The First Apostle (25 page)

Bronson sighed, walked over to the corner of the room and pulled open the lid of another small chest made—like most of the others they’d looked at—of oak. As he bent forward to look inside it, a thought struck him.

“Just a minute,” he said. “I think we’re going about this the wrong way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think back to the Occitan inscription. What does the line actually say?”

“You know what it says:
Here oak and elm descry the mark.
”

“We’ve been assuming that the verse was telling us to find an object made of oak and elm, and that we’d find a chest or something with a lid made of the two woods, say, and when we opened it up there’d be a map or directions on the inside.”

Angela sat down beside him on the floor.

“But if that was what the Cathars did, if the clue was as obvious as that, then by now surely somebody would have found it.” Bronson continued. “This relic was of crucial importance to the Cathars, right? So if they just carved a map or something inside a chest or wardrobe, how could they guarantee that somebody wouldn’t sell it or break it up for firewood a few years, or a few centuries, down the line? If that happened, the secret would be lost forever.

“And, just in case the property was ever raided by the crusaders, they wouldn’t have wanted any visible or obvious clue. The inscribed stone was almost certainly covered with wood paneling, or maybe even plaster, and even if it was exposed, it could just be taken for a Cathar lament for the death of—oh—what’s his name?”

“Guillaume Bélibaste,” Angela supplied automatically. “So what’re you suggesting?”

“It’s possible that the clue, or whatever it is, isn’t just on a comparatively fragile piece of furniture. I think we’ll find it’s built into the fabric of the house. We should be looking at the beams and the joists and the floorboards. We should be studying the actual materials—the wooden components—the Cathars used when they built this place.”

Angela nodded hesitantly. “You know,” she said slowly, “that just might be the most intelligent suggestion you’ve made since we started this. OK, forget the furniture. Let’s start with the ceiling.”

The construction of the house was typical for buildings of its age. Thick wooden planks rested on huge square-section beams, their ends inserted in sockets in the solid stone outer walls, that formed each floor, including that of the attic. The roof timbers were almost as massive as the beams, and covered with thick terra-cotta tiles: the property had clearly been built to last. The wood was blackened by age and smoke from the two wide inglenook fireplaces, and the floorboards had been polished by the passage of countless feet over the centuries and were now covered with loose rugs.

“Maybe the floorboards are made of both oak and elm,” Bronson suggested.

They worked through the house methodically, again checking the attic first. All the floorboards appeared to be made of the same dark-brown wood, painted and varnished, which didn’t look to Bronson as if it was either oak or elm. And they couldn’t see anything on the floor that looked as if it might be a marker of any kind.

They checked the first and then the second guest bedroom: nothing. In the master suite, a good deal of the floor was invisible because of the massive four-poster bed that had come with the house and dominated the room. They checked the floorboards that were visible, without result. Then Bronson looked thoughtfully at the bed.

It was a king-sized double with a carved wooden base. At each corner a tapering and fluted dark-brown wooden pillar terminated in a solid canopy close to the ceiling, draped with a heavy dark-red material that looked to him like a kind of brocade. The sheets had been stripped off, and two three-foot mattresses rested on the solid wooden base. It would take at least four or five strong men to move it.

“How the hell do we shift that?” Angela demanded.

“We don’t. I’ll wriggle under it and take a look. Pass me that flashlight, please.”

“Find anything?” Angela asked, after he’d been under the bed for a few minutes.

“Quite a lot of dust, and that’s all, so far. No, there’s nothing here . . .” His voice died away.

“What? What is it?”

“There’s what looks like a small circle on one of these floorboards. It could be a knot, but it’s the first thing I’ve seen on the floor that looks out of place. I’ll need to . . .”

“What? What do you want?” The excitement was rising in Angela’s voice.

“A knife, I think, but not a kitchen knife. I need something with a strong blade. Have a look in Mark’s toolbox—it’s under the sink in the kitchen—and see if you can find a penknife or something like that. If I can scrape off the paint and varnish, I’ll be able to tell if this is just a natural feature of the wood or something else.”

“Hang on.” Bronson heard her walk out of the room and down the stairs. A couple of minutes later she returned, carrying a heavy folding knife with a spike and a thick blade. She bent down and passed it under the bed to Bronson.

“Thanks, that’s perfect. Here,” he added, “could you hold the flashlight for me? Just aim it at my left hand.”

He opened the knife blade, eased back slightly and began to scrape away at the paint. After a few minutes Bronson had managed to shift some of the multiple layers that covered the wood, but because of the oblique angle of the flashlight, he couldn’t see clearly what he’d exposed.

“Let me have the flashlight, please,” he said.

Angela handed it to him. “Well?” she demanded impatiently.

“It’s not a knot in the wood,” Bronson said, excitement coloring his voice.

“Not a knot?”

“No. It’s some kind of an insert in the plank. It looks like two semicircles of different types of wood.” There was a long pause. “And one of them looks like oak.”

Bronson lay under the bed, looking at the small circle of wood he’d uncovered. The first thing he needed to do was pinpoint its location. He stuck the spike of the penknife into the center of the circle of wood and used it as a datum to measure its exact position with reference to the walls of the bedroom.

“I’m not sure how this helps,” Angela said, as Bronson jotted down the measurements in a small notebook. “This floor is made of wooden boards laid on timber beams, so there can’t possibly be anything concealed underneath them, simply because there is
no
underneath. If we go down to the dining room, we’ll be able to see the beams themselves and the undersides of the floorboards.”

“I know that,” Bronson said. “But that circle of wood must have been placed there deliberately. It must mean
something,
otherwise why did they go to the trouble of doing it, and putting it in such an inaccessible position?”

“You’re right . . . hang on a minute.” Her voice rose in excitement. “Remember the second line of the Occitan verse:
‘As is above so is below.’
Suppose the circle you found just acted as a marker, indicating something in the dining room? A mark on the ceiling that actually points you toward something hidden under the floor of that room?”

“God, Angela, I’m glad you’re here. If I was by myself I’d still be drinking coffee and burning toast in the kitchen.”

They walked quickly down the stairs and Bronson led the way through to the dining room. He took out the notebook and a steel tape measure, and began working out where the underside of the circle of wood had to be. When he’d more or less located its position, he and Angela stood side by side, carefully studying the timbers that formed the ceiling.

Bronson’s measurements had indicated roughly where the bottom of the circle should be, but neither he nor Angela could see it in the ceiling beams. The undersides of the planks were uniform dark brown in color, the result of countless applications of paint and varnish through the ages.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right spot?” Angela asked. “I can’t see anything.”

“Neither can I,” Bronson replied testily. “But this is where the measurements say it should be. And I’ve checked them twice.”

They craned their necks, staring upward with total concentration.

“There,” Bronson said at last, pointing. “I think I can see a circular mark on that plank. I’ll need to get closer to be certain.”

The blemish Bronson thought he’d seen was directly above the massive dining table. Using one of the chairs, he climbed up onto it. The wooden ceiling was still well above his head, but he could now see the mark much more clearly.

“Well, what do you think?” Angela asked. “Is that it?”

For a moment Bronson didn’t reply. “I think so, yes. There’s definitely a circular mark on the bottom of that plank, and it looks too regular to be a natural feature.”

He climbed down from the table and both of them stared upward, then down at the table. It was a hulking structure, made of oak and easily able to seat a dozen people. Like the four-poster bed in the master suite, it was far too big to ever be removed from the house in one piece, and had obviously been assembled in situ when the property was built. Under the six column-like table legs was a large red carpet, worn and faded with age.

“We’ll have to shift this to see what’s underneath.”

Bronson walked to one end of the table, grasped the top and strained to lift it, but the massive structure barely moved.

“Jesus, that’s heavy,” he muttered.

“Can I help?” Angela asked.

Bronson shook his head. “There’s no way the two of us can lift it. The best we’ll be able to do is slide it sideways on the carpet. We’ll push it over here,” he added, pointing toward one side of the room.

Angela helped him move the dining chairs away from that side of the table to clear a space.

“Lean your back against it,” Bronson said, “and push with your legs. They’re much stronger than your arms.”

They stood at the side of the table, one at each end, and strained against it. For a few seconds, nothing happened, then they felt the first slight movement, and pushed even harder.

“It’s moving! Keep going.”

Once the table began to slide, it seemed to get easier, and within a few minutes they’d shifted it about ten feet to one side, well away from its original position.

“Well done,” Bronson said, slightly out of breath. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got.”

They stepped directly under the circle on the ceiling and looked down at the floor. Like most of the rest of the ground floor of the house, it was composed of parquet panels, each roughly half a meter square and containing about a dozen lengths of wood in a herringbone pattern.

“This panel looks exactly the same as all the others,” Angela said, disappointment clouding her voice.

Bronson took the knife from his pocket, bent down and began scraping away some of the accumulated paint and varnish. Immediately it was clear that the grains of the two central lengths of timber were different. He cleared sections on all the pieces of wood, and then did the same thing on the four adjacent panels.

“Look,” he said. “The four surrounding panels are all made from exactly the same type of wood, but on this one the two central pieces—and
only
those two pieces—are different. It must be deliberate.”

Bronson ran the knife around the edge of the panel, then slid the blade down into the gap and tried to lever it up, but it was far too heavy to move.

“Hang on a moment,” he said. “I’ll get something stronger from Mark’s toolkit.”

He went into the kitchen, rummaged around and picked out two large screwdrivers. Back in the dining room, he worked their tips into the gaps on opposite sides of the panel and pressed both of them down together, at first gently and then with increasing force. For a second or two nothing happened, then, with a sudden creak, the old wood began to lift. He readjusted the screwdrivers and pressed down again. The panel moved up a few more millimeters. On the third try, the screwdrivers slammed all the way down to the floor and the panel sprang free.

“Excellent,” he breathed, reaching down to pick up the wooden panel and move it over to one side. They both peered down into the cavity that had now been revealed.

Outside the house, two men watched with interest as Bronson and Angela searched the dining room. When Bronson lifted the wooden panel, Mandino gestured to his companion. The endgame, he now knew, was near, and it looked as if the Englishman had found exactly what they were looking for. All they had to do was get inside the house and kill them both.

The two men ducked down below the level of the dining-room windows and headed for the rear door of the house. The bodyguard—Rogan was waiting in the car parked in the lane beside the property—pulled a collapsible jimmy from his pocket as they reached the door, but Mandino simply turned the handle—it wasn’t even locked—and they stepped inside. Mandino led the way toward the dining room, the bodyguard—his pistol loaded and cocked in his right hand—just behind him.

The door to the room wasn’t closed, and the gap between the door and the jamb was wide enough for both men to easily see and hear through. Mandino raised his hand, and they stopped there and just waited. Once they were sure the Englishman
had
found the
Exomologesis,
they would walk in and finish him off.

Bronson and Angela stared down into the square hole. It was stone-lined, about two feet across and eighteen inches deep. A musty odor—redolent of mushrooms, dust and damp—rose from it. Right in the center of it was a bulky object wrapped in some kind of fabric.

Bronson reached down into the cavity with both hands. “It’s round, like a cylinder, or maybe a pot,” he said.

The material that shrouded the relic crumbled away even as he touched it, and he quickly brushed away the last remnants.

“It looks like a ceramic container of some kind,” he said.

Angela breathed in sharply. Her excitement was tangible.