to time, and it seemed such a small thing to do, to give someone a bed for the night. After we surrendered and the North was occupied, things changed. I volunteered for the Croix-Rouge, helped in that way instead.’ She paused. ‘But things have been getting worse. In January this year, the last few of my Jewish pupils simply disappeared from class. One day they were there, the next they’d gone and no one could – would – tell me what had happened to them. I was appalled and said as much to Suzanne, who admitted she was running a few errands for the Resistance – that’s how they put it – so I decided to do the same.’

‘When you say errands, what do you mean?’

‘Delivering papers mostly. False documents, sauf-conduits, identity cards, ration books, coupons. Dropping off leaflets to collection points – boîtes aux lettres – for someone else to pick up and distribute, all sorts.’

‘In Carcassonne?’

Marianne smiled. ‘Yes, darling. There are several places in the Bastide, in the Cité too.’

‘Why don’t people stay here any more?’

‘As I said, fewer people come through Carcassonne. But mostly since Madame Fournier moved in next door to keep house for her brother. She’s always snooping, reports everything to him.’

‘He’s a vile man,’ Sandrine said, remembering how he had spoken to her and Suzanne.

‘Worse, he’s dangerous. He’s an informer.’

‘Oh.’

Marianne let her shoulders drop, clearly relieved that the secret was out in the open. Sandrine had a hundred questions racing around her head, but her sister had stood up.

‘You have to forget I ever told you any of this. I mean it. Say nothing, don’t think about it. Don’t bring it up, even with Suzanne.’

‘I won’t.’

Marianne opened the door to the corridor. ‘I’m going to check on Lucie, she was awfully sick in the night. Then I am due to go to the station. To meet other Red Cross volunteers.’ She paused. ‘You can come with me if you want.’

Sandrine looked up. ‘You mean it?’

‘If you do precisely what I tell you, then yes. Why not? But we have to go in ten minutes. I won’t wait if you’re not ready.’

‘Marianne . . .’

Her sister turned again. ‘What is it?’

‘I just want to say . . . I’m proud of you,’ she said in a rush, feeling ridiculous to be saying such things to her older sister. ‘Proud of you for being so brave, for standing up for—’

Marianne shook her head. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m not brave. I hate it, I hate it all. But there’s no choice.’

Chapter 43

‘Where the hell have you been?’ demanded Authié.

Laval stood with his hands in front of him. ‘Interviewing Blum.’

‘All night?’

‘And then Sanchez, sir, as per your orders.’

Authié raised his head, noting Laval was back in civilian clothes. He waved his hand impatiently for him to continue.

‘Well, does Blum know where Pelletier is?’

‘I believe not, sir.’

Authié drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Did he admit he was at the river?’

‘Eventually, yes, he did. He says he doesn’t know the girl’s name, though he admits he saw her. That could be true, but I think we’ll learn more from the Ménard girl in any case. Blum was more concerned about protecting her than anything else.’

‘What have you done with him?’

‘On the list to be deported today.’

‘Le Vernet?’

‘In the first instance, yes.’

Authié nodded again. ‘What else?’

‘After the wireless bulletins, the switchboard took a dozen calls from people claiming to have seen Pelletier – in Narbonne, in Toulouse, in Perpignan – but nothing credible. We had a permanent watch at the station and patrols checking bars, restaurants, churches and the cinema, anywhere he might have been hiding. There was a lot of trouble last night – looting, broken windows – so there were plenty of police on the streets, but no one matching Pelletier’s description. However, now the posters are ready to be put up, it will be harder for him to evade notice.’

‘If he’s still in Carcassonne,’ Authié interrupted, ‘which I doubt. What about Sanchez?’

Laval flushed at Authié’s peremptory tone, but he kept his irritation hidden.

‘Sanchez was released at midnight. He went to Pelletier’s apartment on the Quai Riquet, was there for no more than a couple of minutes, then went to Déjean’s apartment, where he spent the night. At approximately five o’clock this morning, he made his way to the sidings on the far side of the railway station. I approached him. He said he didn’t know where Pelletier was and claimed to know nothing about what – if anything – he might have found at Déjean’s apartment.’

‘Nothing about the key?’

‘No, sir.’

‘So that’s it, Laval? In twelve hours you’ve learnt precisely nothing.’

Laval didn’t answer. Authié pulled out a cigarette and tapped it on the packet, then lit it. ‘Where’s Sanchez now?’

‘No loose ends, you said.’

Authié stared at him. ‘What are you saying, Laval? Are you telling me he’s dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He dropped the matches back on the desk. ‘You killed him?’

‘To prevent him talking.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you say so sooner?’

‘I was answering your questions. You asked me about Blum.’

‘Sanchez’s death can’t be traced back here?’

‘It will be written up as a knife fight, communists brawling amongst themselves. There’re a lot of Spanish workers in the quartier de la Gare.’

Authié smoked half the cigarette in silence, then flicked the remainder out of the window. He watched it drop to the pavement below, then turned back to face the room.

‘For your sake, Laval, you’d better be right.’

Authié went back to his desk and opened the top drawer.

‘Is my transport into the zone occupée arranged?’

‘The car will be here at midday, sir.’

‘Good.’

‘How long will you be gone?’

Authié shot him a sharp look. ‘What business is it of yours, Laval?’

‘I only wanted to be sure of my orders in your absence.’

‘You know what I want you to do. I want to know what Pelletier found in Déjean’s apartment.’

For an instant Authié saw the dislike in Laval’s eyes, but then the shutters came down again.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said in a dead voice. ‘Do you want me to keep a watch on Bauer and operations in Tarascon as well?’

Authié hesitated. He did want to know what Bauer was doing, but over the past few days Laval had made mistakes. This situation required subtlety.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on finding Pelletier.’

Chapter 44

ROULLENS

Once the patrol had passed, Raoul climbed out of the deep ditch where he’d concealed himself. Every siren, every green flash of a panier à salade, set his pulse racing. By this time, he had no doubt, posters with his face slapped on them would be plastered all over Carcassonne, denouncing him as a murderer, a fugitive. His situation was desperate. If the police caught him, he knew they’d shoot on sight. He glanced along the route de Limoux in both directions. Only when he was sure the road was empty, did he emerge and carry on walking. The hope he’d felt when he was with Sandrine had gone. Now, he felt hunted.

Raoul had taken an indirect route west out of Carcassonne, doubling back on himself so if anyone did report seeing him, it would be hard for Laval to pinpoint precisely where he was heading. His destination was the village of Roullens, some seven kilometres to the south-west of the town. One of Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade, Ramón, had family there and Raoul was hoping they’d let him stay for a night or two. He was gambling that Laval – and Coursan – would expect him to try to get as far as possible, as quickly as possible. By staying closer to Carcassonne, Raoul hoped to buy himself a little time while he worked out what the hell he was going to do in the long run. He had no idea if the plan would work, but he couldn’t think of a better one.

The pretty country road to Roullens was deserted, but birdsong filled the air and the sun was warm on his face. Raoul passed the beautiful and imposing Château de Baudrigues, its tranquil green parkland and elegant white façade glimpsed through the trees a welcome sight after the tense grey streets of Carcassonne. For a moment, he was tempted to go into the domaine. Sleep for an hour or two in the deep shade of the woods. But he had a memory Baudrigues had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war, and he didn’t know if it was still in use or had been handed back to the owners. There was no sense taking the risk.

Raoul kept walking. He wondered if Sandrine was thinking of him as he was thinking of her. He remembered her tumbling black hair, the feel of it between his fingers, and her bright, sharp eyes. He wondered if she had spoken to her sister, and if she had, what had been said. He hated that every step was taking him one step further away from the rue du Palais. Most of all, he hated the fact that with a murder charge hanging over him, he would never be able to go back.

Behind him on the road, he heard an engine. His thoughts scattered and he immediately stepped out of sight, watching as the vehicle came into view. When it was closer, he could see it was a blue Simca truck. Local, not military, he thought. A safe bet. Hoping he was right, Raoul stepped back out on to the road and raised his arm.

Chapter 45

CARCASSONNE

Leo Authié faced the west door of the cathédrale Saint-Michel and ran his hand over the battered stonework. He was pleased to see the damage wasn’t too extensive. At least, Laval had carried out those orders effectively.

He went inside. Although there was evidence of the explosion, in the layer of white dust that covered the hymnals and votive candles for sale on the table, the calm and tranquillity of the cathedral was unaffected.

Authié dipped his finger into the bénitier of holy water and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. For a moment, he allowed the burden of his responsibilities to lift. Here, he felt certain of his mission. Here, everything was unequivocal. Absolute.

‘The cathedral’s closed.’

Authié looked in the direction of the voice and saw a charwoman mopping the flagstone tiles. He ignored her and walked up the nave, pausing only to make obeisance, then strode to the confessional.

‘Hey, didn’t you hear what I said?’ she called after him.

Authié walked round to the far side, pulled back the curtain and peered inside. It was empty.

‘Where’s the priest?’ he said, his voice echoing in the cavernous stone spaces.

‘I told you, the cathedral’s closed. Come back on Sunday.’

Authié walked back towards her, sharp heels, sharp eyes. She held her ground.

‘Get out,’ he said.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you to talk to me like that?’ she said. ‘See the mess they’ve made? I’ve got to get things straight.’

Authié put his hand to his breast pocket and produced his identification.

‘Do as you’re told.’

The char peered at the card, and Authié saw her knuckles tighten on the handle of the mop. Without another word she picked up her pail and walked back towards the small room behind the choir.

Authié stepped into the pew third from the front on the left-hand side. As he waited, he let his gaze move over each of the high side chapels in turn. He looked at the soaring stained-glass windows dedicated to St Bernard and St Benedict and at the unlit thick tallow candles on the high altar. All of it spoke of the magnificence of grace, the power of God.

The bells in the tower struck the half-hour. He glanced behind him, but the west door remained firmly closed. The car to take him north was ordered for midday.

His thoughts returned to Erik Bauer. Authié knew Bauer had no interest in the Codex other than to placate his masters in Berlin. The ambitions of the Reich were writ large in its headlong acquisition of everything and anything.

Authié considered the Nazi attempts to extirpate God from civil life both childish and pointless. He believed in a theocracy. His mission was to re-establish God at the heart of daily life. The absolute rule of religious law and obedience to the Church. His God was the God of the Old Testament, a God of judgement and wrath and punishment for those who transgressed the laws. Not a God of light or tolerance or one who postulated the equality of all men.

He believed the time was at hand for Europe to return to Christian rule. A new crusade against the Jews and the Moslems, any who refused to accept the one true faith. Those who had turned their faces away, as well as those who supported them. Authié had ensured that clerics of his rigorous persuasion were appointed to the key positions in the diocese, although he’d not yet been able to get rid of Abbé Gau. He’d made it impossible for Jewish businesses to continue to thrive, made sure that the schools of Moslem learning were shut down. He had done everything he could to turn the local population against anyone not prepared to return to the waiting arms of the Church.

To start with, his strategy had worked. The majority of Carcassonnais were inclined to put their trust in Pétain. They disliked Hitler and his Nazi party, but they wanted their sons, their husbands, their brothers returned from German POW camps and so were prepared to see Vichy work with Berlin to achieve that.

But signs were that ordinary citizens were becoming impatient. As the stringencies of rationing had begun to bite and fewer POWs than promised had been repatriated to France, views were changing. The endless queues and checkpoints, the lack of freedom to travel over the line or communicate with relatives in the north: citizens were starting to criticise and question whether the ‘voie de collaboration’ was working to their advantage. The churches were still empty and time was running out. Authié knew the status quo would not hold for very much longer.

He needed to find the Codex. It was a heresy, a proscribed text. If the authority ascribed to those verses was to be believed, the man who possessed it could be a modern-day Joshua, before the walls of Jericho, powerful and invincible. But Authié would not make use of it. His faith was strong enough to resist such temptation. He would, of course, destroy it, in accordance with the church’s wishes.

At last, Authié heard the creak of the door and the scrape of the wood on the stone steps. He did not turn and he did not react, but waited and listened as the footsteps came closer, closer until they stopped. The man stepped into the far end of the pew and knelt down.

‘I came as soon as I got your message,’ he said.

Authié pushed the hymn book along the wooden rail. The sepia border of a hundred-franc note just visible between the pages.

‘Fournier, I have a job for you.’

Chapter 46

Sandrine walked across the Pont Marengo towards the mainline station. The streets were oddly quiet for a weekday morning, as if Carcassonne itself was waiting to see what the day might hold. She was pleased Marianne had let her come, but her past ignorance of the true state of affairs had made her confident and bold. Now, she was scared. She expected at every moment to be stopped and challenged.

‘Where do we go?’ she asked.

‘Just do what I do,’ Marianne replied.

There were hardly any passengers, but there were scores of police checking the papers of anybody trying to go in or come out of the railway station. Sandrine hoped Raoul was already many kilometres clear of Carcassonne.

The officers checked their cartes d’identité in silence, then waved them through to Marianne’s Croix-Rouge colleagues who were already on the platform. As well as food and drink, they had blankets, various bits and pieces of clothing, a few pairs of men’s shoes and, oddly, a pile of spectacles.

‘This is my sister, Sandrine,’ Marianne said.

Everyone was friendly, though quiet. Sandrine said her hellos. A woman in a broad-brimmed straw hat smiled back, another nodded and handed Sandrine a pail of water and three tin cups. Marianne picked up a panier that contained medical supplies: bandages and iodine swabs and sticking plasters.

‘How many are we expecting?’ Marianne asked.

‘Originally we were told twenty prisoners would be deported to camps in the Ariège today,’ said a tall, dignified woman in uniform. ‘But after yesterday’s arrests, I’m expecting more.’

On the way from the rue du Palais, Marianne had explained that the Red Cross was allowed to see the prisoners on humanitarian grounds only. They were not allowed to intervene or talk to them about the charges against them, discuss politics or anything else, otherwise they would be forbidden access in the future. All they could do was to try to make the men’s journey less uncomfortable. Still surprised that Marianne had let her come in the first place, Sandrine hadn’t wanted to admit she was nervous about what she might see.

‘How long before the prisoners get here?’ she asked.

Marianne shrugged. ‘It could be soon, might not be until the end of the afternoon. They always get us here much earlier than necessary.’

‘What’s the point in that?’

Marianne gave a tired smile. ‘To make it as difficult as possible. The authorities have to allow the Croix-Rouge to monitor the situation, but they’d prefer it if we didn’t. Keeping us waiting for hours, it’s just one way to put people off. Lots of the women have children, can’t get away for so long.’

Sandrine noticed how deep the worry lines around her sister’s eyes were and again felt stupid at how she’d managed to miss the signs of the burden Marianne had been under. Not only the work itself, but also the strain of keeping up appearances. Ensuring that life seemed to be carrying on as usual. Sandrine wondered if she’d have the courage to do the same. To risk her life for the sake of people she didn’t even know.

‘Where are they being sent?’ she said, talking to keep her nerves under control.

‘To internment camps in Ariège and Roussillon,’ Marianne replied.

‘And then? Do they stay there?’

‘It depends on the charges against them,’ she said. ‘Those classified as undesirables or enemy aliens will be sent over the line to camps in the north.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps even into Germany, I’m not sure. There are lots of stories we’ve not been able to verify yet.’

The sound of the guard shouting disrupted their conversation. The sisters looked round to see the train driver leaning out of the cab of the engine.

‘Looks like they’re coming,’ Marianne said. ‘They walk the prisoners from the gaol on the route de Narbonne.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Some of them will try to give you letters, trinkets to pass on. We’re not supposed to take them, but if the guards don’t see, it’s all right. It’s a great comfort to them, but we only get a few minutes to hand over clothes or shoes to those who need them and to check they are fit to travel before they’re put on the train, so don’t get caught up with one person for too long.’

‘And if someone’s not fit to travel?’ Sandrine asked. ‘What do we do then?’

Marianne didn’t answer.

There was a belch of smoke. A heavy hiss and a grinding of brakes and iron on the tracks, as more third-class carriages were shunted towards the engine. The guard jumped down, then began to lift the heavy chains to connect the new rolling stock to the rest of the train. All the windows in the third-class carriages had been painted over, making it impossible to see in.

Then, at the outer edges of the station compound, above the Quai Riquet, Sandrine heard shouting and the sound of feet. Moments later a unit of armed gardes mobiles came into view, herding a line of prisoners through a side gate and across the rails towards the transit carriages at the back of the train.

The guards were shouting, even though there was no trouble, pushing the prisoners with their sticks, the butts of their machine guns. Sandrine felt her fingers clench around the thin handle of the bucket. Some of the other ladies walked to the far end of the station to help those at the back. Sandrine and Marianne moved to the head of the line.

‘Remember,’ Marianne said, ‘our job is to be kind. To patch them up. Do the best we can, as quickly as we can, then move on.’

‘But there are so many of them,’ Sandrine said, looking up and down the long platform, aghast at the sight.

‘Just do what you can.’

As they came closer, Sandrine saw the men were handcuffed, though not chained together. They looked disreputable, dirty, in filthy clothes, their faces grey. Marianne had warned her that they were held in unhygienic and unsanitary conditions, but Sandrine was shocked to acknowledge her first reaction was disgust rather than pity.

Then she recognised the older brother of one of the boys in her class at school. A quiet, gentle boy, not one to cause trouble. Straight away the mass of prisoners became individuals and she rushed to help. He had a cut on his head, the blood brown on his temple, and his knuckles were bruised and swollen.

‘My God, Xavier,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

He tried to smile, revealing a couple of broken teeth.

‘They came for a friend of mine. Said his papers weren’t in order. The police didn’t take kindly to me trying to intervene.’

‘That was brave,’ she said, dipping a metal cup in the pail and giving him a sip of water. She waved to attract her sister’s attention. ‘What happened to your friend? Where’s he now?’

Xavier shrugged, then winced. ‘I haven’t seen him since we were arrested. Could you try to find out?’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Marc Filaquier.’

‘I’ll try,’ she promised, then waved again. ‘Marianne, over here.’

Marianne quickly appeared, took a look at Xavier’s injuries and started to patch him up.

‘Go,’ she said to Sandrine. ‘There are plenty of others who need help.’

Sandrine threw herself into the thick of things. Rushing up and down the line, giving everybody water, handing out dry biscuits, calling for medical assistance, accepting letters and rings when the guards weren’t looking.

‘I was going to propose,’ one boy was saying. ‘But we quarrelled, and now . . .’ Tears began to run down his dirty cheeks. ‘Never got the chance to make it up.’

‘Write a note and I’ll take it to her,’ she said. She pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from her pocket, then noticed he was cradling his right hand in his left. She licked the end of the pencil. ‘On second thoughts, tell me what to say.’

He tried to smile. ‘She’s called Maude Lagarde, rue Courtejaire. Red door, just past Artozouls.’

‘All right.’

‘Tell her I love her – I’m Pierre-Jacques – and I’ll write. They allow letters, don’t they?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘They do allow letters.’

A police officer appeared, poked him in the ribs with his stick.

‘Enough. Get on the train.’

Sandrine couldn’t stop herself. ‘He needs medical attention.’

‘Are you trying to tell me what to do?’

‘No, of course not,’ Sandrine said quickly, stepping back. ‘But his wrist is broken. He should be in hospital.’

The guard moved closer. ‘Unless you want to find yourself going with him, mademoiselle, I suggest you get out of the way and let me do my job.’

Sandrine could do nothing but step back as Pierre-Jacques was forced on to the train with the others. She tried to catch the boy’s eye, but his head was bowed and he didn’t look back.

‘You said they had to be fit to travel,’ Sandrine said, when she found Marianne, ‘but there’s someone with a broken wrist. He should have been taken to hospital, but the guard just didn’t care.’

She felt her sister’s arm go around her waist. ‘Come on,’ Marianne said quietly. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’

Sandrine turned away. The remaining prisoners were being loaded into the last carriage at the far end of the train. The woman with the broad-brimmed hat stepped forward and put a blanket around the shoulders of a tall, stooped man at the end of the line. He had his back to her, but Sandrine briefly glimpsed his aquiline features and black hair. She frowned. Was there something familiar about his profile? Then the woman moved and blocked her view.

Sandrine quickly started to walk down the long platform towards the group, trying to look past the Red Cross ladies standing between her and the man. Although he was covered by the blanket now, she could make out his cuffed hands were held out in front of him. Sandrine saw him slip. The woman tried to help. The warder pushed her roughly away.

Sandrine started to run, suddenly desperate to get to them before the doors were shut, but Marianne put out her hand and stopped her. She watched in despair as the warder raised his baton and struck the man across his shoulders, then shoved him on to the train.

‘No!’ she shouted, but the guard took no notice.

The woman raised her hand to warn Sandrine not to say anything more.

‘That’s the lot,’ the warder said, slamming the door and walking back up the platform towards the front of the train.

The driver nodded and sat back in his cab. The guard banged the side of the engine, then blew his whistle and waved his flag. Slowly, the wheels began to move, metal grinding on metal, steam belching out into the clear blue sky.

The women were left standing on the platform, watching as the train disappeared around the bend in the track.

‘Is it always like this?’ Sandrine said to Marianne.

‘It was particularly awful today. There were many more prisoners than we’d been told to expect and they were in a worse condition than usual.’ She paused. ‘Do you wish you hadn’t come?’

Sandrine looked along the empty platform, then up towards the white stone crosses and tombs in the cimetière Saint-Vincent on the hill above the station. She thought of the risks Marianne and Suzanne took every day, of how Raoul kept fighting against the injustice they saw all around them. Then she thought of Xavier and Pierre-Jacques. She’d hardly done much, but it was better than doing nothing.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Quite the opposite.’

Chapter 47

Sandrine and Marianne walked over the boulevard Omer Sarraut. Ahead of them, to their right, was the Café Continental, traditionally a leftist meeting place. On the opposite side of the road, the Café Edouard where the LVF and the Jeunes Doriotistes met. Sandrine realised she was already starting to divide the Bastide into them and us.

‘What is it?’ Marianne asked.

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m fine.’

Sandrine looked down at the sad collection of objects, letters, notes in her hand.

‘I promised I’d deliver these,’ she said.

‘That was nice of you.’

‘You said it was all right,’ she said quickly, ‘if the guards didn’t see.’

Marianne put her hand on Sandrine’s arm. ‘I mean it, it was a good thing to do. It makes all the difference to the prisoners.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you at home later.’

‘It’s all right, I’ll walk with you,’ Marianne said. ‘Before we left, I promised Lucie I’d drop a note from her to Max, but there wasn’t time. She promised to have supper with him, but she is still feeling awful.’

They walked down into rue Georges Clemenceau, towards the building where Max and Liesl were living. When they were level with Artozouls, Sandrine stopped.

‘I’ve got something to drop off here. Won’t be a moment.’

‘All right?’ asked Marianne, when she got back.

‘No one was there,’ she said. ‘I pushed the note under the door. I hope she gets it all right.’

As they carried on, Sandrine realised she was looking into everyone’s faces – wondering what they were thinking, what sort of person they might be. There were plenty of people about in the heart of the Bastide, though she thought everyone looked nervous, scuttling to and fro, heads down, trying not to attract attention.

They arrived at Max and Liesl’s building to find the door on to the street was standing open.

‘That’s peculiar,’ Marianne said. ‘They’ve had a bit of trouble recently, so Lucie said they kept it locked.’

‘Even during the day?’

‘I thought that’s what she told me, but I might be wrong.’

Sandrine went inside first, stepping into the dark hall. She had a bad feeling, the sense that something wasn’t right. And there was a peculiar smell, like blocked drains. She took the stairs two by two, dread building in her chest, until she reached Max and Liesl’s apartment.

‘Marianne,’ she called, ‘quickly.’

The front door was kicked in, hanging off at the hinges, and bore the imprint of boots. There were splinters of wood everywhere and splashes of blood on the jamb.

Sandrine rushed into the living room, then stopped dead. She put her hand over her nose and mouth. The walls were covered with graffiti – the words JUIVE, JUDEN, JUIF daubed in black paint, crude swastikas and Nazi slogans, crossed-out Stars of David. Worse, the stench of excrement and the ammoniac smell of urine.

In the centre of the room was a heap of clothes mixed with smashed glass from the windows, the stuffing from the cushions on the sofa, which had been ripped open. On the floor, a black and white photograph of Max’s father and mother with a swastika scrawled across it. Sandrine bent down and picked it up, then turned round as Marianne came into the room behind her.

‘Oh God,’ she said.

Suddenly they heard a noise. Sandrine froze, threw a glance at Marianne, who pointed to the rear of the apartment. Sandrine nodded, then slowly went towards the sound.

She looked into the first bedroom. The window was open and the room had been turned over, but it was empty.

‘There’s no one here,’ she said.

She heard the same sound, a shuffling and the creaking of a floorboard.

‘It’s coming from here,’ she said, going quickly into a smaller second room.

‘It doesn’t look as if they came in here at all,’ said Marianne.

‘Listen,’ said Sandrine. ‘Over there. Behind the bedside table.’

The sisters pulled the piece of furniture forward, surprised as it rolled away from the wall.

‘There’s some kind of storage cupboard or something,’ Sandrine said, crouching down.

‘Is there a handle?’

‘Can’t see one,’ said Sandrine, rapping her knuckles on the white and pink paper, ‘but it sounds hollow.’

Then, more clearly this time, the same shuffling, and the sound of a bolt being shot open. Slowly the hatch door opened and Liesl crawled out.

‘Oh my God,’ Marianne said, immediately putting her arms around the girl. ‘What happened?’

Liesl emerged, blinking, into the light, then slowly stood up. Her pale face was white, strained, and her eyes were blank. She was clutching a photograph album.

‘Liesl,’ Marianne said, ‘look at me. What happened to you?’

For a moment, it seemed the girl hadn’t heard. Then, slowly, she raised her head.

‘I hid,’ she said in a stunned voice. ‘Max told me if anyone came I should hide. So I hid.’

‘Who came?’ Sandrine said. ‘Who did this?’

Liesl carried on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘There’s a compartment, you see. It was part of a corridor, but when the house was divided up, there was an awkward space left between the two apartments. Max built it. Said to hide if the police came. I bolted the door from the inside like he told me.’ She looked at Sandrine, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Where’s Max? Why wasn’t he here? Where is he?’

Sandrine looked down at the photograph she was still holding, then turned cold. Now she realised with a sinking feeling why the man on the station platform had been familiar. The same aquiline profile, the same dark hair as his father. She had only met Max twice before and without his heavy spectacles obscuring his face, she hadn’t properly recognised him.

‘He was one of the prisoners,’ she whispered to Marianne, so that Liesl couldn’t hear. ‘I couldn’t work out if I knew him or not.’

‘What, are you certain?’ Marianne said quickly.

‘Not at the time. He was at the far end of the platform, half covered by a blanket, and there was someone in the way.’ She looked at the black and white image. ‘But, now I’m sure. Look.’ She frowned. ‘I should have said something. Told him I’d get a message to Liesl and Lucie, at the very least.’

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Marianne whispered. ‘It might not even have been him anyway. For now, let’s get Liesl out of here.’ She put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and raised her voice. ‘We’ll try to find out what’s happened to Max. But for now we’re going to take you home with us. You can’t stay here.’

Liesl stared blankly at her for a moment, but she allowed arianne to steer her out of the bedroom and into the living room. She stopped for a moment, staring at the defaced walls and the devastation, then carried on to the hall without saying a word.

Sandrine crouched down and picked up one of Liesl’s cardigans, then hung it on the back of a chair. ‘I’ll stay here and clean up.’

‘All right,’ Marianne said, dropping her voice again. ‘But be quick. It’s possible they’ll come back.’

Chapter 48

TARASCON

The elderly couple stood in front of a table at the Café Bernadac in the Place de la Samaritaine in Tarascon.

‘Please, Achille,’ Pierre Déjean said again.

Achille Pujol looked at his beer, cloudy yellow, rough, popular in the Vicdessos valley, then put the glass down on the table. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip, caught in the grey hairs of his moustache. He looked every inch the retired police inspector he was. Solid, strong, steadfast and, at this precise moment, immensely worried.

‘I don’t do that sort of thing any more,’ he said.

‘Just listen to us,’ Madame Déjean said quickly, ‘that’s all we’re asking. If you still don’t think you can help, then say no.’

Pujol looked into the defeated face of his friend, then drained his glass and stood up. ‘We can’t talk here.’

Between semi-retiring from the police force and the outbreak of war, Pujol had spent a few fruitless years as a private detective. There hadn’t been much call for his services in Tarascon. Disputes tended to be sorted in the old ways and his only proper client had been the Péchiney-Sabart aluminium factory in the mouth of the valley a few miles away, keen to stop pilfering. After that, the director of the largest of the region’s plaster producers had hired him to investigate losses from his Arignac factory. He’d also had a case of shoplifting from the épicerie Rousse here in the town. The work hadn’t satisfied him and he’d resigned after five years to devote himself to his garden and his hunting.

The Déjeans followed him across the square and into a three-storey house at the end of the row. Pujol pushed open the front door and led the sombre party along a corridor, chill despite the heat of the afternoon. He let himself into a small, dark room on the ground floor with a latch key.

‘I’ve been using this as an office,’ he said, by way of apology. ‘Take a seat.’

Pierre and Célestine Déjean perched themselves on the edges of their chairs, Célestine clutching her felt hat tight in her lap.

‘We want you to look into it,’ Pierre said, placing his broad pink hands on his knees. ‘Investigate Antoine’s disappearance.’

Pujol shook his head. ‘You’re saying he’s disappeared, but you don’t know that for certain. All you do know is Antoine didn’t arrive when he said he would.’

‘He never lets us down, not if he says he’s coming.’

‘Things are different now, Célestine,’ Pujol said quietly. ‘You know that.’

‘He would have sent a message,’ she said stubbornly.

Her husband cleared his throat and spat a thread of tobacco to the floor. Then he fixed Pujol with a look that carried the long story of their friendship – in the army at Verdun as young men, as neighbours in Tarascon in times of peace, their lives lived side by side in the valleys of the Ariège.

Pujol pulled his notepad towards him. ‘When were you expecting him?’

‘This weekend just gone. He works in Carcassonne. He’s doing well.’

Pujol made a note. ‘What’s Antoine do for a living? Didn’t he want to train as a teacher? History, was it?’

‘Latin and Greek,’ Célestine said, unable to keep the pride from her voice, ‘but of course there’s no call for it these days.’

‘It’s a good job,’ Pierre said firmly. ‘He’s a representative for Artozouls, fishing tackle, hunting equipment, that kind of thing.’

Pujol nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘He told us he’d be coming this way for work, so he’d pay a visit. It was Célestine’s birthday last Sunday.’

‘He’s a good boy,’ she murmured. ‘If he said he’d be here, he’d be here.’

Inwardly Pujol marvelled at her naïvety. Even with all the correct papers, travelling took time these days. The buses that ran on the foul-smelling gasoline often broke down, the railway timetable was unreliable. Then again, who was to say. There might be more to it.

‘How long was Antoine intending to stay?’ he asked.

‘A few days,’ Pierre replied. ‘At least, he asked me to look out his old hiking equipment. You know, boots, ropes. I assumed he was hoping to get out into the mountains. Not a proper expedition, but you know how keen he is on climbing.’

‘I do,’ Pujol said darkly.

He remembered the numerous occasions in the past when he’d had to warn Antoine and his friends off trespassing in the caves of Lombrives and Ussat. Treasure-hunting. That German boy, Otto Rahn, with his peculiar ideas. Took over the inn for a while, Pujol seemed to remember. Good friends, they were, the German boy and Antoine.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Achille,’ Pierre said, ‘but that was years ago. He did well in the war. Done well for himself since.’

‘I know,’ said Pujol.

‘We didn’t worry when he failed to arrive,’ Célestine said quietly. ‘Not at first. I know you think we don’t understand how things are, Achille, but we know well enough. But it’s been three days and still no message.’ Her hands were clawing the material of her skirt. ‘If he couldn’t come, he’d find a way to let us know.’

Pujol sighed. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’

‘Speak to your contacts in the police,’ Pierre said. ‘In case there’s been an accident. Any reports of . . . anything.’

Achille met his old friend’s eye and realised there was something Déjean wanted to say about his son, but couldn’t with his wife listening.

‘Célestine,’ he said lightly, ‘there’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Would you mind fetching it? I think we could all do with something.’

She was reluctant to leave, but she did what he asked. Pujol waited until she had gone out of the room before continuing.

‘What’s going on, Pierre?’

Monsieur Déjean glanced at the door, then dropped his voice.

‘I know he was involved in something, Achille. I don’t know what. Better not to ask questions. The thing is, a week ago, a man came looking for Antoine. Foreign. Célestine doesn’t know.’

Pujol’s attention sharpened. ‘Go on.’

‘German, though his French was excellent. Said he was a friend.’

‘He didn’t leave a name?’

‘No.’

‘Or say what he wanted?’

Déjean shook his head.

‘What did he look like?’

‘Northern skin, medium height, formal. And a ring, showy.’

Pujol’s eyes narrowed. ‘SS?’

‘I don’t know. Could be.’ Pierre shrugged. ‘A neighbour was going to Carcassonne to visit her daughter, so I asked her to warn Antoine that someone had been sniffing around.’

‘Did she manage to see him?’

Pierre nodded. ‘And this is what is odd. When she told him a man had been looking for him, Antoine asked if it was an old man. If he was wearing a pale suit.’

Pujol’s hand froze in mid sentence. ‘Why did he ask that?’

‘She didn’t say, only that when she said he wasn’t, Antoine lost interest.’

‘Was he worried?’

‘Thoughtful more like, that’s the word she used.’

‘You’d told her to say the visitor was German?’

‘Yes.’

Pujol scribbled a few more words on his pad. ‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

Now that Célestine wasn’t in the room, Pierre made no attempt to hide his fear. In five minutes, he seemed to have aged fifty years. Pujol’s heart went out to him.

‘I’m worried, Achille,’ he said, his voice suddenly cracking.

‘Antoine’s a good lad.’

‘But always one to take risks. Act first, think later.’

‘It’s seen him through so far, Pierre,’ Pujol said gently, wanting to give what crumbs of comfort he could.

The truth was, Pujol didn’t like the sound of it. Antoine was the sort of young man who would be involved with the Resistance. Rightly, in Pujol’s opinion. He was brave and moral, but the type to think he was invulnerable.

‘I’ll ask around,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course I can.’

Pierre’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘I hope it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘That we’re making a fuss about nothing, but . . .’

‘I’m not promising anything,’ Achille said. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

The door swung open and Célestine came in carrying the wine and glasses. Pujol wondered how long she’d been listening outside.

‘Have you finished talking behind my back?’ she said, though there was no complaint in her voice.

‘Celsie,’ murmured her husband.

‘Are you going to help us?’ she said, looking Pujol in the eye.

‘I’ll do what I can, Célestine,’ he said.

She held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. ‘We’ll drink to that, then.’

After the Déjeans had left, Pujol emptied the remainder of the bottle into his glass, sat back in his chair and looked over the notes he’d written. He drew a ring around a couple of the words in the middle of the page, then ringed them again.

‘I wonder . . .’

He couldn’t be certain, especially at three steps removed, but he’d bet his last sou that when Antoine mentioned an old man in a pale suit, he’d been referring to Audric Baillard. He thought for a moment, then ripped a clean sheet of paper from his notepad and began to write a letter.

Chapter 49

CARCASSONNE

Sandrine cleared up all she could, then packed a case for Liesl and left. She walked through the Bastide, delivering the remaining prisoners’ letters on her way back to the rue du Palais.

She put her head round the door of the salon to tell Marianne she was home, then went upstairs to the bathroom to wash and change her clothes.

‘I never thought I’d get rid of the smell,’ she said when she came back down. ‘Not that cold water and what passes for soap help much.’

She sat down in the armchair and crossed her legs. ‘I couldn’t do anything about the graffiti on the walls – it will need painting over – but I salvaged most of the clothes and photographs.’

Marianne nodded. ‘Well done.’

‘Where is Liesl?’

‘Resting.’ Marianne sighed. ‘Lucie’s still here too. Marieta said she’s been asleep most of the day. It must have been something she ate, she didn’t drink much wine last night.’

‘How is she? Liesl, I mean.’

‘Not so bad, given the circumstances. She’s tougher than she looks.’ Marianne sighed. ‘Of course, she’s been through a lot already.’

‘Did you tell her I thought I saw Max?’

‘No, I thought we should wait until we were sure. I telephoned Suzanne, though, and asked her to go to the police station.’ She sighed again. ‘She’s already been there once today, trying to find out what’s happened to César Sanchez.’

‘Any luck?’

Marianne shook her head. ‘No, which could be good news or not. Impossible to say.’

Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘Will they tell Suzanne about Max, given she’s not a relative?’

‘Whenever a train leaves Carcassonne,’ Marianne said, ‘the police are supposed to post a list of names of prisoners being deported and where they’re being sent.’

‘Do they?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Did you tell Suzanne what happened to Liesl?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about Lucie?’

‘She was asleep,’ said Marianne, ‘which I admit was a relief. The news – if it’s true – will hit her hard.’

She stood up. ‘Do you want something to drink? You look all in.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘Please. Whatever there is.’

She shut her eyes and leant back against the chair, as exhausted as she’d ever felt in her life.

‘Here you go,’ said Marianne, handing her a glass of red wine. ‘I think you’ve earned it, don’t you?’

‘Thank you.’

Sandrine took a sip of wine, then another, feeling the immediate effects of the alcohol warming her blood. Despite the temperature, she was cold. Tiredness, she supposed.

Marianne returned to her usual spot on the sofa. ‘I’ve just had a rather peculiar exchange with Marieta, who asked, apropos of nothing, if we might be going to Coustaussa this summer. Extraordinary! As if we can suddenly up sticks and go like we used to.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine what’s brought that on.’

‘I can,’ Sandrine said. ‘I meant to tell you about a conversation we had yesterday, but then I saw Raoul and it put everything else out of my mind.’

‘Yes,’ Marianne said wryly.

Sandrine smiled, then explained what had happened in the garden. ‘The thing is, I’d never seen Marieta so rattled before. Having slept on it, I’m sure she’s now decided she wants to see Monsieur Baillard in person rather than rely on the post.’

‘How odd,’ Marianne said. ‘And you’re sure “Baillard” was the name Déjean said?’

‘Pretty sure. Have you ever heard of him?’

‘I think Papa might have mentioned him once or twice.’

For a while the girls sat in silence. Sandrine sipped her wine and allowed herself, for almost the first time in the headlong day, to think about Raoul.

She felt a wave of exhilaration, followed fast on its heels by a suffocating thought that she might not see him again for weeks, months.

‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ she said quietly.

‘Raoul?’

Sandrine nodded.

Marianne paused. ‘Honestly, darling, I don’t know. You saw what it was like today, what happened to Liesl. Things are getting worse.’

The sound of a door opening upstairs brought the conversation to a halt. Marianne got up and went into the hall.

‘It’s Liesl,’ she said, then raised her voice and called up the stairs. ‘We’re in here. Come down when you’re ready.’

A few moments later, the girl appeared. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she seemed calm.

‘How are you feeling?’ Marianne asked, patting the sofa beside her.

‘A little better,’ she said in her quiet voice. She sat down.

‘Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’

‘Do you want to tell us what happened?’ Sandrine said. ‘Or would you rather not?’

‘No, I don’t mind.’

Liesl took a deep breath, then began to talk in a steady, clear voice. With no self-pity at all. The more she heard, the more angry Sandrine became.

‘We should report them,’ she said fiercely, when Liesl had finished.

‘Max has tried to report them, many times,’ Liesl said. ‘The police always say there’s nothing they can do.’

‘But this isn’t just name-calling, throwing stones – though that’s bad enough. This is criminal.’

‘I could hear them breaking things, smashing the windows, ruining everything,’ Liesl said quietly, ‘but I didn’t see them. I couldn’t identify them.’

‘It’s beyond belief that this could happen in the middle of the day,’ said Sandrine. ‘What about the neighbours? Didn’t they notice?’

From the look on Liesl’s face, it was clear the neighbours had heard, but had decided not to intervene all the same.

‘I cleared up as much as I could,’ Sandrine said, now disillusioned as well as angry. ‘It was pretty foul, but apart from the graffiti, it wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance. I brought what I could back with me.’

‘My camera?’ Liesl said quickly. ‘Max bought it for me. It’s a Furet.’

‘Yes, I got that. The thugs had turned the table over and the camera was underneath, so they missed it,’ Sandrine said. ‘I’ll fetch it.’

She went out into the hall. Someone was moving around on the first floor. She heard the chain flushing in the bathroom, then footsteps on the landing. Sandrine caught her breath. Even after two years, she half expected to see her father standing at the top of the stairs. His glasses in one hand and his newspaper in the other. She smiled. He’d never gone anywhere without his newspaper.

She stared into the empty space for a moment, the light fading from her face. She sighed, then picked up the case with Liesl’s things and went back into the salon.

‘Lucie’s up,’ she said to Marianne.

‘Lucie’s here? She’ll know where Max is,’ Liesl said with a spark of hope. ‘Have you asked her?’

‘Asked me what?’

Lucie looked dreadful. Pale, her lips cracked and tiny blue veins on her eyelids. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, let alone waved it, and her dress was crumpled.

‘Lucie!’ Sandrine blurted, before she could check herself.

She pulled a face. ‘I know, I look awful.’

‘I’ll get Marieta to bring some tea,’ Marianne said.

Lucie gave a wan smile, then noticed Liesl and her suitcase and became very still.

‘What’s going on? Why’s Liesl here? Where’s Max?’

‘Don’t you know where he is?’ Liesl said. ‘I thought – hoped – he was with you.’

‘What do you mean? He went straight home after the demonstration to have supper with you.’ Lucie turned to Marianne. ‘And why are you all sitting here like this? What’s going on?’

‘Let’s wait and see what Suzanne has to say,’ Marianne said. ‘No sense jumping to conclusions.’

‘What’s Suzanne got to do with it?’

‘We don’t know where Max is,’ Liesl said in a small voice.

‘Are you saying he didn’t come home?’ Lucie’s voice was rising. ‘Max is missing, is that what you’re saying? Max is missing?’

‘Come and sit down,’ Marianne said. ‘It won’t do any good to get worked up.’

‘I don’t want to sit down,’ Lucie threw back. ‘I want to know where Max is.’

‘We all do,’ Sandrine said, less sympathetically than Marianne. She put her hand on Lucie’s shoulder, who shrugged it off. ‘If you sit down, we’ll tell you what we do know. It’s impossible with you like this.’

For a moment, she thought she’d been too unkind. Lucie looked as if she was about to burst into tears. But then the hysteria seemed to go out of her and she crumpled into the armchair.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me.’

‘It’s all right,’ Sandrine said more gently, sitting down beside her and taking her hand.

‘But will someone please tell me what’s going on?’

Still holding her hand, Sandrine told Lucie about what had happened at the apartment.

‘Oh my God,’ Lucie said. ‘It must have been awful.’

Liesl nodded.

‘So that’s partly, why Suzanne’s gone to the police station,’ Marianne said when she’d finished.

‘But Max must have had an accident,’ Lucie said, starting to stand up. ‘He was going straight home. We must ring the hospital. Not the police station.’ Then, seeing the expression on Sandrine and Marianne’s faces, her expression froze. ‘What, you think he’s been arrested, is that it?’ she said slowly. ‘But why, why would he be arrested? Max is careful. He’s always so careful, isn’t he, Liesl? He’d never go out without his papers.’

‘Never.’

‘There’s no reason for him to be arrested,’ Lucie said again, but the panic in her voice revealed how scared she was.

Sandrine caught Marianne’s eye and could see she was thinking the same thing. Given that Lucie was in such a state already, there was no point in continuing to keep their suspicions to themselves.

‘The thing is,’ Sandrine said carefully, ‘I think I might have seen him at the railway station earlier. He was a long way off and there was a woman in my way, blocking my view, but—’

‘The railway station?’ Lucie jumped in. ‘Why were you there?’

‘A group of prisoners were deported this morning,’ Marianne answered. ‘Sandrine thinks Max might have been one of them.’

The tiniest of cries escaped from Liesl’s mouth. The last vestiges of colour drained from Lucie’s cheeks.

‘He was a long way off,’ Sandrine said, feeling awful. ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure it was him.’

‘It can’t have been Max . . .’ whispered Lucie.

‘Suzanne will be back any moment now,’ Marianne said. ‘Let’s wait until we know for certain. In the meantime, Liesl can’t go back to the flat, that much is obvious. The windows are broken and the door needs securing.’

In the hall, the telephone began to ring. Sandrine looked at Marianne, who got up and went to answer. In the salon, no one spoke.

Marianne came back into the room.

‘Was that Suzanne?’ Sandrine asked, feeling her heart speed up.

Her sister nodded.

‘Well?’ said Lucie, unable to keep the hope from her voice. ‘What did she say? His name wasn’t on the list, was it? It can’t have been on the list.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Marianne said quietly.

‘No . . .’ Lucie whispered.

Liesl caught her breath. ‘Where’s he been taken?’ she managed to ask.

‘They hadn’t a record of it,’ Marianne said in a steady voice. ‘Suzanne said they wouldn’t tell her.’

‘Wouldn’t or couldn’t?’ said Sandrine.

‘We don’t know where he’s been taken?’ Liesl said, her self-possession finally cracking.

‘What are we going to do?’ Lucie wailed. ‘If we don’t know where . . .’

Marianne put her arms around Liesl’s shoulders and finally the girl allowed herself to cry. Liesl’s distress seemed to prompt Lucie to try to pull herself together. She reached out and took her hand.

‘Hey, kid. It’ll be all right.’

Sandrine looked desperately at Marianne, who gestured for her to follow her out into the hall and leave Lucie and Liesl together for a moment. Marianne gently shut the door.

‘What are we going to do?’ Sandrine whispered.

‘The whole situation is peculiar,’ Marianne said in a low voice. ‘Suzanne said Max was the only person without a destination recorded on the list.’

‘Why would they keep it secret?’

‘I’m not sure. Suzanne got the impression that the police didn’t actually know where Max was being sent.’ She looked at the closed door. ‘We have to think seriously about what to do with Liesl. She can stay here for now, but she can’t go back to the flat. Possibly not at all, not until we know why Max was arrested.’

‘But she’s only sixteen. Her papers are in order.’

Marianne shrugged. ‘So were Max’s papers. Honestly, I can’t begin to work out what’s going on. This could be to do with their father, or something else entirely.’

Sandrine thought for a moment, then an idea started to take shape in her mind.

‘What about Coustaussa?’ she said slowly. ‘Marieta’s desperate to go and see her Monsieur Baillard. Liesl could go with her. At least until we find out where Max has been taken and why. She’ll be safer away from Carcassonne, especially with Madame Fournier next door.’

Marianne shook her head. ‘It would be so complicated to arrange,’ she said. ‘Changing the ration books, coupons, travel documents, too much to organise. I’m worried enough about Marieta as it is. I can’t ask her to take all that on.’

Sandrine felt a spark of possibility. She’d told Raoul he could go to Coustaussa if he was stuck. Of course, there was no reason for him to take her up on the offer. He’d head for Banyuls or any of the other places where he had friends who could help. But what if he couldn’t get that far south? What if he had nowhere else to go?

‘Well, how about if I went with them?’ Sandrine said in a level voice, though her heart was racing. ‘I could sort things out with the Mairie in Couiza, so the responsibility wouldn’t fall on Marieta’s shoulders.’ She paused. ‘As for Liesl, you or Suzanne could get her some alternative papers, couldn’t you?’

Marianne stared. ‘Well, yes. It would take a few days, but yes, we could manage that.’

‘Well then. As soon as that’s done, the three of us could go. I’ll get them settled in, then come back. Simple. The country air would do Marieta good in any case.’

Her sister was still frowning, though Sandrine could see she was considering the idea.

‘Would you mind?’ Marianne said eventually. ‘It will be a lot of work for you.’

Sandrine smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind at all.’

By ten o’clock, the girls had worn themselves out with talking and planning and discussing. Marianne had convinced Liesl she couldn’t stay in Carcassonne, Sandrine had persuaded Lucie to stay another night with them and leave it to Suzanne to find out where Max had been sent. The plan was straightforward – Marieta, Liesl and Sandrine would leave for Coustaussa at the beginning of August, just as the family had done in the old days, while Lucie, Marianne and Suzanne would stay put in Carcassonne.

It was well past eleven when Sandrine and Marianne turned in. Her sister looked so tired, Sandrine offered to lock up. As she checked the shutters in the salon, she thought about how, in a matter of three days, her entire life had been turned on its head. And as she double-bolted the back and front doors and checked the blackout was in place, she realised it felt as if a layer of skin had been stripped from her bones.

She walked slowly upstairs. She hesitated a moment outside her father’s room, hearing the sound of Lucie crying behind the closed door. She was on the point of going in, then stopped herself. Grief was a private business. She suspected Lucie would rather be left alone. There was no noise coming from the box room where Liesl was sleeping.

Sandrine looked out through the landing window to where the stars shone bright in the clear July night sky. The full moon sent diamonds of coloured light dancing across the wall. For a moment she felt something shift inside her. Hearing an echo of other hearts and spirits as they fluttered and sighed and breathed. A consciousness of other lives once lived in the narrow streets of the medieval Cité or in the Bastide Saint-Louis.

‘Coratge,’ she murmured. ‘Courage.’

The moment passed. Everything returned to normal. Sandrine sighed, then went into her bedroom and closed the door. The house fell silent.

Chapter 50

THE HAUTE VALLÉE

As soon as the broadcast had finished, Audric Baillard began to dismantle the wireless transmitter. Standing the small brown cardboard outer case of the receiver on the table, he wrapped the antenna in a lightweight jacket and pushed the headphones into the toe of a large woollen sock. He did not think the police would venture this high up into the mountains, but who was to say?

In between the usual code words and messages from the Free French to their colleagues in occupied France, Baillard had picked up news of yesterday’s Bastille Day demonstration in Carcassonne. The Midi was showing her true colours. He smiled for a moment, then went back to work.

He wrapped the four wire segments between the folds of an old copy of La Dépêche and put them at the bottom of a suitcase lying open on the chair beside him, then packed clothes on top of them. The smile slipped from his lips. If the news from Carcassonne was encouraging, the news from the North was the opposite. In the past months, whole families had been coming from Paris and Chartres to Ax-les-Thermes, in the hope of escaping over the mountains to Spain. From Spain to Portugal, then to England or America, even though America had closed her borders some time ago. Now, according to the wireless, there had been another mass round-up in Paris, this time involving thousands of police. Tens of thousands of Jewish men, women and children were incarcerated in the Vélodrome d’Hiver on the outskirts of the city. He hoped the rumours were exaggerated, though he feared they were not.

Baillard clipped shut the catch on his suitcase and put the case on the floor. He poured himself a glass of Guignolet and took it outside to watch the silver moon on the peaks of the Sabarthès mountains, as he had done so very many times before. Sometimes in the company of those he had loved and who had loved him. More often, alone.

He had intended to rest in Los Seres for a few days and gather his strength, ready to guide the next group of refugees to safety over the Pyrenees. But Antoine Déjean was much on his mind and the news on the wireless had caused him to change his plans. Baillard hoped that the demonstration was the reason Antoine had been unable to deliver the package as promised. He would return to Rennes-les-Bains. If there was still no letter, once he had taken the next group of refugees over the mountains to Spain, as he had promised, then he would go to Carcassonne and search for Déjean there.

Baillard had to act. He could not leave things to chance. Despite the propaganda printed by the collaborationist newspapers, Nazi victory was by no means assured. But if their enemies gained possession of the Codex, there would be nothing anyone could do to stem the tide of evil.

All of Europe would fall. And beyond.

Baillard stood a while longer, letting the alcohol warm his bones and the sight of the mountains calm his spirits. At midnight, he went back inside. He washed his lone glass and set it to drain beside the sink, then fastened all the shutters and locked and bolted the front door. Finally, with the weight of the heavy suitcase in his hand, he began the long, dark walk back down to the valley below.

Pas a pas . . . Step by step.

PART II

Shadows in the Mountains

August 1942

Codex VI

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius waited until he could no longer hear the hooves of the horses before emerging from his hiding place. He stepped out into the silence. The air that moments earlier seemed to bristle with threat, settled gently back around him.

Caution had become habitual. It was not that he believed the Abbot would send soldiers after him to retrieve what was rightfully his. He had been gone too long, more than four months. But Arinius had been warned that bagaudes, bandits, roamed the countryside in the foothills of the mountains. Mostly gangs of soldiers deserting their commissions. He could not jeopardise the safety of the Codex, so he was careful, took no risks.

The young monk knelt down beside the river, feeling the dry corners of the papyrus poking into his ribs, and splashed water on his face. He cupped his hands and drank, the cold water soothing his raw throat. His cough was worse again, he didn’t know why. Although it was cooler by the water, the midges and mosquitoes and flies had bitten and sucked and irritated him all night long.

Another dawn, the sky clear and white, promising another day of fierce heat. This morning he was tired, but he picked up the pace once more, following the path along the tributary of the river, then climbing up out of the valley to the high land. Another of Caesar’s marching routes, the road ran due south and was lined on either side by trees.

As he travelled further from Carcaso, the settlements had become smaller and further between. The green river valleys of the Atax giving way to the gullies of the Salz, the red earth where iron ore was mined, the forests of trees with black bark, older than time itself. The forgotten communities of the rocks and the peaks, tribes who had survived each occupation of Celt or Roman, holding fast to their mountain traditions, their mountain ways.

Now here, in the high valleys, were tiny villages untouched by civilisation. Here older religions still reigned, mythologies, stories of Hercules and his lover Pyrène, Abellio and the spirits of the air, tales never written down but handed down from father to daughter, mother to son. Here they spoke no Latin, not even Iberian, but rather a strange dialect of the Volcae as grating to Arinius’ ears as the jackdaw chattering of the sailors at the port in Massilia.

He heard wheels behind him. He glanced round, to see only a cart driven by an old man with skin the colour of leather.

He raised his hand. ‘Salve, mercator.’

The man pulled up. ‘I only trade for money,’ he said immediately.

Arinius smiled. He had little to trade in any case. He reached into his bag and pulled out a denarius. The merchant jumped down and took it, bit it, then threw back the blanket covering his wares to reveal a selection of glass bottles and earthenware jars.

‘For that, I can do you a draught of posca. Or cervesa. You’d get more for your money.’

Arinius had been brought up to think cervesa vulgar, a drink fit only for the barbarian countryside. Nobody in Lugdunum would drink it. But during his travels he had grown to like the gritty, malt taste of the beer. If anything now he preferred it to posca, the watered-down wine and vinegar concoction so popular in Carcaso.

‘I don’t suppose you have true wine?’ he asked, holding out another coin.

‘Won’t get much for that.’

‘I don’t need much,’ he replied.

He had not been lonely in Carcaso, but after two weeks of travelling alone on the open road, he had started to miss the community of his brother monks. The taste of wine on his tongue, he thought, would remind him of companionship.

The merchant rummaged through the dazzling and precarious pile of bottles and jars and mirrors, and extracted a small bottle. Fashioned from pale green glass, the hemispherical body was patterned with a beautiful blue-green iridescence on one side, like the eye of a peacock’s tail. It had a long thin neck and a stopper of soft wood, and a leather thong threaded through the top so it could be carried or worn around the neck.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Arinius, smiling at the trader.

The merchant shrugged. ‘Do you want it or not?’

Arinius handed over his money.

‘Thanking you, frater. Anything else for you?’

Arinius looked at the empty land all around. ‘If you could point me in the direction of the nearest settlement? Is there anything hereabouts?’

‘Couzanium’s not far,’ he replied. ‘About half a day’s walk.’

‘A town?’

The man shook his head. ‘No, just a few houses. But there’s a larger settlement to the east of Couzanium, Aquis Calidis. Some two hours’ walk, perhaps three. Hot and cold water springs, salt water and fresh, a proper bathhouse there. It used to be popular with soldiers from the garrisons past the Sinus Gallicus. Not much visited now.’

‘I might try it.’

The merchant threw the covering back over his wares, climbed up and tapped his animal on the haunches. The cart moved forward in a rattle of clinker and glass.

Arinius took the stopper from the neck of the bottle and drank, letting the heat of the rough wine soothe his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, replaced the wooden bung, then put the thin strip of leather around his neck and shoulder, already thinking of how welcome it would be to let the hot waters relieve his tired bones.

He hesitated for a moment, then, with the glass bottle tapping against his hip, Arinius continued on the Roman road towards the green valleys of Couzanium.

Chapter 51

CARCASSONNE

AUGUST 1942

Sandrine stood with her arms resting on the open window of the second-class carriage. She was wearing one of Marianne’s travelling outfits, a green jacket and pleated skirt. With her black curly hair pinned and set back off her face, she looked older. She felt older.

‘Won’t be long now,’ Marianne said.

Sandrine patted her pocket, checking again that she had all the tickets and papers, then looked back to the knot of women standing on the platform waiting to see them off. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her gaze returning to the far end of the platform, where three weeks ago she had witnessed the police herding prisoners like animals on to the train. Max among them, though she’d not realised in time to be able to do anything to help him. Suzanne had been unable to find out where he had been sent or why he had been arrested. César Sanchez and Antoine Déjean were also both still missing. No one had heard anything, no gossip, no rumours. And because they didn’t know why Max had been arrested, they had kept Liesl out of sight, in case the police came for her too.

Every knock at the door had put Sandrine’s nerves on edge. And every morning since Raoul had left, she checked the mat the instant she heard the sharp metal click of the letter box. For a letter, a postcard, anything. She knew he wouldn’t write, he couldn’t risk writing, but hope was stronger than common sense. She had kept busy. At first she tried to identify the words she’d heard at the river, the words that had so frightened Marieta, but that had led nowhere. The municipal library was shut for the summer – in any case, many books that could have been useful had disappeared from the shelves – and Marieta refused to discuss it. The only indication the conversation had ever happened was the fact that Marieta, too, checked for a letter every morning. Sandrine had even visited the cathedral in the hope of speaking to Abbé Gau, but he was nowhere to be found. As July had tipped into August, the days seemed to drag. It had been an uneasy, unnerving few weeks, and Sandrine longed to be gone from Carcassonne.

Even though it was late morning, the station was as quiet as a Sunday night. The lingering consequences of the Bastille Day demonstration and the fierce August heat kept everyone indoors. There were still large numbers of police d’occasion on the streets, and regular checks and roadblocks. And although the broadcasts from London gave news of Nazi setbacks, there had been a flurry of rumours that Hitler was preparing a new offensive. Against whom, no one was certain, but the bobards were widespread and the atmosphere in Carcassonne brittle.

‘I wish you were coming with us,’ Sandrine said, suddenly reluctant to leave now the moment had come.

Marianne smiled. ‘You’ll be fine. Telephone from Couiza to let me know you’ve arrived safely.’

‘I will,’ she said.

The guard’s whistle shrilled. Sandrine blew her sister a kiss, waved to Suzanne and Lucie, then ducked back inside the carriage as the train began to move off.

‘That’s that, then,’ she said.

Liesl sat reading and cradling her precious camera on her lap. Marieta claimed the opposite seat, looking rather grey and breathless. Her hair was neat beneath a black felt hat. She had dressed her light grey summer coat with a spray of red glass beads at the lapel. Her sturdy feet were planted firmly on the floor, outdoor shoes rather than her customary wooden clogs, and she was darning a pair of socks that would not be needed until winter. The strand of grey wool swished and flicked like a kitten’s tail as the thick needle went in and out of the heel.

Sandrine set her eyes on the landscape outside the window, yellow and brown and green, and tried to ignore the fluttering of expectation in the pit of her stomach. She leant her head against the glass. The train rattled its lulling song along the metal tracks, at first running parallel to the river. Beyond the smeared carriage window she caught glimpses of Maquens, Leuc, Verzeille, Roullens. Familiar names, but places she had never visited.

In September, the fields would be alive with farm workers and labourers, children as young as eight or nine helping their parents to bring in the harvest. Wheat and barley in the plains, vines for as far as the eye could see. The air would bristle with tension and expectation as the vendanges tiptoed closer, closer, everyone waiting for the moment when the wine harvest began. Now, the fields were mostly deserted. From time to time, a man in corduroy trousers and checked shirt pushing a bike along a straight, featureless country road. Pairs of women in wide-brimmed straw hats with baskets, making the long walk from the omnibus to farms in the folds of the countryside. In small market gardens beside the line, goats and chickens grazing, scratching. Fields of yellow sunflowers, their faces tilted to the sun. A wooden cart and a white delivery truck, the unchanging pace of the countryside, war or no war.

In the zone occupée, Sandrine knew, soldiers patrolled the trains, particularly those passing close to the demarcation line. At least things here were not that bad.

Not yet. Not quite.

The train stuttered to a halt.

‘Limoux. Limoux. Cinq minutes d’arrêt.’

Marieta’s eyes fluttered half open, woken by the station master’s announcement, then shut again.

‘Do you want to get out and stretch your legs, Liesl?’ Sandrine asked.

The girl shook her head. She seemed composed and her features were calm, but Sandrine knew better. She tried not to pry.

Sandrine stepped down to the platform, looking at the colourful summer dresses and two-pieces, the headscarves and shallow-brimmed straw hats with bright ribbons. All along the platform doors opened, were propped back, then slammed shut. Leave-takings and greetings, the songs of summer.

The guard blew the whistle, Sandrine climbed back in and they were off once more, the train climbing higher, slower, into the hills, the first view of the mountains. The air changed. Even Liesl stopped reading and was looking out of the window.

‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

As the train pulled out of Alet-les-Bains, Sandrine felt the familiar tug at her heart. They left behind the sunflowers and began the steady climb into the Haute Vallée. The solid grey stone of the railway bridges over which the train jerked, hauled, heaved its carriages. The countryside became steeper, less forgiving. Birch trees and beech, holm oak and hazel. Through the open window slipped the remembered scent of cedar and laurel, the damp air of the deep woods.

The train emerged from the green shadow of the wooded banks of the crystal river, blinking into the light. Sandrine caught her first glimpse of the limestone hills and jagged crests, rock and fir trees on the plateau of the Salz, and the sharp ridges of the foothills of the Pyrenees beyond.

She thought of the times in the past when she had done this same journey to and from Carcassonne, looking out over these fields and skies and rivers, almost sensing the ghosts of fellow travellers heading south into the Corbières. The bustle of the railways, the antique hiss of engine and whistle.

The whispering of generations past.

Chapter 52

TARASCON

Audric Baillard entered Tarascon by way of the Avenue de Foix. Ahead of him, the Tour du Castella sat perched high on its hill, calling the weary traveller home as it had for more than a century and a half.

In the distance, beyond the town, the Pic de Vicdessos. It dominated the valley, the town, the rivers and the woods, a reminder that this was an ancient landscape that had survived without mankind for many hundreds of thousands of years. Timeless, impervious to the follies of men.

Baillard was heading for the Grand Café Oliverot, opposite the bureau de poste, which had occupied the same site on the right bank of the river Ariège since the turn of the century. Indeed, he had been one of its first customers. It was a favourite haunt of Achille Pujol’s in the old days.

Audric was fond of Tarascon, with its cobbled streets and quiet acceptance of its place in the world. There was a suggestion of old values and time unchanging for generations, which chimed harmoniously with Baillard’s view of the world. If anything, the little mountain town seemed more prosperous, more confident than last time he had visited. The Grand Hôtel de la Poste looked freshly painted. Some, at least, of its rooms might be occupied. He frowned, wondering what that signified. German visitors? Guests of Vichy? He hoped not.

Baillard turned the corner and straight away saw his old friend sitting at his usual spot at the end of the terrace, overlooking the river Ariège and the Pont Vieux. He looked a little heavier and was grey now, but it was the same grizzled profile, the high forehead and tufts of hair that wouldn’t lie flat.

He walked over to the table. ‘Bonjorn, Achille,’ he said.

Pujol frowned at the interruption, then broke into a wide smile. ‘Audric Baillard, I’ll be damned. You got my letter, then?’

Audric nodded. ‘How go things with you, amic?’

‘Could be worse,’ Pujol said, gesturing with his hand. ‘Then again, could be better.’ He reached over and dragged a chair across from the adjacent table. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘Your letter said it was urgent,’ said Baillard, sitting down. He put his hat on the table. ‘Qu’es aquò?’ What is it?

‘Antoine Déjean,’ Pujol said. ‘Do you know him?’

Baillard became still. ‘What have you heard?’

He listened without interrupting as Pujol gave a clear and concise précis of his conversation with Pierre and Célestine.

‘But in over three weeks, nothing,’ Pujol finished. ‘Boy seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. No one knows anything.’

Baillard frowned. ‘And Sénher Déjean said the man looking for Antoine was German?’

Pujol nodded. ‘Time was, Audric, do you remember, when we couldn’t move for Germans down this way. All those expeditions grubbing about, the spring and early summer of 1939.’

‘I do.’

‘There was also that odd lot – the Polaires, they called themselves – claiming to be after evidence of some kind of ancient super race or something. And that French expedition from Chartres, funded by . . .’ He clicked his fingers. ‘What was the man’s name?’

‘François Cécil-Baptiste de l’Oradore.’

‘That’s it. Quite a memory you’ve got.’

Baillard’s eyes darkened. ‘I had some association with the family in the past,’ he said. ‘Though they went by a different name in those days.’

‘De l’Oradore lodged a complaint about the Germans, must have been July 1939, maybe August. Ironic that, now, when you come to think about it. Claimed they were after the Cathar treasure, would you believe it?’

Baillard looked at him, but said nothing.

‘The point is, when Pierre’s neighbour saw Antoine in Carcassonne, she reported the first thing he said, when he heard there had been someone asking after him, was – and I’m quoting here – was he “an old man in a pale suit”?’ He paused. ‘I assumed he was referring to you, Audric. I hoped you might know something.’

Baillard nodded. ‘Antoine was working for me, Achille. He was supposed to leave a package for me in Rennes-les-Bains, but it didn’t arrive. He didn’t arrive.’

‘Oh.’

‘And no word.’

‘What was in this package?’

‘A map.’

‘Of what?’

‘The hiding place of something of enormous importance,’ he replied. ‘Something that might – could – change the course of the war.’

Pujol’s eyebrows shot up, but something in the tenor of Baillard’s voice dissuaded him from asking anything else. He took another mouthful of beer.

‘Do you remember Otto Rahn, Achille?’ Baillard said quietly.

‘I heard he did for himself. Sleeping pills, wasn’t it?’

‘Possibly.’

Pujol’s gaze sharpened. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘Benlèu,’ Baillard said. Perhaps.

Pujol took another gulp of beer. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised, a very nervy chap. They were always hanging about together, Rahn and Déjean, thick as thieves the pair of them. Poking about in the caves without any kind of permission, looking for God knows what. Lombrives, Niaux, further over to Lavelanet and Montférrier, all the way up to Montségur. Spouting all sorts of nonsense, calling each other by odd names.’

‘Gottesfreunde,’ said Baillard. ‘The German equivalent of bons homes. What people are now inclined to call Cathars. Rahn put his thoughts down in two rather peculiar books, The Crusade Against the Grail being one. Later, he wrote about the time he spent in Montségur, though he doesn’t mention Antoine by name. It was published in 1936, the same year Rahn was accepted into the SS.’

‘Yes, I heard they got their hooks into him.’

‘Rahn was a naïve young man, easily influenced. He was flattered to be taken seriously. He did not realise what they wanted from him.’

‘Are you telling me all that back then is tied up with Antoine’s disappearance now?’

‘Yes.’

Pujol looked hard at him, his eyes sharp. For a moment, Baillard got a glimpse of the high-ranking police detective he once had been. Astute, principled and determined.

Pujol stood up and threw a note down on the table. ‘I have a bottle of wine at home. We can continue our conversation there. What do you say?’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Get back before the storm hits.’

‘I think it is still some way off,’ Baillard said, ‘but yes. This is a conversation we should have in private.’

Chapter 53

COUIZA

With mixed feelings, Sandrine opened the carriage door and stepped down on to the platform. She felt as if she might see her old self, the girl she had been three summers before, waiting to meet her. Long socks, her hair in plaits still. Her father in his light summer suit and Marianne, fresh from her first term of teaching, their cases piled high for a month of swimming and playing cards and lazy, long summer days and nights.

‘Can you help me with the bags, Liesl?’

Marieta was gathering her things. Sandrine smiled. She, at least, never changed. Then Sandrine saw another familiar face. Ernest, the station master, waving and pushing a rattling luggage trolley fast along the empty platform to greet them. His uniform strained across his broad chest. His black handlebar moustache seemed more impressive.

‘Madomaisèla Sandrine, a pleasure to see you. We got your message saying you were on your way.’ He stood back. ‘And look at you! So tall.’

‘Thank you.’

His face grew solemn. ‘May I say, we were all very sad to hear of your father’s death. He was a fine man.’

She accepted his condolences with a quiet smile. ‘He was.’

‘Will Madomaisèla Marianne be joining you?’

‘Not for the time being.’ Then, aware of a flutter of nerves in her stomach, she turned to Liesl. ‘But this is a cousin of ours, from Paris. In case anyone asks.’

Ernest peered over the top of his spectacles. Sandrine hated lying to him, but over the past couple of weeks it had become clear how precarious Liesl’s situation was. They still had no idea where Max had been taken, and rumours were circulating, terrible stories, unbelievable, that even children were now being arrested in Paris with their parents and sent to camps. Even with the oldest of friends, they could take no risk.

Ernest held her gaze for a long moment, then tipped his hat to Liesl.

‘Nice to meet you, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

Sandrine gave a sigh of relief. It was the first hurdle. If he was prepared to collude with the pretence, then she hoped their neighbours would do the same.

Liesl smiled. ‘Oh, it’s not . . .’ She turned pale, stopped, remembered what she was supposed to say. ‘It’s a pleasure to be here, monsieur. And please, call me Liesl.’

Marieta finally descended from the carriage.

‘Bonjorn!’ Ernest cried, lapsing immediately into Occitan. ‘Benvenguda.’ He held out his hand to help her down the steps.

‘Bonjorn,’ she replied, then prodded his corpulent stomach with her finger. ‘I see rationing agrees with you.’

Ernest roared with laughter, and even Liesl smiled. Sandrine felt the knot of tension below her ribs loosen a little more as she listened to the two old friends exchanging news.

‘Will you be staying long, Madomaisèla Sandrine?’ Ernest asked, piling the cases on to the trolley.

‘A week or so at least. Marieta and Liesl will be here for longer.’

‘If you need any help, the new mayor here is not so bad. He can be trusted.’

‘I need to sort out our papers and rations,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better come back to the Mairie later, once I’ve seen Liesl and Marieta settled in the house.’

‘My brother assists at the town hall,’ Ernest said in a low voice. ‘How about I tell him you will be in to see him later in the week, with your cartes d’identités and your ration books.’

‘Could you arrange that?’ she said hopefully. ‘I’d be so grateful.’ Going all the way up the hill, then coming all the way back to stand in another queue was the last thing she felt like.

‘A few days here or there, I can’t see that will be a problem. And if there’s anything extra you need,’ he said, dropping his voice even lower, ‘you just let me know.’

‘I will,’ she said with a broad smile. ‘If we’re stuck, we’ll come to you. Thank you.’ Sandrine looked out to the concourse. ‘Is there likely to be a bus this afternoon?’

Before the war, there had been two buses a day that ran along the valley of the Salz, one from Couiza to Arques, the other from Couiza to Rennes-les-Bains. Since Coustaussa was early on the route, they could catch either one.

‘Not every day, but you’re in luck. And Madame Rousset has arranged for Yves to meet you at the stop below Coustaussa and take you up to the village.’

Sandrine glanced at Marieta, enormously relieved to hear that they weren’t going to have to walk up the steep hill with their luggage.

‘That was thoughtful, thank you.’

Sandrine went to pick up her case, but Ernest got there first.

‘We still have standards, mademoiselle. We’re not going to let those criminals in Vichy change everything, è.’

He accompanied them down the platform and through the ticket hall, then loaded the bags on to a bus waiting at the front of the station.

‘The driver should be here any minute,’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need, I’m sure we will be able to come to some arrangement.’

‘I will, of course,’ she said, biting her lip to stop herself smiling at the idea of sweet, honest Ernest being part of the marché noir.

The fierce Midi sun hit Sandrine the moment she stepped out of the shade of the station building. The Tramontana was whipping up the dust, brown clouds of grit and clogged air, scraps of paper and a few dry leaves spiralling in the wind in circles.

‘It’s so humid,’ Liesl said. ‘Will there be a storm?’

Marieta shook her head. ‘Tomorrow, maybe.’

Sandrine could see that Liesl felt terribly out of place. Here, more than in Carcassonne, she looked like a Parisian. A girl who belonged in a white dress and hat strolling along Haussmann’s elegant boulevards. Not in the dusty garrigue of summer in the Languedoc.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked quietly.

Liesl nodded.

Sandrine looked at the other people milling around the square. Women in flowered dresses and children sucking iced lollies, a few old men. A young priest stood a little apart from the others, his complexion like wax, in a black soutane, his nose stuck in a book. At first glance things seemed much the same, but the atmosphere was different. Before the war there were always plenty of summer tourists. Now it was a local crowd. But there was also a kind of watchfulness. As if no one quite trusted anyone any more.

The driver emerged from the café and shambled towards his bus, cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, a newspaper under his arm and his napkin still tucked into his collar. Within minutes, all the fares had been paid and everyone was seated in a muddle of packages and parcels, dogs on laps, children standing between their mothers’ legs, cycles fixed on the rack at the back. The tiny glass windows were tilted open as far as they would go, but it was still stiflingly hot. Two elderly women in hairnets and heavy seersucker dresses wafted paper fans backwards and forwards, sending a welcome draught Sandrine’s way.

The bus wheezed and belched its way out of the station and soon they were on the route de Coustaussa, heading east. Napoleon’s marching trees gave welcome shade from the hot August sun. Neighbour began to chat to neighbour, a whining child was slapped and started to grizzle, an old man carrying a can of cooking oil like a baby in his arms began, softly, to snore.

Sandrine smiled, despite everything. It was hard to believe that anything could ever affect the quiet and tranquillity of this ancient place.

Codex VII

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius reached the small settlement of Couzanium in the middle of the afternoon. He set up makeshift camp by the river Atax, the same river that flowed through the Carsac plains. Removing his sandals, he dipped his tired feet in the water, letting the current cool his blistered skin. Then he rinsed his handkerchief, thick with dust from the journey. He couldn’t shift the spots of blood. They were faint, barely visible, but still there all the same.

The hour and time of his passing was in God’s hands. Arinius did not know how much time might be given to him. He had seen men die quickly of the illness he carried within him, or survive for some time, in a few cases, for years. He did not know how long the precious text would need to remain hidden. For one lifetime or a thousand? The simple truth was that if he did not ensure the Codex could be found again when the time was right, then it might as well have been consigned to the fires in the community at Lugdunum. He had to survive long enough to achieve these things.

He spread the handkerchief out on a rock to dry in the sun, weighted to stop it blowing away, then sat back to eat. The wine was almost gone, but he ate the last of his cured ham and almonds, then set out to explore the modest collection of dwellings.

In these furthest reaches of the Empire, principles of trade and commerce still held strong. Drawn by the noise, Arinius walked towards the heart of the settlement, where itinerant merchants had set up an informal market in the shadow of the bridge. He perused the stalls – furs and cloth, rabbits for the pot, herbs and strings of red beads.

He knew what he was looking for. First, a small cedarwood box. He would need to wrap it in furs or cloth before he buried it in a dry place, away from the air and the damp. He hoped it would be sufficient. He knew how to mix ink and how to style a quill from a hollow bird’s feather. He was pleasantly surprised to be able to buy what he needed. He couldn’t afford papyrus or a scroll, but he bought a square of spun wool, the length of his arm and the colour of goat’s milk, in a fine weave. Wool would hold an image better and was easier to preserve intact than a wax tablet or wooden board that might crack or warp or burn.

The hours he spent at the market were pleasant, reminding him of the boy he had been. Often he had been called upon to accompany older monks to the forum in Lugdunum, a pair of willing arms and strong legs. Having purchased what he needed, Arinius returned to the river, gathered everything together and walked back to the crossroads.

He was in two minds where to go next. Ahead of him, the mountains. Behind him Carcaso. To either side, green hills and empty space. But the merchant’s comment that there were baths at Aquis Calidis had lodged in his mind. How much good the waters would do his aching bones. Perhaps the healing hot springs would improve his lungs. He would never be cured, he accepted that, but the waters might slow the pace of his illness.

Arinius turned to the east. The road followed the river valley between high hills. Lush pastures, thick wooded forests of beech, holm oak, hazel and chestnut that came right down to the road. High on a hill to his right, on a stark and rocky outcrop, he spied a small hilltop oppidum. Grey stone against the blue of the sky and a landscape scarred through with red iron ore, limestone fissures.

‘A place of beauty,’ he said, feeling his spirits lift. ‘And, God willing, a place of safety.’

Chapter 54

COUSTAUSSA

AUGUST 1942

‘There it is,’ Sandrine said, as the bus shuddered to a halt.

Coustaussa was a pretty hamlet, perched on a ledge in the hillside overlooking the river Salz. There was a small mairie and a war memorial, as well as the ruins of a twelfth-century château-fort that once had kept watch over the valley, built on older Roman remains. The view across the valley was to Rhedae, Rennes-le-Château as it was now known.

Coming up from the main road, it was the ruins of the castle a visitor glimpsed first. Only as one drew closer did the houses and the small seventeenth-century church reveal themselves. There was no café, no boulangerie. The town crier still announced the arrival of the cobbler or the knife-grinder or the baker’s van doing its rounds.

The village’s only notoriety was the violent killing of the village priest, Antoine Gélis, murdered in his presbytery on Hallowe’en 1897. Marieta remembered him from when she was in service in neighbouring Rennes-les-Bains, and one or two of the oldest residents of the village talked of him as a solitary, reclusive man who played little part in the life of the village. Frightened of his own shadow, hiding from ghosts.

The driver opened the concertina doors. Sandrine jumped down, Liesl handed down the bags, then held out her hand to Marieta to help her on the steep metal steps.

Yves Rousset was waiting with his grandmother’s donkey and trap. Sandrine raised her hand in greeting, hoping it wasn’t going to be awkward. She hadn’t seen him since an uncomfortable kiss in the fields three summers ago.

‘Hello,’ she said in a bright voice. ‘How are you?’

Yves didn’t meet her eye. ‘Nothing to complain about.’

‘This is one of my cousins, Liesl. From Paris.’

He looked at Liesl, clearly seeing no family resemblance, but made no comment.

‘How is Madame Rousset?’ Sandrine said quickly.

‘So-so,’ he said, putting the first of the cases into the trap.

Slowly, the donkey pulled its load up the earth track, Yves holding the reins, Marieta riding in the trap and Sandrine and Liesl walking alongside. Despite the heady green of the valley down by the river, the grass here was brown, dry from lack of rain, and the heavy wheels threw up tiny stones, fragments of twigs and leaf between its spokes.

Their house sat on its own patch of land, slightly below the village and to the south-east. It was one of the larger houses, built from stone and quarry pillaged from the ruins of the castle some eighty years ago. Three narrow, high stone steps led to a tall double front door painted yellow, with the grimacing metal gargoyle she had hated as a child. Yellow-painted window frames either side of the door and planters of geraniums on the sills, with their heads snapped and hanging down. The sign was still broken, the pieces dividing the single word – citadelle – in two. Picking them up, Sandrine made a mental note to ask Yves to mend it.

‘So, here we are,’ she said.

While Liesl and Yves unloaded the baggage, Sandrine hesitated, memories of summers past at her heels. Then she climbed the steps, unlocked the door and went inside. Straight away, the familiar smell of beeswax and polish, the mustiness that permeated the hall from the cellar and kitchen, assaulted her and made her heart strings crack. Remembering her father, polishing his glasses and smiling as Marieta bustled, fussed, complained about the plumbing or the stove smoking or the quality of the bread from the Spanish baker.

Yves brought the bags into the hall.

‘Thank you,’ Sandrine said, still a little uncomfortable.

He met her eye for a moment, then turned to Marieta. ‘My mother invites you to call, once you are settled in.’

‘Tell Madame Rousset I shall be delighted,’ Marieta replied formally.

Leaving Liesl and Marieta for a moment, Sandrine went further into the house. She wanted to reacquaint herself with the feel of it, the smell of it, without anyone looking on.

A narrow central staircase led upstairs to three small bedrooms and an even smaller bathroom, a recent addition. When her grandfather had bought the house, there had been no running water and no electricity. Now they had both, even though the generator often broke down, so they mostly relied on the lamps and still heated the water with an old wood stove fuelled by vine roots and hawthorn prunings. Left alone, the fire went out. Marianne and Marieta grumbled about the inconvenience, but for Sandrine it was all part of the romance of the summer. She wouldn’t change a thing.

The dining room and kitchen were either side of the hall at the front. Quickly, to get it over with, Sandrine opened both doors and looked inside, half expecting to see her father sitting in his usual chair.

It was empty, of course.

She took a deep breath, felt the familiar clutch of her heart. At the same time she realised with relief that she was glad to be here again. She took off her coat and her hat, shaking out her hair, then walked down the corridor. Conscious of the echo of her father in the empty spaces, but not distressed by it.

The sitting room filled the whole of the back of the house, facing north towards the Camp Grand and the stone shepherds’ huts. They’d fallen into disrepair, but she and Marianne had loved playing in the ruins when they were children. For a moment, a snapshot of her and Raoul standing in the twilight in the rue du Palais and looking up at the black and white photographs. Was it ridiculous to hope he would ever come to Coustaussa and see the capitelles for himself?

Absurd to even think of it . . .

This room, too, smelt of her father. His cologne, the mixture of his tobacco and hair oil. Sandrine closed her eyes for a moment, summoning his face to her mind, remembering his smile and his laugh and the way he frowned when he was reading. Then, purposefully, she walked over to the windows and threw them wide, letting the light in.

In the distance, thunder rumbled in the hills.

Codex VIII

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius rubbed his temples, trying to soothe away the headache pricking behind his eyes. He felt the storm getting closer all the time, like a living, breathing thing at his heels. The clouds were marching fast across an increasingly angry sky.

Another rumble of thunder, a growling in the hills, like an animal waking from its winter hibernation.

The road ran on out of sight. If the merchant had been right about the distance between Couzanium and Aquis Calidis, Arinius realised he was at risk of being caught out in the open when the storm hit. His earlier sense of contentment and calm had gone, chased away by the threatening voice of the thunder. There was nothing to fear from the storm, or so he told himself. Even so, he picked up his pace, all the time looking around for a suitable place to take shelter.

‘Our Father,’ the words keeping pace with the accelerated beating of his heart, ‘who art in Heaven . . .’

On his left, set above a low ridge of hills, Arinius noticed a number of small, plain dwellings. Roofs of thatch and branch, low stone buildings. It was impossible to tell from down below whether it was a village, another watch point to guard the road, or a temple. Here, in the green folds of this ancient river valley, his Christian faith had no hold. The old gods of the Romans and the Volcae before them still held sway. Temples and shrines to Minerva and Pyrène, to Jupiter and Abellios.

Arinius lifted his face to the sky. The day darkened from white to purple, purple to black. Another crack of thunder, then a golden fork of lightning split the black sky. Seconds later, the first drop of water fell, then another and another, patterning the cobbled surface of the road. He pulled his hood up over his head as the rain grew harder, more insistent.

He had to find shelter. Arinius stepped off the road and began to climb, as fast as he could, up towards the woods and the tiny collection of flint shepherds’ huts and villae half hidden in the trees beyond.

Chapter 55

COUSTAUSSA

AUGUST 1942

Sandrine and Liesl helped Marieta clear the supper plates, a scratch meal of fresh vegetables and rice that Madame Rousset had brought for them, then retired to the salon. Low growls of thunder rumbled in the hills and the air had grown cooler.

‘Are you sure there won’t be a storm?’ Liesl said anxiously. ‘It sounds so close.’

‘This house has withstood Midi storms for a hundred years and will cope with a good few more. Try not to worry,’ Sandrine replied.

The evening passed quietly and at nine o’clock they turned in. Marieta was clearly exhausted, Liesl kept yawning and Sandrine herself was struggling to stay awake.

‘I can lock up, Marieta,’ she said. ‘You go to bed.’

‘I’m not having you running around after me, so there’s no cause to go asking.’

‘There’s nothing that won’t wait until the morning,’ Sandrine said firmly. ‘It’s been a long day. I don’t want you up all hours, banging about down here.’

‘I’ll be up in a moment, madomaisèla.’

She put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. ‘All right. But don’t be too long,’ she said softly. ‘Come on, Liesl, I’ll show you to your room.’

She left Liesl unpacking her clothes and walked to her father’s room. After a deal of soul-searching, Sandrine had decided she would sleep in here. It could not be a shrine. She’d understood the moment she arrived that, if her memories of so many wonderful summers in Coustaussa were not to be permanently overlaid with sadness, no corner of the house could be out of bounds.

She took a deep breath, then pushed open the door and walked in. His summer jacket was hanging on a hook. She ran her hands over the chest of drawers, the counterpane on the bed, the collection of curios and ornaments gathered from his travels. A wooden walking stick propped in the corner, an old brooch found in the rubble of the castle ruins, a statue of Joan of Arc in papier-mâché she’d made at school . . .

She undressed and got into the unfamiliar bed. For a while she lay there with her eyes open, looking at the ceiling and listening to the silence. She missed the noises of the city, the rattle of trains and delivery carts, the early morning sounds of the péniches on the Canal du Midi.

The air cooled a little, the wind dropped and Sandrine slept. Tonight, the nightmares didn’t come. Instead her dreams were possessed by armies and war, women and men from antiquity, long hair streaming, swords and insignia gleaming, in a bright landscape that was neither familiar nor yet entirely unknown. Vivid shimmering faces of people she did not know: a woman in a green dress with a red cloak, a monk with a grey woollen cloak around his thin shoulders holding an ancient script in his hands, words like black birds, and a girl with copper curls tumbling down her back. Shadows, shades of people known and yet not known. The rattling of bones in the earth, the shift and movement of the dead awakening.

As the rumbling wind passed over and brought a smattering of light rain, Sandrine half woke and thought of Raoul. The same questions, always the same. Wondering where he was, if he thought of her as she remembered him. Hoping he was safe.

As the hours of night passed, finally the lullaby of the rain sent her into a deep and restful sleep.

Codex IX

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius had never heard such noise, such anger in the skies. A crack of lightning, then the thunder growling at his back like a wild animal. Another jag of lightning. The storm was coming at him from every angle, the rain beating down on the back of his neck. He pulled his hood over his head, but the force of the wind kept ripping it back. He tried to walk faster, but his legs were unwilling and several times he slipped.

The words of the Revelation of St John the Divine came into his mind. With such a storm, who could doubt the old battle between dark and light? Seven seals broken bringing war and famine and death and victory. Four horsemen, the blast of seven trumpets and seven bowls emptied upon the earth. The seas turned to blood, fish suffocating upon the shore. The white bones of men on the battlefield. Blackened skies and the green world turned to dust. Mountains as they collapsed into the dead oceans.

In fear, Arinius began to pray. Struggling to be heard above the noise of the tempest and the crack of the wind, above the beating of his heart. Already, rivulets of water were running down the hillside, opals of rain battering down on him, and always, the thunder snarling in the hills.

Then, over the cacophony of the storm, the crack of a branch underfoot, a rustle in the undergrowth. Another breaking of a twig, close by. He caught his breath, seized by a new dread. A wild boar? These woods were rich for hunting, he’d no doubt. Or a rabbit, a snake? Pray God not a wolf.

He froze, listening for the pant, the gasp of a beast waiting to attack, but unable to hear anything over the noise of the tempest. The rain was growing heavier, harder, pounding down and sending clods of mud and wet leaves and branches skidding down the hillside, but Arinius continued on, murmuring the Lord’s words, mixed now with memories of stories, of older tales, like a spell to guard against any ungodly inhabitant of the woods.

He slipped, then slipped again, sliding back down the slope in a roll of wet wool and leather. He struggled to find purchase and get back on his feet. The Codex was safe beneath his tunic and the bottle was still on its leather tie around his shoulder, but he realised he was in danger of doing himself serious injury if he carried on. He had to find shelter and see the storm out.

Head down against the wind and the rain, Arinius wrapped his arms round an oak tree. He lost track of time, clinging to the trunk as a sailor to a mast in a storm-tossed sea. The edges between the darkness of the day and the blackness of night blurred.

Gradually, the thunder quietened, then stopped altogether. Over the noise of the rain and the wind, he could hear the howls of wolves in the distant hills. A screech owl returning from the hunt and the sounds of night jays.

Finally, the rain also began to ease and Arinius sank to the ground in precarious sleep. He dreamt of deliverance and heaven, imaginings of white figures standing before triumphant gates with sword or scroll in their hands. And in the centre, a single figure, lit by the sun and by the moon.

Silver and gold.

Chapter 56

TARASCON

AUGUST 1942

‘Monsieur? Monsieur Audric, wake up.’

Baillard heard the child and his heart leapt. For a moment, forgetting where he was, who he was. He was back in the distant past, hearing another child’s voice calling to him.

‘Bertrande?’ he said, a lift in his voice.

‘No, it’s Aurélie, monsieur.’

Baillard opened his eyes to see the youngest of the Saint-Loup girls standing at the bottom of the bed with a candle in her hand. Disappointment rushed through his old bones. Of course it wasn’t Bertrande, how could it be? She had died many years ago. So very, very many years ago.

‘What time is it, filha?’ he said softly. ‘It’s dark still.’

‘Some time after four, monsieur. My sister Eloise sent me to fetch you. She says you should come.’

Immediately, Baillard sat up. ‘What’s happened?’

‘They’ve found something,’ she said.

‘Something or someone?’ he asked quickly.

‘I don’t know, only Eloise said you should come straight away. There’s a charreton waiting.’

Quickly, Baillard straightened his clothes, pushed his feet into his shoes and took up his hat and coat.

‘Have you told Inspector Pujol?’ he asked, following Aurélie through the sleeping house.

‘I couldn’t wake him, monsieur.’

Baillard stopped, listening to the stertorous snoring coming from behind the closed door of Pujol’s bedroom.

‘No, I dare say you couldn’t.’

Five minutes later, Pujol was lumbering down the corridor with Baillard and Aurélie, nursing a hangover. A sour smell of sweat and red wine seeped through his pores, and his general lack of fitness and lungs full of tobacco meant he moved heavily. Baillard knew he would wake up as soon as the morning air hit his face.

‘How did she get in?’ he growled, rubbing his eyes.

‘You left a window open at the back, Monsieur l’Inspecteur,’ Aurélie said, then added: ‘You should be more careful.’

Baillard laughed.

Pujol unbolted the front door and they stepped outside into the street. Straight away Baillard heard the sound of dogs howling in the hills to the south of the town. Pujol glanced at him, and they both started to walk a little faster.

‘Did you say someone was waiting for us, Aurélie?’

‘By the bridge,’ she said. ‘My uncle.’

It was as dark as pitch. The blackout was not rigorously enforced in the countryside, but it was late and few people were awake. Baillard’s heart was thudding as they made their way through the sleeping streets. Ahead, in the distance, he saw the outline of a donkey and cart.

Although many of the vehicles requisitioned by the army in 1939 had been returned, there was little fuel, and in the Haute Vallée people relied on the old ways of getting from village to village. Ox and cart, pony and trap. As they drew closer, Baillard saw their driver was a young man, broad and tall, his face weathered by the wind and the sun. The two Ariégeois greeted one another, then Pujol made the introductions.

‘Audric, this is Guillaume Breillac. He’s married to Eloise Saint-Loup.’

‘I have heard of you, Sénher Baillard,’ Guillaume said, tipping his hat.

‘His father and I served together in the last war,’ Pujol said. ‘Me, him and Déjean. Signed up together, September 1914.’ He turned back to Breillac. ‘How is the old rogue, still going strong?’

‘The same as ever, Monsieur l’Inspecteur. He and my brother are waiting for you above the Larnat road.’

‘What’s Pierre doing up there at this time of night,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hunting, no doubt?’

Guillaume shrugged. ‘It’s hard for him.’

Pujol turned to Baillard. ‘Took a hit from a shell, May 1940. Came out of it all right, but doesn’t like to be around people much any more.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’

‘Whereas Guillaume’s something of a local hero,’ Pujol continued. ‘He was involved in the discovery, what, ten years ago now, of a mass grave in the caves not far from here. You must have heard about it. Hundreds of bodies, been there seven hundred years or so. A bad business.’ Pujol shook his head. ‘But no more ghosts in the hills now, è, Guillaume? Old Breillac’s a great one for holding that the mountains are haunted.’

Pujol slapped Guillaume on the shoulder once more, before walking round to the back of the cart. Throughout the exchange Baillard had watched Guillaume’s honest, intelligent face closely, and saw a different emotion mirrored there. Tolerance for Pujol’s teasing, but no modern disdain for old wives’ tales. Something sharper.

‘I heard something of it,’ he said, looking at Guillaume.

For a moment Guillaume did not react. Then he nodded, the briefest acknowledgement of a shared knowledge. Baillard smiled. They understood one another.

Pujol made heavy weather of clambering up the single frame step, causing the cart to tilt perilously to one side. The shovels and digging equipment slid across the floor of the trap. He lowered his hefty frame down on the narrow wooden cross bench, then shuffled along to make room, breathing heavily. Baillard climbed easily into the cart and sat down next to him, a slight, neat figure, his pale suit with a yellow handkerchief in the breast pocket just visible beneath his trench coat. Guillaume tapped the donkey’s flank with his stick, clicked, and gave a tug on the reins. The animal dropped its head, lifted its foot and began to pull. The harness strained, leather and bridle clinking against the wood.

In the distance, the first vestiges of light appeared in the sky, flecks of white, silver, the air fragrant with the scents of pine and oak. It was a timeless scene, the spark of the animal’s hooves on the path, puffs of breath, the early song of birds in the forest around them.

Guillaume came to a halt. Baillard looked up at the path, memories of other such journeys vivid in his mind. To the peak of Montségur, to the Mont d’Alaric above the plains east of Carcassonne, to the highest reach of the Pic de Saint-Barthélémy.

‘We have to walk from here.’

‘How far is it?’ said Pujol.

‘About ten minutes to the plateau. My father and brother are waiting there.’

Guillaume tied the donkey to a tree. Baillard looked at Pujol’s face, moist around the temples, and smiled sympathetically.

Pujol grunted. ‘I can’t imagine why I let you talk me into this, Audric,’ he grunted. ‘Two old men clambering about the rocks like a pair of schoolboys.’

‘Courage, my friend,’ Baillard said. ‘Coratge.’

Pujol was panting heavily by the time they reached the ridge. Baillard saw the pinpricks of light from the hunting lamps, pale against the dawn sky, and three men standing looking down into the gully below.

‘Breillac,’ said Pujol, offering his hand.

The old man turned round. His face was riven with white crease lines in his brown skin, but his eyes were clear, sharp. A cigarette was wedged into the corner of his mouth. He nodded, then turned to Baillard.

‘Peyre, this is Monsieur Baillard,’ Guillaume said, in the dialect of the mountains. ‘And my brother, Pierre.’

Baillard nodded a greeting. ‘Bonjorn.’

The old man’s eyes fixed on Baillard, as if he knew of his reputation, but he said nothing. The young man nodded.

‘What’s happened, Breillac?’ asked Pujol.

‘About an hour ago, Pierre heard a noise.’

‘What was he doing up here?’ Pujol demanded.

Since two rabbits hung from his belt and the blade of his knife glistened in the early morning light, the question was unnecessary.

Baillard put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘You are retired now, amic.’

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Breillac said, his voice thick with red wine and tobacco.

Baillard nodded. ‘We understand.’

‘Pierre was setting traps. Might have used something to flush the rabbits out.’

‘Something?’ Pujol demanded.

‘To help things on their way.’

Pujol was about to turn on Pierre, but one look at Baillard’s expression warned him not to.

‘So Pierre didn’t notice anything different at first,’ Breillac continued in his steady way. ‘Then he saw something.’ He pointed down into the gully. ‘Down there. Looks like a body. Pierre fetched me, I sent Guillaume to find you.’

‘You did the right thing, Sénher Breillac,’ said Baillard quickly.

Pujol nodded. ‘Shall we see?’

Breillac gestured to his sons. Pierre had a coil of rope hooked over his shoulder and Guillaume produced a leashed axe from a hessian sack on his back. Without a word, they went to the edge of the gully.

The three old men watched in silence as the boys climbed down. Breillac sucking on the end of a thin rolled cigarette.

‘Aquí,’ Guillaume called out from below.

‘What is it?’ Pujol called.

‘A man.’

‘Alive?’ Baillard said quickly.

‘No, sénher.’

Moments later Guillaume appeared back at the top of the ridge. Wrapping the end of the rope around his waist, he steadied himself against the side of a rock and, with the help of his father and Pujol, slowly began to haul the body up the side of the cliff. Baillard watched, feeling as if a fist was tightening around his throat.

‘God save us . . .’ Pujol said, crossing himself.

Baillard stared in pity at the battered body. He helped lower it from Guillaume’s shoulders and lay it on the ground. Struggling to keep his anger in check, he put his hand on Antoine Déjean’s forehead.

‘Look, Audric,’ Pujol muttered, pointing at the rope burns on Antoine’s wrists, then the bruises on his stomach and face. ‘These aren’t the result of a fall.’

‘No.’

Baillard began to speak, an old mountain prayer for the passing of a soul.

‘Peyre Sant, Dieu . . .’

Old Breillac bowed his head. His sons stood beside him, looking down at the broken body of the young man.

‘Amen.’

Baillard leant forward and laid his yellow handkerchief over Antoine’s face, then turned to Pujol.

‘Why here, Achille?’

‘It’s obvious when Pierre set a charge in one of the burrows, he misjudged it.’ He pointed to a crumbled section of path further along. ‘Caused a landslide, look. The trees have come down.’

‘No, not why did it happen. I mean why bury the body this far up in the hills in the first instance. There are plenty of other places that would have served as well. Antoine might not have been found for months.’

‘It’s very remote,’ Pujol suggested.

Baillard was frowning. ‘Is there anything special about this place, Achille? Something significant?’

Pujol started to shake his head, then stopped. ‘It’s not that far from where de l’Oradore set up camp. Could that be relevant?’

‘It could be . . .’ Baillard murmured.

‘What will I tell Célestine and Pierre?’ Pujol said quietly.

‘The truth, amic, which is that their son is dead and we do not know why.’ He sighed. ‘But it might be as well to put it about that it was a climbing accident. If his killers believe the matter closed, it will be easier for us.’

‘Easier for us to do what?’

‘To find out what happened without interference.’

The Breillacs were talking quietly to one another. Their storm lamps, the light extinguished now the day had started, were on the ground beside the rope.

‘They’ll hold their tongues.’

Baillard nodded. ‘Breillac strikes me as a man who keeps his own counsel. Pierre too. And Guillaume, he understands more than most, I would say.’

Pujol looked at him for a moment. ‘Never have half an idea what you’re talking about, but I suppose you know what you mean.’ He waved at Breillac. ‘We’re going to take him down.’

Guillaume and Pierre carried Antoine down the path to where the donkey and trap were still standing. Baillard took off his coat and laid it across the body. Then they walked slowly behind the charreton into Tarascon in the pale light of early morning.

Codex X

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius woke, stiff and cold, at first light. Dawn was just starting to give shape back to the land. The black outline of trees on the horizon, the purple silhouette of the hills, the pinpricks of colour of wild flowers in the garrigue, a world made clean and beautiful and bright. He had climbed further than he’d realised and was in fact much closer to the top of the hill than the valley below. The overwhelming force of the storm and the rain had refashioned the landscape, the torrent carving channels in the hillside, exposing mud and the shallow roots of trees. Drifts of sodden leaves and detritus covered the ground, and the undergrowth was sodden and tangled, twisted into strange shapes by the wind.

Arinius started to climb up towards the settlement. When he cleared the brow of the hill, he saw straight away that the curved buildings he’d glimpsed from the road were not houses at all, but rather a strange collection of stone huts. Each had a domed roof and a low opening, though no windows.

He ducked his head and went inside the first of them. The roof had collapsed. He tried the second, which was flooded. But the third was spacious and dry, with plenty of room. He removed his belongings from his bag – the cedarwood box and the writing materials – and laid everything out on the ground. Nothing was spoiled but he didn’t wish to run the risk of rot. He draped his cloak and his tunic over the dome of the hut. The air was cool, but it was dry and it would be hot again later.

Then Arinius sat down and looked out across the blue and green valley and waited for the sun to rise.

Chapter 57

TARASCON

AUGUST 1942

Audric Baillard and Achille Pujol walked across the Place de la Daurade and stopped in front of the small terraced house where the Déjeans lived. Pujol lifted his hand and knocked.

‘Célestine,’ he said, removing his hat. ‘May we come in?’

‘You have news?’ she said quickly.

‘If we could come in,’ Pujol said.

The light faded from Célestine’s face. She nodded, and stood back to let them enter.

‘This is an old friend,’ he said, ‘Audric Baillard.’

Baillard saw Célestine take in his pale suit, the yellow handkerchief he wore always in his left breast pocket. With a jolt, he realised she had been expecting him.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said.

Baillard took off his hat. ‘Madame Déjean.’

‘Is Pierre here?’ Pujol continued.

Célestine tore her gaze away from Baillard. ‘You have news,’ she said, more a statement than a question.

‘Célestine, please. If you could fetch Pierre,’ Pujol said.

Célestine led them down the narrow corridor. She gestured for them to enter the parlour, then went in search of her husband.

Baillard looked around the small room. Every surface was covered in framed photographs: a chubby boy in short trousers, holding two metal soldiers out towards the camera; Antoine in his Sunday best with his parents on La Fête-Dieu, the most important saint’s day celebrated in Tarascon; Antoine posing with a rope slung over one shoulder and climbing boots, making a thumbs-up sign; smiling and waving his fascicule de mobilisation papers in 1939. Baillard glanced at Pujol and saw that he was thinking the same thing. The room felt like a shrine already.

‘Look at this one, Audric,’ Pujol said, passing him a photograph in a black ash frame. He pointed to a soldier in uniform standing at the back of a group of eight young men. ‘That’s me.’ He was twenty-eight years younger, slimmer, with thick brown hair just visible beneath the rim of his regulation cap, but it was unmistakably Pujol. ‘And that’s Pierre Déjean at the front. A photographer went round all the villages that day.’

‘I remember it.’

‘We were so young,’ Pujol said, continuing to stare at the black and white image. ‘Went off so pleased with ourselves, cocks of the walk. Women throwing flowers, cheering us like we were heroes. Heads stuffed full of patriotic nonsense. So much mud. And the woods, trees all shot to pieces, bark, trunks shattered. Never saw anything like it.’

‘No,’ Baillard said quietly.

His friend sighed, then gently put the frame back in its place. ‘Me and Pierre Déjean, we were the only two who made it back. Thought we’d be home in time for Christmas. Remember?’

‘I do.’

‘Different this time.’

‘Yes.’

Pierre burst into the room. ‘You have news about Antoine?’

Baillard watched Pujol revert to his former role. Gone was the nostalgia of seconds before and in its place, a steady and reassuring authority.

‘You’ve found him,’ Célestine said in a dull voice.

Pujol nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

Pierre slumped in a chair, his hands hanging between his knees. ‘Where?’

‘In the mountains. Not far from Larnat.’

‘He fell?’

‘It’s too soon to say,’ Pujol said.

Baillard drew his breath. ‘You have my condolences, Sénher Déjean, Na Déjean. I knew your son. He was a courageous man.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Guillaume Breillac has taken his body to the church.’

Pierre nodded, but without looking up. Célestine, despite her grief, raised her eyes to Baillard’s and looked at him. Baillard was certain she had something she wished to say. Equally sure that she would not speak in front of her husband or Pujol.

Baillard stood up and gave a small bow. ‘We will intrude on your grief no longer.’

Pujol glanced at him in surprise, but also got up. As the quartet moved towards the door, he managed to draw Pujol aside.

‘I need to talk to Célestine alone.’

Pujol gave him an inquisitive look, but nodded and immediately strode forward and put his arm around Pierre’s shoulder.

‘I was looking at the photograph of us all,’ he said, somehow turning Déjean around and keeping him in the room. Baillard could see Pierre was reluctant to be taken aside, but his natural courtesy kept him there, long enough for Baillard to leave the room with Célestine.

Sure enough, rather than turning left towards the front door, she turned right and beckoned him to follow. She led him to the kitchen, then closed the door behind them.

Baillard felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. ‘Do you have something for me?’

Célestine nodded. ‘He told me you might come. A man in a pale suit, yellow handkerchief. That I wasn’t to give it to anyone else, tell no one else. Not even his father.’

‘Go on.’

‘Pierre is a good man,’ she said, ‘but he doesn’t see what’s under his nose. He doesn’t think I know what Antoine was doing.’

She gave a broken smile. Baillard’s heart went out to her, understanding that she had already accepted the worst, since the day her son failed to arrive for her birthday three weeks ago.

‘As if I wouldn’t be proud of him.’

‘He had a great sense of honour,’ Baillard said simply.

‘He told me he was working for you, Monsieur Baillard. Oh, not your name of course, but how to recognise you. And that if anything happened to him . . .’ She stopped, a catch in her voice, then steadied herself. ‘That if anything happened to him, I should give you this.’

Célestine went to the sink, drew back the green and white piece of fabric that concealed the shelf beneath and pulled out an open wooden box filled with cleaning materials. Brushes, a tin of polish, a bottle of vinegar and another containing liquid ammonia.

‘Pierre would never think to look here,’ she said. ‘It seemed the safest place.’

She put her hand into the box and lifted out a white envelope. She handed it to Baillard, then returned the cleaning box to its home under the sink.

Baillard carefully opened the envelope, hardly daring to hope it could be the map itself. Straight away, disappointment rushed through him. It was simply a brief scribbled note, clearly written in a hurry.

‘When did Antoine give this to you?’

‘A month ago.’ She dropped her head. ‘He said he now knew where to look.’

‘Did he say why he didn’t come to me in person?’

‘He thought he was being watched. He didn’t want to lead them to you.’

Guilt pinched at Baillard’s heart. ‘Thank you, Célestine,’ he said.

She hesitated. ‘Antoine was killed, wasn’t he? Not a climbing accident.’

Baillard looked at her proud face. Her expression unwavering, already resigned to loss, but with an infinitesimal flickering of steel in her eyes.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said, reproach in her voice.

‘Yes.’

She put her hand to her heart, struggling, he could see, to contain her grief.

‘Did he suffer?’ she asked, needing to know. Not wanting to know.

More than anything, Baillard wanted to spare her the dreadful knowledge of her son’s final moments. But he understood, more than most, that it was better to know the truth, however painful or hard, than to live with uncertainty. Always wondering what might or might not have happened. Doubt ate away at the soul, left holes in the heart.

‘Your son was a man of courage,’ he said again. ‘He did not betray his friends.’

Célestine met his steady gaze. ‘Thank you.’

Overwhelmed with pity, Baillard put his hand on her shoulder.

‘Desconsolat,’ he said. ‘I am so very sorry.’

Célestine nodded, then stepped away and raised her chin. ‘Don’t let it be that he died for nothing, Monsieur Baillard. Do you hear? Make his death count. It is the only way to bear the loss.’

Chapter 58

‘What did Célestine want?’

The sky was black and they hurried across the square, collars up against the wind. Baillard looked up at the glowering clouds skimming the mountains opposite.

‘Antoine left a note for me in her safe keeping.’

‘Why the hell didn’t she tell me that two weeks ago?’ Pujol said.

‘She gave her word she would tell no one, not even her husband, unless something happened to him.’

‘What’s it say?’

‘That he thought he was being followed.’ He paused. ‘Rahn’s writings were often obscure, deliberately ambiguous, so when he wrote about a skeleton key, it was assumed it was symbolic, allegorical even. Déjean, it seems, gave out that it was real, to throw his enemies off the trail.’

Pujol’s face darkened. ‘Are you telling me he was murdered for something that doesn’t even exist?’

For a moment, both men were silent. At their back, purple storm clouds moved fast across the blackening sky.

‘You have had Antoine taken to which church?’ Baillard said.

‘La Daurade,’ Pujol replied. ‘Madame Saint-Loup will lay him out, make him . . . make it possible for Célestine and Pierre to see him.’ He paused. ‘And it will keep him away from the police station – it’s hard to know who to trust, è?’

They walked a few steps further, then Pujol stopped again.

‘What I don’t understand is why Antoine approached you in the first place, Audric.’

‘I approached him. There are events in the past – the far distant past – that mean I have for many years kept a close watch on these mountains. Lombrives, the Pic de Vicdessos, further west to Montségur and the Pic de Soularac. I observed what Rahn and Antoine were doing. When Rahn left, Déjean went to university, little happened. However, when he was demobbed, he made repeated trips to the mountains.’

‘You think Rahn sent him something before he died?’

‘Yes, or information that made Antoine reconsider something he had overlooked before,’ Baillard answered. ‘When I was sure of where Antoine’s sympathies lay – given his friendship with Rahn, I had to be certain he had not been coaxed into the same attitude of mind – I approached him. Déjean was clever, he could read both Latin and Greek. He told me about the map and that he thought he knew where to find it.’

‘But he didn’t tell you where it was?’

Baillard smiled. ‘He liked to keep his secrets close. I asked him several times, but he always said he would bring it to me as soon as he had it.’ His face clouded over. ‘I encouraged him, Achille, and I greatly regret it.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, Audric. He knew what he was letting himself in for.’

‘I feel responsible.’

‘The men who murdered him are responsible,’ Pujol said firmly. ‘Do you know who they are?’

‘No,’ said Baillard. ‘But I will find out.’

They walked the last few metres to the house quickly and in silence. Pujol took his latch key from his pocket.

‘Find out who killed him. I mean it, Baillard,’ he said, his voice cracking with anger. ‘Find out who did such things to him. He died badly.’

The wind had fallen, but now the sky began to growl and shudder. Warning shots of thunder, several minutes apart, ricocheted between the mountains and the hollows of the valleys. Baillard looked up at the Pic de Vicdessos, now shrouded in angry purple clouds.

‘Not so hard to believe in Sénher Breillac’s ghosts now,’ he said quietly.

Chapter 59

CARCASSONNE

‘Ghosts?’

Leo Authié tapped the razor on the side of the basin, then put it on the glass shelf. He patted his face with the towel, then ran his hand over his skin before pulling out the plug. He disliked interrogations, the stench of fear and stupidity. He felt filthy the moment he walked into the prison. The water drained, leaving a skim of grey foam and dark bristles around the rim of the porcelain.

‘Yes, sir,’ came Laval’s voice from the other room.

Authié straightened his tie and collar, then walked out of the tiny closet into his office.

‘You’re saying operations have been suspended because of ghosts?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Authié had only been back in Carcassonne for twenty-four hours but already the heat was getting to him. The temperature had been pleasant in Chartres, and the time he’d spent there, as the guest of François-Cecil de l’Oradore, had been both informative and productive. For those prepared to work within the new realities, daily life under occupation was comfortable. Between de l’Oradore and his German friends, there was a natural alliance. They were men of similar views and attitudes.

During the course of his sojourn in Chartres, Authié had learnt more about de l’Oradore’s interest in the Languedoc. His focus – obsession – was a trilogy of medieval books said to have been smuggled from the citadel of Montségur in the thirteenth century by the Cathars. De l’Oradore already possessed one of the books and was prepared to spend a great deal of money acquiring the others. His interest in anything else was secondary.

It had become clear that de l’Oradore’s purpose in summoning Authié to Chartres was to consolidate his position within the emerging new structures of enforcing law and order. Having set up Authié as his eyes and ears in the Languedoc, he did not wish to lose him. At his instigation, Authié had travelled to the Préfecture de Police in Paris to meet members of the Brigades Spéciales who were involved in breaking Resistance networks and organisations and had been given an insight into how the war against the terrorists – the partisans – was being conducted.

Authié’s sense, in both Chartres and Paris, was of order restored. It was at first disquieting to see road signs in German and the swastika flying in place of the Tricolore above official buildings. To see the grey and green uniforms of the Gestapo and the Wehrmacht paraded so openly. But there was no doubt the rafles in July and the mass deportation of Jewish families had resulted in quiet, calm streets. Life felt disciplined, everything and everyone in their rightful place. Most important, the churches were full and the synagogues empty. Paris had adapted. Parisians had adapted. Not all, but many.

He had returned to Carcassonne with a sense of what the future might hold. Almost immediately, the bad news started. Although Fournier had done what Authié asked of him, a fire at the police depot had resulted in the wanted posters for Pelletier all being destroyed. They had now been reprinted and distributed, but three valuable weeks had been lost. The result was that there had been no reports of sightings of Pelletier since July.

Authié rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, noticing there was a speck of blood on his cuff.

‘You’re telling me Bauer has suspended the dig outside Tarascon because his men refuse to continue working?’

‘Temporarily, yes, mon capitaine,’ Laval said. ‘They say the mountains are haunted. Bauer is waiting for new engineers to arrive from Munich.’

Authié took his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged his arms into the sleeves.

‘It’s ridiculous.’

He glanced down at the report Fournier had given him once more, then put it in his pocket.

‘I shall be an hour, no more,’ he said.

‘Do you want me to come with you, sir?’

‘No,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘A light touch is what’s needed.’

Authié left the office and walked along the boulevard Maréchal Pétain. On the opposite corner, the Palais de Justice stood impassive and grand in the afternoon sun. Quiet today. He paused a moment, realising he was pleased to be back, then continued along the boulevard in the shade of the platanes, turned left on to the boulevard Omer Sarraut and carried on until he arrived at the Ménard garage.

A pair of legs were sticking out from beneath the chassis of a car up on bricks. Authié walked straight to the door leading to the domestic accommodation beyond the workshop, and rapped on the glass.

Lucie heard the knock and hesitated before answering. She peered through the gap between the glass and the frame. A well-dressed man of average height, in an expensive grey suit and hat, well-cut clothes. She was sure she’d not met him before. She would have remembered.

‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’

‘Yes?’

‘May I have a few minutes of your time?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Police,’ he said.

A shiver went down her spine. ‘I need to see some identification. You could be anyone,’ she said.

He held his card up to the door, then withdrew it before Lucie could read it.

‘If I might now come in, mademoiselle,’ he said.

He did not raise his voice and his smile did not slip, but at the same time Lucie didn’t feel able to refuse. She knew she looked dreadful. Her eyes were red and her hair was a mess. She had not bothered with powder or lipstick, and she was wearing an old red cardigan over the same summer dress she’d been wearing to see Sandrine, Liesl and Marieta off.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching her hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

He took off his hat. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Lucie glanced towards the kitchen, where her mother and a neighbour were discussing the release of their husbands from German POW camps. The train was due any day now. Whatever the man wanted, she didn’t want her mother to know about it. She pulled the door to.

‘We can talk in the workshop,’ she said.

She led him through the house to the garage at the back, slid closed the heavy door separating the house from the atelier, then turned round, arms crossed, feeling as if she was holding herself together. Her heart was hammering and her throat was suddenly dry. Had he come to arrest her too? Surely not like this? Not just one man?

‘Shall we sit down?’ he said, gesturing to the long wooden bench that ran along one side of the garage wall.

‘I’d rather stand, monsieur . . .’

‘Authié,’ he said. ‘Captain Authié.’

‘I’m sorry. Please make yourself at home.’

‘Thank you.’

Lucie relaxed a little. If he had come to arrest her, he wouldn’t be so polite, surely? He wouldn’t have come alone?

‘I have one or two questions I need to ask, if you don’t mind.’

I do mind, Lucie wanted to scream, I mind very much. But she kept her expression neutral, her eyes blank.

‘On Monday the thirteenth of July,’ he began, ‘you were driving past Païchérou at about ten o’clock in the morning. Is that correct?’

The words ‘before Max . . .’ came into her mind, though she didn’t speak. Everything, now, was divided into the time before Max had been arrested and the endless time since then.

‘In a blue Peugeot 202,’ he added, his eyes glancing to the far side of the workshop where the car was sitting in plain view.

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what you were doing, Mademoiselle Ménard, or who you were with. I merely want to know the name of the girl you picked up.’

‘It was three weeks ago,’ she said.

For a moment, Lucie saw a glint of irritation in his eyes, but he quickly smothered it and continued in the same pleasant tone. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. She took out a cigarette and tried to open the matches, but her hands were shaking and they spilled all over the floor. She bent down, started to try to pick them up.

Authié stepped forward with a lighter. ‘Here,’ he said, then collected the scattered matches and put them on the workbench beside her.

Lucie tried to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m not sleeping very well, I . . .’ She drew on the cigarette.

‘To be clear, you were driving past Païchérou on that Monday morning and you picked up a passenger, am I right?’

‘I don’t . . . I may have done.’

‘Come now,’ he said, sounding amused.

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, feeling the ladder of her ribs beneath the thin cotton. ‘Yes, all right, I did.’

‘And what was her name?’

She tried to shrug. ‘I didn’t ask.’

Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘You helped a girl, took her home, without ever asking her name?’

‘It wasn’t my business.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me where you took her, at least?’

‘I . . . I can’t rightly remember. As I say, it was more than a fortnight ago. Nearly three weeks.’

Lucie felt herself growing red under his scrutiny. She took another drag of the cigarette, but it didn’t help. If anything, it was making her feel more sick. She hadn’t eaten today. Had very little appetite at all these days. She stubbed it out on the edge of the bench, then put the stub in her pocket.

‘You weren’t alone that day, though, were you?’ he said quietly.

Lucie felt the floor go out from under her. ‘I – I can’t remember, really I can’t.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know where he is, Mademoiselle Ménard?’ he said softly. ‘Your friend.’

Lucie stared at him. Could this man tell her what had happened to Max? Even Suzanne had failed to find out anything. This Authié might help her. She had no status, she wasn’t a relative or his wife, they didn’t have to tell her anything.

‘Do you know where he is?’ she said in a rush, all caution forgotten. ‘I’m going out of my mind with worry and no one will tell me anything.’

Authié stared at her, then carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘We have reason to believe the young lady you helped was the victim of an assault. I understand your discretion, of course I do. I applaud it. But there have been one or two attacks on women recently. Unpleasant. If she saw something, it might help us catch this man.’

Lucie’s hand stole to her stomach. What if she never found out where Max had been taken? Whether he was even still alive? In any case, what harm could it do to give him Sandrine’s name? She’d gone to the police station herself. Lucie would only be passing on information they already had.

‘She reported the attack to the police the day it happened,’ she said. ‘You must already have her details on file.’

For an instant, she thought she saw surprise flicker in the man’s eyes, though it was masked immediately.

‘It takes time for information to work its way through the system,’ Authié said casually, ‘as you can imagine. That’s why I’m here now. To speed things along.’

‘I see.’

‘As regards Monsieur Blum,’ Authié said, ‘I can make no promises, but it’s possible I could expedite matters.’ He leant back against the wooden strut of the workbench. ‘A name for a name, as it were. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you say?’

‘It’s been nearly three weeks,’ Lucie said, a catch in her voice. ‘No one will tell me anything.’

Authié spread his hands wide. ‘So, now. Are you sure you don’t remember her name?’

Lucie’s head told her not to say anything. Let Captain Authié find things out on his own. But her heart sang a different tune. Since the day of the demonstration, she’d barely slept. The instant her head touched the pillow at night, her mind was filled with images of Max handcuffed and beaten, imprisoned on a train, being sent she didn’t know where.

The worst thing of all was that she felt guilty. Guilty that she had been with Marianne and Sandrine the evening he had been arrested, had drunk too much and fallen asleep on the sofa. If she had known what had happened earlier, perhaps she would have been able to do something. Get him released. Done something, anything.

‘Mademoiselle Ménard?’

Captain Authié was offering her a chance to find out where Max had been taken. Then, at least, she could write to him. Start to try to get him home, sort out the misunderstanding.

‘Her name’s Vidal,’ she said. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’

Chapter 60

For a moment, the words seem to hang in the air between them.

‘A name for a name, you said,’ Lucie said desperately.

‘I am a man of my word, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

Lucie flushed. ‘Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’ She faltered. ‘Please.’

‘Blum was in a consignment of prisoners sent to Le Vernet on the fifteenth of July.’

Lucie felt the air go out of her. She dropped her hand to the bench to steady herself. Of all the camps, she’d heard Le Vernet was the most notorious.

‘His papers are in order,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘Why was he arrested?’

‘The details are not clear.’

‘But what am I going to do?’ she cried. ‘Really, I can’t bear it.’

Authié looked at her. ‘If Monsieur Blum has done nothing and his papers are in order, then he has nothing to fear. You, Mademoiselle Ménard, have nothing to fear.’

‘If that was true, I—’

‘It’s even possible I could arrange for you to see him.’

Colour flooded Lucie’s pale face. ‘Oh . . .’

‘In return for a little help, Mademoiselle Ménard.’

‘But I told you Sandrine’s name.’

‘I would like to speak to Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he continued smoothly. ‘We have her address on file, of course, as you said. But if you know it, that would be a great help. Speed everything up.’

‘Rue du Palais,’ she said. ‘She lives with her sister and housekeeper. The house with coloured tiles.’

Again the words – Judas words – seemed to hover in the air.

‘You see?’ he said pleasantly. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘What about Max?’ she said quickly. ‘Can you arrange for me to see him?’

Authié put on his hat. ‘I shall look into the situation. I’ll be in touch if there is any news.’

‘When will that be?’ she said, desperate not to let him go until she had an answer.

He pulled open the sliding doors. ‘Thank you for your help, mademoiselle. I’ll see myself out.’

Lucie listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor, then the sound of the front door opening and closing. She slumped down against the bench. She felt hollow and weak, but for the first time in three weeks, there was hope.

She took the stub of the cigarette from her pocket and managed to strike and hold the match. This time, it calmed her beating heart. She kept telling herself she’d done nothing wrong.

He had Sandrine’s name already. He only had to check the files.

Lucie thought for a moment more, then went into the house to the telephone. She should at least tell Marianne what had happened. She’d not seen much of her or Suzanne since Sandrine left. She’d not visited the rue du Palais.

She dialled the number. The line was busy. Lucie shut her eyes and tried to picture Max’s face. Captain Authié hadn’t come flanked by officers or threatened her. And he could help Max. He had promised. Almost promised, at least.

‘A name for a name,’ she murmured, dialling again.

This time, the number rang, but nobody answered. If she couldn’t get through, she’d have to go to the rue du Palais in person. She didn’t want to. Marianne would be impatient and high-minded. She always was. She wouldn’t understand how finding Max had to take priority over everything else. And it was so hot and she felt so unwell.

Lucie’s hand went to her stomach again. She had to think of the future.

Chapter 61

Authié went directly from the boulevard Omer Sarraut to the Commissariat to check the police files. There was nothing on Sandrine Vidal, but it appeared there was a substantial surveillance file on her sister, Marianne.

A teacher at the Lycée des Filles on Square Gambetta, her name was on a list of teachers who had refused to implement the new academic curriculum. She had continued to teach Jews alongside French students, declined to carry out monitoring. Undesirable authors such as Brecht, Zweig and Heine remained on the shelves in her classroom. The father and mother were both dead. The only other resident of the house was a housekeeper, who had been with the family for years.

Authié re-emerged into the sunlight and looked at his wristwatch. He had plenty of time before Bauer was due to call, enough time to visit the house himself. Five minutes later he was standing in the rue du Palais looking up at the impressive façade. Vidal had clearly left his daughters well provided for. Plenty of space, he thought. The sort of house that might well be used by partisans for any number of purposes.

Authié walked up the steps and knocked. He heard muffled voices, then footsteps. The door was opened by a tall woman with short cropped hair and slacks.

‘Mademoiselle Vidal?’

The woman folded her arms. ‘No.’

‘Is Mademoiselle Vidal at home?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Authié reached into his pocket and produced his identification. The woman read it, hesitated, then stood back to let him in.

‘Who is it?’ came a voice from inside.

‘Police,’ the tall woman said, closing the front door.

Authié walked into the salon before she could stop him. A slender, brown-haired woman sitting on a sofa beneath the window immediately got to her feet.

‘Marianne Vidal?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your friend?’

‘A guest,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you, monsieur?’

‘Authié. Captain, in fact,’ he said. ‘And your guest’s name?’

‘Is this relevant, Captain Authié?’

Authié’s interest quickened. Her expression was wary. Most ordinary citizens were nervous in the presence of the police, but there was a watchfulness in this woman’s eyes that suggested something more guarded.

‘Don’t be obstructive, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give that impression.’

Authié turned to the other woman, who answered.

‘Suzanne Peyre.’

‘What can I do for you, Captain Authié?’ asked Marianne.

‘It’s your sister, Sandrine, I want to talk to. Is she here?’

Again the same flash of alarm, though her voice gave no indication of it.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Do you have any idea how long she might be?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’ She smiled pleasantly.

Authié’s gaze hardened. ‘Where is she, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

Marianne kept her expression in place. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. She went out first thing this morning. I didn’t see her leave.’

‘Perhaps your housekeeper might know,’ he said. ‘Fetch her, please.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Suzanne, immediately leaving the room.

Marianne paused. ‘May I ask why you want to talk to my sister?’

‘I believe it was someone called Lucie Ménard and her friend – a Jew – who came to the help of your sister after her unfortunate accident.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were aware your sister was the victim of a crime committed three weeks ago. Monday the thirteenth of July?’

‘Not a crime, Captain Authié,’ she said calmly. ‘She had an accident. Came off her bike, that’s all.’

‘Mademoiselle Ménard told me she was attacked.’

‘Mademoiselle Ménard is mistaken.’

‘The report at the police station says your sister claimed to have been attacked.’

The reaction was tiny, immediately masked, but it was there all the same.

‘It’s true my sister went to the Commissariat straight away, Captain Authié, but frankly I was cross with her for wasting police time. I believed – and still do – that her injury was the result of an accident.’

Despite himself, Authié was impressed with her self-control. ‘You thought she was making it up?’

‘I think she was muddled after the accident.’

‘So you were not aware there have been several attacks on women in Carcassonne, Mademoiselle Vidal?’

Marianne held his gaze. ‘I was also under the impression that since the victims have all been Jewish, the police were not taking the matter seriously.’

Authié raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you criticising the police, mademoiselle?’

‘An observation, Captain Authié.’

‘You confuse Carcassonne with Paris, Mademoiselle Vidal.’

‘I hope that’s the case, Captain Authié.’

He paused. ‘Your sister did not say anything about her assailant?’

‘She said all sorts of things, which, as I mentioned, I’m afraid I didn’t take seriously. I no longer recall the ins and outs of the conversation. It’s nearly three weeks ago.’

‘She did not mention the name Raoul Pelletier, for example?’

And there it was for the third time, Authié thought, a spark of knowledge.

‘Marieta seems to have slipped out,’ Suzanne Peyre said, appearing in the doorway.

Authié looked from one woman to the other. ‘I appear to be out of luck,’ he said wryly. ‘I shall have to come back later and hope your sister will be back. Or perhaps return to speak to Mademoiselle Ménard. She was inclined to be helpful. She might remember something else.’

He lifted his hat, then strode back into the hallway and out of the house without giving them the chance to respond. Authié crossed the street and turned to look back at the building. Had the girl been sent away, perhaps? It seemed strange that both she and the housekeeper were not at home. He wondered what Suzanne Peyre had been doing to have been away from the room for so long. He was impatient to return to the office to see if there was a file on her too.

He felt a prickling on the back of his neck, certain he was being watched. In the house next door to the Vidals, a curtain dropped back into place, but it was long enough for him to recognise the woman inside. He knew one of his informers lived in the quartier du Palais, but hadn’t realised it was this house. He walked up the steps.

‘Madame Fournier,’ he said, when she answered the door. ‘I wonder if I might prevail upon you?’

Chapter 62

TARASCON

Erik Bauer dabbed at his neck with his handkerchief, the flattering August sun too much for his northern blood. He took off his hat, fanned his face, shifting the still air, then put it back on his head.

Bauer was proud to be a member of the Ahnenerbe. As a boy, he had read Wolfram von Eschenbach’s grail writings and the great Germanic legends, celebrated the music of the Minnesingers. Like the Führer himself, Bauer had stood before the Spear of Longinius in its glass case in the Hofburg Museum in Vienna. When the Habsburg Treasures were moved from Austria to Nuremberg after the Anschluss, Bauer had applied to the Ancestral Heritage Research and Teaching Society, under the leadership of Reichsführer Himmler, and finally been accepted. He was one of thousands of scientists and historians all over the world – Egypt, South America, France – seeking artefacts to prove the historic existence of a superior, an Aryan, race and to substantiate its claims. The grail books of the Cathars, the lost treasure taken from the Temple of Solomon after the Sack of Jerusalem, other objects of antiquity said to be hidden within the mountains of the Languedoc. He despised Rahn and had been one of those who’d denounced him for his degeneracy, but he had found the man’s writings compelling all the same. Bauer hoped that if he could find the key, even the Codex itself, then he would come to the attention of those higher in the party.

He was convinced that this particular network of caves between Niaux and Tarascon was not going to yield results. They had been thoroughly excavated before the war with no significant success. Even so, he wished to guard against anyone else gaining access in case he was mistaken. He knew the locals would swarm all over the site as soon as they had gone.

‘Obersturmführer?’

The chief engineer, a stocky, bull-like man, was waiting for orders.

Bauer nodded. ‘Beginnen Sie.’

Bauer watched the foreman instruct his men to place the dynamite charges at equal intervals along the opening to the cave, a little distance from the ground. Once set, another man climbed above and placed three along the upper edge of the rock face. In natural rock falls and landslides, there was usually a section where the rock was thinner. Bauer wanted to make sure there were no weak places through which someone could gain access.

The foreman uncoiled the wires that led to the charge box, then carried the device as far away from the opening to the caves as he could.

‘Ist es bereit?’ Bauer asked. It’s ready?

The foreman nodded. Bauer and the three other men took cover, then the foreman depressed the handle. The dynamite did its work. An immediate crump, then the force of the explosion snaking through the ground. A moment of suspended silence, then the rumble of rock as the cave entrance began to collapse in upon itself.

Only when the aftershock of white clouds of dust mushroomed up into the hot air did Bauer emerge from his hiding place.

He looked at the entrance, now entirely blocked, then nodded.

‘Gut gemacht. You have done well,’ he said. He dabbed the back of his neck again with his damp handkerchief. ‘Tell your men to pack up. Clear everything. We move north tonight.’

Chapter 63

CARCASSONNE

Marianne dropped the last of the false identity papers into the sink. She put a match to them, watched the flames flare and die, then turned on the tap. The kitchen was filled with the stink of damp ash.

‘That’s the lot,’ she said. ‘What a waste.’

Suzanne nodded. Her hands were stained black where she had carried each sodden, pulpy armful outside. There was a small patch of earth beneath the kitchen window where she’d buried the evidence, hidden from the Fournier house by the overhang of the balcony. She went back to the sink and washed her hands, scrubbing at them until the last of the ink and ash was gone.

‘What are you going to do now?’ she said, shaking them dry.

‘Send a telegram to Sandrine to warn her about Authié.’

‘What about Lucie?’

Marianne’s face grew still. ‘I can’t believe she’d do such a thing.’

Suzanne put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t I go and see what she’s got to say? But I’ve got to find Robert Bonnet first and tell him we’ve had to get rid of this lot.’

Marianne sighed. ‘After all your hard work.’

‘Better safe than sorry.’

‘I know. Even so.’

Suzanne leaned forward, gave Marianne a peck on the cheek. ‘Be back as soon as I can.’

Marianne bolted the door after she’d gone, then walked briskly through the house to collect her purse, hat and gloves. The silence seemed to echo around her. When the others first left for Coustaussa, frankly it had been a relief and she’d enjoyed the peace. Liesl was no trouble, but her unhappy presence cast a pall over the house. Sandrine had been the opposite, rushing around to check the post each morning, then going to the library and the cathedral, trying to do too many things at once. Marieta had been withdrawn and anxious. But now she hated the quiet. And every day, she felt more tired. Less able to cope. If it hadn’t been for Suzanne, she would have gone out of her mind with the strain.

A knock on the front door made her jump. For a moment she was tempted to ignore it, then she heard Lucie’s voice.

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said in a loud whisper.

‘Talk? Don’t you mean apologise?’ muttered Marianne.

‘Please.’

With a sigh, she opened the door and Lucie stepped inside. Marianne was shocked at her appearance. She looked wan and drawn, with dark roots showing through her corn-coloured hair.

‘Your Captain Authié has just left.’

Lucie’s eyes widened. ‘He’s been here already?’

‘What do you expect?’ she said sharply. ‘You could have at least telephoned to warn us you’d blabbed to the police.’

Lucie flushed. ‘I tried to, but the line was occupied.’

‘You can’t have tried awfully hard.’

Lucie lifted her chin. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

Marianne’s self-control snapped. ‘Whatever were you thinking? Authié’s with the police. Deuxième Bureau more likely than not. How could you tell him anything?’

‘You say that as if I’m supposed to know what it means,’ Lucie said, ‘but I don’t. I don’t care about all that kind of thing. He was civil to me, that’s all I know. He says he can help me find Max.’

‘Help you?’ Marianne said in disbelief. ‘Don’t be so naïve.’

‘Don’t grumble at me, I can’t bear it,’ Lucie said. ‘It was Sandrine who went to the police in the first instance. She was the one who made a report, not me. I begged her not to, it’s not my fault.’

Marianne took a deep breath. Tried to get her temper under control, knowing there was a grain of truth in what Lucie said. Knowing she was angry with herself too. Because nearly three weeks had gone by, she’d allowed herself to think the danger had passed.

‘All right,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘All right, all right.’

‘He knows where Max has been taken,’ Lucie said, her voice threatening to break. ‘I can’t bear not knowing, Marianne. After all these weeks with no news. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer.’

Marianne sighed, then chose her words with care. ‘I understand you’re desperate – and although Suzanne and I have done our best, it’s true we’ve failed to find anything out – but even so, you know better than to tell the authorities anything. It’s why you advised Sandrine against going to the police in the first place.’

‘Well,’ Lucie said, regaining a little of her spirit, ‘Captain Authié said that what happened to Sandrine is connected to the other attacks on women. That’s the only reason he wants to talk to her.’

‘You don’t believe that, surely?’

Lucie’s chin shot up. ‘Why not? He seemed decent enough. I don’t see why you have to mistrust everyone.’

Marianne narrowed her eyes. ‘What else did you tell him?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, quickly. ‘Only Sandrine’s name. And address, but she’d already given that to the police anyway.’

‘You didn’t say she’d gone to Coustaussa?’

‘As if.’ Lucie’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re not going to trust me or tell me anything?’

‘Do you blame me? Obviously I don’t trust you. Why would I? There, I’ve said it. Is that what you wanted to hear?’

‘I came here to own up,’ Lucie shouted. ‘I’ve been worrying about it all day, even though it wasn’t me that started it.’ She paused. ‘And I tell you this for nothing. If Sandrine had been arrested, taken somewhere and you didn’t know where, you would do the same. You’d do anything to find her.’

Marianne dropped her shoulders. ‘You see, that’s it, Lucie,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t betray my friends.’

Lucie stared at her for an instant, then ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her. Marianne sank down on the seat of the hat stand and put her head in her hands. Lucie didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She hadn’t told the police anything Sandrine hadn’t told them herself, and there were some who weren’t in Vichy’s pocket. Gaullists not Pétainists. She had been harsh on her, she knew it. Lucie had never shown the slightest interest in anything around her: politics, the town council, laws and rules and regulations, all went over her head. She’d always been like that.

But for the first time, Marianne was genuinely frightened, cold down to her bones. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of control. The worst of it was, she didn’t know what she could do to stop it. She wished she was in Coustaussa too. At least then she would know Sandrine was all right. There, she could forget real life and go back to how things used to be. Play a game of cards or listen to the wireless. Ordinary, humdrum things.

All she wanted was to feel safe again.

Chapter 64

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine opened the shutters on another humid and overcast morning. Grey clouds scudding the hills, a sense of bristling threat carried on the breeze. Perhaps at last the weather would break. They needed a thunderstorm to clear the air.

It had been a busy three days, she’d hardly had a chance to miss Raoul or Marianne at all. She had visited each of their neighbours in turn, receiving condolences, accepting gifts of food, catching up on the life of Coustaussa since they had last been there. She had introduced Liesl to everyone and, although a few had raised their eyebrows at the arrival of a Parisian cousin, nobody said anything.

Between them she, Liesl and Marieta had got the house straight and stocked the larder as best they could, cleaned out the plumbing and chased spiders from the house. Sandrine had also rearranged the furniture in the salon, moving her father’s favourite chair so that it wasn’t the first thing she saw when she went into the room. The little house felt like home again.

It was Friday already and she couldn’t put off going to Couiza any longer. Ernest had rung Marianne on the day of their arrival, just to let her know they’d arrived safely, and he had spoken to his brother in the town hall. But Sandrine had to go in and present their papers in person – they needed temporary ration books, there were all sorts of forms to be filled in, filed, ticked, stamped. Yellow, red, white, blue, all of life recorded and recorded again. She was dreading it, all the queuing and bad tempers in the heat. On top of everything else, Marieta seemed particularly tired this morning.

‘I’m not sure we should leave you,’ Sandrine said again. ‘You look all in.’

Marieta clasped her hands in front of her. ‘There’s still plenty to be done and I don’t want you under my feet, getting in the way,’ she replied. ‘In any case, the storm’s coming.’

‘Are you sure?’ Liesl peered out at the hazy sky, white and flat and lowering. ‘It’s been like this ever since we got here.’

‘Blowing up from the south,’ Marieta said doggedly. ‘Best to go now, madomaisèla.’

Sandrine sighed, knowing Marieta was always right about the weather. ‘Well, all right. We’ll be as quick as we can, but please, please promise me you won’t overdo it. Marianne would never forgive me if she thought I was running you ragged.’

Marieta smiled. ‘As if,’ she said. ‘Besides, how will she know, è?’

Sandrine smiled back, but she was on edge as she walked to the lean-to at the end of the garden and got out the bikes.

‘Is Marieta all right?’ Liesl said.

‘She’s tired, but she won’t ease up.’

She noticed Liesl had the camera Max had given her in its case on a strap around her neck.

‘Isn’t that rather heavy? Are you sure you want to bring it?’ she said.

‘It reminds me of . . .’ Liesl began, then stopped. ‘I like to keep it with me,’ in a quieter voice. ‘In case there’s something to photograph.’

‘I’m going to call Marianne from Couiza,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘I’m sure there’ll be news by now.’

Liesl said nothing.

It took fifteen minutes to get down to the town. It was very humid, oppressive air, so they were both out of breath by the time they arrived at the Mairie.

‘You have your new papers, your carte d’identité?’ Sandrine asked Liesl for the third time.

‘Everything.’

They joined the long queue of people waiting to be seen, shuffling forward step by step. Suzanne had acquired false papers for Liesl, but this would be the first time they had tried to use them. What would happen if the official noticed something wrong and challenged them? Sandrine knew there was nothing she could do, she had simply to hold her nerve and hope Liesl did the same, but she kept checking and checking everything again.

‘Good morning,’ she said brightly, when they reached the head of the queue. She handed over all three sets of papers.

‘There’s only two of you,’ the official said, peering at her over the top of his spectacles.

‘Marieta Barthès remained in Coustaussa. Ernest said he—’

The man’s face lightened. ‘Ah, you’re Mademoiselle Vidal.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sandrine, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’

‘And this is,’ he glanced at the photograph, then up at Liesl, ‘the other Mademoiselle Vidal.’

He stamped the documents quickly, then handed the papers back. ‘Third door on the left.’

Thanks to Ernest’s brother, they found themselves moving swiftly through the system. Even so, it took a long time. They were sent from bureau to bureau, answering the same questions over and again. Presenting Marieta’s papers, explaining she was too old to come in person. It got easier, but each time Sandrine’s heart was in her mouth.

Finally, after three hours, they emerged with temporary ration books and permis de séjour.

‘We did it,’ Sandrine said, under her breath. She squeezed Liesl’s hand. ‘So what do you say to some lunch? I’m starving.’

Liesl smiled. ‘I could manage something,’ she admitted.

The Grand Café Guilhem on the bridge by the railway station was serving lunch – tomatoes, black bread, white goat’s cheese and cured ham. Liesl left the ham, but was persuaded to order a cherry ice to follow. Sandrine tried a little, but it tasted of saccharine.

‘I’m going to try to get through to Marianne. Find out how things are at home and let her know everything’s gone all right at our end,’ Sandrine said when they’d finished. ‘It’s bound to take a while. Will you be all right for an hour or so?’

Agreeing to meet outside the post office in an hour, the girls separated. Liesl went off in the direction of the river with her camera and Sandrine joined yet another queue. The Tramontana was still twisting up the dust and the thermometer was pushing ever higher.

It was a slow, hot business as the line moved slowly forward. The three customers ahead of Sandrine all wanted to place calls interzone and the operator was struggling to cope. Tempers were fraying. The closer people got to the front, the more anxious they became that whatever they wanted would sell out – stamps, envelopes – and there were a few near arguments, sharp elbows and paniers, each person determined to have her rights.

As Sandrine moved forward, one step at a time, she thought about how she could persuade Marieta not to work so hard all the time. She wondered where Raoul might be now. As the days passed with no word of him, the sharp pain of his absence had dulled into a regretful ache. She missed him, but she couldn’t allow herself to pine. There was too much to do. Another shuffle forward. From time to time, fragments of conversations broke into her reflections.

‘Nine thousand police and gendarmes, so I heard,’ said a woman, joining her husband in the queue. ‘Herded them all in some cycling stadium, north of Paris. It’s been in all the papers.’

‘Was it the Vélodrome d’Hiver?’

‘I don’t know.’

The man sighed, pushing his hat back on his head. ‘Lovely racing track, that. Went there once. Saw Antonin Magne take his Grand Prix.’

‘Twenty-five thousand of them, Jews, all packed in there.’

‘That happened three weeks ago,’ said a middle-aged woman in a garish housecoat. ‘Day after Bastille Day, or that’s what it said in the papers.’

‘Foreigners, were they?’

‘I suppose so,’ the wife said. ‘Wouldn’t be French, would they? I mean to say.’

‘If they’re foreign,’ said the man, ‘then I’m for it. We should send them all home. It’s always France that has to put up with the riff-raff, thieves the lot of them.’

Sandrine realised her nails were digging into her palms. She had become used to hearing such sentiments in Carcassonne, but she had expected – hoped – things would be different here.

The queue moved forward again. Then, without warning, she saw Raoul staring at her.

‘Oh . . .’

Looking straight at her from the pillar, a black and white poster with his face on it. Above the photograph, a single word in capital letters: RÉCOMPENSE.

Sandrine had expected to see something like this in Carcassonne. Raoul had warned her she might. But even though she’d been on the lookout, she’d not seen a thing and, as the days passed and still his face was absent from the police posters papering the town, she hoped they’d given up trying to find him. RÉCOMPENSE. PELLETIER, RAOUL.

Her pulse started to race and she felt dizzy, blindsided by the sight of him.

‘Mademoiselle?’

At first, Sandrine didn’t hear. She wanted to reach out and touch the poster, but she dared not. Then she felt a finger poking into her back.

‘It’s your turn,’ said the woman behind her in the queue.

‘Pardon,’ Sandrine said, tearing her eyes away. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’

She stepped up to the window, feeling sick. If there was a poster in Couiza, all the way down here, then that was bound to mean there were posters everywhere. All the towns and villages. Raoul wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘How can I help, mademoiselle?’

All those pairs of eyes, somebody would see him and take the chance to claim the reward. It was so much money.

‘Mademoiselle?’ the operator said, more sharply.

Sandrine forced herself to concentrate. With a last glance back at Raoul’s face, she put her purse on the counter and got out her papers once more.

‘I need to place a call to Carcassonne.’

Chapter 65

COUSTAUSSA

Marieta looked around. She had spent the morning cleaning, but there was still dust everywhere. The consequences of a house left unlived in for two years, as if it was getting its own back for being abandoned. She moved the empty vase on the hall table. She had done it earlier, but there was still a ring on the table. The banisters, too, could do with another layer of polish.

The thunder was closer. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started. Marieta knew she should go and check that all the shutters were securely fastened, but she was so weary.

‘Apuèi,’ she murmured.

Why was there no word from Monsieur Baillard? No letter? It had been three weeks. And all of Sandrine’s endless questions, always questions she couldn’t answer. Marieta lowered herself down to the chair in the hall, hearing the wood creak and sigh. Maybe he had received the letter and was making his way to Coustaussa? The thought gave her some spark of comfort, even though there was no reason for him to know she was here.

It was so close, so humid, she could barely breathe. She felt the sheen of sweat on her brow. The rain would clear the air. The burden of her knowledge, scant as it was, was growing heavier. Not knowing whether he’d even received the letter. She couldn’t wait a moment longer. There was no question of making the journey herself to Rennes-les-Bains. It was too far to walk on her tired legs. Perhaps Madame Rousset could ask Yves to take her in the trap?

She took her Bible from the pocket of her house coat and placed it on the table, her house-worn hand resting on the black leather cover. Last night, as the Tramontana rattled between the hills, she had sat up in bed in her room under the eaves and, by candlelight, turned to the Book of the Revelation of St John the Divine, the last book of the New Testament. A text Marieta both loved and feared, the words had nonetheless brought her some measure of peace.

Her head jerked up as another warning gust sent something scuttling in the road outside. A flowerpot, perhaps? She hoped it wasn’t a tile coming off the roof. Then she realised it was someone knocking on the door.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she said quickly, the wish father to the deed.

As she pulled herself to her feet, a jab of pain snaked down her left arm. Marieta ignored it as she hurried to the front door and pulled it open.

‘Perfin . . .’

A wave of disappointment swept through her at the sight of Geneviève Saint-Loup standing on the step, smiling.

‘Bonjorn, Marieta, I heard you were back in Coustaussa. Is Sandrine here?’

Marieta caught her breath. ‘No, she and . . .’ She broke off, not sure what she was allowed to say, not even to Sandrine’s oldest friend. ‘She’s not here.’

Geneviève was frowning. ‘Are you all right, Marieta? You look awfully pale.’

‘Quite fine.’ She made an effort to smile. ‘Madomaisèla Sandrine has gone to Couiza to arrange our permis de séjour.’

‘The new mayor is all right,’ Geneviève said, still looking concerned.

‘Good.’

‘I have a telegram for Sandrine from Marianne. She wants her to telephone as soon as she can.’

‘Is something wrong in Carca . . .?’ Marieta began to say, but another stab of pain stole her words from her. ‘In Carcassonne?’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Geneviève said. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘It’s the humidity, nothing more. I’ll be fine as soon as the weather breaks, and it will.’

Geneviève didn’t looked convinced. ‘Well, will you tell Sandrine that Friday’s my day off. The rest of the week she can find me in the post office in Rennes-les-Bains if she wants to come down.’

Marieta shot out her hand and grasped Geneviève’s arm. ‘The post office?’

Geneviève nodded. ‘That’s right, I’ve been working there for six months now.’

‘I sent a letter from Carcassonne to the post office,’ Marieta said urgently. ‘For Monsieur Baillard. Has it arrived, can you recall? Three weeks past.’

‘He had a letter from Tarascon round about that time, but nothing from Carcassonne. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. I’ve been looking out especially for . . . He came in person.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes. It was around Bastille Day, then again a few days after that. He said he was going south, then on to Tarascon.’

A wave of relief rushed through Marieta’s tired body. She gave a long sigh.

‘Did he seem well to you?’

‘Yes, he looked in good health, given his age . . .’ Geneviève tailed off. ‘If I see him, do you want me to tell him you were asking after him?’

‘Yes, yes. Tell him . . .’ She hesitated, not sure what to say. ‘Tell him I must see him. That it is urgent. You won’t forget?’

‘No, of course not, but . . . Are you sure you are all right, Na Marieta? Can I get you a glass of water, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps I will lie down,’ she said, keen for the girl to go. ‘You should get off before the storm, è. Thank you for coming.’

Marieta forced herself to stand on the front step and wave while Geneviève disappeared down the hill, then she went back inside. She was light-headed with the relief of knowing that Monsieur Baillard was all right. That he was close at hand. Only now did she realise how much she had been worrying that something had happened to him – injured during the war, or even captured, she didn’t know what. But now, now she didn’t have to worry any more. Geneviève would tell Monsieur Baillard she was here and he would come to Coustaussa.

‘A la perfin,’ she murmured. ‘At last.’

Pressing the heel of her hand to her chest, Marieta lowered herself back on to the same tattered chair at the foot of the stairs. A gust of wind shrieked under the door. She hoped that if the storm reached as far north as Carcassonne, Marianne would close the windows in the kitchen. She remembered she still hadn’t checked the shutters at the back of the house were secure, but she hadn’t the strength to move. She picked up the Bible from the hall table and turned to read from the Book of Revelation.

‘Voici ce que dit celui qui a les sept esprits de Dieu et les sept étoiles: Je connais tes oeuvres. Je sais que tu passes pour être vivant, et tu es mort.’

Some of the words Sandrine had written reminded her of these ancient verses. Marieta didn’t understand how that could be, but had faith Monsieur Baillard would explain.

‘These things say he who has the seven spirits of God and the seven stars: I have knowledge of your works, that you seem to be living but are dead.’

Another rumble of dry thunder. Marieta thought the storm was still some way off, but hoped the girls wouldn’t be caught out in the open. Her arm was aching so much, it hurt to hold the Bible steady in her hands.

‘Puis je vis le ciel ouvert,’ she recited. ‘Le ciel ouvert . . . Then I saw that heaven was open . . .’

Marieta felt a sudden sharp pain in her chest, clean and precise. She tried to focus on the spider words written on the thin pages. The Bible fell from her lap to the ground. The tissue-thin pages of the Book of Revelation fluttered, stirred up by the wind, like the wings of a trapped moth battling against the glass to be free.

Chapter 66

COUIZA

Liesl was waiting for Sandrine outside the post office when she came out.

‘Did you get through?’

Sandrine didn’t hear. She was still poleaxed by the sight of Raoul’s face on the poster.

‘Sandrine?’

‘No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘No one answered.’

‘So, no news,’ Liesl said in a small voice.

‘I’ll try again tomorrow. I want to speak to Marianne anyway, I don’t mind coming back.’

Liesl turned away, busying herself with the strap on her camera case. Sandrine’s heart went out to the girl, realising how hard she was trying not to let her emotions show.

‘What would you say to another ice?’ Sandrine said. ‘Give us an extra push before we head off back up the hill?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘No, but something to drink, at least. It’s the wrong way around, I always think. Downhill when you’re starting out, and uphill when it’s time to go home.’

‘Shouldn’t we get back to Marieta?’

Sandrine glanced up at the glowering sky, then back to Liesl. ‘I don’t want to be caught out in the open,’ she said. ‘Might be better to wait it out here, then go home. Half an hour here or there won’t make much difference.’

They got back to the Grand Café Guilhem, where they’d left their bikes, just as the heavens opened. They sheltered under the awning of the café, but the wind was coming from all angles and they were soaked all the same. Inside, the lights flickered with each tremble of thunder. Sandrine considered going in, but then she noticed two policemen standing at the zinc counter. Liesl was nervous enough as it was. It would be so easy to say the wrong thing or be rattled into letting her real name slip.

‘Are you all right out here?’ she said.

Liesl nodded, understanding, though her face was white.

‘You didn’t have any trouble while I was in the post office?’ Sandrine said, realising she should have asked before.

‘No one took any notice of me.’

Sandrine sighed. ‘That’s good. So, do you think you’ll be happy enough here for the time being? You won’t miss Carcassonne too much?’

‘Until Max comes back, yes.’

A sudden clap of thunder overhead made Liesl jump.

‘Our neighbours in Coustaussa are nice, most of them at least,’ Sandrine hurried on, talking to keep the younger girl’s mind off the impending storm. ‘Monsieur Andrieu, who we met on Wednesday, he owns most of the fields to the north and the large white farm on the edge of the village. You wouldn’t know it. Never throws his weight around. My father’s closest friend was Monsieur Sauzède, one of those very proper, very old-fashioned men, but with a wonderful sense of humour.’

Liesl looked at her. ‘You miss your father?’

‘All the time,’ she said. She took a deep breath, then carried on. ‘Ernestine Cassou, she’s a different matter. Lives in the end house in the rue de l’Empereur with her father. Never without a grievance, as Marieta would say.’

Liesl managed a smile. ‘I admit, I didn’t take to her.’

‘My closest friend is Geneviève Saint-Loup. One of four sisters, she lives in Rennes-les-Bains. I hope you’ll meet her at the weekend. When we were little we spent all of our time in Coustaussa, playing cache-cache in the ruins of the castle with the village boys.’

Liesl looked up briefly. ‘Like the boy who met us off the bus?’

‘Yves Rousset?’ Sandrine said. ‘Yes, him and his older brother, all of their friends. Pierre Rousset was killed at the beginning of the war.’

‘Yves seems nice.’

‘He is nice,’ Sandrine replied, momentarily hearing something lighter in Liesl’s voice. ‘Quiet, but kind. Reliable.’

‘Is he . . .?’

‘The Roussets are decent types. The kind that help if asked, but otherwise mind their own business.’

A torrent was cascading down the street, a mass of swirling black water hurtling into the storm drains and towards the river. Another crack of thunder, followed, hard on its heels, by a white jag of lightning. Liesl’s eyes flared wide with terror.

‘When I was little,’ Sandrine said quickly, ‘Marieta used to tell me the thunder was God rearranging his furniture, dragging a chair across the sky. The lightning was angels turning the lights on and off.’

Liesl clutched her camera even tighter.

‘It won’t last much longer,’ Sandrine said.

The storm was now directly overhead, swallowing Couiza up within the clouds. The driving rain pounded down on the road like sparks from an anvil. Liesl trembled at each new assault, peering out at the furious black sky.

‘This is the worst of it, then it will move on.’

‘To Carcassonne?’

‘Maybe. Limoux, certainly.’

They stood in silence, Sandrine enjoying the relief of being cold and damp after the hot, humid days. The sight of Raoul’s face had brought all those buried feelings back to the surface. The memory of the touch of his hand on her skin. Watching the sun rise over the Cité. She sighed. Where was he? Sitting out the storm like them, or miles away on the Vermilion Coast? In Banyuls or Perpignan?

At first, the shock of seeing the poster when she wasn’t expecting it had driven any other thought from her mind. Now it had had time to sink in, she realised what puzzled her the most was that the reward was so large. It wasn’t unusual these days to see WANTED notices stuck up all over the place – on lamp posts, walls, pinned on the noticeboard outside the Commissariat de Police – offering money for information. But five hundred francs?

So much. Too much.

Another collision of thunder in the sky directly above them, and Liesl grabbed at Sandrine’s arm.

‘I can’t bear it,’ she said in a whisper. ‘It’s so wild, so . . . so angry. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

Sandrine put her arms around Liesl and held her close.

Chapter 67

TARASCON

Aurélie Saint-Loup was sitting on the front doorstep, looking aggrieved.

‘I’ve been waiting for ages,’ she complained.

Baillard bent down to the child’s level. ‘What is it, filha?’

‘My sister Geneviève telephoned from Rennes-les-Bains.’

‘Has a package arrived for me?’ he said quickly.

Even now he hoped Antoine might have managed to keep the package safe before he was captured.

‘A package?’ the little girl asked. ‘I don’t know about that. Geneviève wanted you to know Marieta Barthès is in Coustaussa and asking urgently after you. She sent me to find you.’

Baillard stood up and glanced at Pujol, who’d drawn level. He looked tired, the result of several days of asking questions and getting nowhere. Célestine was coping, but Pierre was not. Pujol felt he was letting his friend down.

‘Marieta Barthès . . .’ Baillard smiled at the thought of seeing her. ‘And the family also?’

Aurélie shrugged. ‘I don’t know, only that it was important. She didn’t think Madame Barthès looked very well.’ The child frowned. ‘Geneviève sounded a bit funny, actually.’

‘Is it possible, Achille?’ Baillard asked.

Pujol took a moment to realise, then his expression altered.

‘You’re not seriously suggesting we go to Coustaussa now, Audric? The storm’s heading that way. The roads will be impassable, you know what those valleys are like.’

‘Marieta is not the sort of woman to make a fuss. If she says it is urgent, then it will be.’ He paused. ‘And if she is ill . . .’

Pujol looked at him, then sighed with resignation. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find a car. And enough petrol to get us there and back.’

They’d been driving for an hour. Baillard had been thinking of a girl he’d loved when he was young. Loved still. Remembering the banners and colours and the towers of the Cité. He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers. He could almost feel the warm metal of his sword in his hand.

The Midi had lost the battle then, but what of now?

‘E ara?’

‘What’s that, Audric?’ said Pujol, peering through the windscreen at the rain.

Baillard shook his head. ‘Nothing, my friend. Talking to myself.’

‘Don’t wonder at it. Clambering all over the hills at four o’clock in the morning, yesterday, the day before, the day before that. We’re too old for it, Audric. I keep telling you, but do you listen?’

Baillard peered out of the window. ‘Where are we?’

‘Just gone through Espéraza. The roads are worse than I was expecting.’

Evidence of the storm was everywhere. Broken branches, pools of standing water, mud the colour of gingerbread where rainwater had cascaded down the hillside. Baillard looked out of the window and saw the land as a living, sentient thing. A sleeping giant brought to life by the whisperings and stirrings of bones in the earth. In the graveyards of the Haute Vallée and the mountains where no tombstone marked the place where warriors had fallen.

‘The glorious dead awakened,’ he murmured.

Could it be true? Could such things yet be true? With every passing day, the evil from the north was coming closer and closer. Such evil.

‘Malfança . . .’

They entered Couiza. A woman in black was sweeping the debris from her steps. She stopped and stared at the solitary car.

The road was carpeted with twigs and leaves. As Pujol negotiated the winding, slippery road up to Coustaussa, Baillard gripped the dashboard. He had faced many perilous situations in his long life, battles for faith and tolerance, survived siege and torture, but the fear in his stomach with the wheels of the car slippery under Pujol’s clumsy touch was just as sharp.

‘Go through the village,’ he instructed, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘Almost out to the other side. Last house.’

A small white dog barked at them, then shot away as they drew up outside the house. The geraniums in the window box looked battered from the storm, their heads bowed and red petals scattered on the sill.

‘Funny-looking thing,’ said Pujol, pointing at the brass door knocker.

‘François Vidal told me it was modelled on one of the gargoyles above the north door of the cathédrale Saint-Michel in Carcassonne.’

‘Would have thought it put callers off,’ grunted Pujol. ‘But then perhaps that’s the idea.’

Baillard got out of the car and walked up the stone steps, lifted the brass knocker and rapped three times. He waited, his white panama hat in his hand, knowing Marieta would take her time, even if she was there. After a minute or so, he knocked again. Still nothing stirred in the little house. The dread that had been building in his chest all afternoon took on a life of its own.

He reached for the handle and turned.

Baillard saw Marieta straight away, sitting on the chair at the bottom of the stairs, her grey head bowed against the spindle and the bible on the floor at her feet. A still figure in black.

‘Pujol,’ he shouted, ‘in here!’

Baillard grabbed Marieta’s wrist and felt a flutter of relief when he found her pulse. It was weak and erratic, but there still. He looked at the blue tinge around her lips, at the jagged rise and fall of her chest, and realised what had happened. He loosened her collar and tried to help her to sit up.

‘Her heart,’ he said, as Pujol appeared in the hall behind him.

‘Is she . . .?’

‘No, but she’s very weak.’

Together they laid Marieta on the floor. Baillard put the heel of his hand on her chest, put his other hand on top and interlocked his fingers. Then, using the whole weight of his body, he began to press.

‘One, two, three . . .’

After thirty, he stopped. He tilted Marieta’s head back, lifted her chin, pinched her nostrils, then breathed into her mouth. He paused, desperately watching the movement in her chest, then started all over again.

‘She needs a doctor,’ he said urgently. ‘Madame Rousset, in the blue house on the corner of the rue de la Condamine. She will know.’

‘Got it,’ said Pujol, immediately leaving.

Baillard kept working. One, two, three, counting each beat of her struggling heart. His arms grew tired, his shoulders ached, but he didn’t stop. He thought of Harif, who, many years ago, had taught him to save a life this way. Ten, eleven, twelve. He thought of his grandmother, Esclarmonde, who had taught him how to dress a wound. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Of Alaïs, the greatest healer the Midi had ever known. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Harif, Esclarmonde, Alaïs, he kept all three of them close at his side while his aching muscles worked and worked.

‘Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty . . .’

Finally Baillard felt Marieta’s breathing change. The rasping, tattered gasps yielded to a regular rhythm as her heart returned to normal.

‘Peyre . . .’ he muttered, sinking exhausted to the ground beside her. ‘Welcome back, amica.’

For a few moments Baillard sat quietly in the company of his friend, an old woman now. He realised that the wind had dropped. That there was no longer the sound of rain on the glass.

Finally he got to his feet and walked into the salon to open the shutters and let the daylight in.

Chapter 68

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine and Liesl propped their bikes against the gate at the back of the house. It had taken them a long time to get back from Couiza in the wet. Even though the rain had stopped, the steep roads were slippery, covered with detritus and leaves and broken branches.

As they approached the house, Sandrine saw the shutters were un-secured at the back, banging open in the wind. She frowned.

‘That’s odd . . .’

She dropped her bike on the grass and ran up the path and into the house, Liesl following close on her heels.

‘Coucou?’ she called. ‘Marieta?’

Liesl flicked the switch. ‘The lights don’t seem to be working.’

‘The generator often packs up,’ Sandrine said, struggling to keep her voice calm. ‘It’s easy to fix.’

She heard a noise in the hall. ‘Marieta?’ she called with relief. ‘Marieta, is that you?’

Sandrine rushed into the corridor, then stopped dead. Marieta was lying on the floor in the hall, with a jowly, heavy-set man standing over her. Without thinking, she flew at the intruder.

‘Get away from her,’ she shouted, shoving him out of the way and crouching down beside the unconscious woman. ‘What have you done to her?’

‘Mademoiselle, calmez-vous,’ the man was trying to say.

‘Marieta, what happened?’

The old woman shifted. ‘Léonie?’

‘It’s me, Sandrine.’

Marieta’s eyes were milky, unfocused. ‘Léonie?’ she said again.

‘Who’s Léonie?’ whispered Liesl, who’d come into the hall behind Sandrine.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is she all right?’

Only now did Sandrine notice that there was a pillow under Marieta’s head and a blanket covering her. Then, a quiet and reassuring voice at her back.

‘She will be, madomaisèla.’

Sandrine swung round to see a second man, in a pale linen suit, coming out of the doorway to the salon.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ Marieta was saying, trying to sit up. ‘I apologise, I should have . . . she doesn’t . . .’

‘Baillard?’

Sandrine turned back to Marieta, furious, now she realised she was all right, rather than terrified. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I told you not to do too much, and now look, look what’s happened. You’ve worn yourself out.’

Marieta’s face softened. ‘So you are the one to scold me?’

‘Madomaisèla,’ the man in the pale suit said in a steady, calm voice. ‘She’s given us all a scare, but all will be well. She is strong. It is not yet her time.’

Sandrine glared at him, at Marieta, then burst into tears.

‘She’s stable,’ said the doctor. ‘Is there someone who can sit with her?’

Baillard nodded. ‘We will all be here.’

‘Good.’ He began to pack up his bag. ‘She was lucky you were here, Monsieur Baillard, and lucky Geneviève Saint-Loup was worried and telephoned. It might have been a very different story if she’d been here on her own for very much longer.’

‘It was a heart attack?’

The doctor nodded. ‘A mild one, more of a warning. I can’t be sure without an X-ray examination, but I suspect Madame Barthès has been having symptoms for some time.’

‘What is her long-term prognosis?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘She’d be better in hospital, but no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery.’

‘She has no time for hospitals,’ Sandrine said. ‘Nor doctors, come to that.’

‘These village types never do,’ he said drily. ‘Nevertheless, I’ll be in to check on her tomorrow. Do you have rations cards and so forth? Marieta certainly won’t be fit to travel for some considerable time.’

Sandrine nodded. ‘Our papers are in order.’

‘That’s one thing at least,’ the doctor said.

Pujol nodded. ‘I’ll drive you back to Couiza, doctor,’ he said.

Baillard watched the car pull away, then closed the door and came back inside.

‘And now, madomaisèla, if you are not too tired – and Liesl might sit with Marieta for a while – perhaps you and I should talk.’

‘She’s been overdoing it,’ Sandrine said, looking into the salon where Marieta was sleeping peacefully on the day bed. Her eyes were closed and her hands folded neatly above the sheet. ‘We’ve all told her, but she won’t listen.’

‘No, she never did,’ he said with a gentle smile.

Sandrine looked at him. ‘You’ve known her a long time, Monsieur Baillard.’

‘She told you so?’

‘Yes, though not much.’

Baillard put his head on one side. ‘Did Marieta tell you she sent for me?’

‘I knew she’d written to you – I took the letter to the post office myself three weeks ago – but not what she said. And ever since we’ve been here, she’s watched the letter box like a hawk.’

‘The missive did not arrive.’

‘No?’

Now Sandrine was looking at him properly, she realised Monsieur Baillard was even older than she’d originally thought from Marieta’s description. A halo of white hair, his face deeply lined, his skin translucent almost, though his eyes were quick and intelligent and clear.

‘No,’ he said in his quiet voice, ‘so it’s time you found out why Marieta was so disturbed by what happened. Shall we move somewhere quieter, so we don’t disturb her or your young friend?’

‘My cousin . . .’ she began automatically, then stopped. There seemed little point lying to Monsieur Baillard. She smiled. ‘A friend. Would you like something to drink?’

‘If you have wine?’

She led him to the kitchen. ‘My father’s cellar is still untouched,’ she said.

Choosing a bottle of red Tarascon wine, Sandrine poured two glasses, then sat down in the chair opposite him.

‘I am sorry to hear about your father’s death. He was a good man.’

She smiled. ‘I didn’t know you knew him, Monsieur Baillard.’

‘More by reputation than in person, I regret to say. We talked on one or two occasions. He had a profound love of architecture, buildings that tell the story of the past. A passion I also share.’ Again he fixed his steady gaze on her. ‘You miss him greatly.’

It was a statement rather than a question. Sandrine nodded.

‘It’s better, of course, less painful. But here, it’s hard to believe I won’t see him sitting in this chair, reading one of his local history pamphlets, a glass of whisky by his side.’ She laughed. ‘He developed a taste for it after he’d been to Scotland. Filthy stuff, Marieta called it.’

For a moment, they sat in silence. Sandrine wasn’t sure what to say, how to begin. If she was supposed to begin. Time passed, marked by the ticking of the clock on the wooden shelf above the big open fireplace.

‘So you don’t know why Marieta wrote to you?’ she said.

Instantly the atmosphere in the room seemed to change, shifting from the memories of old friends and family to something else.

Baillard placed his glass on the table beside him. ‘I think, perhaps, it would be better if you told me what prompted the letter in the first instance.’

Sandrine was soothed by his old-fashioned way of talking, by his formal and precise language and calm, steady tone. She felt the knot in her chest begin to loosen.

‘So much has happened since then.’

‘Stories shift their shape, change character, madomaisèla. They acquire different complexions, different colours, depending on the storyteller.’ He shrugged. ‘Why not simply tell the story as it comes back to you.’

She took a mouthful of wine, then drew a deep breath. ‘It was the day before the demonstration in Carcassonne. Monday the thirteenth of July . . .’

Chapter 69

In the world outside the window, as Sandrine talked, the sounds began to change. Cicadas, nightingales, scuttling hares, mice. In the fields beyond the village, mountain foxes. All around were the light scents of the countryside after a storm, the green perfume of wild rosemary, mint and thyme. The martinets were beginning their nightly courtship, feeding, swooping, spiralling and spinning like dancers in the air. On the outskirts of the village, the beech trees and laurel, wet in the fading day, threw long shadows.

When Sandrine had finished, she took another mouthful of wine and looked at Monsieur Baillard. He did not move and he did not speak.

‘Everything’s happened so fast, one thing after the other,’ she said. ‘Finding Antoine in the river, meeting Raoul, learning what Marianne and Suzanne were doing, trying to keep Liesl safe. So fast.’

Baillard nodded. ‘I am afraid to tell you that Antoine Déjean has been found.’

‘Alive?’ she said, though she had no hope of it.

‘No.’

‘No.’ She sighed. ‘Where?’

‘In the mountains not far from Tarascon.’

‘It was dreadful,’ she said quietly. ‘The moment when he opened his eyes and stared at me, and I realised I could do nothing. I felt useless, quite useless.’

Baillard nodded. ‘There is an intensity of connection between the living and the dying so powerful, that it makes all that has gone before insignificant. The ancients called this gnosis – knowledge – a single moment of enlightenment, dazzling. For an instant all things are clear, the perfect, ineffable pattern revealed in the time between the sighs of a beating heart. Truth and the spirit, the connection between this world and the next.’

‘He’d been tortured.’

Baillard did not answer. Sandrine exhaled, aware of the heavy beat of her pulse, the thrumming of the blood in her ears.

‘This young man, Raoul Pelletier,’ Baillard said. ‘He came to your rescue at the river and you gave him shelter. You helped him get away. Yet he stands accused?’

‘He was set up.’

‘Do you trust him?’

‘I do. Marianne couldn’t understand how I was so sure. It’s true that I know little about him and I don’t know where he is now. But, yes. I do trust him.’

‘Completely?’

‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘With my life.’

Baillard stared at her for a moment, pressing the tips of his fingers together as he thought.

‘It is an old and distinguished name he carries. A very old name.’

Sandrine watched him, waiting for him to speak again. He sat so still, looking out over the dark garrigue beyond the window and the outskirts of the village, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

‘Monsieur Baillard,’ she whispered. ‘Why was Marieta so scared? I tried to find out, but she wouldn’t tell me.’

‘No.’

She waited a few moments more. ‘Why was Antoine murdered?’

He sighed. And it seemed to Sandrine that single sound contained all the knowledge of the world, of civilisations, of everything that had been and was yet to come.

‘Antoine was killed in his attempt to find – and protect – something of great power, of great antiquity,’ he said. ‘Something that is capable of changing the course of the war.’

‘A weapon?’

Baillard shook his head. ‘No. At least, not in the way you mean, filha.’

‘Then what?’

‘He had discovered a map that reveals the final resting place of an ancient religious text, a Codex. He was due to deliver the map to me in person some weeks ago, but he never arrived.’

‘Where’s the map now?’

Baillard raised his hands in a gesture of ignorance, then let them fall.

‘Even if you find the map, are you sure the Codex itself actually survives?’

‘Instinct says it does, but I have no proof.’

Sandrine frowned. ‘In any case, how did Antoine know what was in the Codex if no one’s even seen it?’

‘Fragments are known. My belief is that some verses were—’

‘Written on the map itself,’ she jumped in, then turned red. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

Baillard smiled. ‘I came to that same conclusion myself,’ he said with a momentary sparkle in his eye. ‘Antoine could read Latin and Greek. I am certain he found the map – had sight of it at least. It is the only explanation that serves.’

‘I tried to do some research,’ Sandrine said, ‘though it didn’t get me very far. When I badgered her, Marieta finally admitted that the words reminded her of certain lines in the Book of Revelation, but she wouldn’t say any more than that. I went to the municipal library in Carcassonne to see if I could find any mention of such a connection, but it was closed for the summer.’ She paused. ‘Marieta seemed terrified, Monsieur Baillard, even at the thought of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she right to be?’

He did not answer the question. ‘The Codex is a Gnostic text, condemned in the fourth century as heretical. The authorship is unknown although, as Marieta told you, the verses are believed to bear some similarity to the only Gnostic text included in the Bible, the Book of the Revelation of St John the Divine.’

‘Are there other books that might have been included in the Bible but were left out?’

‘The Bible is a collection of writings, not a single unified text.’

‘But that’s not right . . .’

Baillard allowed himself a smile. ‘For the first few centuries of its mission, the Christian Church was under attack – not least from the continued Roman occupation of the Holy Land – so the need to strengthen and unite was paramount. It was important to establish an incontrovertible, agreed holy book. The matter of which texts should be viewed as legitimate, which not, was the subject of much heated debate. The texts chosen to form the Bible were standardised in Greek, then translated into other languages. In Egypt, for example, into the Coptic language of the early Egyptian Christians. As communities developed – monasteries, places of worship – other key texts were translated and disseminated. Often on papyrus, gathered into individual leather-bound books known as codices, to keep them safe.’

He took another sip of his drink. ‘The orthodox lobby won. A certain interpretation of Christianity triumphed. Despite this, the doctrine of equality under faith never entirely went away, though it was driven underground.’ He paused, a gentle smile lighting his face. ‘In the past, I had many friends who were of the Albigensian faith – Cathars, as they are sometimes called now, although at the time they referred to themselves as bons homes, good men, good women. Some consider them Gnostics and argue that they are the natural descendants of those early Christians.’

While they had been talking, night had fallen over Coustaussa. Sandrine got up to close the shutters, then lit the old brass lamps as she’d seen Marieta do a thousand times. The hiss and spit of the oil, then haloes of yellow light flared and warmed the corners of the room. She glanced across at her guest, realising he had removed himself. Memories of the past, friends lost, in the presence of ghosts. Echoes in the landscape.

‘Go on, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said gently.

He looked up again and nodded. ‘The battles between Gnostic and orthodox thinking lasted some two hundred years – a little more or less in different parts of the world – but the time that concerns us now is the fourth century, when many of the Gnostic texts were destroyed. We have no way of knowing how many priceless works were consigned to the fire, only that much knowledge was lost.’

‘How do we know of their existence in the first place?’

‘A good question. In AD 367, an edict went out from Athanasius – the powerful Bishop of Alexandria – that heretical texts were to be burned. However, the threat preceded this by some years. Athanasius was a controversial figure – sometimes his views were in favour, sometimes not – but Christian leaders took matters into their own hands well before this edict and ravaged their own libraries.’

‘So Gnostics were already taking steps to hide or protect texts they thought were at risk,’ Sandrine said.

Baillard nodded. ‘According to contemporary records, there was a mass burning of books in 342 in Lyon – Lugdunum as it then was – but some texts were successfully smuggled to safety. To Egypt, to Jordan, and hidden there.’ Baillard paused. ‘Only very recently has it come to light that the Codex considered by the Abbot to be the most dangerous of all the proscribed texts might never have left these shores.’

‘And Antoine died because of this,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘For a book.’

‘Not even a book,’ he said. ‘A single sheet of papyrus, seven verses.’

Sandrine shook her head. ‘Given our situation now, and with everything that is happening, it seems so . . . not irrelevant exactly but . . .’

Baillard stared. ‘Pujol thinks the same. But the knowledge contained within those seven verses is said to be as powerful, as terrifying, as anything in the Old Testament or the prophecies of Revelation.’

Sandrine leant forward and met his gaze. ‘What knowledge?’ she asked, surprised to hear her voice so steady when her heart was beating so fast.

‘Christians believe that, at the final reckoning, we shall all be reunited at one unique moment of apocalypse. Such belief is fundamental to many faiths, in fact. To our modern minds, this idea is strange. Dismissed as magic or superstition or fairy tale. But to those who have walked this earth before us, down the generations, such concourse between this world and the next was seen as natural, evident.’

‘But what, precisely, does the Codex promise?’ she said again.

‘That, in times of great need, in times of great hardship, there is an army of spirits that can be called upon to intercede in the affairs of men.’

‘Ghosts, do you mean? But that’s impossible!’

‘The dead are all around us, Sandrine,’ Baillard said in his soft, measured voice. ‘You know this. You feel your father close to you here, do you not?’

‘Yes, but that’s different . . .’

‘Is it?’

She stopped, not sure what she was trying to say. Was it different or the same? Her dreams were filled with ghosts, memories. She sometimes thought she saw her father on the turn of the stairs, the outline of him in his chair by the fireplace.

‘Has this . . .’ She hesitated, working out how to frame the question. ‘Has this army ever been called upon before?’

‘Once,’ Baillard replied. ‘Only once.’

‘When?’ she said quickly.

‘In these lands,’ he said. ‘In Carcassonne.’

For an instant Sandrine thought she could hear the words beyond the words, feel the presence of an older system of belief that lay beneath the tangible world she saw around her.

‘The spirits of the air . . .’ she murmured. ‘Dame Carcas?’

She spoke without thinking, and as she did so, Sandrine experienced a moment of sudden illumination. In that one instant, she thought she understood. Saw it all clearly, the ineffable pattern of things, the past and present woven together in many dimensions, in colour vivid and sure. But before she could catch hold of the memory, the moment had passed. She looked up and saw Baillard was staring at her.

‘You do understand,’ he said softly.

‘I don’t know, I thought I did . . .’ She hesitated, not sure what she felt. ‘But even if the Codex did survive and is here, somewhere, waiting to be found . . .’ She stopped again. ‘Our enemies are real, and this . . .’

Now it was Baillard’s turn to hesitate. ‘The war is far from over,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Here in France, in the world beyond our borders, I fear the worst is yet before us. Decisions are being made that are beyond human comprehension. But . . .’ He paused. ‘Evil has not yet won. We have not yet passed the point of no return. If we can find the Codex – and understand the words it contains, harness them to our needs – then there might still be a chance.’

Sandrine looked at him with despair. ‘England fights on, I know, but we have lost, Monsieur Baillard. France is defeated. People – even in Carcassonne, in Coustaussa – seem to be prepared to accept that.’

Baillard looked suddenly older. The skin on his face seemed stretched tighter, pale and transparent, a record of all the things he had seen and done.

‘They do not think they have a choice,’ he said softly. ‘But I do not believe Hitler and his collaborators will be satisfied with what they have, whatever compromises Pétain has offered. And that, filha, will be when the real battle will begin.’

‘The Nazis will cross the line,’ she said, a statement not a question. ‘They will occupy the Midi.’

Baillard nodded. ‘This status quo will not hold for much longer. And that is when possession of the Codex, for good or ill, could make – will make – the difference. Between certain failure and the slightest possibility of victory.’

‘A ghost army,’ Sandrine whispered.

Baillard nodded. ‘One that has not walked for more than a thousand years.’

Codex XI

GAUL

COUZANIUM

AUGUST AD 342

Arinius emerged from his stone shelter to another perfect morning. A gentle wind whispered in the air and the dawn sky was an endless pale blue. All around him the colours of summer were now painted bright. Yellow Ulex gallii, its scent gentle in the dawn, the tiny pink heads of orchids blinking out from between the grasslands. Three days had passed since the storm, and, although he sensed a change in the air, a hint of more rain to come, there was not a cloud to be seen.

He turned to face the sun. Arinius no longer kneeled to pray, but rather stood with his arms outstretched and his face lifted to heaven. He thought of his brother monks observing Lauds in the cool grey spaces of the community in Lugdunum and did not envy them their confinement.

‘In the morning, Lord, I offer you my prayer.’

He no longer needed the tolling of the bell in the forum to remind him of his obligations. Now, after his months alone with God, Arinius spoke words of his own devising. He gave thanks for the new day, for his safe delivery through the storm, for the sanctuary of the gentle and hospitable land in which he found himself.

‘Amen,’ he said, making the sign of the cross with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Amen.’

When his offices were over, Arinius went back inside to fetch his bag. He broke his fast with the victuals he had purchased in Couzanium: a portion of wheaten bread ground with millet, a handful of walnuts, washed down with the posca infused with the memory of the wine he had bought from the merchant. The iridescent glass glinted in the morning sunlight, reflecting blue and green and silver.

The young monk sat and looked out across the valley. At the earth slashed through with red iron ore on the hills on the far side of the river, the expanse of grassland and woods. The land was evidently rich with fruit and nuts and, last night’s storm notwithstanding, it seemed to be a tranquil place to rest a while. To prepare for the final stage of his journey into the mountains.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Arinius decided to prepare his writing materials. He did not want to carry his tools into the mountains, only those things he would need for the journey. He got out the square of spun wool he had purchased in the travelling market in Couzanium and spread the yellow-white yarn flat on the ground. Grasping the iron handle of his hunting knife, he began to cut the fabric into squares.

It was hard and repetitive work. He felt the sweat pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat and on the back of his neck. The muscles at the top of his arm and in his shoulders began to complain, to ache. From time to time he paused to add another cut section to the pile, before returning to the diminishing square of fabric.

Finally, he had finished. He stood up to stretch his legs, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He drank the last of the posca, ate another portion of bread, then gathered his basket to go out in search of the materials he required for the next stage of the operation. In the community in Lugdunum, Arinius had been taught to create a form of ink, a mixture of iron salt and nutgall, and a gum from pine resin. He hoped in this valley to be able to find everything he needed. The liquid looked blue-black when it was first used, but quickly faded to a pale brown. He also needed to find the right sort of feather to fashion a crude reed pen. In the past he had tried crow’s feathers and those of geese, but through trial and error had discovered that blackbirds’ feathers were the easiest to use.

With the Codex still carried beneath his tunic, and his leather bag over his shoulder once more, Arinius ventured out into the valley to find what he needed.

Chapter 70

COUSTAUSSA

AUGUST 1942

Sandrine took the shopping list Monsieur Baillard had written and cycled down to Couiza. The storm had cleared the air and the morning was fresh and pleasant. A few clouds, the trees green and glistening on the horizon, the sky an endless blue. The sort of day one remembers.

Marieta seemed none the worse for her ordeal, but Sandrine wanted to let Marianne know what had happened all the same. By ten o’clock she was again standing in a slow-moving queue in the post office. Although the phone rang in the rue du Palais, no one answered. It meant she would have to try again.

On her way out, she stopped in front of the poster. Raoul’s face stared blindly at her. Stay away, she whispered under her breath, even though before she’d been desperate for him to come to Coustaussa.

‘Villainous-looking creature,’ a woman said.

‘Do you think so?’ replied Sandrine, keeping her voice steady.

She went to each of the shops in turn, then pushed her heavily laden bicycle home, past gardens filled with vegetables beneath wire cages guarded by old women. No one grew flowers any more, only food to eat. Past the electricity substation. The door was ajar, revealing the white porcelain shields protecting the connectors on the upper storey, like a row of upturned vases.

It was hotter now and there was little shade on the steepest part of the hill. Sandrine turned over in her mind the many things Monsieur Baillard had told her. While he was talking, she had accepted everything he said without question. Now, in the bright light of a summer’s morning, the whole conversation seemed like a dream.

A ghost army?

Of course she didn’t believe it was real, couldn’t believe it was real. But did he? Sandrine wasn’t sure.

Even after a few hours’ acquaintance, she understood how Monsieur Baillard gave the same weight to stories of antiquity as he did to those things that had happened yesterday or the day before that. But whatever he believed, the consequences of the hunt for the Codex, on both sides, were real enough.

She cleared the crest of the hill, then stopped and looked around, casting her eye to each of the four points of the compass. Rennes-les-Bains to the south-east, Couiza to the west, the turrets and towers of Carcassonne many kilometres to the north, out of sight. And ahead, Coustaussa. From this distance, everything looked as it always had. She’d been to Paris once, to Toulouse and to Narbonne, but no further than that. These were the foundations on which her life was built.

If Monsieur Baillard was right and the Nazis crossed the line, the tranquillity of the valley would be lost for ever. Of the Aude. She would not let that happen. She would fight to stop it happening.

‘Live free or die,’ she said, remembering the placard the old veteran had carried at the Bastille Day demonstration.

It seemed a lifetime ago. Sandrine understood what was at stake now. She understood what it meant to resist. Whether she was here in Coustaussa, or back in Carcassonne with Marianne and Suzanne. With Raoul.

Last night she had listened and listened to what Monsieur Baillard was telling her. Now her mind buzzed with questions, like flies in a jar, one question above all others. Monsieur Baillard had said the Codex had been called upon once before. More than a thousand years ago.

Was it true? And if it was, what had happened to the Codex over the intervening years? Lost again? Now to be found once more? Despite the heat of noon, Sandrine felt goosebumps prickling on her skin.

‘Vivre libre ou mourir,’ she repeated.

Chapter 71

LIMOUX

Raoul Pelletier ran his hands over his chin, uncomfortable in the heat. He’d not shaved since leaving Carcassonne because the beard and moustache disguised the shape of his face. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do, especially since he’d seen a poster asking for information, with a huge reward being offered. He’d been expecting it for weeks, was surprised that it was the first he’d seen. Although he looked different after three weeks of living rough, if someone put their mind to it, he’d be recognised. So far as he knew, at least there hadn’t been anything on the wireless since the end of July.

Raoul was sitting in the café by Les Halles in Limoux, with a clear view of the front door of the Hôtel Moderne et Pigeon. Local résistants used the hotel as a safe house and he had been told there was someone who might give him a ride south. The man he was looking out for was Spanish, a comrade of Ramón with whom he’d stayed in Roullens three weeks ago.

He had bought the morning edition of La Dépêche. It was a Pétainist publication, but it served his purpose. He flicked through the paper, glancing up at the door to the hotel, which remained stubbornly closed. As he looked back down, his attention was drawn by a STOP PRESS item on the inside back page.

TRAGIC CLIMBING ACCIDENT

It is with great regret that we report that the body of a local man, identified as Monsieur Antoine Déjean – originally of Tarascon – has been found in a gully to the north of the village of Larnat, in Ariège.

Raoul turned cold. From the moment he’d found Sandrine clutching Antoine’s necklace at the river, he had expected this. But the black and white reality of it still hit him.

Monsieur Déjean’s body was discovered by a poacher, who alerted the appropriate authorities. Retired Inspecteur Pujol, formerly of the gendarmerie in Foix, hypothesised that the young man had lost his footing and fallen. The extent of his injuries were such that it appeared he had died instantly some weeks previously. When asked if Monsieur Déjean might have been investigating the caves for some illegal purpose, Inspecteur Pujol replied in the negative. ‘Although it is the case that Lombrives caves and other adjacent sites have become the unfortunate focus for unscrupulous treasure-hunters and cultists, there is no evidence to suggest that Monsieur Déjean was involved with any such group.’

Raoul glanced up again. No one was going in or out of the hotel. He continued reading.

Monsieur Déjean, who was unmarried, was a resident of Carcassonne and worked for Artozouls, the hunting and fishing suppliers. The funeral will be held at ten o’clock on Wednesday 19 August at the Église de la Daurade, Tarascon. No flowers by request.

In his pocket, Raoul’s fingers tightened around the handkerchief containing the tiny bottle he’d retrieved from Antoine’s apartment. It had become an habitual action on his part, a talisman almost.

At last, he heard the door of the hotel open and a dark-haired man, matching the description of the man he was waiting for, came out. Raoul dropped the newspaper on the table, quickly crossed the street and fell into step beside him.

‘Le temps est bouché à l’horizon.’

The slightest nod, to indicate that the password had been heard and accepted.

‘Where do you need to go, compañero?’ the Spaniard replied, without breaking his stride.

‘Banyuls,’ Raoul began to say, then he stopped. The newspaper article changed things. He was now convinced that Leo Coursan – with Laval’s help – was responsible for Antoine’s abduction and murder. If he was right, Sandrine was in danger. His intention had been to stay as far away from her as possible, not to drag her into his situation. But now he realised he couldn’t leave.

‘On second thoughts, Coustaussa,’ he said.

‘I can take you to Couiza. Two kilometres from there?’

‘Sí gracias.’

The man nodded. ‘Red van at end of alley. BONFILS on the side. We leave in fifteen minutes.’

CARCASSONNE

‘Did you know about this, Laval?’ said Authié, pushing the copy of La Dépêche towards him.

‘I’ve seen it, sir.’

‘What the hell’s Bauer playing at? How could he be so incompetent as to dispose of the body where it would be found so soon?’

‘There have been storms in the Haute Vallée, perhaps that caused a mud slide. Disturbed the grave.’

Authié realised it was close to where de l’Oradore’s excavation had been three years previously. Was that deliberate or another unfortunate coincidence?

‘What’s Bauer got to say about it?’ he demanded.

‘I have not spoken to him,’ Laval said in a level voice.

Authié stared at his deputy, hearing something in his tone, then dropped his eyes back to the newspaper.

‘Who’s this Inspector Pujol?’

‘A retired local policeman.’

‘One of ours?’

Laval shook his head. ‘The opposite, sir. Sympathies are with the partisans.’

‘Why was he called rather than a serving officer?’

‘The locals trust him. They don’t like the authorities. A place like Tarascon, people stick to their own kind.’

‘Like the Middle Ages. It’s ridiculous,’ Authié snapped. He looked back at the article. ‘According to this, the death’s being treated as a climbing accident. Do people believe that?’

‘From what little I’ve been able to gather. Do you want me to go back to Tarascon, sir?’

Authié considered. ‘On balance, it’s a good idea,’ he said eventually. ‘I’ll put someone else on surveillance of the Vidal house for the time being. What’s happening there?’

‘It continues the same, sir. The tall woman, Suzanne Peyre, is often there. Mademoiselle Vidal spends most of her time at the Croix-Rouge in rue de Verdun, then returns home in the evenings. No sign of the younger girl or the housekeeper.’

‘Lucie Ménard?’

‘I haven’t seen her at all.’

Authié glanced again at the paper. ‘Go to Tarascon today, Laval. Report back as soon as you can. I intend to go myself on Wednesday, but I want information before that.’

‘Wednesday?’

‘The funeral,’ he said impatiently. ‘It will be a good opportunity to take the measure of things for myself.’ He paused again, then raised his eyes and looked at Laval standing on the other side of the desk. ‘As regards Bauer, I think the arrangement has run its course. Not until after Wednesday, but then I need you to act. You understand me?’

Laval met his gaze. ‘Yes, sir.’

COUIZA

The Tramontana was stirring up the dust outside the railway station when Raoul walked into Couiza. He couldn’t see any police checking papers, but even so he didn’t want to risk going into the station to ask for directions to Coustaussa. But road signs had been taken down in 1939, and he didn’t want to waste his time striking out in the wrong direction. He noticed the door to the tabac on the far side of the square was open.

There was a man in front of him complaining about the length of the queues in the post office. He turned, half knocked into Raoul, then frowned. He exchanged a look with the tobacconist, looked hard at Raoul, then left quickly. Raoul told himself not to read anything into it, it was just one of those things. Small towns like this, all strangers were treated with suspicion.

‘Do you have tobacco to buy?’ he said. ‘Cigarettes?’

‘Rations only.’

‘Not for cash?’

The tobacconist looked at him. ‘I can’t help.’

Raoul shrugged. ‘A box of matches anyway,’ he said, handing over a note. ‘And if you could point me in the direction of Coustaussa.’

The tobacconist looked at him. ‘New around here?’

‘Passing through.’

He came out from behind his counter. ‘Right out of the door. Long road with trees. You’ll see Coustaussa on the hill, left-hand side.’

The tobacconist stood in the doorway, watching him go. Raoul felt his eyes on the back of his neck. He looked back in time to see the man turn the sign on the door to CLOSED, leave the tabac and cross the square in the opposite direction.

Already Raoul regretted mentioning Coustaussa, but he told himself he was making something out of nothing. He found an unmade path running parallel to the main road running east. Bicycle tracks suggested someone had taken the same route earlier, a single line snaking up towards the village. He hadn’t seen a single patrol, but he’d be less visible away in this quiet neighbourhood. Small houses with neat back gardens, neither quite in the town nor properly in the countryside.

Raoul tried to bring Sandrine’s face to mind. She’d been his constant companion over the past three weeks, snapshots of their brief time together carried in his head like treasured photographs in an album. But today, it didn’t work. His memories were less strong than the twist of fear in his stomach. What if Coursan had already tracked Sandrine down in Carcassonne? His fault. What if she was in Coustaussa, but was horrified to see him? She’d had three weeks to regret the invitation, more than three weeks when anything might have happened.

In the distance, Raoul heard the thrum of an engine. His reactions sharpened. A car driving in the same direction he was walking. Thoughts about the future gave way to the needs of the present. He glanced around, but there was nowhere obvious to hide. Gardens, the open track, few trees for cover. Then he noticed, a little way ahead, a small, squat building, an electricity substation.

He sped up, covering the last few metres quickly, and stepped into the shadow of the building, moments before a police car appeared on the track behind him. Sending gravel skidding, the tyres crunching on the rough surface, disappearing in a cloud of dust on the road leading up to Coustaussa. Raoul leant back against the whitewashed wall, his heart thudding in his chest, remembering the sharp eyes of the customer in the tabac and the glance he’d exchanged with the owner. He’d no way of knowing whether they’d recognised him or simply reported him because he was a stranger in a town that did not welcome outsiders. He looked down at his clothes, dirty from the road, remembered his unshaven, sun-worn face.

Should he go on? The police car was heading in the same direction. Was he a coward to contemplate turning back or simply being prudent?

He looked back at the houses on the outskirts of Couiza, trying to decide what to do. Then he turned and looked along the empty road. There was a slight trace of dust still hanging in the air, whipped up by the tyres. The memory of sitting side by side in the garden of the rue du Palais came back to him. How when he’d described standing on the jetty in Banyuls, being too much of a coward to jump, Sandrine had said she thought it took more courage to go on than to give up.

He carried on walking.

Chapter 72

COUSTAUSSA

‘How do you feel now?’ Sandrine said, joining Monsieur Baillard and Marieta on the terrace.

‘I would feel better if everyone stopped fussing,’ Marieta said, though she didn’t look like she really minded.

‘Doctor’s orders,’ Sandrine smiled. ‘We’re not going to let you lift a finger.’

‘Doctors, what do they know?’ she said gruffly. ‘Now, did you speak to Madomaisèla Marianne?’

The smile slipped from Sandrine’s face. ‘No, as a matter of fact. No one there. I’ll go back later. She doesn’t even know what happened to you and . . .’ She stopped. ‘I’d like to be sure everything’s all right.’

‘And why wouldn’t it be?’ Marieta said sharply.

‘No reason. It’s just odd that there wasn’t anyone there again, that’s all.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s Liesl?’

‘She went to call on Madame Rousset,’ Baillard replied. ‘Her son – Yves, is it? – came for her.’

Sandrine grinned. ‘Did he indeed?’

She put her panier down on the table. ‘I got everything you asked for, Monsieur Baillard. And this package they had put by for you in the bookshop, as you’d asked.’ She took a parcel wrapped in brown paper from the basket. ‘There was more in the shops than I’d expected. It’s not like that in Carcassonne.’

Baillard slit the string with a knife and opened the package, then nodded with satisfaction.

‘Yes, this will do.’

‘What is it?’

‘It is a stock of paper they were keeping for me. Nowhere near old enough, of course but, with modification, I think it will pass.’

‘The bookshop owner said she had been keeping it for you for some time, but how is that—’

‘It was kind of her to remember,’ Baillard said, forestalling Sandrine’s question. He put his hand on Marieta’s shoulder. ‘Do you need anything, amica, otherwise, if you will beg our patience, Madomaisèla Sandrine and I have things to discuss.’

‘Go, go,’ she smiled, making a shooing motion with her hands. ‘I will be quite all right.’

Sandrine picked up her basket and she and Baillard carried everything into the house and unpacked it. As well as provisions and several sheets of woven cream paper, there was a heavy bottle of sirop, a bottle of Indian ink and a horsehair brush.

‘So do you know who murdered Antoine, Monsieur Baillard?’

‘No, not for certain,’ he said. ‘Over the past twenty years or so there has been a great deal of activity in the area around the caves of Lombrives and the Pic de Vicdessos. All such licences were rescinded when war was declared but, once the Armistice was signed, several expeditions returned. A French team funded by the head of an old Chartres family – a man called de l’Oradore – among them. But Antoine’s father said the man asking after his son was German, so . . .’ He shrugged.

‘Surely there can’t be German teams allowed here now?’

‘Not officially, of course, but unofficially, I think it’s probable,’ Baillard replied. ‘The question is whether they are collaborating with one another or working independently.’ He thought for a moment. ‘It is common knowledge that the Ahnenerbe are in the region.’

‘What’s the Ahnenerbe?’

Baillard’s face hardened. ‘An organisation dedicated to finding evidence validating Nazi beliefs of an Aryan race. To that end they have archaeologists all over the world searching for artefacts, for religious texts.’

He broke off and Sandrine saw his amber eyes darken, as if some other, more powerful story had claimed his attention. Then he waved his hand, chasing away his memories.

‘Antoine was friends with a young German, Otto Rahn, who lived at Montségur for some time. A young man in search of meaning. Rahn believed he had found it here, in the Pays d’Oc. Flattered into joining the SS, he was coerced into feeding information back to Berlin.’ The thought lines furrowed deeper on his forehead. ‘It is my intention to do the same, except of course the information we will provide will be false.’

Sandrine looked at the antique paper, then suddenly understood Baillard’s odd shopping list.

‘You’re going to create a forgery,’ she said.

He smiled, clearly pleased she had worked it out so quickly.

‘And put out that it’s been found in order to flush out Antoine’s killers . . .’ She paused. ‘Or . . . to leave you free to search unhindered for the real Codex? Is that it?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘So you do believe it survived,’ she murmured. ‘I wasn’t certain if you did.’

Sandrine looked down at the materials on the table. ‘But can you really make something convincing enough to persuade an expert?’

‘I think I can do well enough for our immediate purposes. Why Antoine’s body has been found now, whether it was deliberate or unintended, I do not know. However, I think matters will accelerate because of it. I have a contact in Toulouse who will help, a leading French expert on ancient manuscripts and documents in the Languedoc. He will verify its authenticity.’

‘But if you’re right, and it’s Nazi money behind this – or even a mixture of French and German – surely they’ll send it to their own experts? However cleverly you produce the forgery, it’s obviously not parchment or papyrus, or whatever the real Codex was made of.’

‘Eventually they will send it to the Ahnenerbe, yes. But they will not wish to run the risk of drawing Reichsführer Himmler’s attention to it until they are completely certain it is genuine.’

Sandrine thought for a moment, but since she realised she would go along with whatever plan Monsieur Baillard put in place anyway, she then sat down and folded her arms on the table.

‘What do you need me to do?’

Baillard stared at her. ‘This is not a game, madomaisèla,’ he said sternly. ‘You cannot be under any illusions. If you become involved with this deception, you put yourself in danger. You understand this?’

Sandrine thought of Antoine’s desperate face, the weight of his body as she dragged him to the riverbank, the words he had fought so hard to say.

‘I’m already involved, Monsieur Baillard,’ she said quietly. ‘So, tell me what I can do.’

She saw his eyes soften.

‘What?’ she said quickly. ‘What is it?’

He smiled. ‘Nothing, filha. It is merely that you remind me of someone.’

‘Léonie, yes,’ Sandrine said. ‘Marieta mentioned her yesterday. She thought I was her, I think.’

Baillard shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking of Léonie.’

‘Then who?’

For an instant, she thought he hadn’t heard. He sat so still, his hands resting flat on the table, not a muscle moving. Then he gave a long and weary sigh.

‘Alaïs,’ he said finally. ‘Her name was Alaïs.’

Chapter 73

TARASCON

The two men stood beside Bauer’s car outside the railway station in Tarascon. Laval’s motorbike was parked in the shadow of the trees a little further away. There were freight deliveries coming in and the station was busier than usual. No one noticed them.

Laval handed over the file on Marianne Vidal – with additional information on Lucie Ménard and Sandrine Vidal – then reported what had taken place since Bauer and Authié’s meeting at the cimetière Saint-Michel.

‘Pelletier has the key?’

Laval shrugged. ‘Sanchez had no idea.’

The German looked down at the file in his hand. ‘Herr Authié told me he thought the girl was not involved. He was lying?’

‘No, that was his opinion then. Subsequently he has reconsidered.’

‘You are certain she cannot identify you.’

‘Yes.’

Bauer stared at him. ‘Do you think Déjean said anything to her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You have spoken to this girl?’

‘No. As soon as we’d identified her, the house in Carcassonne was put under surveillance. She isn’t there, though her sister is. Authié’s trying to find her.’

‘And this Pelletier?’

‘We’re still looking for him.’

‘What about the Jew and his girlfriend?’

‘Blum is in Le Vernet. Lucie Ménard is in Carcassonne. She was the one who identified Sandrine Vidal for us.’

Bauer frowned. ‘In my absence, two of my men were arrested and taken there also. Do you know anything about this incident?’

‘I wasn’t in Tarascon when it happened, Herr Bauer.’

Bauer waved his hand impatiently. ‘You hear things, Laval.’

Laval shrugged. ‘As I heard it, they were indiscreet. Got into a fight in a bar over a girl. The local police, unaware of their privileged status, arrested them.’

‘I shall expect Authié to expedite their release.’

Laval nodded. ‘I will make sure he is appraised of the situation.’ He could see Bauer suspected some kind of sleight of hand, but was struggling to work out what it was.

‘Herr Authié has returned to Carcassonne?’

‘On Tuesday,’ Laval replied. ‘He’s suspicious.’

‘Of you?’

‘Of you, Bauer. He thinks you intended Déjean’s body to be found.’

‘That’s absurd.’ Bauer’s pupils dilated slightly. ‘Has he any reason for thinking so?’

Laval held his gaze. ‘Not from me. I can’t answer for your men.’

‘They know how to hold their tongues.’

‘The guards in Le Vernet can be persuasive.’

‘They will not talk.’

Laval paused, then said: ‘Did you intend Déjean to be found?’

‘Of course I did not,’ Bauer snapped. He dabbed again at his neck, which was glistening with sweat. ‘A poacher was using dynamite for setting traps. It caused the land to give way.’

‘It was a coincidence that you buried the body where the French team was working.’

Bauer didn’t answer.

‘It’s what Authié thinks.’

‘It is none of your concern, Laval,’ Bauer said, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth. ‘You are in the business of buying and selling information. That is the limit of your interest.’

He put his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘It is as agreed.’

Laval slit open the package with his bone-handled clasp knife and counted the notes. He was not unhappy with the situation. It was easy to fan Bauer’s suspicions about Authié’s reliability. The less they trusted one another, the better for him in the long run. He put the knife back on his belt and looked up to see Bauer staring at him.

‘I do not either like or trust Authié,’ Bauer said, ‘but I do understand him. You, Laval, your motivation is not clear to me.’

‘Nothing to understand, Herr Bauer,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You claim to act out of duty to your masters in Berlin, that you’re following orders. Authié claims to act in the name of faith. You both make pretence of higher motives to justify what you are doing. You are both prepared to torture, to kill, to do anything to get what you want.’ Laval put the envelope in his pocket. ‘I, at least, am not a hypocrite.’

Chapter 74

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine and Audric Baillard looked up at the sound of the knocking at the door, both immediately alert. The evidence of their labours – paper, a dish filled with castor oil and hair dye, ink, old tallow wax candles and a box of matches – covered the table.

Sandrine didn’t expect trouble in Coustaussa, but her stomach lurched all the same.

‘Do you want me to go?’ called Liesl from the terrace. She had come back from visiting the Roussets in a cheerful mood.

‘Best if I do,’ Sandrine answered, standing up.

Without appearing to hurry, Baillard gathered up the things and carried them across the room. Sandrine opened the sideboard, moved a couple of boxes to one side to make space, then helped him put everything away out of sight.

‘I shall sit with Marieta,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it’s only a neighbour,’ said Sandrine, though she felt nervous as she walked along the corridor to the front door. In the old days, it always stood open. Now, they kept it closed.

Marieta’s Bible was still lying on the hall table. Sandrine’s hand hovered over it, suddenly tempted to look inside. She traced her fingers over the battered leather cover, rough beneath her skin, then jumped at three more heavy blows on the door.

‘All right, all right,’ she muttered under her breath.

Cross with herself for being so edgy, she covered the last few steps quickly and pulled open the door more forcefully than she intended.

‘Mademoiselle.’

Sandrine felt the air had been sucked from her lungs. For a split second she struggled to catch her breath, staring at the uniforms, the police car in the empty street behind. What did they want? Why were they here? She didn’t recognise either of the officials, though she supposed they came from Couiza.

She forced herself to smile, not to shake. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’

To her own ears her voice sounded unnaturally high, but they didn’t seem to notice.

‘We have reason to believe a fugitive is in the vicinity and heading for Coustaussa,’ the younger man said. ‘We’re here to warn residents.’

‘Have you seen any strangers in the village?’ the older man demanded. ‘It’s your duty to report anything suspicious.’

Sandrine had to stop herself from laughing out loud. They hadn’t come for Liesl or to question her about the false papers. Nothing to do with them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’

‘The man in question has dark hair and a beard, wearing a brown trilby hat.’

Sandrine gave a jolt as a thought scuttled across her mind, but it was gone before she could catch hold of it.

The older officer narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you seen anyone fitting that description, mademoiselle?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Sandrine said. ‘It’s so hot, we’ve been inside all afternoon.’

‘We?’

Sandrine quickly tried to decide what to say. Should she mention Monsieur Baillard? Liesl? Marianne had counselled her to stick as close to the truth as possible, whilst at the same time saying nothing more than was needed.

‘Our housekeeper, Marieta, is here. She’s in her sixties and had a heart scare a few days ago. She’s under doctor’s orders to stay as quiet as possible. One of Marieta’s oldest friends is sitting with her, and my cousin, that’s it.’ She carried on talking, before they could ask to speak to the others in person. ‘It’s kind of you to warn us, but I wonder how you knew this man is heading for Coustaussa?’

‘He asked for directions in the tabac in Couiza. The owner was suspicious and informed us.’

‘I see,’ said Sandrine, making a mental note to avoid the tabac in the future. ‘How fortunate the owner was on his guard.’

‘Keep your doors locked, mademoiselle,’ the younger man advised.

‘And if you or anyone else in your household sees anything, contact us immediately. Do not approach him. Pelletier is dangerous.’

Sandrine felt the ground drop from under her. She swayed slightly on her feet, letting her shoulder lean against the solid door frame.

‘Are you all right, mademoiselle?’

She fanned herself with her hand. ‘Just the heat, it’s so . . . And of course, it’s frightening to think of someone so close by. We’re quite isolated here.’

She forced herself to stand still as he nodded and they walked down the steps and got back into the car. Forced herself to listen as they fired the engine and pulled away, heading on towards Cassaignes. Everything in slow motion as she slowly and carefully stepped back inside and closed the door.

Only then did her shaking legs give way. She leant back against the wall, her heart galloping, her skin flushed cold and hot at the same time. It was the worst news. The police were hunting Raoul. Someone had informed on him. He was heading for Coustaussa. Then, she couldn’t help it. She put her hand over her mouth. The worst of news, yes, but also the very best news. What she’d been desperate to know for the past three weeks. That Raoul was alive, that they hadn’t caught him yet. She started to smile.

And that he was here. Heading for Coustaussa.

Raoul stopped. The heat hung heavy over the fields, the sun blazed down brutal and remorseless. The wind shimmered through the fields of wheat at the top of the hill, making the dry stalks whisper. He pulled a bottle of water from his rucksack and drank enough to take the edge off his thirst, then splashed the rest of the water into his hands and on to his face and neck.

He cleared the brow of the hill and saw the stone shepherds’ huts from the photographs on the stairs at the rue du Palais. He stopped. In the distance he could hear the engine of a car, somewhere across the valley. The police coming back? He stepped into the shade of one of the capitelles, listening and waiting until the sound died away, going in the opposite direction. He looked back the way he’d come, down to the main road. No one, nothing, for as far as the eye could see.

Raoul stepped back on to the road, then heard an older, more timeless sound. He held back until a young man leading a donkey and cart came into view at the brow of the hill. Dark-haired, with an open shirt and corduroy trousers and a red handkerchief tied at his neck, he didn’t look the type to cause trouble. Not police.

Raoul hesitated, then decided to risk it. He’d attract more attention ambling around the village looking for the house. Better to take a chance.

He nodded a greeting. ‘I’m looking for the Vidal house. Do you know it?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘A friend,’ Raoul said lightly. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’

The young man continued to stare at him, sizing him up. Raoul waited, keeping his expression neutral, letting him come to his own decision in his own time.

‘Carry on down into the village,’ the young man said eventually, ‘right into rue de la Condamine, then straight on. Set back on its own.’

‘Thanks,’ Raoul started to say, but he’d already walked on.

He found the house easily enough. The incongruous gargoyle door knocker, the yellow-painted woodwork. A riot of geraniums ran wild in the window boxes, red and white, their heads rather battered by the wind. Raoul tucked himself into the shadow of a barn across the road from the house and waited. He saw no signs of life, no indication that anyone was keeping watch, but he had to be sure.

He was also building up his courage. At this moment, there was still hope. Hope that Sandrine was here in Coustaussa, hope that she would be pleased to see him. As soon as he lifted his hand and knocked on the door, he’d know for certain one way or the other.

He took a deep breath. Then, keeping his head down, he walked quickly out of the cover of the barn and up the steps to Sandrine’s house.

Sandrine, Liesl, Marieta and Baillard heard the knock from the back terrace.

‘Is it them?’ Liesl said with panic in her voice. ‘Have they come back?’

‘No,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘Why would they be back so soon? In any case, even if it is the police, there’s nothing for you to worry about. They’re not looking for you, Liesl, I promise.’

‘I’m going upstairs,’ said Liesl, slipping out of her chair and running into the house.

‘Liesl, really, it’s not necessary . . .’ Sandrine began to say, but the girl had already gone.

‘Let her go,’ Monsieur Baillard said. ‘There is nothing you will be able to say to reassure her. Better she should feel safe.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Sandrine replied, trying not to let Liesl’s fears get into her bones too.

For the second time in an hour, Sandrine walked back through the house, queasy with nerves, and opened the door.

She stopped. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped. Like the shutter on a camera imprinting one precise, unique, moment.

His skin was darker, a beard, and his hair was longer, but it was him.

‘Raoul,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Raoul.’

Nothing more needed to be said. Sandrine saw the anxiety vanish from his face, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and he smiled. The same crooked smile she’d carried as a keepsake next to her heart every day since he’d left.

‘If I was stuck, you said to come.’ He raised his arms, then let them fall back by his sides. ‘So, here I am.’

Chapter 75

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.’

Chapter 76

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.’

Chapter 77

CARCASSONNE

‘May I come in?’

Marianne stared at Lucie. Her blonde hair was immaculate and her red lipstick perfectly applied, but she was a shadow of the bright, vivacious girl she had been. She was also holding a suitcase.

‘Oh Lucie,’ she sighed wearily. ‘I don’t want to argue.’

‘Please, Marianne, I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

Marianne could see Lucie had done her best to disguise the fact she’d been crying. But her eyes were red and swollen and the powder failed to disguise how pale she was. Marianne was still angry, but their years of friendship pulled at her heart strings. With a sigh, she leant forward and took the suitcase from Lucie’s hand and drew her inside.

‘What’s happened now?’ she said.

‘My father’s back.’

‘Oh,’ Marianne said. She put the suitcase down at the foot of the stairs, then linked her arm through Lucie’s. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve got apples stewing on the stove.’

‘Wherever did you get apples?’

Marianne didn’t reply. ‘Sit down, I’ll be done in a moment.’

Lucie took off her hat and gloves. ‘They smell delicious.’

Marianne continued to stir, the wooden spoon banging against the metal side of the saucepan.

‘I found a little cooking brandy Marieta had squirrelled away at the back of the larder,’ she said.

Lucie waited patiently while she took the pan off the heat, covered it with muslin cloth, then left it to stand on the dresser.

‘So,’ Marianne said. ‘Your father.’

Lucie nodded. ‘He and six other POWs arrived in Carcassonne yesterday. I’d forgotten what it was like. Tiptoeing around him, trying to second-guess his mood.’

‘What happened?’

‘At lunchtime he went to find some of his old LVF buddies at the Café Edouard. No doubt to boast about how tough he was, how he’d survived being in prison, how he ran rings around the guards.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Well, of course everyone wanted to buy him a drink, and so . . .’ Lucie shrugged.

‘Someone said something about Max?’

‘Your neighbour,’ Lucie said, jerking her head in the direction of the house next door. ‘What’s he called?’

‘Fournier.’

‘That’s right. They got talking and Fournier said something about how ashamed my father must be . . .’ Lucie broke off. ‘Well, you can imagine. The next thing, he was storming back into the house, shouting at my mother, demanding to know if it’s true.’

‘Lord,’ Marianne said softly, taking her hand.

‘My mother tried to calm him down, told him I was out, but he was in no mood to listen. She cut her head on the corner of the cupboard, but she stuck up for me.’ She stopped. ‘For once, Marianne, my mother stuck up for me. Told him it was gossip. That I’d hardly left the house for weeks.’ She paused again. ‘When he demanded to know where I was, she said I’d gone to the market.’

‘Did he believe her?’

Lucie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He was so drunk, he could barely stand up. I could hear him banging into the furniture. I stayed in the bathroom, praying he wouldn’t be able to get up the stairs. I knew he’d pass out eventually. Once I heard him snoring, I crept out and my mother told me to go before he woke up.’ She looked at Marianne, tears brimming in her eyes. ‘I packed and came here. I’m sorry.’

‘Are you saying that she’s turned you out for good?’

‘It’s him or me,’ Lucie said. ‘It’s always been that way. What’s she to do?’

‘Oh, Lucie.’

‘I know you don’t want me here, I know you hate me at the moment. But I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘I don’t hate you, you little fool,’ Marianne said, ‘I just . . .’

She stopped. There was no point going over it all again.

‘I did try to telephone to warn you about Captain Authié. I was telling the truth. And I swear I didn’t tell him anything else. He’s going to help me, I know he’ll keep his word.’

Marianne swallowed a sigh, realising Lucie was determined to hold on to the only chance she thought she had. She got up, went to the larder and poured two small glasses of red wine.

‘Still no news about Max then?’ she said.

Lucie shook her head. ‘I have no rights, I’m not his wife or a relation. No one will tell me anything.’ She glanced at Marianne, then let her gaze slide back to her lap. ‘Captain Authié is the only person, the only one who’s offered to help at all. And I have to know how Max is, I have to. That everything’s going to be all right.’

‘It will be,’ Marianne said mechanically, knowing the odds were against it. Every day the news was worse. ‘It might take a little time, but we will find out what’s happening.’

‘That’s the thing,’ Lucie said desperately. ‘I don’t have time.’

‘Of course you do. We’ll find out why Max has been arrested, and then you can at least write to him. I know it’s dreadful waiting, but a few days here or there won’t make any difference.’

Lucie shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

Lucie drew in her breath. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ Marianne sat back in her chair. ‘I see.’

‘We were careful. I don’t understand how it happened.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, then, ‘Does Max know?’

She shook her head. ‘I wanted him to be the first to know.’ She looked up. ‘We wanted to get married, you know we did, but . . . he didn’t want to put me at risk. He was thinking of me.’

‘Do you think your mother guessed?’

‘I have been dreadfully sick.’

‘Perhaps she was thinking of you after all.’

‘Maybe.’

They heard the kitchen door open and Suzanne came in from the garden. She looked at Lucie with surprise, then put her hand on Marianne’s shoulder.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Lucie’s pregnant,’ Marianne replied.

‘What!’ said Suzanne.

‘Her father’s back and Fournier told him she’d been seen out with Max. She came here to get away from him.’

‘I’ve nowhere else to go,’ Lucie said.

Suzanne folded her arms and leant back against the dresser. ‘You can’t stay here. Fournier’s next door and his sister’s always at the window, snooping and passing on information.’

Lucie rubbed her face with her handkerchief. ‘But what am I going to do? No one can know.’

Marianne and Suzanne exchanged glances. Suzanne shrugged. ‘It’s up to you,’ she said.

Marianne thought for a moment, then she sighed.

‘Lucie, listen. I’ve heard nothing from Sandrine, and that’s unlike her. And she needs to know that someone’s looking for her. I sent a telegram, but we were thinking of going to see if things are all right.’

For a moment, hurt shone in Lucie’s eyes. ‘You were going to go without telling me?’

‘Do you blame us?’ Suzanne said sharply.

‘But I . . .’ she began, then shook her head. ‘No, I suppose I don’t.’ She paused. ‘When were you going to go?’

‘As soon as we can,’ Marianne replied. ‘You’d better come with us. You’ll be safer there with Liesl and Marieta until . . .’

For a moment Lucie looked relieved, then her expression changed. ‘But if I leave Carcassonne,’ she said, anxiety mounting in her voice, ‘how will Captain Authié contact me when he gets permission for me to visit Max? I can’t leave.’

‘Lucie, stop,’ Marianne said sharply. ‘You’ve got to get it into your head that you can’t trust Authié. He only made the promise to get you to talk about Sandrine. He’s not on your side. Certainly not on Max’s side.’

‘But I’m not interested in politics,’ Lucie protested. ‘I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just want to get on with my life with Max, that’s all.’

‘Those days are gone. The occupation affects everything we do, whether you choose to accept it or not.’

Finally, tears began to roll down Lucie’s cheeks. ‘There must be something.’

‘You need to think of yourself now,’ Marianne said firmly. ‘Of the baby. That’s what Max would want you to do.’

‘How far gone are you?’ said Suzanne in her abrupt way.

‘Three months.’

She did the arithmetic. ‘Due in January.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Haven’t you seen a doctor?’

‘How can I?’ she wailed. ‘I’m not married. They’d want to know who the father is. I can’t.’

‘You don’t show,’ Suzanne said.

‘I haven’t been able to keep anything down for weeks.’

‘All the more reason to get you to the country,’ Marianne said. ‘A few weeks of Marieta’s cooking and you’ll be your old self. We’ll carry on trying to find out what’s happened to Max, without Authié’s help. You mustn’t worry any more.’

Lucie was picking at a thread of cotton on her sleeve, thinking about what to do. Marianne smiled. Lucie had always been the same. Holding any set of views passionately, but just as likely to turn round and do the precise opposite.

‘What do you say?’ she asked.

When Lucie raised her head, Marianne saw her eyes were now dry. ‘Would it help if I could get hold of a car?’ she asked.

Marianne looked at her, then at Suzanne, then burst out laughing.

Chapter 78

COUSTAUSSA

Sandrine and Raoul were in the woods beyond the Andrieu farm, with six empty glass jars, Raoul’s service revolver and some ammunition. Sandrine had tied her hair back off her face and was wearing an old shirt and a pair of slacks of her father’s, held up with a leather belt. Raoul’s hair was short – cut by Sandrine in the bathroom – and he’d shaved off his beard. He looked more like his old self, the face on the poster, but nothing like the man the Couiza police were looking for.

‘Bend your knees and set your feet further apart,’ he said. ‘No wider than your shoulders. The first rule of marksmanship is that the position and hold must be firm enough to support the weapon.’ He paused. ‘So, are you comfortable?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Raise your right arm, straight in front of you,’ he said. ‘The gun’s got to point naturally at the target. Otherwise the recoil will knock you off balance.’

‘It feels all right.’

‘Good. Now, close your left eye, focus with your right. Look down the barrel, through the sight. Make yourself breathe, slowly, in and out, get used to the position.’

‘Can I shoot?’

‘Be patient!’ he laughed. ‘This isn’t about firing a shotgun at a rabbit, whatever lessons those country boys might have taught you. It’s about precision, putting the bullet where you want it to go. About being patient.’

‘I am being patient,’ Sandrine protested.

He laughed again. ‘Now slowly, very slowly, squeeze your finger towards you; you’re gently pulling the trigger, not jerking at it. Squeeze it. Keep your eye all the time on the target, don’t look at anything else, just keep the target in your sight. Then, and only then, when you’re ready, shoot.’

Sandrine felt a strange calm go through her. The steady beating of her blood in her ears, an awareness of each of the muscles in her neck, her arm, connected all the way down to the tip of her right index finger on the metal trigger. She ceased to be aware of Raoul or that he was watching her. She exhaled, then, slowly, squeezed. At the last moment, the barrel jumped and the bullet went high.

Frustrated, she let her arm drop. ‘What happened?’ she said, cross with herself.

‘It’s what always happens to start with.’

‘It didn’t used to happen.’

‘A shotgun’s a very different weapon.’

‘I meant Yves’ father’s revolver, a souvenir of the war.’ She paused. ‘The last war, I mean.’

‘Who’s Yves?’

‘Just a boy from the village,’ she said quickly. ‘It was a long time ago.’

‘I see.’ Raoul looked at her. ‘The shot must be released and followed through without any change to your firing position. You anticipated the shot, so at the very last second you lost your aim.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘It’s a common mistake. You blink, your arm moves, the bullet misses its target.’

Raoul came round and stood close behind her, touching her shoulder, her elbow, moving her arm a little higher. Sandrine could feel his breath on her cheek, the sweet smell of soap and tobacco. She felt herself blush.

‘Now,’ Raoul said, once he was satisfied with her position. ‘Try again.’

Sandrine took aim. Determined to do it right, she counted down in her head, like swimming in the deeper part of the river at Rennes-les-Bains, slow and steady, breathing in, breathing out. This time, she squeezed the trigger and imagined the bullet shooting down the barrel and out. This time, the glass shattered.

‘There!’ she said with triumph, turning round to face him.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘We’ll make a marksman of you yet.’

‘Haven’t we practised enough?’ she said. ‘It makes me nervous being out here.’

He smiled. ‘There’s no one about.’

Raoul leant forward, aligning his arm with the length of hers. Now he was folding his hand over hers, helping her to raise the gun, her exact shadow. Heat flooded through her, making her aware of every inch of her skin, of his skin, of his breath on the back of her neck.

‘Now,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Try again.’

When the shadows were beginning to lengthen, Raoul and Sandrine returned to the house.

She put her head around the door into the salon. Liesl and Marieta were playing ‘vingt-et-un’. Marieta had more colour in her cheeks. Liesl seemed to have recovered from her attack of nerves. Sandrine went back into the hall.

‘I can’t find Monsieur Baillard,’ Raoul said, appearing at the end of the corridor. ‘I wanted to tell him about my star pupil.’ He took her hand and held it tight.

‘What is it?’ she said, feeling the urgency in his grasp.

‘I was going out of my mind at the thought of not seeing you again.’

Sandrine raised her hand to his cheek, and all the words, spoken and unspoken, shimmered in the air between them. Then, sharp, a glimpse of how life might have been. In different times, not these times, the vision of years of marriage and love and company. The smile slipped from her lips.

‘If something happened to you, I don’t think I could bear it,’ she said.

‘Nothing’s going to happen to me,’ he said.

‘You can’t say that.’

‘I can look after myself.’

Sandrine sat down at the bottom of the stairs. ‘When you were taking refugees across the border, when you were risking your life for people you didn’t even know, probably wouldn’t see again, what were you thinking?’

He sat down beside her. ‘Mostly you’re not thinking at all, only about where to sleep, where the next meal’s coming from, if there are police or patrols about.’

‘Were you scared?’

He laughed. ‘All the time. It’s how you survive. Fear keeps you on your guard, keeps you safe.’ He threaded her fingers through his. ‘You think about one day at a time. Today’s the only day that matters.’

‘And if things never change?’

‘They will,’ he said quickly. ‘They have to. We’ll keep fighting, more people will come over to our way of seeing things, we won’t . . .’ He stopped. ‘Things will get better, you’ll see.’

Sandrine looked at his serious, proud face, his restless eyes bright in his tanned face, then put her arm around his waist. Sensing a change in her, perhaps, Raoul felt suddenly awkward.

‘What?’ he said, nervous now.

Sandrine stood up and took a couple of steps up the stairs. ‘Today is what matters, that’s what you said.’

‘Yes . . .’

‘And you can’t say you’ll be all right, because you don’t know. We don’t know what will happen when the sun rises tomorrow.’

She kicked off her shoes, which fell clattering back down to the floor, then turned and walked up the narrow stairs, feeling his eyes on her. She didn’t know what she intended, not really. Only a voice in her head telling her how little time they might have.

Sandrine stopped, turned then. Looked back at him. Watched as Raoul ran his fingers over his hair, glanced at the shoes lying like an invitation on the floor, not sure what he was supposed to do.

She smiled. In slow motion, it seemed to her, he started to walk up the stairs, then faster, taking them two at a time, until he was standing in front of her.

‘Today is what matters,’ she said again.

Chapter 79

The sun was sinking down to earth, covering the garrigue in a golden light. Everything was sharp, outlined against the whitening sky.

Audric Baillard stood beside the largest of the capitelles, his hand resting on the stone, still warm from the heat of the day. He looked down the low wall that ran alongside the track back towards Coustaussa. Past the old holm oak, past the white walls of the outbuildings of the Andrieu farm, to the cemetery.

To the west, the ruins of the old château-fort. To the east, Arques and Rennes-les-Bains hidden in the green folds of the woods. Ahead, on the far side of the valley, the village of Rennes-le-Château, a semi-circle of green houses and the flat red turrets and towers of the ancient Château des seigneurs de Hautpoul. The Visigoths had made the hilltop the capital of their spreading empire, building on older remains. The square towers and high arched windows of the more recent castle were reminiscent of the oldest sections of the walls of the medieval Cité of Carcassonne.

Baillard took the fragile scrap of woollen cloth from its linen shroud in his pocket and held it before him, still unable to believe the turn of fate that had brought it into his hands. Crude though the picture undoubtedly was, he was certain the tallest of the peaks shown was the Pic de Vicdessos. He followed the line to the hiding place at its centre with his eye. Hard to tell without an indication of scale, but he estimated it might be some three or four kilometres north of there. Even so, it was a large area, filled with caves and labyrinthine fissures in the rocks. Once, most of the lower slopes would have been forest. Today, open spaces punctuated the woods.

‘A la perfin,’ he murmured. At last.

Baillard took a deep breath, then began to read out loud the few Latin phrases written on the map. Repeating the words once, then again, hoping to hear the voices calling to him from deep within the earth. He closed his eyes.

‘Come forth . . .’

And this time, although the sound was still indistinct and blurred and distorted, Baillard perceived the shift of bones within the land. For an instant, a cooling of the air and the light metamorphosing from pink to silver to white. He caught his breath. The rattle of metal and leather, of swords and marching feet. Banners and battle colours, one row behind another behind another, shimmering like a reflection in a mirror. The heroines of antiquity, Pyrène and Bramimonde, the Queen of Saragossa, Esclarmonde de Servian and Esclarmonde de Lavaur. The song of the dead awakening.

‘. . . the spirits of the air.’

Harif, Guilhem du Mas and Pascal Barthès, all those who dedicated their lives so that others might live. The Franks and the Saracens, the battles of Christianity against another new faith. Stories of treachery and betrayal in the eighth century as in the fourth, Septimania conquered and subjugated and occupied once more. The force of arms and the clash of belief.

‘A sea of glass . . .’

In his mind’s eye, Baillard could see the walls of Carcassonne. Charlemagne’s army camped on the green plain beside the river Atax. Looking out over the plains of Carsac, the widow of King Balaak, the sole survivor in the besieged Cité. Straw soldiers set along the ramparts to protect Carcas, the Saracen queen, from the power of the Holy Roman Emperor. No man left living to send out to parley. Burning what little remained for warmth.

‘A sea of fire.’

Baillard closed his eyes as the legend took shape in his mind. Every schoolchild knew the story. How Dame Carcas fed the very last grains of food in the starving city to a pig, then tossed the animal over the wall. When its sides split open, and undigested food spilled out, the deception was sufficient to persuade Charlemagne that the Cité had food and water enough to withstand. He lifted the siege and struck camp, until the single note of an elephant’s tusk horn called him back and the Tour Pinte bowed down in homage at Dame Carcas’ behest.

Carcas sonne, so went the phrase. Carcas is calling.

A story to explain how Carcassonne got its name. A fairy tale about a brave woman and an army of straw men defeating the might of the army of the Holy Roman Emperor. A myth, no more.

And yet.

Baillard took a deep breath. However impossible the legend of Carcas might be, the Cité itself never did fall to Charlemagne. What had saved Carcassonne? Could it be that, behind this schoolboy legend, lay a deeper and different truth?

‘And come forth the armies of the air.’

Now, in the smallest of spaces between one beat of the heart and the next, Baillard thought he could see the transparent imprint of those he had loved. Foot soldiers in the shimmering ranks of the ghost army as it began to breathe and take form. Viscount Trencavel and the seigneurs of the Midi. From Mirepoix and Fanjeaux, Saissac and Termenès, Albi and Mazamet. And further back in the serried ranks, the cavaliers alongside whom he had once fought.

He caught his breath. Could he see Léonie’s copper hair, like a skein of burnished cloth? The chanson de geste, earlier than the Song of Roland, earlier even than la canso of Guilhèm de Tudèla, a poem that Baillard himself had completed. And her? Might he yet see her? The girl in a red cloak and a green dress, for whom he had waited for eight hundred years.

‘Alaïs,’ he murmured.

Baillard spoke the words once more, but the atmosphere was different. The boundaries of what was and what might be no longer merged one into the other. A diminuendo, the voices fainter now, the outlines faded to grey.

He opened his eyes. He was left with the promise of what might be, nothing more. He understood. The fragments he had spoken were not enough, not sufficient unto the task. He clenched his fist. These times had been foretold by Ezekiel and Enoch. By Revelation. Of the seas turning to blood and the skies black, fish dying on the shore and the trees dead in the soil, mountains torn from earth in protest. In these modern times of the twentieth century, ancient prophecies of thousands of years ago were, finally, coming to pass.

Baillard knew he must find the Codex. Not only because it was the one thing that might serve their cause and change their present. But also because in it lay his only chance of salvation. If he found it and spoke the verses set down, not merely fragments of them, then the army would come. Alaïs might come. Baillard did not think he could carry on living without her.

‘Every death remembered . . .’

The minutes passed. The air became still. The land began to sing its usual song. Cicadas, the wind in the garrigue, the whistling of birds.

Little by little, Baillard returned to the present. No longer the soldier he once had been, but an old man again, standing in the fields beyond the Andrieu farm. The sun was sinking to earth now, setting the shadows chasing one another across the hills on the far side of the valley. He sighed, then turned his attention once more to the map in his hands. He didn’t think Sandrine or Raoul had noticed there was a rudimentary signature on the bottom left-hand corner. Seven letters and an icon, some kind of mark, after the name. He peered closer. It was a cross with four equal arms, a symbol that had more in common with Roman images of the sun and the wheel than the Christian cross.

Proof, surely, that the Codex had been smuggled from the great library of Lugdunum. Someone who was part of the community. He looked at the signature again, holding it carefully to catch the light and managed to read the name written in the corner of the map.

Arinius.