Labyrinth

CHAPTER 39

Carcassonne

WEDNESDAY 6 JULY 2OO5

Alice swam twenty lengths of the hotel pool and then had breakfast on the terrace watching the rays of the sun creep above the trees. By nine thirty she was waiting in line for the Chateau Comtal to open. She paid and was given a leaflet in eccentric English about the history of the castle.

Wooden platforms had been constructed on two sections of the battlements to the right of the gate and around the top of the horseshoe-shaped Tour de Casernes, like a crow’s nest on a ship.

A stillness descended over her as she walked through the formidable metal and wooden double doors of the Eastern Gatehouse and into the courtyard.

The Cour d’Honneur was mostly in shadow. Already, there were lots of visitors, like her, wandering around, reading and looking. In the time of the Trencavels, apparently an elm tree stood in the centre of the courtyard under which three generations of viscounts dispensed justice.

There was no sign of it now. In its place were two perfectly proportioned plane trees, the shadow of their leaves cast on the western wall of the courtyard as the sun peeked its face above the battlement walls opposite.

The far northern corner of the Cour d’Honneur was already in full sunlight. A few pigeons nested in the empty doorways and cracks in the walls and abandoned arches of the Tour du Major and the Tour du Degre. A flash of memory – of the feel of a rough wooden ladder, the struts lashed with rope, clambering like an urchin from floor to floor.

Alice looked up, trying to distinguish in her mind between what was in front of her eyes and the physical sensation in the tips of her fingers.

There was little to see.

Then a devastating sense of loss swooped down on her. Grief closed around her heart like a fist.

He lay here. She wept for him here.

Alice looked down. Two raised bronze lines on the ground marked out the site of where a building had once stood. There was a row of letters set into the ground. She crouched down and read that this had been the site of the chapel of the Chateau Comtal, dedicated to Sainte-Marie. Sant-Maria.

Nothing remained.

Alice shook her head, unnerved by the strength of her emotions. The world that had existed eight hundred years ago beneath these sweeping southern skies existed here still, beneath the surface. The sense of someone standing at her shoulder was very strong, as if the frontier between her present and another’s past was disintegrating.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the modern colours and shapes and sounds, imagining the people who had lived here, allowing their voices to speak to her.

This once had been a good place to live. Red candles flickering on an altar, flowering hawthorn, hands joined in matrimony.

The voices of other visitors drew Alice back to the present and the past faded as she resumed her circuit. Now she was inside the Chateau, she could see that the wooden galleries constructed along the battlements were open to the air at the back. Set deep into the walls were more of the small, square holes she’d noticed on her tour around the lices yesterday evening. The leaflet told her they marked the joists where the upper floors would have been.

Alice glanced at the time and was pleased to see she had enough time to visit the museum before her appointment. The twelfth- and thirteenth century rooms, all that remained of the original buildings, housed a collection of stone chancels, columns, corbels, fountains and tombs,;dating from the Roman period to the fifteenth century.

She wandered, not much engaged. The powerful sensations that; Swamped her in the courtyard had disappeared, leaving her feeling ^vaguely restless. She followed the arrows through the rooms until she id herself in the Round Room, rectangular in shape despite its name.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. It had a barrel-vaulted ceiling and the remains of a mural of a battle scene on the two long walls. The sign told her Bernard Aton Trencavel, who had taken part in First Crusade and fought the Moors in Spain, had commissioned the at the end of the eleventh century. Among the fabulous creatures, birds decorating the frieze were a leopard, a zebu, a swan, a bull and something that looked like a camel.

Alice looked up in admiration at the cerulean blue ceiling, faded and cracked, but beautiful still. On the panel to her left, two chevaliers were fighting, the one dressed in black, holding a round shield, destined to fall for ever more under the other’s lance. On the wall opposite, a battle between Saracen and Christian knights was being played out. It was better preserved and more complete and Alice stepped closer to get a better look. In the centre, two chevaliers confronted one another, one mounted on an ochre horse, the other, the Christian knight, on a white horse, bearing an almond-shaped shield. Without thinking, she reached up to touch. The attendant tutted and shook her head.

The last place she visited before leaving the castle was a small garden off the main courtyard, the Cour du Midi. It was derelict, with only the memory of the high arched windows left standing. Green tendrils of ivy and other plants wound through the empty columns and cracks in the walls. It had an air of faded grandeur.

As she wandered slowly around, then back into the sun, Alice was filled with a sense, not of grief this time, but regret.

The streets of the Cite were even busier by the time Alice emerged from the Chateau Comtal.

She still had time to kill before her meeting with the solicitor, so she turned in the opposite direction to last night and walked to the Place St Nazaire, which was dominated by the Basilica. It was the fin-de-siecle facade of the Hotel de la Cite, understated but grand all the same, that caught her eye. Covered by ivy, with wrought-iron gates, arched stained glass windows and deep red awnings the colour of ripe cherries, it whispered of money.

As she watched, the doors slid open, revealing the panelled and tapestried walls, and a woman appeared. Tall, with high cheekbones and immaculately cut black hair held off her face with gold-rimmed sunglasses.

Her pale brown sleeveless shirt and matching trousers seemed to shimmer and reflect the light as she moved. With a gold bracelet on her wrist and a choker at her neck, she looked like an Egyptian princess.

Alice was sure she’d seen her before. In a magazine or in a film, perhaps on television?

The woman got into a car. Alice watched her until she was out of sight, then walked to the door of the Basilica. A beggar stood outside, her hand stretched out. Alice fished in her pocket and pressed a coin into the woman’s hand, then went to go in.

She froze, her hand on the door. She felt as if she was caught in a tunnel of cold air.

Don’t be stupid.

Alice once more tried to make herself go in, determined not to give in to such irrational feelings. The same terror that had overwhelmed her at Saint-Etienne in Toulouse held her back.

Apologising to the people behind, Alice stepped out of the line and sank down on a shaded stone ledge beside the north door.

What the hell is happening to me?

Her parents had taught her to pray. When she was old enough to question the presence of evil in the world and found that the Church could provide no satisfactory answers, she’d taught herself to stop. But she remembered the sense of meaning that religion can confer. The certainty, the promise of salvation lying somewhere beyond the clouds had never entirely left her. When she had time, like Larkin, she always stopped. She felt at home in churches. They evoked in her a sense of history and a shared past which spoke to her through the architecture, the windows, the choir stalls.

But not here.

In these Catholic cathedrals of the Midi she felt not peace but threat.

The stench of evil seemed to bleed out of the bricks. She looked up at the hideous gargoyles that leered down at her, their twisted mouths distorted and sneering.

Alice got up quickly and left the square. She kept glancing over her shoulder, telling herself she was imagining it, yet not able to shake the feeling there was someone at her heels.

It’s just your imagination.

Even when she left the Cite and started to walk down rue Trivalle towards the main town, she felt just as nervous. No matter what she said ItiO“herself, she was sure someone was following her.

The offices of Daniel Delagarde were in rue George Brassens. The brass on the wall gleamed in the sunlight. She was a little early for her appointment, so she stopped to read the names before going in. Karen Fleury was about halfway up, one of only two women.

Alice went up the grey stone steps, pushed open the glass double doors found herself in a tiled reception area. She gave her name to the woman at a highly polished mahogany table and was directed to a waiting area. The silence was oppressive. A rather bucolic looking man in his late fifties nodded to her as she walked in. Copies of Paris Match, Immo Media.and several back editions of French Vogue were neatly stacked on a large table in the centre of the room. There was an ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece and a tall, rectangular glass vase filled with sunflowers in the grate.

Alice sat down in a black leather armchair next to the window and pretended to read.

“Ms Tanner? Karen Fleury. Good to meet you.”

Alice stood up, immediately liking the look of her. In her mid-thirties, Ms Fleury exuded an air of competence in a sombre black suit and white blouse. Her neat blonde hair was clipped short. She wore a gold cross at her neck.

“My funeral clothes,” she said, noticing Alice’s glance. “Very hot in this weather.”

“I can imagine.”

She held back the door for Alice to pass through. “Shall we?”

“How long have you been working out here?” asked Alice, as they walked down an increasingly shabby network of corridors.

We moved here a couple of years ago. My husband’s French. Loads of English people are moving down here, all needing solicitors to help them, so it’s worked out rather well.“

Karen led her into a small office at the back of the building.

“It’s great you could come in person,” she said, gesturing Alice to a chair. “I’d assumed we’d conduct most of our business over the phone.”

“Good timing. Just after I received the letter from you, a friend who’s working outside Foix invited me to come and visit her. It seemed too much of an opportunity to ignore.” She paused. “Besides, given the size and nature of the bequest, it seemed the least I could do to come in person.”

Karen smiled. Well, it makes things easier from my point of view and will also speed things up.“ She pulled a brown file towards her. ”From what you said on the phone, it didn’t sound as if you knew much about your aunt.“

Alice pulled a face. “Actually, I’d never heard of her at all. I’d no idea Dad had any living relatives, let alone a half sister. I was under the impression my parents were both only children. There certainly weren’t any aunts or uncles around at Christmas or birthdays.”

Karen glanced down at her notes. You lost them some time ago.“

“They were killed in a car accident when I was eighteen,” she said. “May

1993. Just before I was due to sit my A levels.“

“Dreadful for you.”

Alice nodded. What more was there to say?

You have no brothers or sisters?“

“I assumed that my parents left it too late. They were both quite old, relatively speaking, when I was born. In their forties.”

Karen nodded. “Well, in the circumstances, I think the best thing is for me to simply go through everything I’ve got in the file about your great aunt’s estate and the terms of her will. Once we’re done here, you can go and have a look at the house if you’d like to. It’s in a small town about an hour’s drive from here, Salleles d’Aude.”

“That sounds fine.”

“So what I’ve got here,” Karen continued, tapping the file, “is pretty basic stuff, names and dates and so forth. I’m sure when you visit the house you’ll get a better sense of her personally from her private papers and effects. Once you’ve had a look, you can decide if you’d like us to have the house cleared or if you’d rather do it yourself. How much longer are you here?”

“Technically until Sunday, although I’m thinking about staying on. There’s nothing desperately urgent I need to get back for.”

Karen nodded as she glanced at her notes.

Well, let’s start and see how we get on. Grace Alice Tanner was your father’s half sister. She was born in London in 1912, the youngest and only surviving child of five. Two other girls died in infancy and the two boys were killed in World War I. Her mother passed away in“ – she paused, running her finger down the page until she found the date she was looking for – ‘1928 after a long illness and the family broke up. Grace left home by then and her father moved away from the area and quietly married again. There was one child from that marriage, your father, who was born the following year. So far as I can tell from the records, there appears to have been little or no contact between Miss Tanner and her father – your grandfather – from that point onwards.”

“I didn’t know, but do you think it’s likely my father knew he had a half sister?”

“I have no idea. My guess would be that he didn’t.”

“But Grace clearly knew of him?”

“Yes, although how and when she found out, again I don’t know. More to the point, she knew about you. She revised her will in 1993, after your parents’ deaths, naming you as her sole beneficiary. By that time, she had been living in France for some time.”

Alice frowned. “If she knew about me and about what had happened, I don’t understand why she didn’t get in touch.”

Karen shrugged. “It’s possible she thought you wouldn’t welcome the contact. Since we don’t know what caused the rift in the family, she might have thought your father had prejudiced you against her. In cases such as this, it’s not uncommon for an assumption to be made – sometimes rightly so – that any overture would be rejected. Once contact is severed it can be hard to repair the damage.”

“You didn’t draw up the will, I’m assuming?”

Karen smiled. “No, it was well before my time. But I talked to the colleague who did. He’s retired now, but he remembers your aunt. She was very matter-of-fact, no fuss or sentimentality. She knew exactly what she wanted, which was for everything to be left to you.”

“So you don’t know why she came to be living here in the first place?”

“I’m afraid not.” She paused. “From our point of view, it’s all relatively straightforward. So, as I said, I think your best bet is to go to the house and look around. You might find out more about her that way. Given you’re going to be around for a few days more, we can meet later in the week. I’m in court tomorrow and Friday, but I’d be happy to see you on Saturday morning if that is convenient.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Leave a message with my assistant and let me know what you decide.”

“I’d like to visit her grave while I’m here.”

“Of course. I’ll get the details. If I remember rightfully, the circumstances were unusual.” Karen stopped at her assistant’s desk on their way out. “Dominique, tu peux me trouver le numero du lot de cimitiere de Madame Tanner. La cimitiere de la Cite. Merci.”

“In what way unusual?” asked Alice.

“Madame Tanner wasn’t buried in Salleles d’Aude but here in Carcassonne, in the cemetery outside the Cite walls, in the family tomb of a friend.” Karen took the printout from her assistant and skimmed the information. That’s right, I remember now. Jeanne Giraud, a local woman, although there didn’t appear to be any evidence the two women even knew each other. Madame Giraud’s address is also here, along with the plot details.“

“Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

“Dominique will show you out,” she smiled. “Let me know how you get on.”