The Tenth Chamber

TWENTY-SIX

Thursday Morning

Paris looked pristine in the flat cold light of the autumn morning. As Luc’s taxi drove from his hotel in the centre of the city, east towards the Périphérique, the neighbourhoods became dingier until they were in the suburbs, in Montreuil, where if you strained your eyes you could just spot the Eiffel Tower glimmering hopefully on the western horizon.

Off the Boulevard Rouget de Lisle, they drove through a section where there were as many black faces as white, and outside an old Catholic church in the middle of a crowded block, black people were streaming up the steps.

Luc had never met Pierre’s father but Philippe Berewa obviously had his eye out for him, because the man rushed down the steps as soon as Luc sent the taxi off.

They embraced. As tall as Luc was, Philippe was a head taller and had the same type of athletic physique as his son. His face was creased with age. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a gold watch chain, an elegant throw-back to another time and place. Luc knew he’d been a doctor in Sierra Leone, and that he’d never been able to get his certification in France and had been relegated to more lowly work as a hospital technician. Luc nevertheless, called him Doctor.

The church was already packed. Luc was led to the front pew where a seat of honour had been reserved for him, next to Pierre’s mother, a heavyset woman in a sombre dress and small black hat, who was weeping openly.

As the Requiem Mass progressed, the contrasts to Jeremy’s funeral were manifest. The mourners here were under none of the emotional constraints of Jeremy’s kith and kin. There was open sobbing and wailing and the moment Pierre’s casket was met by the priest, who sprinkled it with Holy Water and began intoning the De Profundis, a tsunami of grief ran through the church.

Afterwards, there were no questions about what had happened, as if God’s will was a universal explanation, a completely soothing balm. What his parents and siblings wanted Luc to know was that Pierre had died doing something he loved more than anything on earth and that it had been an honour for him to be the student of the illustrious Professor Simard.

All Luc could do was hold on to them, say a few choice words about how special he was and tell them a plaque with Pierre’s name would be driven into the cliffs at the mouth of Ruac Cave.

Luc was in a taxi again, heading back into town, limp from mourning. He checked his voicemail; there was nothing, so he called up the detective inspector in Cambridge he’d spoken to the previous evening about Sara. The detective had promised to check accident and other police reports and local hospital admissions for any mention of a Sara Mallory.

He reached DI Chambers on his mobile. The man seemed rushed and distracted, in the middle of something else. He said there had been no police, ambulance or hospital records involving Professor Mallory but he’d be sure to let Luc know if that were to change. Luc couldn’t even be sure if he’d done anything. Maybe he was lying through his teeth. And when Luc asked if there’d been any developments in the Science Park explosion, the officer frostily referred him to the Cambridge Police website for information. That was that.

Luc had seen Hugo’s people at his memorial service, so when he returned to the office of H. Pineau Restorations on Rue Beaujon there was no need to replay words of grief and loss. The sentiment was on everyone’s face – it wasn’t necessary to put it on their lips.

Even the effervescent Margot was incapable of more than a wan smile. He followed her past Hugo’s office, sealed like a mausoleum, to Isaak Mansion’s office down the hall. Isaak was on the way, she told him, and offered a coffee.

When she came back with a tray, he asked how things were going.

‘Not well. Isaak can tell you.’ She had something in her hand and opened her palm to show it, as if it was a jewel or a relic. Hugo’s mobile. Small, thin and modern, just like him. ‘The police sent it back. Maybe I shouldn’t have but I looked through it. There were some lovely photos of you and Luc with some women.’

‘Ah,’ Luc said faintly, ‘our dinner at Domme. His last night.’

‘You all looked so happy. Would you like them?’

He thought about it, the sadness of it all, but said he would.

‘I’ll email them to you, if that’s okay,’ and she was off, crying again.

Isaak was a few minutes late. He came striding in, with a troubled look on his face. With a minimum of smalltalk, he launched into an agitated apologia for his foul mood.

‘You were his friend, Luc, so I can tell you that it’s all going to hell. I had to take over the books, of course, and I can tell you, the business wasn’t as good as Hugo made out. He had big loans against the assets, to feed his lifestyle, you know. It was barely profitable and now, without him, business is way down. We’re in the red. It’s not sustainable.’

‘I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Other than join me in the restoration business? No, just venting. We’ll have to sell it to settle his estate. I’m talking to bankers. This is my problem. You have your own. I’m sorry to equate mine with yours.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Luc said. ‘We’d both be better off if Hugo were still here. Look, it’s good of you to make some time. What do you have for me?’

‘Like I said in my voice message. More of your manuscript. Hugo’s Belgian contact decoded another chunk.’

‘Did he say what the key word was?’

Isaak’s desk was in chaos, files and papers everywhere. He searched and cursed for a good minute before laying hands on the folder. ‘H ELOISE.’

‘Not a shock,’ Luc said. ‘It’s in Latin, no?’

‘It’s not a problem. I read Latin, Greek, even a bit of Hebrew and Aramaic. Hugo picked me for my background. He didn’t want a guy who only knew spreadsheets.’

‘Do you have time to translate it now?’

‘For a friend of Hugo’s, of course!’ He scratched his beard. ‘Also, I’m curious, and it’s more fun than sorting through accounts payable.’

Luc’s phone rang and he excused himself when he recognised the number.

‘Luc, it’s Father Menaud calling.’ There was a tremor in his voice.

‘Hello, Dom Menaud. Are you all right?’

‘It’s a silly thing to be upset about, what with the horrible tragedy of the murders but…’ His voice trailed off.

‘But what, Father?’

‘I’ve just found out the manuscript is gone! It was in the box on my desk. You recall it?’

‘Of course.’

‘I opened the box this morning to look at it and it wasn’t there! You don’t know anything about it, do you?’

‘No, nothing. When was the last time you saw it?’

‘Perhaps a week ago. Before the tragedy.’

‘Could someone have gone into your rooms and stolen it Sunday night?’

‘Yes. Nothing is locked here. I and the Brothers were at prayer when your people were attacked.’

‘I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what to say. We have a very faithful colour copy of the manuscript, of course, but that’s no substitute. You should call Colonel Toucas and let him know. And listen – a little good news, I suppose. Another section has been decoded. I’ll send you the information when I have it.’

Luc re-pocketed his phone and saw that Isaak was staring at him.

‘On top of everything, Isaak, the Ruac Manuscript was stolen, perhaps the night of the murders. I’m not buying the randomness of all the shit that’s happened. Not for a minute. It’s more important than ever for us to know what the manuscript says. It has to be the key, so please, let’s go.’

Isaak had the lengthy email from Belgium printed out. He put on his reading glasses, and began translating the Latin, on the fly, apologising for his stumbles and wistfully interjecting that Hugo was the superior Latin scholar.

It is a mystery to me how like-minded men, united in exaltation of Christ, could come to opposite conclusions about a shared experience. Whereas myself, Jean and Abélard were firmly of the belief the red infusion we prepared was a path to spiritual enlightenment and physical vigoir, Bernard was strongly opposed. Whereas we took to calling the liquid, Enlightenment Tea, Bernard declared it a Devil’s brew. Bernard’s rebuke was a great blow to us all, but none more so than Abélard who had come to love and respect my brother as deeply as if they were of the same flesh and blood. Bernard took his leave of Ruac and returned to Clairvaux when we three declared we would not forego the pleasures of the infusion. We would not, and indeed, felt we could not.