Labyrinth

CHAPTER 43

The journey back from Salleles d’Aude to Carcassonne passed in a blur.

When Alice got back, the hotel lobby was crowded with new arrivals, so she retrieved her key herself from its hook, and then went upstairs without anyone noticing.

As she went to unlock the door, she noticed it was ajar.

Alice hesitated. She put the shoebox and books down on the ground, then carefully pushed the door open wide.

“Allo? Hello?”

She cast her eyes around the room. Everything inside looked as she’d left it. Still feeling apprehensive, Alice stepped over the things on the threshold, and took a cautious step inside. She stopped. There was a smell of vanilla and stale tobacco.

There was a movement behind the door. Her heart leaped into her mouth. She spun round, just in time to register a grey jacket and black hair reflected in the glass, before she was shoved hard in the chest and sent flying back. Her head smashed against the mirrored door of the wardrobe, setting the wire coat hangers on the rail inside rattling like marbles on a tin roof.

The room went fuzzy around the edges. Everything dancing, out of focus. Alice blinked. She could hear him running away down the corridor.

Go. Quick.

Alice staggered to her feet and went after him. She hurtled down the stairs and into the lobby, where a large party of Italians were blocking her exit. In panic, she cast her eyes around the busy lobby, just in time to see the man disappearing through the side entrance.

She pushed her way through the forest of people and luggage, clambering over suitcases and luggage, then out after him into the gardens. He was already at the top of the drive. Summoning every last ounce of energy, Alice ran, but he was too fast.

By the time she reached the main road, there was no sign of him. He’d disappeared into the crowds of tourists on their way down from the Cite. Alice put her hands on her knees, trying to get her breath back. Then she straightened up and felt the back of her head with her fingers. Already a bruise was forming.

With a last look at the road, Alice turned and walked back to reception. Apologising, she went straight to the front of the queue.

“Pardon, mais vous I’avez vu?

The girl on duty looked put out. “I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished with this gentleman,” she said.

“I’m afraid this can’t wait,” she said. There was someone in my room. He just ran out. A couple of minutes ago.“

“Really, Madame, if you could just wait a moment-”

Alice raised her voice so that everyone could hear. “ll y avait quelqu’un dans ma chambre. Un voleur!

The crowded reception fell silent. The girl’s eyes widened. She slid from her stool and disappeared. Seconds later, the owner of the hotel appeared and steered Alice away from the main area.

“What seems to be the problem, Madame? he said in a low voice.

Alice explained.

“The door’s not been forced,” he said, checking the catch, when he accompanied her back upstairs.

With the proprietor watching from the doorway, Alice checked to see if anything was missing. To her confusion, nothing was. Her passport was still at the bottom of the wardrobe, although it had been moved. The same was true of the contents of her rucksack. Nothing was gone, but it was all in slightly the wrong place. Hardly proof.

Alice checked the bathroom. At last, she’d found something.

“Monsieur,”s’il vous plait,“ she called out. She pointed at the hand basin. ”Regardez.“

There was a strong smell of lavender where her soap had been hacked into pieces. Her toothpaste also had been cut open and the contents squeezed out. “Voila. Comme je vous ai dit.” As I told you.

He looked concerned, but doubtful. Did Madame want him to call the police? He would ask the other guests if they had noticed anything, of course, but since nothing seemed to be missing…? He left the sentence hanging.

The shock suddenly kicked in. This wasn’t a random burglary. Who ever it was had been looking for something specific, something they believed she had.

Who knew she was here? Noubel, Paul Authie, Karen Fleury and her staff, Shelagh. To her knowledge, no one else.

“No,” she said quickly. “No police. Since nothing’s gone. But I want to move to another room.” He started to protest that the hotel was full, then stopped when he saw the look on her face.

I’ll see what I can do.“

Twenty minutes later, Alice was installed in a different part of the hotel.

She was nervous. For the second or third time, she checked the door was locked and the windows fastened. She sat on the bed surrounded by her things, trying to decide what to do. Alice got up, walked around the tiny room, sat down again, got up again. She was still not certain she shouldn’t move to a new hotel.

What if he comes back tonight?

An alarm went off. Alice jumped out of her skin, before realising it was only her phone, ringing in her jacket pocket.

“Allo, oui?”

It was a relief to hear Stephen’s voice, one of Shelagh’s colleagues from the dig. “Hi, Steve. No, sorry. I only just got in. I haven’t had time to check my messages yet. What’s up?”

As she listened, the colour drained from her face as he told her the dig was being closed down.

“But why? What possible reason did Brayling give?”

“He said it wasn’t up to him.”

“Just because of the skeletons?”

“The police didn’t say.”

Her heart started to thump. “They were there when Brayling announced this?” she said.

They were partly there about Shelagh,“ he said, then stopped. ”I was just wondering, Alice, if you’d heard from her at all since you left.“

“Not a thing since Monday. I tried her several times yesterday, but she’s not returned any of my calls. Why?”

Alice found herself on her feet as she waited for Stephen to answer.

“She seems to have gone off,” he said in the end. “Brayling’s inclined to put a sinister interpretation on it. He suspects her of stealing something from the site.”

“Shelagh wouldn’t do that,” she exclaimed. “No way. She’s not the sort to…”

But as she was speaking, the thought of Shelagh’s angry white face came back to her. She felt disloyal, but Alice was suddenly less confident.

“Is this what the police think too?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. It’s just all a bit odd,” he said vaguely. “One of the policemen at the site on Monday has been killed by a hit-and-run driver in Foix,” he continued. “It was in the paper. It appears Shelagh and he knew each other.”

Alice sank down on to the bed. “Sorry, Steve. I’m finding this hard to take in. Is anybody looking for her? Doing anything at all?”

“There is one thing,” he said tentatively. “I’d do it myself, but I’m heading home first thing tomorrow. No point hanging about.”

“What is it?”

“Before the excavation started, I know Shelagh was staying with friends in Chartres. It did occur to me that she might have gone there, just forgotten to let anyone know.”

It seemed a long shot to Alice, but it was better than nothing.

“I did call the number. A boy answered and claimed not to have heard of Shelagh, but I’m sure it’s the number she gave me. I had it stored in my phone.”

Alice picked up a pencil and paper. “Give it to me. I’ll have a go,” she said, poised to write.

Her hand froze.

“I’m sorry, Steve.” Her voice sounded hollow, as if she was speaking from a long way away. “Run that by me again.”

“It’s 02 68 72 31 26,” he repeated. “And you’ll let me know if you find out anything?”

It was the number Biau had given her.

“Leave it with me,” she said, barely aware of what she was saying. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Alice knew she should call Noubel. Tell him about her non-burglary and her encounter with Biau, but she hesitated. She wasn’t sure she could trust Noubel. He’d done nothing to stop Authie.

She reached into her rucksack and pulled out her roadmap of France. The idea’s crazy. It’s an eight-hour drive at least. Something was niggling at the back of her mind. She went back to the notes she’d made in the library.

In the mountain of words about Chartres Cathedral, there had been a passing reference to the Holy Grail. There, too, was a labyrinth. Alice found the paragraph she was looking for. She read it through twice, to sure she hadn’t misunderstood, then she jerked the chair out from the desk and sat down with the book by Audric Baillard and poened it at the page marked.

“Others believed it to have been the final resting place of the Graal. It has been suggested that the Cathars were the guardians of the Cup of Christ…‘

The Cathar treasure was smuggled away from Montsegur. To the Pic de Soularac? Alice turned to the map at the front of the book. Montsegur to the Sabarthes Mountains was not far. What if the treasure was hidden there?

What connects Chartres and Carcassonne?

In the distance, she heard the first growls of thunder. The room was now bathed in a strange orange light from the streetlamps outside bouncing off the underside of the night clouds. A wind had blown up, rattling the shutters and sending bits of rubbish scuttling across the car parks.

As Alice drew the curtains the first heavy drops of rain started to fall, exploding like spots of black ink on the windowsill. She wanted to leave now. But it was late and she didn’t want to risk driving through the storm.

She locked the windows and doors, set her alarm, then climbed fully clothed into bed to wait for the morning.

At first, everything was the same. Familiar, peaceful. She was floating in the white weightless world, transparent and silent. Then, like the trap door clattering open beneath the gallows, there was a sudden lurch and she fell down through the open sky towards the wooded mountainside rushing up to meet her.

She knew where she was. At Montsegur, in early summer.

Alice started to run as soon as her feet hit the ground, stumbling along a steep, rough forest track between two columns of high trees. The trees were dense and tall and towered above her. She grabbed at the branches to slow herself, but her hands went straight through and clumps of tiny leaves came away in her fingers, like hair on a brush, staining the tips green.

The path sloped away beneath her feet. Alice was aware of the crunch of stone and rock, which had replaced the soft earth, moss and twigs on the track higher up the mountain. Still, there was no sound. No birds singing, no voices calling, nothing but her own ragged breathing.

The path twisted and coiled back on itself, sending her scuttling this way and that, until she rounded the corner and saw the silent wall of fire blocking the path ahead. She put her hands up to shield her face from the billowing, puffing, red and orange and yellow flames that whipped and swirled in the air, like reeds under the surface of a river.

Now the dream was changing. This time, rather than the multitude of faces taking shape in the flames, there was only one, a young woman with a gentle yet forceful expression, reaching out and taking the book from Alice’s hand.

She was singing, in a voice of spun silver.

“Bona nueit, bona nueit.”

This time, no chill fingers grabbed her ankles or shackled her to the earth. The fire no longer claimed her. Now she was spiralling through the air like a wisp of smoke, the woman’s thin, strong arms embracing her, holding her tight. She was safe.

“Braves amics, pica mieja-nueit.”

Alice smiled as together they soared higher and higher towards the light, leaving the world far beneath.