Saint and the Templar Treasure (9 page)

Pichot looked nervously at the professor and his voice shook as he asked: “Don’t you think this has gone far enough?”

Norbert glared angrily at them.

“Silence!” he hissed. “Do not break the circle. We are making a contact. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

Unconvinced but obviously unwilling to admit to fear, Philippe again laid his finger on the glass. Beads of sweat glistened on Norbert’s temple, and he stared at the glass as if hypnotised.

The Saint turned away from the window towards the low door that led into the garden. It was half open and he moved silently towards it. As he did so he heard Norbert intone: “When did you die?”

Cautiously the Saint peered in. The stone pillar stood between him and the three men, and the light of the oil lamp was too weak to spread beyond the table. Their whole attention was concentrated on the glass as the professor again read its answer out loud.

“1 … 3 … 1 … 4.”

The Saint slid through the narrow opening and side-stepped until he was directly in line with the pillar. He waited until the glass had returned to the centre of the table and the professor had asked for a message before moving. Three long swift strides brought him directly behind the pillar so that it completely hid him from the three men but so close that he could have reached out and touched Henri’s shoulder. The glass was moving again, faster this time as if whoever, or whatever, controlled it was becoming more confident.

“T.H.O.S.E. W.H.O. H.A.V.E. T.H.E. C.O.U.R.A.G.E. T.O. S.E.E.K. S.H.A.L.L. W.I.N. T.H.E. R.E.W.A.R.D.S. O.F. T.H.E. B.R.A.V.E.” Norbert spelt out.

“What does it mean?” Philippe asked defiantly, but the professor again told him to be silent

“Look, there is more,” said Henri.

The Saint edged round the pillar so that he could see what was happening.

The glass was sliding back and forth across the table, moving so rapidly that it was soon impossible to read out its message. First Philippe and then Norbert lost contact with it. Henri stayed with it for a few more seconds and then he too lost his touch. The glass was moving on its own. The colour drained from Philippe’s face and Norbert was visibly shaking.

The glass shot towards Henri. The young man threw himself aside at the last moment as it flew off the table and shattered against the pillar an inch from the Saint’s hand.

The Saint had never had cause to worry about the steadiness of his nerves, but the sight of the glass moving of its own accord and then seemingly heading straight at him had tested them to the full. He could not check the involuntary sideways movement that would have dodged a direct hit, any more than he could deny the eerie tingle he felt in the nape of his neck.

The three men jerked around as the glass splintered, and then he was sure enough of his self-control to step calmly into the lamplight. He smiled broadly into their startled faces.

“It didn’t by any chance happen to mention the winner of tomorrow’s big race at Chantilly?” he inquired.

Gradually the others recovered from the shock caused by the flight of the glass and his own sudden materialisation. Philippe’s chair crashed backwards as he stood up. He steadied himself with one hand against the table as he raised the other and pointed accusingly at the Saint.

“A trick! He’s been making fools of us,” he shouted as the color flooded back into his cheeks.

Simon’s smile never wavered but his eyes were wary as he realised that Philippe was not only scared but also drunk, a combination that could be dangerous.

“Look, no hands,” he murmured, and raised his arms to emphasise the point.

Florian lurched towards him and there was no mistaking his intention. The Saint walked around the other side of the table to place its width between them. He had no wish to become involved in a brawl at that stage of the proceedings. Henri jumped up and placed a restraining hand on Philippe’s shoulder.

“I think we should hear what Monsieur Templar has to say,” he said gently but firmly. Florian muttered something under his breath and leant back against the pillar glaring malevolently at the Saint.

Norbert still sat at the table. He looked up at the Saint and spoke as if questioning a student at a tutorial.

“Well, Monsieur Templar? What are you doing here?”

“I came out for a breath of fresh air. I saw the light and wondered what was happening,” Simon replied easily. “By the way, what is happening?”

“A scientific experiment,” the professor answered just as glibly.

“Funny, I thought you were prospecting.”

The Saint had not intended to say it. The words had simply formed themselves of their own accord and he had spoken them. Mimette’s explanation for Norbert’s late arrival at dinner and the amusement it caused must, he decided, have been playing on his subconscious which had duly produced an unexpected flash of insight.

Whatever its origin, his remark elicited an illuminating response. Philippe swore, and it was only Henri’s grip on his shoulder that prevented him from trying to get close to the Saint again. For his part, Henri seemed suddenly very tense. But it was Norbert who provided the most surprising reaction. He simply smiled and rose slowly to his feet.

“So you are interested in the treasure?” he observed benignly.

Simon looked down into eyes as warm and welcoming as a pair of icebergs, and something he saw in their chill depths told him that the little professor was not just the comical gnome he appeared to be.

“Of course,” said the Saint guardedly.

“Why are you interested?” Florian snarled, but Norbert waved him to silence.

There was a new air of miniaturised authority about the professor which the Saint found fascinating.

“People have talked about the Templar treasure for hundreds of years, Monsieur Philippe. It is hardly a secret. The question is—how much does Monsieur Templar know?”

“Just what I’ve heard since I’ve been here,” the Saint answered adroitly, and before the point could be pressed he nodded towards the table and added: “I take it you were asking for a little help from heaven or the other place.”

“I gather that you do not believe in such things,” said Norbert.

“Frankly, my tastes are more spiritueux than spiritistes.”

“I would have expected someone with your experience of the world to have a more open mind about such matters.”

The Saint heard the words but was no longer listening to them. He was looking past the three men towards the shadows beneath the far wall, and as he did so a strange chill rippled through him, as if his veins had turned into tiny rivers of ice.

From the gloom, a white-shrouded figure was watching them.

“We have a visitor,” Simon mentioned diffidently.

The professor had still been rambling on about poltergeists, faith healing, and clairvoyance, as absorbed in propounding his own knowledge as only a man whose best friends are books can be. He was completely unaware that he had lost the attention of his audience until the Saint spoke. The others swung around. Henri gave a passable impression of someone trying to jump out of his skin, and almost tripped in his haste to place himself behind the table. Philippe was much calmer, or perhaps too befuddled to react sharply. He looked blearily from the Saint to the figure and waited on events. Norbert, taken completely aback, gawped at it with bulging eyes.

The Saint’s own imperturbability was being put to a severe test. In the course of his eventful travels he had seen too much to be a total unbeliever, but for one quiet evening in Provence the spooky phenomena seemed to be coming somewhat thick and fast.

The figure began to move towards them. Slowly it emerged from the shade of the wall into one of the patches of moonlight that chequered the floor. The hazy white-shrouded outline became focused into a flowing cotton cloak, and the apparition raised one hand and pulled back the cowl as it drew nearer. As they all saw the face, their relief might have seemed only a different kind of shock.

“A really spectacular entrance, mademoiselle,” Simon congratulated her, with a slightly ironic bow.

The girl gave him a withering glance but appeared more concerned with the others. Her face was pale with rage and the knuckles of her clenched fists showed white. She stopped at the table and stood there with her hands on her hips inspecting each of them in turn like a head mistress might have surveyed a group of truants.

Philippe was the first to recover.

“What do you mean by creeping up on us like that?” he blustered, stepping out to confront his niece. “What are you doing here?”

Mimette rounded on him like a tigress.

“What am I doing here? This is my home! How dare you question me?”

“I hope we were not doing any harm,” Norbert put in placatingly. “But you gave us all a start.”

“You deserved it,” Mimette retorted. “I am surprised at you all. I thought you would have been above such childishness, Professor.”

“Our intention was far from childish, mademoiselle,” Norbert countered. “One should not make the mistake of thinking that because children do things they are necessarily childish.”

Mimette picked up a handful of the cards and threw them contemptuously back on to the table.

“Calling up the spirit of the glass? Most children forget such games before they are allowed to stay up so late.”

“A primitive method, I’ll agree,” said Henri, as if conceding a minor point in a legal debate. “But as we have no medium among us it had to serve our purpose.”

“Henri, I am disappointed in you,” Mimette replied. “I would have thought you at least would have had more sense than to dabble in such rubbish.”

The young man avoided her eyes and seemed genuinely abashed.

“I’m sorry, Mimette. It was my silly idea. Just a little fun.”

The Saint rested his shoulders against the pillar completely at ease.

“I’m sorry if I broke any of the house rules,” he said. “I couldn’t get to sleep, and I was just wandering around—”

“You were not a party to it. I saw what happened. It was seeing you in the garden that brought me here.”

“Well, I am dreadfully sorry to have given offence, Mademoiselle Mimette,” Philippe declared aggressively, with as much dignity as he could muster.

With a parting scowl at his niece, he shouldered his way past Henri and Norbert and strode unsteadily out into the garden. Henri looked apologetically at Mimette.

“I think I’d better go and make sure he is all right,” he said, and hurried after him.

“Seeing that our experiment has been disrupted, I think I too shall retire,” the professor said pompously. As he passed Mimette he stopped and pointed to the crucifix hanging on a golden chain around her neck. “Childish foolishness?” he sneered. “I hope your talisman protects you.”

Grinning impishly, he ambled after the others.

“Alone again, at last,” Simon remarked when the professor had disappeared from view.

The girl was still quivering with suppressed rage, and for a moment he thought she was going to run after the professor and physically assault him. He moved over and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” he said, reading her mind.

Slowly she relaxed and he felt the tenseness drain away from her. She looked up at him with wide wondering eyes and seemed for a moment as vulnerable as a lost child.

“As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” she said at lastr and there was a deep tiredness in her voice that revealed all the uncertainty behind her bold front of almost arrogant assurance.

“This place gives me the creeps—how about a nightcap?” he suggested, and she nodded.

He reached up and unhooked the oil lamp, turning out the light as he placed it on the table. He kept his arm around her as they left the tower and strolled across the lawn to the dining-room.

She leant her head against his shoulder and whispered: “Sometimes I wonder whether there really is a curse on us.”

He stroked her hair lightly.

“If you’re cursed, I can think of millions of women who would be only too eager to line up at the witch’s door.”

She met his eyes and smiled wickedly.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Flattery is only flattery when it isn’t the truth,” he said.

In the drawing-room, while Mimette sank gratefully into the comfort of the sofa, he poured them both a long measure of Armagnac. He handed Mimette her glass and sat beside her.

“The professor keeps prattling on about this treasure. Do you believe in it?” he asked.

“It’s a legend that must have some historic basis, I suppose. This was one of the last Templar strongholds to fall. All the supposed wealth of the Templars was never fully accounted for. Perhaps it was exaggerated, but when the King’s army finally broke in here they could find no trace of it. Those knights who were not killed escaped and were never captured.” Mimette laughed. “It is said that the devil took them down to hell.”

“But left the treasure up here-is that it?”

“Yes. People have searched for it for centuries but not even a single coin has been found. Even the Germans had a look for it. They were typically thorough and did a lot of damage but found nothing. How would you search a place as big as this, without a clue where to begin?”

“So why the sudden interest now?”

“Professor Norbert believes that the stone may. be a clue to something, a sort of symbol map to where a treasure might be hidden.”

“Obviously he hasn’t broken the code yet, or there would have been no need for the seance,” Simon observed.

Mimette’s face darkened as she remembered the events in the tower.

“Norbert is obsessed with the treasure and I think he’d try anything to find it, even dabbling in the occult. And not only to prove his scholarship. I’m sure he’d also be delighted to make some money out of it.”

“And Philippe?”

“Uncle Philippe will try anything if there is likely to be a profit at the end,” she returned cynically. “He’s taken a great interest in Norbert’s work. Sometimes I think that’s why he wants to buy the chateau, just so that he can pull it down brick by brick to see if the treasure really is here. Then he could build a wine factory, nice and modern, nice and functional, and nice and profitable.”