The Sixth Key (29 page)

‘There are rumours that she gave him something
on her deathbed but no one knows what it was, however the consensus is that it
was some impious treasure which he then hid in the church and which Saunière
found during his renovation. Perhaps he never found it and it is still buried
somewhere beneath the church, who knows?’

‘We were in the crypt last night,’ Rahn
blurted out.

‘You went there? But how did you . . . ?’

‘Through a hatch in the confessional.’ He
observed the abbé with a steady eye. ‘We found the crypt under the graveyard.
Someone has been using it as a den of black magic.’

‘What? Black magic?’ He blushed and
immediately crossed himself.

‘It has been sealed up a long time, by the
look of it. That was probably what Saunière was looking for in the cemetery
– a way into it. And there’s something else. Someone closed the hatch in
the confessional knowing we were down there. We only just managed to escape
with our lives. The heavy rain flooded the crypt very quickly. Luckily for us
we found a way out through the sacristy.’

‘The sacristy?’

‘Didn’t you know there was a way into the
crypt through the closet?’

‘Me? Well . . . no.’ He looked flustered. ‘It
must have been Madame Dénarnaud! She must have closed the hatch! She would have
known about it from Saunière. Can you show me the list now?’ The man could
hardly conceal his interest.

Rahn took it out.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘From the tabernacle at the church of
Bugarach.’

The abbé looked at Rahn. ‘The tabernacle?’

‘We think Abbé Cros hid it there to safeguard
it. See that priest at the top of the list? He was the priest who murdered the
Archbishop of Paris eighty-one years ago. He is alleged to have possessed a
copy of the Grimoire of Pope Honorius, after that we don’t know what happened
to it.’

‘Grimoire of Pope Honorius?’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s a long story.’

‘Five priests?’ he said, looking at the list.
‘Espéraza, Coustassa, Rennes-le-Château, Saint-Paul-de-Fenouillet,
Rennes-les-Bains . . .’ He seemed to be committing them to memory and Rahn
whisked the list away from him. The priest’s demeanour altered suddenly.

‘Rennes-le-Château,’ Rahn said, ‘seems to be
at the centre of everything. All those priests knew Saunière personally, except
two, who are listed separately, at the top of the list – Abbé Bigou and
Abbé Verger.’

‘There is not much more I can tell you, I’m
afraid,’ the priest said, brusquely. ‘I suggest you go and have another conversation
with Madame Dénarnaud. Perhaps you should ask her why she closed the hatch and
left you there to die!’

Rahn was reluctant to leave him, but something
told him he would get no further with the man.

Before they went in search of Madame
Dénarnaud, they took themselves to the Corfu house to collect their things and
were grateful to realise that Madame Corfu was not in. Like many townspeople,
she was no doubt bothering the long-suffering mayor about the events of the
morning. They found the mute grandmother, however, peeling potatoes in the
kitchen. She looked at both of them with fear in her eyes and crossed herself
and gestured for them to stay. She left and returned a moment later with a
piece of paper, folded over, which she put in Rahn’s pocket.

He left the money for the rooms with her, they
said their goodbyes and made their hasty exit. As soon as they left the house
and were on their way to Villa Bethany, Eva asked what was on the note. Rahn
opened it and what he saw alarmed him. He looked at Eva. The note said:

Sauvez
vos âmes!

Eva’s great brown eyes
searched his. ‘Save your souls?’

Rahn nodded.

‘Does she mean – because of this
morning, or something else?’

‘Who knows?’

When they finally found Madame Dénarnaud, she
was not at the villa as they had expected but in the Tour Magdala, sitting on a
window seat near a small hearth ablaze with logs. The room was surrounded by
empty bookshelves, silent behind their glass doors. She had what looked like a
bible in her hands from which she appeared to be reading when they burst in,
interrupting her.

‘You certainly took your time,’ she said,
looking up calmly.

It was All Saints’ Day, and I was walking
about the cemetery again after breakfast. The Writer of Letters said he would
be busy preparing for the following day’s festival and I was to keep my own
company for a couple of hours. I spent some time in the library reading Rahn’s
book Lucifer’s Court. A passage near the end caught my attention:

I know a way through the
forest that is overshadowed by huge conifer trees . . . the path is called the
Thief’s Path . . . I am carrying a Dietrich with me
. . .

A ‘Dietrich’ was a skeleton key! I wondered if
he had found the missing key after all and what he meant by ‘the Thief’s Path’?

Afterwards, I walked out into the cold day with
Rahn’s story on my mind, hugging my coat for warmth. I didn’t really know what
to believe at this point but I had to admit I had been swept along by a story
that seemed too fantastical to be true. A grimoire written by a pope, black
magic among a conventicle of priests, Freemasons, Nazis and a Cathar treasure
handed down over the centuries. I smiled. If I wrote it – who would
believe it?

The cemetery on the island was quiet this day.
There were only a few people scattered about, as the bulk would arrive tomorrow.
For some reason, I felt like visiting the French section again and I was
surprised to see a woman sitting by that strange grave without a name. She was
young, with straight brown hair and large eyes that seemed to pool the stark
light. She had some books on her lap and she was reading from one. I was
intrigued so I stood nearby. She must have sensed my presence, because she
looked up and paused.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I see this grave is remembered, at least by
you.’

She seemed embarrassed. ‘Yes.’

‘What are you reading?’

‘Poems mainly. I go from grave to grave. My
mother taught me how to do it. She also read to the dead, as did my grandmother
before her. You could say it’s a vocation that runs in our family.’ She closed
the book and made a slight frown. ‘They are so close at this time one can
almost touch them.’

‘The dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I thought that the Day of the Dead was
the time to visit the graves?’

‘I know, but I prefer coming today, All
Saints’ Day. Tomorrow will be so busy and noisy. It’s far more peaceful today.’

‘May I ask why you read to the dead?’

She blinked at me. ‘Why not?’

‘I suppose I don’t know,’ I said, rather
stupidly.

‘You’re not from here, are you?’

‘No, I’m sorry, my Italian is a little rusty.’

She smiled and looked down just a little.
‘You’re visiting?’

‘I’m writing a novel. I guess one could call
this . . . my research.’

She gave a slight nod of understanding. ‘Many
writers were fascinated by Venice. Ezra Pound . . . Henry James, he’s also
here. Did you see his grave?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like it here?’

I looked around. ‘Venice is a beautiful city.’

‘No, I mean, do you like the Island of the
Dead?’

I paused. ‘I’ve never been to a more
intriguing place.’

‘Are you interested in the dead?’

‘I suppose I must be.’

‘They are in need of communication.’

‘Is that what you’re doing? Communicating with
them?’

‘I’m not a medium, if that’s what you mean. I
don’t do that!’ she said, hurriedly. ‘Communication with the dead has to be a
conscious experience. But it’s usually very difficult because when we speak to
them everything is reversed.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know, here you ask a question and I
answer it . . . that’s how we communicate. But across the threshold, when you
put a question to the dead, it should be a statement and the answer comes to
you as a question.’

‘And so the dead can think?’

‘One’s awareness, one’s consciousness still
exists, even without a body. One can still have awareness without it, if one
develops it in life. If one does not, one enters a realm of shades.’

‘As the Greeks feared?’

She smiled. ‘Better to be a beggar on Earth,
than a king in the realm of shades!’

I nodded. There was something old-fashioned
about her, something I couldn’t pinpoint. ‘So what does reading do for them?’

‘It informs them.’

‘But aren’t they all-knowing?’

‘The dead can’t know anything they didn’t know
in life, unless . . . well, there are extenuating circumstances, but in the
natural course of events if while alive they spent all their time learning only
about the material world, they’re lost when they enter the world of the spirit.
This is the tragedy, you see? What I do for them gives them comfort; my reading
warms the cold they feel and cools the heat. It is a gesture of love.’

‘But what is love to them?’

‘Love is the bridge that unites the dead with
the living. Love, to the dead, is a consciousness of life.’

She put the book down and looked about her
furtively, seeming fearful suddenly. ‘Soon, terrible things are going to
happen. I don’t know that I can help so many young souls who are going to pass
across the threshold.’

‘What do you think is going to happen?’

‘Don’t you know?’ she
said, wide-eyed.

‘No.’

‘War, of course! A war unlike any other war;
so many will die and they will not know they are dead. Then there are others
who may have made pacts, all sorts of rituals, promises . . . They will remain
tethered to life, even in death, which constitutes a kind of torment. But then
you already know that, don’t you?’

I had no idea what she was talking about.

‘You don’t remember me, do you? That’s all
right, as long as you don’t forget the solution to the riddle of this grave.’

‘What solution?’

‘Don’t you remember? Oh, dear! You should
leave. These places have a way of growing on you until you can’t distinguish
whether you’re alive or dead. Look over there, see that?’ She pointed to a tall
palm growing out of a grave. ‘That was once a seed, floating free in the wind,
now it’s a part of this place. You don’t want to end up like that. Not all of
the dead rest easy.’

I looked at her more closely and realised that
she was dressed as a woman would have dressed in the 1930s.

She leant forward. ‘You have to come back in 2012.’

‘But we are in 2012.’

‘No! That’s still seventy-four years away!’

I gave a nervous laugh, completely thrown. I
could see that she was either an excellent actress or entirely serious. I
didn’t know which would be more disturbing. ‘Has someone paid you to say these
things?’

‘What?’

‘Look, it’s about time someone was honest with
me and it might as well be you!’

‘I don’t know what you mean . . .’

‘You’re an actress, and someone’s hired you to
play this part.

Your costume, reading to the dead, all of it.’

She seemed disconcerted and began gathering
her books. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve given you what you
want. Now you have to take the vaporetto out of here. You should slip out
tomorrow, when there are many people here. You can go unnoticed . . . They are
after you!’

‘What? Who are after me?’

‘They haven’t forgotten you – they
know!’

‘Know what?’

She stood and looked at me with what I thought
was pity. ‘I have to go now. Don’t forget what I said to you: tomorrow, when
the place is busy . . .’ she said this and left, not looking back.

A moment later I was alone and it seemed as if
she had never been there at all. When I returned to the monastery, the Writer
of Letters was nowhere to be seen. Feeling puzzled and disconcerted I went to
the library and sat down before the fire. This game had gone on for long
enough. Then again, maybe that was what he wanted me to believe: that he was
playing a game. No doubt he’d been standing in the distance, smiling and
gauging my reaction. I resolved that to leave would be akin to a writer
becoming manipulated by his own characters. I would leave when I wanted to, and
I really didn’t want to. I was becoming consumed by the story and I needed to
hear the rest of it. In that sense, I realised, I was not so different from
Otto Rahn.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t
hear the Irish monk until he was already standing beside the chair.

‘Can I get you something?’ he asked. I must
have had a strange look on my face because he frowned a little. ‘Are you
alright?’

I nodded. ‘Just jet lag, you know.’

‘I see. Well, enjoy the quiet. Things are
going to turn upside down tomorrow.’

‘I wonder, before you go, could you tell me
something about my host?’

He paused, a strange veil falling over his
features. ‘Your host?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you want to know?’ he said.

‘What a commotion!’

I turned in my winged chair to see the Writer
of Letters walking towards us. I felt as though I had been caught in flagrante
delicto – like a thief with his hand in the safe.

‘I hope you haven’t been too bored while I was
detained?’ he said, with perfect urbane calm.

The monk slipped out and we were alone.

‘Not at all, in fact I met a woman who reads
to the dead,’ I said to him, ready for a showdown.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, she warned that I should leave –
that someone was after me.’

He sighed. ‘Was she wearing clothes from the
last war?’

‘Yes, in fact she was and, I have to say, she
was very good. She had me believing her for a moment.’

‘Very good?’

‘A good actress.’

‘I don’t know that she’s an actress. She comes
here every year and reads at the graves. When one lives on this island, one
gets used to such things.’

I measured my words. ‘And so you didn’t put
her up to this?’

‘Me? No. I think your writer’s imagination is
carrying you away.’

I didn’t know what to say.

‘The fact is,’ he said, settling into his
chair, ‘most people are in constant contact with the dead only they know
nothing of it because it lies in the subconscious. For most of us, the time of
going to sleep and waking is most propitious for communicating with them. You
see, they have no past; they live in that world of galleries, like those that
Borges spoke of – where everything is present. They have no concept of
yesterday or tomorrow or, for that matter, time itself.’
He looked
at me expectantly. ‘I would like us now to turn to something else. I want to
tell you about the symbol of the snake and the anchor in Rahn’s story. You’ve
seen it before, haven’t you, on those letters from me? Do you recall?’

The watermarked paper he used for his letters!
He had planned everything down to the very smallest detail – why? Perhaps
reason didn’t come into it at all? The Writer of Letters might be seriously
deranged; he could be a brilliant psychopath. I searched his face a moment and
looked away to the fire. Then again, I could be making too much of it, allowing
the story to affect me, reading into things. I tried to calm down. This thought
immediately called to mind Rahn, travelling to Wewelsburg on that train,
splashing water on his face and telling himself the same thing. Perhaps this
had been the intention of the Writer of Letters: to show me first-hand what it
was like to be Rahn. If so, he was cleverly achieving it by degrees.

The Writer of Letters looked at me quizzically
a moment, perhaps trying to discern the tenor of my thoughts. With a smooth
voice he said, ‘That watermark was used by Aldus Manutius, one of the great
printers of Venice.

‘You must imagine it is 1515 and the famous
Venetian printer is working amid the dust and heat of his printing shop when a
visitor is announced. The visitor is a stranger but the moment the man shows
him the tattoo on his wrist, Manutius knows the importance of the visit.
Manutius likewise shows him his own tattoo, which depicts the same symbol, and
the man is satisfied.

‘The
visitor removes a book from a velvet pouch and hands it to him. Manutius holds
it tentatively in his hands. He knows what it is, you see, because of the
embossed gold letter H on the front cover.