The Sacred Sword

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Ben was heading slowly back through the empty streets, still dazed, still in shock, when he felt the pulsing vibration of his phone in his trouser pocket. Answering it with a muttered ‘Hello?’ he heard an unfamiliar voice. Male, French, thirties or forties, speaking quietly and furtively as if he didn’t want to be overheard.

‘Is this Monsieur Hope?’ the voice said.

‘Yes,’ Ben said. He blinked snow out of his eyes and struggled to focus mentally.

‘The Monsieur Hope who was asking about Father Lalique?’ the voice said.

Very quickly, the fog in Ben’s mind began to clear. ‘Who is this?’

‘I have information for you,’ the voice said after a pause. ‘Father Lalique’s suicide was set up. He was involved in something.’ Another pause. ‘This is not something to discuss on the phone. We must meet in person. Can you manage it tonight?’

‘Give me your address,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll meet you there right away.’

‘Not here,’ the voice said. ‘This is a small village and I have no desire to be openly associated with the scandal of the paedophile priest. Do you know the ruined church? It is easy to find, about two kilometres west of the village, heading towards St Affrique. I will meet you there in thirty minutes.’

Ben had noticed the broken-down steeple on the drive in. It had reminded him of Simeon and his efforts to fund the repair of ailing ecclesiastical buildings. ‘I’ll be there,’ he told his anonymous caller.

Completely focused and alert now, Ben raced back to the Auberge. ‘What’s going on?’ Jude asked as he marched into the room.

Ben didn’t want to look at Jude in case he started staring at him again. ‘You stay put a while,’ he said, snatching the Renault keys from the stand inside the door. ‘I’m going back out.’

‘At this time of night, in the snow?’

Ben discreetly slipped the book out of his pocket and bundled it into his bag under his spare clothes, well out of sight. The last thing he wanted was for Jude to develop a sudden interest in the literary works of John Milton. He was going to have to ditch the letter soon, although he’d be reluctant to lose it.

‘Where are you going?’ Jude demanded. ‘You’ve had a call from someone, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. Someone in the village has information and we’ve set up a rendezvous. But I don’t want you there.’

‘You try and stop me,’ Jude said, bristling.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Jude retorted angrily. ‘They were my parents.’

Ben froze for a second.

‘I said-’

‘I heard you,’ Ben said. What was he supposed to do, shut Jude in a cupboard? Tie him to a chair? ‘All right. You can come. But remember our deal. You stay out of the way and keep your mouth shut.’

‘I remember the deal,’ Jude said. ‘Not like I speak French anyway.’ Seeing Ben slinging his bag over his shoulder and knowing the gun was inside, he asked anxiously, ‘Are we expecting trouble?’

Ben shook his head. ‘No reason to. But there’s no way I’m leaving a firearm unattended in an empty hotel room.’

In the tiny car park behind the Auberge Saint-Christophe he scraped the fresh snow off the Laguna’s windscreen. ‘Where’s the RV?’ Jude said, getting into the car. ‘That’s what you military types call a rendezvous, isn’t it?’

‘Remember that ruined church we passed on the way in?’ Ben said.

‘Seems like a funny place to meet someone.’

The snowclouds had dispersed since the last flurry, and the moon was bright as Ben made his way carefully out of the village. After about a mile and a half he spotted the remnants of the old spire silhouetted above the trees, and turned off the road onto the short bumpy track leading to the tumbledown entrance of the churchyard.

There was no other vehicle in sight. Ben climbed out of the car and Jude followed him under the doorless archway into the ruined church. Moonlight streamed down through great holes in the roof, casting eerie shadows across the interior.

‘This place has seen better days, that’s for sure’ Jude observed, sniffing at the smell of damp and rot. Little remained except the empty stone shell of the building. The altar was missing, probably looted decades ago. Even the flagstones had been prised up. Ben guessed they’d found their way into a lot of the local houses and cottages over the centuries. The bare earth floor was littered with dead leaves and the decayed remnants of the old wooden pews. A dusting of snow had fallen in through the holes in the roof.

‘There’s nobody here,’ Jude said. ‘I think your caller’s playing a prank on us.’

‘Be patient.’

Jude paced around the inside of the moonlit ruin as Ben sat on a pile of broken stone with his bag at his feet. He fished out his spare can of Zippo fuel and busied himself refilling the lighter. He resisted the urge to re-read Michaela’s letter, and instead put the fluid canister away and rebuckled the bag’s leather straps. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Ben began to wonder whether his mystery caller was going to make an appearance or not. Maybe Jude was right.

Jude stopped his pacing. ‘Why do you keep looking at me that way?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Was I?’ Ben realised he had been. It was completely involuntary.

‘You’re not going queer, are you?’ Jude said.

‘You should get a haircut,’ Ben said. His own thick hair would scarcely have passed military muster these days, but he’d known many an RSM who would have delighted in ordering Jude’s unruly mop to be shorn to the roots.

‘Girls like it,’ Jude retorted.

More minutes passed. Jude stamped around the ruin, clutching at his sides and shivering. ‘It’s bloody cold out here. How can you sit still like that? Let me guess. Arctic training.’

‘I did say you should have stayed at the guesthouse. The flask’s in the bag. A nip of whisky will warm you.’

Jude made a face. ‘No, thanks. You sit and freeze your balls off if you want. I’m going to wait in the car.’

As Jude left the church, Ben glanced impatiently at his watch. His contact was almost twenty-five minutes late. The guy either hadn’t been able to get away, or he’d had second thoughts. Ben was trying to decide whether to give it one more minute when he heard a sound from the archway and looked up.

Jude had reappeared in the entrance. He was struggling in the clutches of a strong, bulky man in a woollen hat. One gloved hand was clamped over his mouth, muffling his protests. The other held a double-edged combat dagger to his throat. A moonbeam glittered off the slim, leaf-shaped tongue of steel.