The Tenth Chamber Part 12

'He didn't make it to the village. If he left your camp at eleven-thirty, the accident must have happened no later than eleven-forty,' the officer said flatly. 'By the looks of it he was going pretty fast. He didn't brake. There aren't any skid marks. He flew into the trees until he was stopped by a large one. So tell me, Professor Simard, was he drinking last night?'

Luc looked pitiful. He didn't care about absolving himself from the guilt he felt. But before he answered, Sara jumped in protectively. 'All of us except Luc had some wine with dinner. Luc drove back from Domme. By the time we got back I think all of us were sober.'

'Look,' Billeter said, 'the coroner already took samples from the body. We'll know how much he had soon enough.'

'I shouldn't have let him go on his own,' Luc choked. 'I should have driven him.'

The officer had his answer and left them alone.

Sara didn't seem to know what to do or what to say. Tentatively, she put the palm of her hand against Luc's shoulder and he let her keep it there.

Another car arrived, this one from the direction of the village. A couple leaped out, Odile and her brother. She looked at Luc and Sara and started to run towards the crash but one of Billeter's men stopped her and had a word.

She began to scream.

Sara told Luc she should go to her but before she could, one of the firemen strode from behind the pumper and grabbed Odile by the arm. It was her father, the mayor, decked out in his SPV uniform.

Bonnet pulled his daughter away and Sara did the same with Luc, tugging him in the direction of his car. 'Come on,' she said. 'You don't need to be here.'

The afternoon light streamed thin through Luc's caravan windows. Stretched on his bunk, he was more in darkness than light. Sara sat next to him on a pulled-up chair, sharing Hugo's last bottle of bourbon.

Luc's tongue was thick and lazy with booze. He pulled his hands from behind his neck and cracked his knuckles. 'Do you have many friends?' he asked.

'What kind of friends?'

'Same-s.e.x friends. In your case, girlfriends.'

She laughed at his overexplanation. 'Yes, quite a few.'

'I don't have same-s.e.x friends,' he said sadly. 'I think Hugo was it for me on that score. Why do you think that is? I mean, you know me.'

'I used to know you.' She had been drinking a bit, enough to be convivial.

'No, no, you still know me,' he stubbornly insisted.

'I think you spend too much time on female friends and your work to have male friends. That's what I think.'

He turned on his side to face her with a revelatory expression. 'I think you're right! Women and work, work and women. It's not healthy. A stool needs three legs, no?' He began to flounder. 'I think Hugo was going to be my third leg. We were reconnecting, really getting on, and now, he's gone. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d drove into a tree.' He reached for her with two arms.

'No, Luc,' she said, collecting herself and getting up. 'Your instincts have gone haywire. You need emotional support right now, not physical love.'

'No, I-'

She was already halfway out the door. 'I'm going to get the chef to bring you something to eat and then I'm going to pack up the thermos to make the afternoon express parcel run. I want it to get to Cambridge by tomorrow afternoon. They're expecting it at PlantaGenetics.'

'Are you coming back?' He was pathetic now, like a child.

'When you're asleep!' she said soothingly. 'Shut your eyes and drift off. And yes, I'll come back to check on you. Just to check on you.'

When she was gone he stood up on shaky legs to splash some water on his face from the sink.

He stood over Hugo's empty bunk and began to shake with the helpless rage he'd been suppressing all day. He closed his eyes and saw orange. Violence was needed, some sort of violence. That's what his brain was telling him, so he punched the part.i.tion between his sleeping area and sitting area hard enough to seriously crater the particle board. He winced from the pain he'd inflicted on himself and saw blood on the wall. His fourth knuckle had a good deep cut. He wrapped it in a bandanna and sat back on his bed bleeding into the cloth and drinking more bourbon.

Sara protected him that night with a fierce, almost maternal instinct. She discovered his wound, saw the fist-shaped depression in the wall, clucked at him and dressed it. He was not to be disturbed. People could sort out their excavation issues on their own for one day, she insisted, and she posted a note on his caravan door to make sure he'd be left alone.

She stopped back later in the afternoon and wished she'd thought to take the bourbon bottle with her. It was empty, his tray of food was uneaten and he was snoring. She wiggled his boots off and threw the cover over his clothed body.

Later, when it was dark, she came back again. He had hardly moved. She decided to do her evening's work at his desk to keep an eye on him. She kept vigil until quite late, reading her notes and typing on her laptop as the camp ground grew quiet and still.

A beam of light stretched across the darkness of the Portakabin. Luc's desk was in the corner, furthest from the door. The light moved up and down over the desk drawers and settled on the lowest one.

The side drawers couldn't be opened until the centre drawer was unlocked. There was a coffee mug on the desk crammed with pencils and pens. They were removed and the mug was tipped upside down. A small key dropped out.

The key unlocked the centre drawer and when it was opened, the side drawer slid open too. Inside were hanging files, in alphabetical order, covering a myriad of administrative issues.

A hand went straight for the Ds and a hand parted the file labelled DIVERS, for miscellaneous items. Among papers was an unmarked envelope, closed, not sealed. for miscellaneous items. Among papers was an unmarked envelope, closed, not sealed.

Inside the envelope was the duplicate key to the t.i.tanium gate which sealed and protected Ruac Cave.

FIFTEEN.

Ruac Abbey, 1118 Bernard strode back and forth inside his stone house, trying to outpace the black cloud hanging over his head. He couldn't remember when he had been more troubled. The events of the previous evening had shaken him so deeply he felt he might go mad.

The only remedy was prayer and fasting, he was sure of that. He had already vigorously prayed in the church three times at Lauds, Prime and Terce, and in between prayer sessions he had marched straight back to his house and fallen on his knees for bouts of more personal prayer. He had avoided the others. He wanted to be alone.

He thought to ignore the knock on his door but his sense of comity would not abide that. It was his brother, Barthomieu, bowing his head. 'Can we speak?'

'Yes, come in. Sit.'

'You did not have food this morning.'

'I am fasting.'

'We noticed your absence at breakfast and your demeanour in the chapel. There is anger on your face.'

'I am most vexed. Are you not?

Barthomieu lifted his head to look at him squarely. 'I am reflective. I am amazed. I am quizzical, but no, I am not vexed.'

Bernard raised his voice. He could not remember the last time he had shouted. 'I believe you should be vexed! Last night you were powerfully turbulent. Do you not remember?'

'I do remember,' he chuckled. His knuckles were raw. 'I hope it wasn't you I struck, brother! Most unlike me, but it pa.s.sed.'

'You tried to strike Jean, for G.o.d's sake, but you hit a cooking pot instead!'

'Well,' Barthomieu mused, 'the good far outweighed the evil in my humble opinion.'

There was another knock on the door.

'Good Lord, can I not be left in peace?' Bernard exclaimed.

Jean and Abelard were both at the door, and the little stone house became crowded.

'I was concerned about you,' Abelard said.

'We should all be concerned for our souls,' Bernard answered acidly. 'The Devil visited evil upon us last night. Do you have any doubt of this?'

'I have thought of nothing else and I am certain all of us will brood in contemplation. But the Devil?'

'Who else?'

'G.o.d, perhaps.'

Bernard threw his arms about so wildly it seemed he was trying to cast them from his body. 'G.o.d was not with us last night! G.o.d does not want his children to suffer such things.'

'Well, I did not suffer,' Jean insisted. 'Quite the opposite. I found the experience... enlightening.'

'I confess, I did not suffer either, brother,' Barthomieu said.

'Nor I,' Abelard concurred. 'Perhaps there were a few moments that might be construed as troubling, but on the whole I would say it was amazing.'

'Did we, I wonder, have the self-same experience?' Bernard cried. 'Tell me what happened to you and I will tell you the same.'

Bernard always relied on prayer to firm his actions. He had done so when he had first decided to leave his comfortable life and commit himself to the Cistercians at Clairvaux and he relied on it again.

Following an afternoon of exhausting and contentious debate, Bernard ardently threw himself into Vespers prayers and in the echoing sing-song in the vaulted stone church he found his answer in Psalm 139.

Eripe me, Domine, ab homine malo;a viro iniquo eripe me;Qui cogitaverunt iniquitates in corde,tota die const.i.tuebant praelia.Acuerunt linguas suas sicut serpentis;venenum aspidum sub labiis eorum.Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man;and preserve me from the wicked man;Who have imagined mischief in their hearts,and have stirred up strife all the day long.They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent;adder's poison is under their lips.Custodi me, Domine, de manu peccatoris;et ab hominibus iniquis eripe me.Qui cogitaverunt supplantare gressus meos.absconderunt superbi laqueum mihi.Et funes extenderunt in laqueum.juxta iter scandalum posuerunt mihi.Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the unG.o.dly;preserve me from wicked men.Who are purposed to overthrow my goings:the proud have laid a snare for me.And they have spread a net abroad with cords;yea, and have laid for me a stumbling block by thewayside.

Every time the words wicked, evil wicked, evil and and unG.o.dly unG.o.dly fell from his lips he glanced at Abelard, Jean and yes, even his own brother, all huddled like conspirators on an adjacent pew, because he could not reconcile their views with his. fell from his lips he glanced at Abelard, Jean and yes, even his own brother, all huddled like conspirators on an adjacent pew, because he could not reconcile their views with his.

And with the same certainty that told him that Christ was his saviour, he knew that he was right and they were wrong.

He also knew he had to leave Ruac, because they had made their intentions known. They fully intended to partake again of the infusion which they lauded and he reckoned was a devil brew.

The following morning, he was off. For his safety and companions.h.i.+p, Barthomieu had persuaded him to have two younger monks accompany him on the long journey back to Clairvaux. One was Michel, Jean's infirmary a.s.sistant, who had noticed residual tea and had been pestering his master with questions. Better to send him away for a while to cure his curiosity.

Bernard and Barthomieu hugged, though Barthomieu's grip was the tighter.

'You will not reconsider?' Barthomieu asked.

'Will you reconsider taking that wicked brew again?' Bernard countered.

'I will not,' Barthomieu said emphatically. 'I believe it is a gift. From G.o.d.'

'I will not repeat my arguments, brother. Suffice it to say, I will take my leave and may G.o.d have mercy upon your soul.'

He kicked the flanks of the brown mare with his heels and slowly departed.

Abelard was waiting by the abbey gate. He called up to the rider. 'I will miss you, Bernard.'

Bernard looked down and deigned to reply. 'I confess I will miss you too, at least the Abelard I knew, not the Abelard I saw two nights ago.'

'Judge me not harshly, brother. There is but one road to righteousness, but many paths converge on that road.'

Bernard shook his head sadly and rode off.

That night, three men met in Bernard's now-empty house, lit some candles and talked about their departed friend. Was it possible, Barthomieu asked, that Bernard was right and they were wrong?

Barthomieu was a man of simple vocabulary. Jean was more skilful as a healer and herbalist than an ecclesiastical scholar. It fell on Abelard to frame the debate. They listened to his elegant dissertation on good versus evil, G.o.d versus Satan, right versus wrong, and concluded that it was Bernard who was hide-bound and unseeing, not them.

Having satisfied themselves of their rect.i.tude, Jean produced a crockery jug, pulled out the stopper and poured each partic.i.p.ant a generous mug of reddish tea.

Abelard was alone in his room.

A single candle burned on his table, casting just enough light to write on parchment. For a week, a letter to his beloved had lain begun but unfinished. He reread the opening: My dearest Heloise,I have pa.s.sed these many days and nights alone in my cloister without closing my eyes. My love burns fiercer amidst the happy indifference of those who surround me, and my heart is alike pierced with your sorrows and my own. Oh, what a loss have I sustained when I consider your constancy! What pleasures have I missed enjoying! I ought not to confess this weakness to you; I am sensible I commit a fault. If I could show more firmness of mind I might provoke your resentment against me and your anger might work that effect in you which your virtue could not. If in the world I published my weakness in love songs and verses, ought not the dark cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same!

He dipped his quill and began a new paragraph.

Some days have pa.s.sed since I wrote these words. Much has changed in a short time, though not my love for you which burns ever brighter. G.o.d has chosen to bestow a gift upon me which I can scarcely believe, yet its truth is manifest. Oh, though I fear writing these words lest their power should fade by the act of committing them to the page, I believe, dear Heloise, that I have found a way for the two of us to be together again as man and wife.

SIXTEEN.

The last day of work at Ruac Cave came and went.

That final night, there was a celebratory dinner of sorts, though spirits were tamped down by the twin catastrophes that had befallen the excavation, a pair of accidents that sent tongues wagging about curses, ill fate and the like.

After Hugo's funeral in Paris, Luc had returned to Ruac and thrown himself into his work like a whirling dervish, toiling himself into a state of anaesthesia, sleeping only enough to keep going. He became flat and detached, spoke only when spoken to, maintained a professional efficiency with his team but that was the extent of it. Hugo's death had washed away his usual witty charm like waves washed away letters etched on a sandy beach with a stick.

Matters were made worse by the unannounced appearance at Ruac by Marc Abenheim who parachuted in from Paris, h.e.l.l-bent on exploiting the tragedy. The weedy martinet arrived and demanded everyone leave the Portakabin so he could speak with Luc privately. Then, like an actuary, he challenged Luc on the odds of one excavation having two fatalities in one season.

'What are you driving at?' Luc had spat back.

Abenheim's voice had an infuriating nasal tone. 'Lack of discipline. Lack of management. Lack of good sense for inviting your friend to stay at an official Ministry dig. That's what I'm driving at.'

It was nothing short of a miraculous act of self-restraint that Luc was able to send Abenheim on his way without a broken nose.