Murder in Lascaux (35 page)

“Shine the light around the room,” Toby whispered. I moved the beam downward, and then swept it around. We were in a spacious chamber, surrounded by delicate formations of every size and shape. The earthen floor was damp with moisture. The larger stalagmites twisted upward, a few of them joining stalactites hanging from the ceiling. Clusters of thin columns near the opposite wall formed a pattern of eerie beauty. Closer at hand, on an outcrop of stone that formed a natural platform, stood a brass candelabra that held six long tapers.

“Does anyone have a match?” David asked.

“I do,” said Toby, fumbling in his pockets. He came up with a matchbook, struck a match, and lit the candles. A soft glow embraced the chamber as the tiny flames danced back and forth, casting intricate shadows. Carefully, we looked around. Aside from the candelabra, the chamber appeared empty. There were no traces of prehistoric drawings on the walls, no storage bins packed with paintings from the Nazi era, nothing out of the ordinary except for the natural rock formations.

“Is this it, do you think, or are there other sections?” David asked, disappointment showing in his voice.

“We'll soon find out,” answered Toby. “You circle that way. We'll go this way.” With a twirl of his finger, he motioned David to the left, while he slowly began circling the perimeter in the opposite direction. I followed behind Toby, carefully lighting the surfaces of the walls.

It wasn't long before David cried out: “Look here!”

We hurried over to find him bending around a thin curtain of stone that joined another wall behind it at a peak a few feet above our heads, forming a natural triangle that resembled a tent opening. It was possible to enter if you turned sideways. I was the smallest, so I went first. After a few steps, the passage turned to the right and widened so I could move forward. “There's room to walk,” I called back. Toby and David followed quickly. Ahead of me, the flashlight bounced along the gleaming walls until we came to another abrupt turn, also to the right. This turn led us into another chamber, even larger and more magical than the one we'd left.

Candles stood in niches evenly placed around the walls. As Toby began lighting them, I stood in awe, staring up. From the ceiling, high above our heads, hundreds of stalactites hung like organ pipes, some as large as chimneys, others merely finger-length, while up from the ground rose thick stalagmites, a few as sturdy as cathedral columns (the analogy to church architecture seemed inescapable). And in the middle of the rotunda, where a massive stalagmite had been transformed into a pedestal, stood a figure of startling beauty.

We approached the natural altar, which gleamed a ghostly, translucent white. Rising from the pedestal was a magnificent sculpture of a bird in flight, its outstretched wings resembling a cross. Nature had provided the formation, but human hands had shaped it, giving it life. The long neck was carved lovingly from the calcite, the noble head stretched forward as the bird glided. The filigreed work of the wings and tail rippled with a suggestion of feathers. Power and grace bespoke the work of a gifted sculptor.

“The Cathar Dove,” I murmured, with admiration.

“
Oui, la colombe
,” said an unfriendly voice behind me.

Guillaume had followed us down.

He stepped into the chamber. “There is only one other sculpture like it in the whole of France: the little dove of Montségur that was found after our people were massacred. But this one is more beautiful and more profound. It is the most important Cathar shrine in the world, and no one outside the faith has ever seen it. You have no right to be here!”

I gazed down at his hand, half-expecting to find a gun in it, but Guillaume held only a candle. Its small blue flame shook as he spoke, trying to control his fury. “I mean what I say! This sacred stone was carved by one of the faithful in the Middle Ages, and we have guarded it ever since. It has been our duty to protect this site and to keep its secret, and now you have broken in like vandals. How dare you! You know nothing about our history or traditions. Even you, Madame, who are supposed to be an expert on art. You have violated my family's trust and hospitality.”

For a few moments we were all too shocked to say a word. Guillaume stood stiffly, quaking with anger. I was the first to speak. “We owe you an apology, Monsieur. We should not have entered without permission.”

“The harm you have done cannot be undone,” Guillaume said fiercely, advancing toward me. “What did you expect to find?”

David now stepped forward. “I'm responsible. My work involves recovering property stolen during the Holocaust. I was searching for paintings I thought might have been hidden here during the war and which ought to be returned to their rightful owners.”

“Paintings? Do you see any paintings here?” Guillaume demanded. “Who told you there were paintings here?”

“Obviously, my information was incorrect,” David conceded in a mollifying tone.

“What arrogance!” exclaimed Guillaume. “We have never had anything to do with such things. See for yourself.” He made an exaggerated sweep around the room with his candle, revealing nothing but the marvel at its center.

I had been holding the flashlight at my side with its beam striking the ground, but now I turned it on the shimmering sculpture. It was mesmerizing, a work of superb craftsmanship. “What does it signify?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“You mean, you don't know?”

“I'm not sure I do, other than that the dove was a symbol of the Holy Spirit in the Cathar faith,” I ventured hesitantly. The shame of having been caught out was beginning to weigh on me.

As a stern professor might rebuke a backward student, Guillaume waved his free hand in a dismissive motion. “It is still a symbol of the Holy Spirit. But it has an even more particular meaning. It is the image we associate with Esclarmonde the Great.” Our faces, I'm sure, looked uncomprehending. “Esclarmonde of Foix. She was the sister of Raymond Roger, the Count of Foix, and the most celebrated woman of our tradition. She became a perfect,
une parfaite
, in 1204.”

As he spoke, Guillaume walked slowly around the statue. “She founded convents, schools, and hospitals. She brought many women to the faith. She helped establish the fortress of Montségur. And after she died, she became a legend. There are even some who believe she turned into a dove and flew away to escape the persecutors who came to burn her at the stake. And have you never heard the story of the Holy Grail? They say that while the walls of Montségur were still standing, the pure ones were entrusted with the Grail to guard it from their enemies. When the evil ones came to claim it, a white dove flew down from the sky and split the mountain in two. Esclarmonde saved the Grail by throwing it deep into the broken mountain, and then she, too, changed into a white dove and flew away.

“Now, those may be tales, but Esclarmonde was real. She lived an exemplary life, she inspires all of us who are not yet perfect. We honor her memory, and we venerate her symbol, which is the dove. And this”— he pointed to the statue—“is its most important representation.” He now spoke directly to me. “That should answer your question, Madame, but the answer will not help you, because you are motivated solely by curiosity. Those who are merely curious will never recognize the truth. One needs a higher motivation if one wants wisdom, and that is what my people had—a higher motivation.”

“But why keep the statue secret?” David wanted to know. “Why not share this beautiful object with the world?”

At this, Guillaume, who until now had been speaking with emotion but rationally, exploded: “You want to turn this shrine into a tourist attraction, do you? Charge admission? Print postcards? Organize tours down here and sell miniature doves on key chains? Why not ruin everything, as they have done with all the other caves of Périgord— violate their sanctity, pollute their atmosphere, destroy their art, and then make copies so thousands of tourists can come and gape at pictures. Is that what you want, another Lascaux II? Is that what you'd like, Monsieur? A ‘Montségur II' for tourists? Never, Monsieur! Never!”

I listened, fascinated, as another avian image slowly worked its way into my consciousness, prompted by the mention of Lascaux. As I stared at the opalescent sculpture, listening to Guillaume's diatribe, I thought of the death we had witnessed in Lascaux and the baffling symbol that had been left alongside the body. Had Guillaume killed Malbert to protect the secrecy of his shrine and in so doing left a tribute to a Cathar saint?

Toby must have been thinking the same thought, for he stepped quickly between Guillaume and me and said in a challenging voice, “And is that why you were willing to kill two people? To keep this place a secret?” As he spoke, he advanced toward Guillaume aggressively.

At the same time, I turned the flashlight full on Guillaume's face, momentarily blinding him. Guillaume staggered back, confused, waving a hand in front of his eyes. “What are you talking about? I haven't killed anyone!”

“No? It wasn't you who killed Michel Malbert and left a dead dove next to him? It wasn't you who tried to attack my wife in Rouffignac but killed Dotty Dexter by mistake? You maniac, of course it was you!” Toby seized him roughly by the collar and shoved him against the wall.

But if Toby was hoping for a confession, he wasn't getting one. Guillaume pushed back with his free hand and shook him off, somehow retaining his grip on the candle with the other, though the flame snuffed out as it waved through the air. “Damn you, Monsieur! Take your hands off me. You commit a trespass, violate a shrine, and then you accuse me of horrible crimes. It is insupportable! I have never harmed anyone. My religion forbids violence. But I tell you, if you don't leave here immediately—all of you—I may not be responsible for what will happen next.” His voice was trembling. “I tell you that in all sincerity, you will regret your actions and your words. Now, go!”

We had no option but to obey. Guillaume pushed the air with one hand, commanding us to back off and return through the passageway by which we had entered. When Toby hesitated, I took his elbow. Grudgingly, we retraced our steps. Once we had regained the chapel, Guillaume propelled us out the door into the cool night air. He stayed behind to restore the altar we had disturbed and, I gathered, to brood on our despoliation of his shrine.

The three of us began making our way back to the château along the cliff walk.

“Do you think it really was Guillaume who committed the murders?” David asked. “And I thought the Cathars all died out in the Middle Ages.”

“Well, obviously they're back,” said Toby. “And yes, I'd say Guillaume is our killer. But without a confession, I'm not sure what can be proved.”

“Shouldn't we let Daglan know what we've found?” I asked. “Keeping his cave secret gives Guillaume a motive for the murders, after all.”

“Right,” said David. “I'll call him. Can it wait until morning?” It was now the middle of the night.

“Do you think we'll be safe until then?” I asked.

“From Guillaume?” asked Toby. “That's what puzzles me. If he's the murderer and wanted to silence us, he just had the perfect opportunity. He had us trapped and could have killed us all, but he didn't. In fact, he wasn't armed. If he's trying to cover up a murder, it's strange he'd confront us like that without trying to do something about us.”

“Maybe not so strange,” said David. “How would he explain the disappearance of three Americans on his property? What would he do, leave our bodies down there? Or try to haul them out by himself ? Maybe he's smart enough to take his chances with our suspicions. I've seen plenty of cases fall apart that were based on nothing more than circumstantial evidence. He could be biding his time. That's what I'd do, in his place.”

We walked along for a few minutes in silence. Then David added: “Make sure your door is locked tight, and bolt your shutters when you get in. I wouldn't take any chances.”

W
e were getting ready for bed when I heard distressed voices rising from downstairs. Guillaume and Marianne. Toby was in the bathroom, so I let myself out of the room and crept down the corridor as quietly as I could to listen at the top of the staircase. Guillaume was shouting, anguished and distraught, while Marianne's voice was low and indistinct. She was trying to placate him, to no avail. “
Calme-toi
,” I heard her say several times. But Guillaume was not to be assuaged. “
Inutile!
” he howled.

“Useless! All that we've done to protect our treasure for so many generations—useless! Our shrine defiled, our family trust betrayed. What will Father say? What will the others say?”

Marianne was shushing him, but he continued. “Think of it! The publicity—newspapers, television, and the government intrusion. The secret is exposed after all these centuries, and we were the guardians, the ones entrusted to keep our faith alive. We are disgraced. The family is disgraced.”

“Hush,” whispered Marianne. “They'll hear you upstairs.”

“Will they?” said Guillaume. “It's too late. The harm is already done. My life's work is over. I've failed. We've failed. The family has failed.”

But Marianne was insistent, and he did lower his voice. I took a few steps down the stairs, careful to remain out of sight as I strained to overhear. There was nothing for a while, and then a series of moans and gasps, which it took me a while to recognize as the sound of Guillaume sobbing.

“It's not too late,” I heard Marianne say. “We haven't failed. Go to bed, Guillaume. It's not too late. You'll see.”

“How?” he whimpered.

“We'll find a way. Come. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning. Come.”

I heard her leading him away, and I returned to our room, locking the door behind me. Toby was just emerging from the bathroom. I recounted the conversation I'd overheard.